The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  “We have to go home soon or we’ll be stuck on this shitty island until spring,” another person said. The muttering ran up and down the line of men. “The storms will block our escape.”

  “We signed up to take the kingdom,” a fifth person said. “We have taken the kingdom!”

  “There’s still people who don’t acknowledge their new king,” someone countered. “They have to be beaten into a bloody pulp before he’s secure on his throne.”

  “Then he should bloody pay us to beat them to a pulp,” Big Richard said. “Are we going to hang around here, doing nothing?”

  He felt a surge of resentment, frighteningly powerful. He had no qualms about slaughtering peasants or even burning down noble estates, as long as he got paid. And yet, he hadn’t even been given the deeds to his lands! Worse, it was starting to look as though most of the southern noblemen were bending the knee to Prince Reginald. They’d get to keep their lands if they switched sides quickly enough. He didn’t have to be a beancounter to know what that meant. Prince Reginald wouldn’t have enough lands and money to parcel out to his supporters.

  And the island is piss-poor, he thought. The prospect of an ongoing conflict would have been tempting, if he’d thought the rebels could pay for his services. There’s nothing here worth taking.

  “I wouldn’t mind, if there were women,” someone snapped. “But all we have are ...”

  He waved a hand down the line, which was inching slowly forwards. Big Richard nodded in agreement. A woman would be something, at least. But the city’s womenfolk were all locked up in their homes, guarded by their men. Prince Reginald had made it clear that anyone who molested any of the women would be hanged. Big Richard appreciated a strong leader – there was nothing worse than a milksop in a position of power – but a smart leader knew to reward the fighters first. It wasn’t as if the mercenaries were soldiers. They could simply walk away ...

  No, we can’t, he thought. We can’t even get back across the channel without a ship.

  It was a sobering thought. Normally, a mercenary could simply walk away. It was easy to cross the border and take up service with another mercenary band. There was never any shortage of work for mercenaries to do. But here ... they couldn’t go anywhere without a ship and crew. Unless, of course, they walked to the Northern Realm. But the North was even poorer than the Summer Isle. There was little prospect of money or women if they offered their services to the Cold King.

  The line inched forward again, gradually. Big Richard ground his teeth in frustration. They were meant to be back at the castle in time for dinner. At this rate he wasn’t going to get his shot at the whore before he had to hurry back. He knew better than to be late, even though Lord Robin was spending most of his time with Prince Reginald rather than supervising his men. Alexis or Dolman would turn a blind eye if Big Richard was late, but Mandan would report him. The fool thought he was officer material. He certainly had the asshole act down pat.

  He looked down the line, peering into the alleyway. A whore could be seen within the darkness, kneeling in front of one of the men. It looked as though she was working hard ... not that she’d see most of the cash, of course. Big Richard had pimped a few girls in his younger days. The pimp kept most of the money in exchange for protecting the girl from other pimps and the occasional aggressive customer. And there was rarely any shortage of women so desperate that they had no choice but to sell themselves to a pimp.

  The sound of cantering hooves echoed though the air. He glanced up, just in time to see Prince Reginald riding past ... escorted by five bodyguards, Lord Robin and Isabella. Big Richard felt a surge of pure hatred as he saw the sorceress, a hatred that almost overwhelmed him. His dagger was halfway out of his belt before he realised what he was doing. Stabbing the wretched sorceress would be satisfying, but Lord Robin would kill him. The poor bastard didn’t know he was enchanted ...

  Grumbling echoed up and down the line. Big Richard listened, adding his own comments and savouring the discontent. Soldiers and mercenaries always grumbled – and smart leaders knew better than to crack down on it too hard – but this was different. Too many men felt that they’d risked their lives for ... for what? They had neither been paid nor given land.

  And if we don’t get paid soon, he thought, as he reached the end of the line, we’ll start taking matters into our own hands.

  ***

  Reginald felt ... he didn’t know how he felt. There was no sign of actual danger – no mobs in the streets, no armed men save for his bodyguards – but he felt on edge. He was used to women trying to seduce him, yet ... Emetine had used magic. He’d been putty in her hands and he knew it. She could have done anything to him. He knew that too.

  It had been a disconcerting experience, he thought, as the small group cantered into Temple Row. His father hadn’t hesitated to remind him, time and time again, that there was always someone better; his trainers had knocked him on his ass, time and time again, just to make it clear that merely being a good swordsman wasn’t enough to guarantee victory. He knew he wasn’t the strongest or the most capable. And yet, Emetine had reached into his head and twisted. He’d been at her mercy.

  And she could have done that to her husband, he thought, grimly. Why didn’t she?

  The memories tormented him. There was a part of him that had wanted her – that still wanted her, despite what she’d tried to do. He told that part of himself, firmly, to shut up, but it refused to listen. Isabella had assured him that he wasn’t enchanted, yet it was impossible to be sure. The Red Monks had magic, but it wasn’t her magic. Reginald wanted to believe that Isabella had missed something. It was better than believing he was too weak to throw off Emetine’s influence.

  He swung himself off the horse and dropped to the ground. Temple Row had once been a thriving street, lined with a dozen temples. Now, all but one of the buildings were nothing more than piles of debris. Knocking down temples was blasphemy – all the gods were real, including the ones he didn’t worship – yet the Red Monks hadn’t hesitated. Their building – a brooding grey monstrosity at the edge of the street – was all that remained. Even the statues had been torn down and destroyed.

  “They tore it all down,” Isabella said, jumping down beside him. “All of it. They even killed the priests.”

  Reginald sucked in his breath, genuinely shocked. Priests weren’t entirely immune to the fortunes of war – he’d known some priests who’d donned armour and fought in wars – but killing them deliberately was frowned upon. The gods they’d served would take a dim view of their priests being slaughtered. And yet, the Red Monks had killed every last priest in the city. They’d imposed themselves on an entire community.

  “And then what?” His eyes flicked to the grey building, waiting for him. “What happened to them?”

  “They vanished,” Isabella said. Her voice was icy cold. “They ... just left.”

  Lord Robin stayed on his horse. “When did they leave?”

  “If the reports are to be believed, they left a few hours before the army reached Allenstown,” Isabella said. “But it might have been earlier.”

  Reginald nodded, shortly. Commoners rarely needed to tell the time precisely. Even when they did, they normally depended on sundials rather than mechanical watches. It was extremely rare for a commoner – even a wealthy merchant – to wear a watch. And that meant there was no way to be sure precisely when the Red Monks had left.

  He turned to gaze upon the city. The Red Monks might not have gone very far. Allenstown was smaller than Havelock, but there were still plenty of hiding places. A careful man could easily find a place to hide, a place that wouldn’t be uncovered unless the searchers got very lucky. Methodologically searching the entire city would take months. It was possible, he supposed, that he could make the population’s lives so uncomfortable that they’d reveal any known hiding places, but that might also push them into open rebellion. Too many weapons were unaccounted for ...

  And the Red Monks have
strange powers, he reminded himself. A magician can hide himself in plain sight. Why can’t they?

  “We need to figure out what they are,” he said. Emetine had talked freely, but he had no way to tell how much of what she’d said was true and how much was utter nonsense. He would have believed it was all nonsense if he hadn’t tasted her power. “After they knocked down the temples, what did they do?”

  “Nothing, apparently,” Isabella said. “They didn’t even force people to worship at their altars.”

  Reginald stroked his chin. It made no sense. He could understand why fanatics would want people to worship their god – and their god alone – even though it was forbidden. The Golden City had always insisted on religious toleration, permitting any religion as long as the religion’s leaders and followers behaved themselves. And yet, free of the Golden City’s power, the Red Monks hadn’t imposed themselves on the population. They hadn’t ordered people into their temples on pain of death. They’d merely smashed every other temple in the city.

  He looked up at the darkening sky. It looked like rain, again. He’d been warned about the rain, but ... but he hadn’t believed what he’d been told. It was summer, yet it felt as though they were heading straight into autumn. And there was something prickly in the wind, as if a thunderstorm was about to form. The roiling grey skies promised a deluge.

  “They could be anywhere,” he mused. He held the capital – and dozens of noblemen had bent the knee to him – but he knew he had yet to stamp his authority on the island. “Did you manage to get any idea of where they came from?”

  “Nothing specific,” Isabella said. “The Red Monks made contact with Emetine, somehow. I think they must have a base somewhere in the Hereford Lands.”

  Reginald wasn’t so sure. The Summer Isle’s women might be restricted, and only allowed to move under heavy escort, but the Red Monks had no such limits. It would be easy for one of them to make his way into Emetine’s boudoir and preach to her ... or, perhaps, convert one of her ladies-in-waiting and rely on her to preach. Reginald had already ordered Emetine’s women sent out of the city, just in case they were dangerous. They’d be held at Racal’s Bay until matters had been settled.

  And I want to believe she is nothing more than a pawn, he thought, grimly. I want to believe that she’s blameless ...

  He could feel the thought nagging at him, the cool suggestion that Emetine wasn’t responsible for her own actions. How could she be blamed for following her brother’s orders? If, of course, her brother had given the orders. Reginald found it hard to believe that any brother would issue such orders – he certainly wouldn’t – but Havant Hereford had to be desperate. His army had been smashed and he’d been driven north. It wouldn’t be long before his enemies started to circle, like vultures surrounding a dead body. Reginald privately hoped that Earl Goldenrod would take advantage of the chance to rid himself of the Herefords once and for all. It would certainly make Reginald’s march north a great deal easier.

  Isabella cleared her throat. “I’ll take a look inside the temple,” she said. “You stay here.”

  Reginald frowned, but nodded slowly. He wasn’t used to sending women into danger. And yet ... Isabella’s words ran through his mind. He had put women – countless women – in dreadful danger, no matter what orders he gave. A girl who’d been raped by one of his men might be too frightened to file a complaint. Why should she expect him to take her side? She didn’t know him.

  He watched, one hand resting on his sword, as Isabella walked slowly up to the temple, checking everything before stepping through the door. Sweat dripped down his back as he waited, wondering just how long they should wait before going after her. Lord Robin didn’t seem quite so worried about his sorceress, but even he started to look concerned as the minutes slowly ticked by. It felt like hours had passed before Isabella finally re-emerged from the temple. Her face was very pale.

  “It’s like the other one,” she said, studying a notebook in her hand. “I could feel it trying to pluck at my memories as I left.”

  Reginald cursed as the implications sank in. “Someone could have gone into the temple and done ... done something, then forgotten it as they left.”

  “I think so,” Isabella agreed. “And if I hadn’t taken notes, I would have forgotten everything too.”

  “Post a guard,” Reginald ordered, looking at Lord Robin. “The temple is to be completely sealed off, at least until we can figure out how to destroy it safely. If worse comes to worst, we’ll build a wall around it permanently.”

  He clambered back onto his horse, then cantered off down the street. Isabella followed, her horse neighing as it caught up with his. She rode like a man, he noted; she didn’t seem to care to ride side-saddle. But then, she wasn’t wearing a dress either. There was no reason she had to ride like a woman at court. He couldn’t help being reminded of his sister. Ruby had flatly refused to wear dresses when riding, despite blandishments from her governess and threats from her father. There had been something about her determination that had been almost admirable.

  “We cleaned out your room,” Isabella said, as they rode onwards. “You can sleep there again, I think.”

  Reginald shrugged. It would be a long time before he felt safe in that room, even if he had a sword by his bed, a dagger under the pillow and a couple of guards sleeping at the foot of the bed. Emetine had enchanted his bodyguards, somehow. None of them remembered anything from the moment they’d taken up their posts to the moment they’d discovered that the door had been smashed to splinters. Isabella had cast dozens of wards, tying them all together into a complicated spider-web, but she’d been brutally honest. There was no longer any way to guarantee his safety.

  Not that there ever was, Reginald thought. When he’d been a child, the Court Wizard had been a brooding presence in the background, the true power behind the throne. His magic tricks could easily have turned nasty, if the king had defied the Grand Sorcerer. And he hadn’t been the only threat. There were no shortages of factions that had wanted – that still wanted – to kidnap or kill the king’s son. All I can do is watch my back.

  Thunder rolled, high overhead. A moment later, rain started to splatter down. Reginald glanced up, then spurred the horse onwards as the streets rapidly emptied. The rainfall grew stronger, water dripping down his helmet and pouring into his armour. He looked up at the clouds, tasting the water as it fell. It tasted pure. And yet ...

  His eyes narrowed. Was that a face in the clouds?

  Reginald blinked. The face was gone.

  He shook his head. It couldn’t have been real. He was imagining things. It was hardly the first time he’d seen shapes in the clouds. And yet, there had been something about the face that lingered in his mind. It was hard to believe, no matter how hard he tried, that it was truly imaginary.

  The sooner we resume the war, the better, he thought, as they cantered through the gatehouse and into the castle. A page took the reins of his horse, allowing Reginald to hurry into the building itself. The thunder followed him, shaking the building. We’re going to go mad here.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Isabella opened her eyes as the last of the wards dropped into place, surrounding the council chamber. King Edwin hadn’t seemed to be too concerned about protecting his discussions from magical surveillance, let alone attacks, but there had been nothing he could do to keep magicians from spying on him anyway. Even basic protections had been neglected since the Court Wizard had been summoned to the Golden City. The man had never returned.

  And we’ll just have to hope the protections actually work, she thought, as Prince Reginald’s council of war started to file into the chamber. Who knows if they’ll keep the Red Monks out?

  She gritted her teeth. A number of councillors had made snide remarks, questioning her value as a magician if she couldn’t fight the Red Monks. Prince Reginald and Lord Robin had defended her, but the hell of it was that the doubters had a point. She knew how to analyse spells and devise
countermeasures, yet whatever the Red Monks used was beyond her understanding. She’d hoped they’d somehow found a way to deceive her spells – there was no shortage of tricks devised to conceal how a spell actually worked – but none of her attempts to break their magic down to bedrock had produced anything. It was something completely outside her experience.

  Female magic, she said, Isabella thought, as she took a seat next to Lord Robin. But what does that mean?

  She leaned back in her chair and forced herself to relax. She’d sent letters – detailed letters – to Alden, but she was grimly aware that it would take months for them to reach the Golden City. She wasn’t even sure if her brother was still in Havelock. Alden probably wouldn’t have stuck around, not with so many other problems demanding his attention. And there was no way to guarantee he’d even get the letters. The days when the mail coach was inviolate were long gone.

  The council rose as Prince Reginald stepped into the chamber. He looked more confident, Isabella noted, but there was something oddly brittle about his demeanour. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, yet ... she winced, inwardly. There were quite a few men who needed to be taken down a peg or two – she’d done it herself, simply by showing them what magic could do – but Prince Reginald wasn’t one of them. He was a decent sort, for a prince. He’d grow into a fine king.

  She wondered, grimly, just how many of his councillors had noticed. Men were generally less emotionally perceptive than women, but most of the councillors depended on Prince Reginald for their power and positions. Reading his emotions would be a survival skill for many of them, even the ones who were reliant on the king instead. Prince Reginald could easily kill one of his father’s spies and swear blind it was an accident, with his household backing him up. The king probably wouldn’t ask too many questions. He certainly wouldn’t be that concerned about someone he’d already deemed expendable.