by Claire Frank
Pathius stared at him, seething with frustration. “You invite me to stay, and then throw this at me?”
“Would you rather we had kept this from you? It is not our way to give orders. You must make your own choice.” Merefin paused again, regarding Pathius with intensity. “Let me tell you what I see in you. Although you have gained control over your abilities, chaos still rages within. You walk along an edge, liable to fall with every step. I offer you this choice because it is right. You are welcome to stay among us. You will no longer be watched, but free to live as you please, as all Imarans are. But we realize the knowledge of what is happening in the place of your birth may sway you, regardless of whether we tell you that you should stay or go.”
“What would you say, if it was your place to order me?” Pathius asked.
“Such an order is not a thing done, but I will tell you this: you could find peace here. I can see this inside of you. Whether that is enough, I do not know. Take the time you need to decide.”
Pathius nodded to Merefin and the other Raeswa, then turned and walked away. The weight of their words hung heavy in his mind, and he needed time to think. Wandering out through the hallways, he made his way toward the surface and emerged onto the plateau. Heavy gray clouds hung low, and the air felt like rain. He was close to the edge, and the roar of the waterfalls loomed in the distance.
He walked to the cliff side, not far from where the water plunged down into the lake below. Mist hung in the air, and he looked out at the wide expanse of dense forest that surrounded Imara. He could stay here, he realized as he breathed in the wet air. He had grown to love this place, with all its beauty and strangeness. A life among the Imarans, simply working, existing. No lofty expectations, no thrones, no crowns. A life with Ara.
Closing his eyes, he heard the voice of his father, calling him weak. It didn’t seem to matter how far he tried to bury the memory of Hadran’s scorn, the marks were too deep. Could he abandon his homeland as they faced this threat? Trust others to protect the kingdom he loved?
His chest constricted and he breathed out a long, slow breath. No. He couldn’t hide here while his home and his people fought for their lives. He knew what he had to do.
He had to go back.
32. THE HEIR OF HORADRUS
A sharp pain jolted down Isley’s back and across her lower abdomen, and she clutched her belly, moaning. The lights in her room were dim and the sun was hours from rising, but sleep had eluded her. She’d spent most of the prior day in various states of discomfort, ranging from a mild achiness to waves of pain that took her breath away. Brynn had brought in a midwife who seemed to have been created with the sole purpose of annoying Isley. She poked and prodded and tried to give her a putrid concoction to drink, before Isley had finally screamed at her to get out. One thing was certain, however – this baby was going to be born soon.
Isley understood the mechanics of it, of course. What woman didn’t? But as the night wore on and the waves of pain came more frequently, she realized with growing terror that this was actually happening. Her abdomen protruded grotesquely and that unseemly mass was full of a child. A child that needed to pass through a space she knew with every ounce of her being was not large enough to accommodate him.
Brynn mopped her forehead with a cool cloth. “Shh, my Reinara. This will be over soon.”
Isley wanted to argue, but she was too tired. Brynn and many of the other servants had taken to calling her “Reinara,” which was some sort of title as far as Isley could tell. They said it in low whispers, as if they all carried a secret they didn’t wish to share.
Another rush of pain cut through her and she cried out, batting Brynn’s hand away. Tucking her legs in, she curled up on her side, ready to lash out at anyone who touched her. Her cheeks burned, and perspiration beaded on her forehead and trickled down her back. The pain hit again, just as she caught her breath from the last one, and she clutched at her belly, desperate for anything to make the agony go away.
“She needs this,” the midwife said.
Isley didn’t look up to see what she was referring to. “No,” she said, more a wail than a coherent word. “Who let her back in?”
Brynn crouched down next to her and brushed the hair back from her face. “Let us help. The baby will come soon and the midwife will guide you.”
Taking heaving breaths, Isley nodded, grateful for the momentary relief as the agony passed. The midwife knelt and Brynn helped Isley turn, propping her up slightly with pillows behind her back. Her mind was quiet; her voices had retreated into the depths of her consciousness hours ago. It seemed they weren’t any more interested in experiencing childbirth than she was. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much choice.
She glanced up to see the midwife swiping some sort of oily ointment from a jar. Moving her dress aside, the midwife opened Isley’s legs and rubbed her fingers between them. “This will keep you from tearing,” she said as she worked.
“Tearing?” Isley said, lifting her head. “This little demon is going to rip me open.”
The midwife pressed her lips into a smile and clicked her tongue. “This is your first. It will not be so difficult next time.”
“There will not be a next time,” Isley said. The pain built again and she looked down in horror as her abdomen contorted. She sucked in a breath and gritted her teeth to keep herself from crying out.
The midwife placed her hands on Isley’s belly as the spasm receded, and pressed down in several places. “The baby is low. It will not be long.”
“Shouldn’t you be putting me in a tub of water?” Isley asked. She was vaguely aware of Halthian birthing practices and seemed to remember that the women lay in a tub of warm water to give birth.
The midwife lifted an eyebrow, but otherwise ignored her question and continued her work. Isley leaned her head back, her body going limp as the midwife massaged her with more ointment. She heard footsteps and soft whispers, but only caught the words “heir” and “His Eminence” before a surge of pain rolled through her.
As she opened her eyes, something seemed to sparkle in the air above her. Isley felt her Wielding ability just beyond her reach, and the image almost took form. The midwife’s eyes widened and Brynn gasped as the wisp dissipated.
A gush of warm fluid poured from her as the contraction passed and she scrunched up her nose in disgust. She leaned her head back again, wanting nothing more than to rest, and let the midwife deal with it. That was what she was here for, after all. Brynn wiped her forehead with a cool cloth, and Isley’s eyes fluttered closed.
“The fluid is not clear,” the midwife said and the sharp note of alarm in her voice sent a spike of fear through Isley.
“What does that mean?” Isley asked, struggling to sit up as another contraction hit. She cried out, unable to keep herself from yelling as the pain threatened to rip her apart.
The midwife pushed her fingers inside Isley as the pain eased and, as much as Isley wanted to claw out her throat, her body collapsed against the pillows. The air around her shimmered again, and she blinked, wondering if she was going to pass out.
“Reinara Isley,” Brynn said, her voice breathy. Her face was upturned and Isley realized she could see the shimmering as well.
“You need to push,” the midwife said. “You will feel when your body tells you. Push hard. The baby needs to come out.”
The ripple in the air disappeared and Isley gaped at the midwife. “Push? No, I can’t.” The idea of pushing during those waves of agony was horrifying.
“You must. The fluid is tainted,” the midwife said.
Brynn’s face snapped toward the other woman. “This is the Reinara and she bears the heir of His Eminence, the Emperor. It will be your head if they die.”
The midwife’s eyes widened and she looked back to Isley. “It comes now. Push.”
A rolling surge of pain swelled through Isley. The midwife held her feet, pushing her legs back, and Isley clung to her knees, pushing with all her str
ength. Bearing down felt strangely good, like squeezing a cut to stop the bleeding. The wave rolled past and she collapsed back against the pillows, breathing hard.
The midwife kept working in between contractions, conferring with her assistants and rubbing Isley with ointment. People flitted in and out, but Isley couldn’t spare the energy to pay them any heed. As each surge of pain went through her, she pushed, trying desperately to expel the infernal child from her body. She slumped back after each push, letting exhaustion take her before her body insisted she do it all again.
“The baby comes, but it must be faster,” the midwife said, a thick note of panic in her voice.
“What’s wrong?” Isley said, although it sounded to her ears as if someone else had spoken.
“Push again, Isley,” the midwife said. “Push again.”
Fear raced through Isley, and she leaned forward to push as the contraction built. One of the assistants handed her a piece of cloth, wound like a rope, and Isley pulled against it as she pushed. A ring of burning pain made her shriek as she felt what must be the baby’s head stretch her open.
“Again,” the midwife said. Her hands were low, pulling and tugging against Isley’s flesh.
Isley pushed and the burn intensified so that she could scarcely stand it. Grasping the wound cloth, she tried to push through the pain, her only thought to get the baby out so the torture would end.
“Come now, come on,” the midwife said and Isley pushed, crying out with agony, sure the baby was ripping her in half.
The pain lessened and she felt a gushing sensation, as if her insides were slipping out. Gasps and mutters reached her ears, and she opened her eyes to see the midwife pulling the limp form of an infant from her groin. It was covered in brown and red slime, its body wrinkled and misshapen. And it was the most beautiful thing Isley had ever seen.
Her mouth dropped open and her breath came in heaving gasps as she watched the midwife rub the baby with a cloth. “Careful,” she said, certain that the midwife was hurting him. And it most certainly was a him.
The baby seemed to gasp for a breath and then let out a sharp cry.
“Oh praise the gods,” the midwife said as she rubbed the cloth across his head. He answered her with another wail, and Isley thought her heart would split in two.
“Give him to me,” Isley said, reaching her hands forward. The midwife was taking too long, and Isley almost sat up to snatch the baby from her hands, but the woman handed her the child, placing him gently across her chest.
He was slick and warm, and Isley ran her hand along his hairline, eyeing his cheek squished against her breast. His little mouth opened and closed, and he gave her another squawk. She couldn’t help but laugh at the tiny monstrosity.
Another surge of tightness ran through her and she felt the midwife pull out the afterbirth. Isley scarcely noticed the midwife working, pulling and tugging at her; she was so enthralled with the strange being laying atop her. She twined her finger into his miniscule hand and his fingers closed around hers. Up until this moment, she hadn’t thought much about what the actual child would be like. The pregnancy had been something of an inconvenience, but the Emperor’s interest in her and the child had proven extremely beneficial, so she’d tolerated the rather considerable discomforts. But seeing her baby, sprawled out across her still distended body, she’d never felt anything so profound. She stared at him, feeling that nothing in the world could possibly matter more than this child. He would grow to be more powerful than either of his fathers, the progeny of two of the greatest Wielders the world had ever known, and heir to the throne of the Empire. He would be unlike anything the world had ever seen.
A surge of power swelled within her and the sound of gasps pulled her from her reverie. A wispy image formed in the air, translucent as if made of smoke. Isley fought to control it, make it coalesce, but it remained nebulous. The others in the room stepped back, their mouths agape, and Brynn stared with a look of awe. Pouring her last ounce of strength into the illusion, Isley forced it into shape and for a brief moment the image of a man, resplendent in shining golden armor, appeared. His features were bold, his eyes icy blue and shining, and a crimson cloak streamed from his shoulders.
“By the gods,” the midwife whispered and the assistants and servants watched with gaping eyes as the image dissipated into mist.
Isley lay her head back, sapped of strength. For one glorious moment she had touched her Wielding energy again, felt it course through her and fill her with vitality. As quickly as it had come, it was gone, her ability to draw power cut off, but she knew it was still there, waiting for her. She stroked the baby’s head with her finger, ignoring the stares from the others in the room.
“The Creator has indeed spoken.” Horadrus’s voice rumbled through the room and everyone dropped to the ground in prostration. He stood in the doorway, the light from the hall illuminating him from behind. General Gwinele stood just behind, tilting her head to peek into the room around his broad shoulder. “My heir has entered the world.”
He took slow steps into the room, his eyes locked on the child, while the general waited in the doorway. Isley wrapped her arms protectively around her baby, scooting herself into a more upright position and cradling him in her arms. The Emperor’s white eyes were radiant and his mouth moved into a half smile as he held his hands out.
“Let me see him,” he said.
Isley shrank back, tucking the cloth around her baby’s still-wet body as he squirmed and let out another cry. She felt the pull of Horadrus’s coercion, the calming of her mind telling her that she should obey. Fighting against the sensation, she tried to turn and keep her child from his grasp.
He will take the child.
“No,” Isley said through gritted teeth.
Horadrus crouched beside her and turned his gaze to her face. “You will obey.”
With shaking arms, Isley held out the baby toward him. The cord still hung from his belly and the piece of cloth fell away as Horadrus took him in his hands, his palms large enough to cradle the tiny body within them.
High-pitched cries burst from the baby’s mouth, a rhythmic series of wails that tightened Isley’s back and made her want to launch herself at Horadrus.
“Eminence,” the general said from the doorway. “Please, you must listen. This child is not¬¬—”
“Enough,” Horadrus said, his voice low and menacing, and the general fell silent. He stood, drawing himself to his full height with deliberate slowness, still holding the baby in his hands. The child’s arms and legs flailed as it cried, kicking and twitching with jerky movements. With surprising gentleness, Horadrus pulled his arms close to his chest and angled his head to regard the baby. The child quieted, his limbs relaxing; his sharp gray eyes blinked as if he looked up at something bright.
A slow smile crept over Horadrus’s face. “Yes, little one. I feel the strength within you. You will be everything I need you to be.” His face swung back to Gwinele who stood with her mouth half open. “My heir has arrived at last. You will do well to remember who he is.”
“Yes, Eminence,” she said, her voice full of fear.
He turned back to Isley and lowered the baby into her arms. She took him with a wave of relief, letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“You will see to it he grows strong.” He spoke directly to Isley but could be heard by everyone in the room. He turned back to Gwinele. “My heir will not be harmed. He is vulnerable now, and I will see him protected.”
Gwinele nodded. “No harm will come to him, Eminence.”
“Good,” he said and turned back to Isley. “He will be known as Caenderus Horadrus. It means chosen, in an ancient tongue.”
Caenderus. Isley gazed at her infant as Horadrus left the room. Everyone rose from their knees and Isley felt the midwife begin to work again. Brynn gave her a sip of cool water. Isley glanced up and saw Gwinele staring at her from the doorway, the lines of her mouth tight, her eyes hard. I
sley raised her eyes to meet the other woman’s and curled her lips in a smile. One side of Gwinele’s face twitched and she turned, marching from the room with a loud clatter as her boots hit the floor.
“Don’t even try, Gwinele,” Isley said to herself. “Don’t even try.”
33. THE PLAN
The study door opened and Alastair walked in. Callum couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Alastair’s clothes: a black doublet trimmed with gold, the king’s sigil embroidered on the front.
He does love being official. And wealthy.
Callum hovered in a corner near a bookshelf, waiting for Alastair to notice him. He could hardly argue with wealthy. Who didn’t enjoy the tinkling of gold in their pocket? But a man certainly didn’t have to flaunt it. Alastair shut the door, then froze as he looked up and saw Callum.
“How did you get in here?” Alastair asked.
With a shrug, Callum dropped into a chair in front of the large, wooden desk. “I walked in.”
Alastair shook his head and walked around to take his seat. “I’m going to have to have a talk with the guard. You shouldn’t be able to stroll in here like that. If you can do it, other people can too.”
“Honestly,” Callum said, raising one eyebrow, “do you know of someone else who could? I had to soothe the nerves of a dozen people on my way in so they would assume I belonged. Not even Wraith can do that.”
“As always, your arrogance is stunning,” Alastair said. “Why are you here?”
“I think you were right about the deaths,” Callum said. “Definitely not accidental. And there have been more of them than you think. A lot more.”
Alastair placed his arm on the desk and leaned forward. “More?”
“At first I figured there was no way they were related. The ones you told me about were high profile people: generals and the captain of the Fire Watch. Most of the others are just regular people, but they all died under similar circumstances. Otherwise healthy people who turned up dead in their beds, without any real evidence as to how or why they died. There are probably more, but word didn’t spread because their families assumed their deaths were natural.”