Wrath of the Usurper (The Eoriel Saga Book 2)

by Kal Spriggs

  ***

  Admiral Elias Wachter

  “My Lord,” Elias bowed deeply as he stepped into the office. The Grand Duke had moved to a different set of suites, this one in the section allotted for him. He also had a proper escort and Elias felt a familiar pain as he remembered the two sailors who had died under his orders. Damned fine men, and a tragic loss, he thought. He wished, once more that he had been more insistent about more men or a larger escort, but he hadn't wanted to push the Grand Duke too hard. If he had, it might have turned out that he would have made do without even those two.

  “Elias,” Lord Tarken said, his voice friendly. “Thank you for coming, I know you've been very busy... and from what your son has said, you've spent some time helping him to recruit for the Ducal Guard as well.”

  Elias nodded slowly, “I have, my Lord.” He smiled a bit as he remembered the expressions on the faces of the families he had contacted. Many of them had dug into their attics and basements to pull out their old suits of armor and weapons, some of them thousands of cycles old. “I can say that it has been a dream fulfilled... though I wish under somewhat happier circumstances.”

  Lord Tarken nodded, “Agreed.” He sighed, “Part of the reason I asked you here was in regards to those unhappy circumstances. I understand that Coxswain Jenkins is survived only by his younger sister?” Elias nodded in response. “Right, and Carpenter's Mate Brussels has a wife and... eight children?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Elias nodded. He had already personally delivered the news to their relatives, as well as a death gratuity to hold both families over while they grieved. It was all the Navy could do through official channels, though he and his son had discussed making both men honorary Ducal Guard, in a ceremony when they officially stood the organization up.

  “I'll need their addresses and names,” Lord Tarken said softly. “I owe both those men a debt I cannot pay, but I will do what I can to honor them, personally.”

  Elias's eyes went wide at that, “Surely you don't need to go yourself.”

  “They gave their lives for me,” Lord Tarken said, his gaze distant, “The least I can do is tell their loved ones that I honor their sacrifices.”

  Elias nodded slowly. “Very well, my Lord, I can have their names and addresses written up and brought to you, I'd just visited them earlier today.” He paused though as he looked down at the sheaf of papers he held. “Sir, did you have Miss Siara's letters translated, yet?”

  Christoffer shook his head, “I did not. That was part of the ongoing investigation, I assume, but I've dismissed all charges. She's to be set free later today.”

  Elias didn't miss the emphasis. She wouldn't be reinstated or cleared of charges, she would be 'freed.' Clearly, Lord Tarken didn't want to further tarnish her reputation but he saw no way to clear her, even though her actions had saved his life. She's guilty by popular opinion, Elias thought, as if that is ever right.

  “My Lord, I had obtained copies of the letters and had one of the Admiralty's translators work on them. I'm afraid I read some of them, before I realized that you should be the one to read through them.”

  “Me?” Lord Tarken looked surprised. “I assume they should have gone to the judge, if the trial had continued, but I see little reason for me to read them.” Elias didn't miss the edge in the other man's voice, though, as if he were afraid of what he might find there: either confirmation of her betrayal or, worse, something innocuous which had caused him to mistreat her.

  “I think you'll understand, after you read them,” Elias said softly and set the stack of letters on the edge of the desk. “Now, my Lord, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going.” He saw Lord Tarken pick up the first of the letters and begin to read as he let himself out.

  ***

  Siara Pall

  Siara had felt no surprise when the prefects brought her back to her cell. They seemed uncertain about it though, especially at the sight of the moldy straw pallet and the bucket of waste. After some discussion, they had brought her a fresh pallet and emptied the bucket, at least.

  They left not long afterward and then some time passed before her door opened again. This time, it was a pair of men in different uniforms. Since she didn't recognize them as Navy uniforms, she would guess they were soldiers. Both men had seemed more than a little distressed to see her conditions and, after giving her the first real meal she'd had in days, they left her with a lantern and one even gave her a book to read.

  She received meals more regularly after that and while they hadn't transferred her out of the cell, the conditions had improved somewhat. They'd given her a broom to clean the worse of the grime and dirt off the floor, they'd brought her meals, straight from the Army cooks, or so they said. They had also brought her a clean dress from her effects, apparently stored elsewhere in the dungeon.

  The routine had become something to keep her mind off of her fears. A way for her to avoid thinking about what Lord Tarken might or might not do. Part of her desperately hoped that he would understand her actions, both what she had done and why. Part of her hoped that she would never have to see him again, because the look of pain in his eyes, the self-condemnation, made her own heart ache.

  She had started to read the book the soldier had given her for the fifth time when she heard footsteps in the corridor. Siara frowned at that, for it had only been a few hours since the soldiers brought her last meal. By her reckoning, it must be late at night or perhaps early in the morning.

  She rose and straightened her dress as best as she could, though despite her cleaning, it still had dirt and dust on it from the cell. She heard the bar being lifted and then a familiar voice spoke, “Wait out here, please, Gervais.”

  The door opened and Lord Tarken stooped to step through. He met her gaze with his ice blue eyes and she felt her heart flutter a bit. She gave him a curtsy, that she had practiced, “My Lord.”

  “You don't need to bow to me,” he said, his voice both gentle and sad. He held up a stack of papers and stepped forward to hand them to her. “I just finished reading these... and I wanted to apologize.”

  Siara took the stack and stared at them with puzzlement for a moment. She didn't recognize the handwriting, so it took her a moment to recognize her own words, translated from her people's language into Southtongue. They were the letters she had written to her father... and she felt a flush grow on her cheeks as she thought of the contents.

  She looked up, suddenly paralyzed by his calm, pale blue eyes. In the light of her lantern, they seemed softer than the normal hard-edged ice that she remembered in the recent fight. “You read... all of them?” she asked.

  “I did, to my shame,” he said with a slight smile, “though I think you give me far more credit than I deserve... and I'll admit to more than a little embarrassment over what I read.” His smile faded. “Siara, I've done you a great disservice. I listened to men who had their own agendas... and who didn't care about you beyond using you as a pawn in their own games. Worse, I didn't trust you, I gave into my fears and uncertainties, and after that, I was too caught up in my own pain to come to you for the truth.”

  She shook her head and she felt tears fill her eyes, but he held up a hand before she could speak, “Let me finish, please.” He gave a slight sigh, “Yesterday I lost my closest friend... a man who was at my side for more than twenty cycles. I will regret to the day that I die that I never told him how much I appreciated him. I'll not feel that way about you.” He took a breath and spoke quickly, “Siara, you have been a treasure to me. I value your insight and intelligence, your humor, and your wisdom. I miss our conversations, I miss the fire you have in you and how you don't hesitate to confront me when I'm being pigheaded or stubborn. I miss your beauty, your kindness, and your passion.”

  He came forward and stopped, only a few feet away, “I've realized, Siara, that I've come to love you and that was why I was so afraid that you had betrayed me, because it would be proof that you felt nothing for me in return.” He looked down, “I read y
our letters at first with desperation... until I realized they were a diary of sorts, addressed to your father, describing the people you met, the places you traveled... and then describing me.”

  She felt her flush deepen as he looked up and met her eyes. “And then I felt I had taken advantage of you. That you are young, impressionable, that I'm almost three times your age...”

  She shook her head, “Do not men in your lands marry women younger than them? Is it not common for older men to seek to continue their lines when they are widowed without children?”

  He snorted at that, “Not always because they are widowed, sometimes just to feel younger.”

  “Well, what is the shame in it, then?” Siara asked. “As for me being inexperienced... do you think I am so impressionable that I'm swept off my feet? Do you think I am not strong enough of will to decide who it is I can give my heart to?” She felt her cheeks burn as she said the words aloud, but her heart sang at the same time.

  He reached out a hand to her cheek, “You're even more beautiful when you're fiery and worked up.” He pulled his hand back then, a look of surprise on his face, as if he couldn't believe he had said the words out loud.

  Before he could pull back, though, Siara caught his hand and pulled it to her. “I love you,” she said. “I have loved you since I came to understand you... to see your greatness. You are a great man, Lord Christoffer Tarken... and I want to be yours.”

  He stood silent, his blue eyes tormented, but she could feel his heartbeat through the palm of his hand. It's rapid pace showed the excitement that lurked under his stillness. Before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped forward and caught his head and pulled him down into a kiss. Their lips touched with a shock that made her entire body tingle. She felt his warm body press against her as he responded to the ache within her with that of his own loneliness and pain.

  It was her first such experience, but as she broke the kiss off to breathe, she realized that it was far from the last she would experience. He met her eyes, all confusion and conflict melted away by the heat of their emotions. Before he could speak, she pulled him backwards with her onto the straw pallet and locked her lips on his again.

  She started to fumble with his belt and felt his hands run over her body under her dress. Siara thought triumphantly, I am his... and he is mine. She had no time for thoughts after that.

  ***

  Grand Duke Christoffer Tarken

  Christoffer stooped to enter the tavern and then gave the woman who stood behind the bar as warm a smile as he could manage. “Miss, I imagine you know why I've come?”

  “I understand you're here to give me your condolences, my Lord,” she responded. Coxswain Jenkin's sister at first glance shared little with her deceased brother. She was short, for one thing, with a thin frame and delicate features. She had the same sandy-brown hair, though, and the same expressive blue eyes. Those eyes showed sadness and regret, though, rather than the mischief and good cheer that he remembered from Jenkins.

  Christoffer nodded slowly, “That's part of it. Your brother personally saved my life. He was a good man.” He smiled sadly, “Maybe not an honest man, but a good one.”

  She smiled at that herself, though he saw tears fill her eyes.

  “I wanted to ask if there is anything that I can do for you or your family,” Christoffer said. “I know that you received a death gratuity, but I also understand that you lost your husband just last year...”

  She looked down at that, “There's not much I need, my Lord. Business is picking up here at the tavern with the siege lifted, so I can't complain.” She hesitated though, “My brother, he had a son with... well, with a prostitute down on Den Street. He was paying to support the boy, but his mother died just after the Northern Fleet sailed. I took young Tamas in and he's a help here, gets on well with my own sons... but he wants to follow after his father.”

  “But you don't want him killed?” Christoffer asked gently.

  “No, my Lord,” she said. “I've heard... well, I've heard that officers have it some better. Would it be possible for you to get him a commission as a midshipman? It would mean he could go to sea... but he'll be safer that way, right?”

  Christoffer smiled sadly, “There's no guarantees, but I can make certain he goes to a good ship.”

  “Thanks, my Lord,” she responded. “I assume you're going to see Aran Brussel's family next?”

  Christoffer nodded in response. She hesitated, then spoke quickly, as if afraid she spoke out of turn, “They wouldn't speak of it, they're proud folk, but their eldest daughter, Tasha, she wanted to join the Iron Wizards. She's got the smarts for it, but they haven't the money.”

  Christoffer's eyes narrowed, “I'll look into that, thank you.” He looked over to Siara who had already made a note of it, he saw. He felt another warm glow as he looked at her and he forced himself to push that to the back of his mind. He stepped out of the inn and his new escort formed up around him as he walked to the carriage.

  ***

  Grand Duke Christoffer Tarken

  Aboard the Ubelfurst, Boirton Harbor, Duchy of Boir

  12th of Paloom, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Christoffer stepped up to the bulwark and watched as the ships ahead exited the channel and got out into the open sea. The soft cool wash of sea spray struck his face and something inside him finally felt free as the breakers began to make the ship roll.

  He looked over at Captain Johann Jonas, “How does it feel?”

  The young man stood a bit taller, “Good, my Lord.” He didn't have to ask what Christoffer meant, every Captain felt that pride as they took their first command to sea.

  Christoffer slapped him on the back and turned away. He walked back down the deck to where Siara stood. He saw her gaze was to the north and her dark eyes were clouded. He stood next to her for a long silent moment. “Worried about your father?”

  She shook her head, “My father can look after himself.” She looked up, her face tight, “I am worried about what we will find there. The wizard, your son, was deeply involved in the attack here. The assassins were Armath Kuull and, from what we have heard, the Char Asp, the Vendakar worked with the Sepak Armen against Hall Prakka, the Usurper Duke.”

  “Yes,” Christoffer said. She had already identified the assassins as being from the Darkstar Empire, which Lady Diana's people had also confirmed. They still didn't know whether the assassins were mercenaries hired by Lord Hennings or if they were sent by the Masters of Darkstar and Christoffer doubted whether they would ever truly answer that. “But we can handle this... together.” Slowly, tentatively, he reached up and put his hand on her shoulder.

  She caught his hand and held it there. Siara smiled at him and the strain evaporated from her face, “Yes, together.” He heard determination in her voice and it only redoubled his own. Their enemies had hurt them, time and again, but now, for the first time in too long, the Duchy of Boir was going on the offensive. Christoffer's ice blue eyes shifted to the north and he could almost see his enemies gathered there. I'm coming for you, he thought resolutely, and now I have something worth fighting for... something worth living for.

  ***

  Chapter Ten

  Lord Hector the Usurper Duke

  The Lonely Keep, The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov

  20th of Paloom, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Hector waited as the mirror's face clouded over and then Kerrel's face appeared in the surface. He felt a sense of relief as he saw her. So much had seemed uncertain after the news of the Ryftguard's fall. Even the news from Veruna Nasrat that the new Grand Duke had accepted their alliance had not shaken his feeling of the sand slipping through his fingers.

  “My Lord,” Kerrel's voice was hesitant, “We've confirmed that the Ryftguard has fallen and that several of the southern nobility have marched to join the rebel movement there.”

  Hector's lips pressed into a hard line. Time is slipping away, he thought, even as he spoke, “I assume Commander Da
rkbit has done nothing to improve the situation?” He didn't bother to keep a bite of anger from his voice.

  From the way that Kerrel's green eyes flashed, he wasn't the only one to feel that anger. “I haven't had the opportunity to review his actions, my Lord. We still haven't linked up. Our pace was slowed to escort your mother and apparently he thought the fall of Ryftguard was important enough to move most of his forces south.”

  Hector grimaced at that. Darkbit hadn't reported to him yet, but that wasn't a surprise. The man probably was trying to do as much damage control as possible. Given his neck was on the line in more ways than one, Hector just hoped that the mercenary didn't make things worse. They can't get much worse than this, he thought sourly, short of the entire south catching fire. “When you catch up to him, be certain you make it clear to him that you speak with my voice,” he said. He wished, once again, that Grel hadn't lost the damned portable mirror he'd given him for his mission to kill Katarina. It was the only portable one activated from Castle Emberhill's vault and it's loss meant that his field commanders in the south could only contact him from the larger, stationary mirrors or via messengers. Lady Moratha had volunteered the services of her familiar for just that purpose, but that wasn't the same as talking to them directly.

  And it means that Grel and Darkbit can plead being on the move in order to avoid talking to me, Hector thought darkly. He respected the necessity for a commander on location to have freedom to act as they saw fit... just as he respected the fact that Covle Darkbit might well make things unsalvagable just to make himself too valuable for Hector to part with his services.