An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  “Come now, master Sima,” Birus cut him off. “Surely the southern lords visit the imperial court frequently. Valdez must have more than one friend in the capital. Surely he was seen talking to more of them.”

  “Indeed, lord Mandon. But the lord of Griffin Height is quite discrete with the company he entertains.”

  Not discrete enough, he thought. All the whores of the largest and most prodigal brothel in the capital knew of the lord’s patronage and whims. But still, the master at arms gave him a name, lord Shellburn. Heh, what would an eastern lord have to talk with Valdez? There was seldom love between the five realms. The prospect of the southern houses turning their cloaks to favor Soronius Mero was bad enough. The possibility of the plot’s ties stretching into the Eastlands made the whole thing even worse. Do they lie within my midst as well?

  “Why is my lord so interested in – ”

  “Master Sima,” the squire boy entered upon them; sparing Birus of explaining the interests behind his questions. “It’s time for the melee, sir. Your challenger is already armored and waiting, while the crowds are eager to shout your name.”

  Sima giggled at that. “Ha, yes… no matter. It’s always good to let them boil for a while. To stand on needles with anticipation. It’s good for the spectacle, and it gives my opponents more time to think and doubt.” He finished his cup. “Well, the people want a show; and I won’t fail to deliver one. Enjoy the fight, lord Mandon. You’ll get a better view from the gallery.” Sima took the full helm from his squire and left with a confident smile on his face.

  Alone in the pavilion, Birus inspected Sima’s drinking cup. He was surprised to find that the good master at arms wasn’t drinking white wine, but in fact, water. Well, I’ll be damned. The man’s not only a swordsman, but a trickster as well. It was getting more and more frustrating here in the south. It was too hot and filled with intrigues.

  Birus hated the emperor for his idea of the betrothal. He hated lord Verwick for having bestowed upon him such a burden… of uncovering would-be traitors. And he hated Tychos more than ever – for that insolent public display of arrogance, not to mention his threats. If that wretched whelp is my satan, then the gods are merciful indeed. Birus had a good mind to swiftly return to Rivermark, raise his own levies, cross the Shivering Necks, give battle to the arrogant wretch and besiege Ironmoat. But that would be a folly perpetrated by blind wrath, he reflected. And not at all prudent, nor sound.

  Though it was called thus, Ironmoat didn’t truly have a moat. Rows and rows of iron spikes, bending in all directions, encircled the castle walls. The grim truth about the moat of spikes dated back half a century ago, when the Longspears ruled that seat of power, and it bore then a different name – Grimwall. That house had a peculiar way of punishing crimes. Those sentenced to death by the lord of the keep were not hanged, nor decapitated, nor flayed alive... They were simply thrown off the battlements into rows and rows of black iron; into their grim and final embrace. Their bodies would be left to rot, and the trapped limbs would serve as a terrible warning to friend and foe alike.

  When the rule of that castle fell to house Tychos, they didn’t due away with the crude architecture surrounding the walls. Instead, its new masters had embraced the custom of the Longspears, and had renamed their seat of power – Ironmoat.

  Birus left the pavilion and went to the gallery, where the lords, and ladies, and knights viewed the contests. He had missed lady Ambrielle and lord Krasus. Jean-Maria Valdez was nowhere in sight either. But he found his bannermen, those lords who had not set out after the emperor’s feast, but remained for the melee… the lords of Stonerunner Creek, Byrnehold, and Rainhall.

  “My lord,” said Latten Reed, “you are just in time for the fighting. We’ve heard that you and lord Tychos quarreled and dueled. What happened?”

  Birus searched the gallery with his gaze, but didn’t find the arrogant whelp. All the more better. I must have shamed him good. He leaned himself by the balustrade, ignoring the question. “It’s of no consequence, lord Reed. Let’s focus on the fight. I want to see if sir Sebastien can surprise the lightning storm.”

  Chapter XV: The Champion

  Her welcome at the High Temple was not one of warmth or victory. She expected as much. Within the main hall of the great edifice, she endured the scolding words of the Sister Superior. Her actions in Bernn were met with outrage and insult, her victory with reprehension. But with the tears of the poppy having banished all sensation of pain from her limbs, Drakanes squatted on the marble floor – a defiant grin beneath her hood. The other sisters were glaring at her; indifference, spite, and the curiosity of fools.

  Laurel, however, was not. Her bowed head and curled lip revealed her true emotions; she was trying to abstain from laughter. Drakanes didn’t blame the sister – for it was all a mockery. And I’m smiling as well. As the old crone spat her venom, Drakanes brushed a hand across her shaven skull. Then started to lean from side to side; murmuring a song without meaning. A crafty response to the Sister Superior’s idiocy, to her stark falsehood and shallow righteousness of morals and discipline.

  “Wicked creature,” the crone barked. “Wait till the hierarchs hear of this. No daughter of the Moons has ever interfered in matters of law and justice. These things are for the realm of magistrates. And to call out for trial by combat was sheer madness. An affront to the gods! You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  A tremor beneath their feet followed those words of venom; swelling through the marble floor and into the very walls. Many of the sisters cowered under the arched frames of entrances. They uttered shallow prayers and made the sign of the Three upon their chests.

  Earthquakes were, to the hearts and minds of men, great signs of godly whim. The faithful understood it to mean wrath and displeasure. Drakanes understood it differently; the honest and savage works of nature. Cause without judgement, consequence of mere motion in the world of great and small. The worms in the soil. The fiery blood within living mountains. The rocks beneath and upon the earth. Clouds of rain above the winds. It was all motion, it was all spectacle.

  And at last, when the tremor subsided... Drakanes stared at her dismayed audience and gave voice to her defiance. “Listen to me, you bitch,” she said carefully. “I saved a life this day; and brought an end to a worthless one. I am not ashamed of it. I cannot be. Will not be. What I am is proud.”

  A soft giggle emerged from a shady alcove. It was a warm sound, filled with honest mirth. “Let us cool our tongues,” the voice said. “Let us make peace with one another; for I will it so.” It was the Matriarch, holiest of women, most beloved daughter of the Twin Moon Mothers. A scion of Palatine Rock, the blood of Manheim.

  In her presence everyone stilled their tongues, and everyone bowed.

  The Matriarch donned a long robe of purple-white. Leaves and veins were embroidered in gold thread on the edges of her pristine attire. And a wide blue sash of velvet was wrapped about her waist. Around the neck of her holiness hung two fine chains – a silver one bearing the twin full moons, and the second of gold. It bore the golden sun with the eight halo rays sprawling out of it. Her short hair was wrapped inside her cap, which was adorned by small rubies, sapphires, and moonstones. The Matriarch smelled of peaches… freshly cut.

  “Your holiness,” the Sister Superior spoke in a noticeable milder tone. “This one has interfered with laic proceedings, not just by ignoring the lawful vote of a council of proctors, but by condemning it. She instigated the accused to call for trial by combat, a ritual that’s not proper in the cases of smallfolk. Through vile and wicked wit, she managed to enrage the rabble in support of the blasphemy; and then she herself offered to fight... in the murderer’s defence. Such trespass is without precedent.”

  Drakanes snorted in derision, but kept her tongue. She knew the truth about her tale, and she would speak it in due course. Her fiendish eyes, however, held the Matriarch’s gaze. It was warm; the woman’s features true and content, betraying no sentiment
of anger. At least, that was her perception of it.

  “The sister renounced the robe for breeches, armor, and sword. Renounced decency for blasphemy. She killed the grand burgher’s champion and boasted before the rabble, filled with bloodlust, crying words of profanity and filth.”

  “My cunt for a sword,” she hissed for all to hear. And the rest of the souls gathered to witness their banter broke out into innate giggles and prattle.

  “You see, your holiness!? Utter arrogance and no shame! Those are not the qualities preached by our faith. This impertinent creature must be severely disciplined. And if she doesn’t learn and change her vile ways, she ought to be banished from our order.” The old bitch gave her a crooked grin, finally satisfied with her accusations.

  In a wordless but defiant reply, Drakanes raised her chin and shrugged off the crone’s malicious gaze – working those fiendish eyes of hers of pale grey and brown, which she knew to use all too well. She thought of spitting, of cursing, but then thought better of it; allowing temperance to quell her anger but not her wit. “Your tongue is perfidious, Sister Superior. Your accusations empty and false; just as your soul.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” the Matriarch ended the quarrel. And gestured for everyone to return to their duties. “I want to have a word with this sister… in confidence.”

  While the gathering of robes dissipated in all directions, Laurel managed to lean close enough to whisper a jape in her ear, “You’ll be the envy of us all, you will. I’ve heard the rumors too; the champion of Bernn the people call you. A shieldmaiden you ought to have been, Drakanes.”

  She took the compliment with a humble nod. Then the next thing she knew, the Matriarch offered her hand. She had never been so close in the presence of her holiness. And now that she was, Drakanes discerned a strange beauty in the woman’s features. Though her face was old, it seemed young. Though the lines of her skin spoke her age in wisdom, the colour and light spoke of innocence. Most strange, she realized; taking the woman’s hand. Most strange and beautiful.

  The Matriarch had been wordless in the hall, on the stairs, and beneath the arched ways of corridors. Only after they entered her private chambers, did her holiness speak. Her tone of voice had changed not; warmth and honest curiosity were still part of her humours – clearly balanced and in want of nothing.

  “What is your name, brave sister?”

  “It’s… Drakanes, your holiness,” she replied with her eyes in the ground.

  “A very uncommon name; is it not?”

  She nodded. “Once I knew what it meant, but no longer.”

  “I have the answer,” the Matriarch smiled. “The serpent. To see. To see clearly. The one with the baleful glance... The name Drakanes has all of these meanings. And all of them fit you well. I’m sure you’d like a bath and a warm meal. I beg you, however, that we… talk... while you do these things. I have many questions to ask.” The Matriarch offered her a chair, and she took one as well. “Tell me how all of this began.”

  And she did tell – all of it; starting with the demonic possession inquiry, and ending with her victory in the trial by combat. Drakanes told it as best she could remember, without too much hyperbole; but with no reservation caused by fear or shame. While she spoke, servants entered the Matriarch’s chambers – servants carrying buckets of hot water to fill the tub. Unlike the common bath-houses, the Matriarch enjoyed that privilege of solace and intimacy inside the comforts of her own chambers.

  After she was done speaking the tale, her holiness was left most intrigued. Of that Drakanes had no doubt. It’s all there written plainly on her face.

  “Let me help you get out of that robe and armor.”

  “Matriarch,” Drakanes frowned, “it’s not proper… decent to reveal myself in the presence of the holiest of women.”

  The Matriarch laughed in a sweet manner. “Nonsense, my lovely. I’m a woman, same as you. We are all sisters of the same order… of the same faith. There is no reason to shy away from nakedness. All creatures are born naked. Besides, I’ve seen the naked body of man and woman. There’s nothing you bear that I haven’t already seen, save for those mismatched eyes of yours. The right pale grey, the left brown. An oddity, to be sure; but a halfness of light and dark that conceals much strength.”

  For a moment, Drakanes was left baffled. The Matriarch was the holiest of women. She wasn’t allowed to lie, and Drakanes thought she had no reason to lie either. The Matriarch’s tone and face hinted nothing outside truthfulness; and by now she was accustomed to falsehood. She had seen and heard it all too well in priest Harlam and grand burgher Wholeheart. Wholeheart… The irony of that name amused her still.

  The mail hauberk and boots came off, next were the shirt and breeches. “And your small-clothes,” her holiness insisted. “You can’t have a proper bath without getting as naked as your name day.”

  Once she got those off as well, Drakanes went inside the chamber tub. The hot water felt good upon her tired flesh… She moved the soap all along and around her skin – all the while shying away from the Matriarch’s gaze. Then after a long moment of silence, her holiness offered to wash her back.

  “If it pleases you, holiness.”

  “Yes, it would.” The Matriarch replied softly. “Times are changing, and with them so must we. What you’ve told me about corruption and injustice… is just another proof that the Temple must re-enter the life it once led – only this time, the Patriarchal order must share authority and power. You are the living proof that women can fight, can think and judge for themselves. Can see through the lies of men, and thus... can rule. The Inquisition must start anew, for the world grows dark and ignorant. The light of the Three must shine as it once did; and depravity, pride, and ambition must be cast aside.”

  Her holiness gathered water in a cup, and poured it over her skin to wash away the soap. She poured over her arms and back, over her neck, over her skull. “Oh, look, my sweet Drakanes. It grows... Why do you shave your head thus?”

  “It’s something I did before I joined the Temple, your holiness; back when I was a squire in Creedhold. It keeps away the parasites. The head is easier to clean, and it’s safer to travel posing as a man. It’s something that stuck with me, I guess.”

  “Indeed,” the Matriarch replied in the same soft voice. “You are done, yes? Here’s a towel for you to dry yourself with. Our meal will be here shortly. Oh, and... let me bring you a new robe.” She went to the chamber’s chest of drawers, and searched. She picked out a beautiful dark brown garment, made of satin. “Yes. This will fit you nicely, I think. Are you done drying?” The Matriarch turned to look at her.

  Within the eyes of her holiness, Drakanes discerned a concealed hunger of sorts. It was a familiar thing, a natural thing. A mind’s wish for taste and touch, for perception of warmth and skin – for the heat and breath of life that stirred emotions of all kinds within one’s loins and thoughts. Flesh yearning flesh.

  The attraction between the same sex was nothing new, despite being frowned upon. Men sometimes touched other men, and women touched other women... To become a member of the cloth, sister and priest alike had to take a vow of chastity. Of course, keeping such a promise was hard. Drakanes, however, had no such trouble. For between work and respite – she always found a moment to spare for her womanly needs. A moment of self-pleasure in dreams. A phantasm caressing her flesh, kissing her neck, pushing itself inside her body...

  “Step out of the tub then… but don’t dress yourself just yet. I wish to look upon your bruises.” And so the Matriarch did – touching her shoulders, ribs, arms, and back… caressing them almost. “This strong body deceives the eye. A frail woman’s body, but one that can fight and win. These stern cheekbones. This skinny body. These small breasts. This weak flesh bears such strong will and spirit.” She touched her, tracing the curves and nipples with her fingers. And slid down her hand gently, until the Matriarch reached her between the legs. She drifted a finger there, then another one. And moved
them up and down between her lips, gently upon her sex.

  The woman was around three decades older than her. Despite the age, the Matriarch retained more than a semblance of her youth’s beauty. Though embarrassed as she was, Drakanes couldn’t help but feel a small arousal inside her loins. But she was too tired for such a thing; had no desire to continue such a moment of indecent passion. The Matriarch was the Matriarch. She was just a menial. Letting out a faint sigh, Drakanes reached for the wayward hand – staying the woman’s curiosity, gently pushing it away.

  Her holiness gave a silent nod and returned to her chair. She brought the two fingers to her mouth; brushed them on her lips and tasted them. Then she smiled with content. “You are my hope, sister Drakanes. The Holy Temple as well as the Empire needs women like yourself. Times change. The Inquisition shall be reborn and made better through the Matriarchy. You shall be the first woman inquisitor. Emperor Hagyai Rovines is a progressive man... In time he will grow to learn that his former decision to abrogate the Inquisition was a mistake. But we must first move in small steps.”

  Shying away from her gaze, Drakanes bit her lip. Though she didn’t fully grasp the holy woman’s meaning – she nevertheless put on the mask of obedience. She’s preparing a reward for me; I know it.

  The Matriarch went to the table and picked up a long thin spoon and a jar of honey turned sugar. “With this cleansing bath and this honey – after such a day… trial and combat... Favored by the Three as you are, you should feel pure and ennobled to join the High Council.” Her holiness gave a smile of embarrassment.

  “I know what you think. It’s not a fancy ritual at all. It might even seem pathetic. But what’s truly important is the symbolism behind it. And the intention behind the symbolic gesture. Mine is to make you part of the High Council of the Matriarchal order. I just hope I can wield enough influence to gather the necessary votes for you.”