by John Marco
Meriel’s expression was bleak. ‘She must have been something very special, your Cassandra.’
‘She was indeed,’ sighed Lukien.
‘She must have been very beautiful.’
‘Beautiful?’ Lukien knew to be careful. ‘Yes.’
‘Do not spare my feelings, please. I know I look like a monster, Lukien.’
‘No. .’
‘Please,’ said Meriel gently. ‘I just want to know about Cassandra.’
Her curiosity surprised Lukien. But he accommodated her, if only because he desperately needed to speak and remember. As they sat together on the wooden bench, he told her about Cassandra and the love affair that had turned into a lifetime obsession. He told her of her beauty and how it had bewitched him, and of the kindness of her heart, a heart which had never forgotten him even after years of separation. She was, he told her, a remarkable woman, kept eternally young by the power of the amulet, the very amulet he now wore. And he told her how she had died, because he had looked upon her with his human eyes, breaking the spell that kept her cancer at bay. Some of the story Meriel already knew, but she listened to all of it as though it were the very first telling, as though nothing in the world mattered as much as the words falling from Lukien’s lips. And when Lukien was done with his tale Meriel simply looked at him, heartbroken.
‘To love someone like that. .’ Her eyes faltered. ‘I’ve never known what it’s like. And I don’t think I ever will, not as long as I look like this.’ Again the candles shifted in a breeze that wasn’t there, matching the storm in Meriel’s eyes. She looked at her scarred hand, turning it in the dim light, studying it. There was something in her expression that needed confessing.
‘Meriel?’ he probed. ‘What is it?’
‘I want to leave, Lukien. I want to leave this place and live a normal life.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
She balled her wounded hand into a fist. ‘I have to do something. It’s time.’
‘What do you mean?’
For a moment Meriel said nothing, lost in thought. The candles sputtered and popped. Her expression went from sadness to anger. When it did the oil lamp on the table flared to life, exploding out of its glass container. Lukien reared back, horrified. Meriel caught herself and flushed with embarrassment. At once she drew the cowl tighter around her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rising from her seat. ‘I can’t talk any more.’
‘Meriel, wait. .’
But Meriel didn’t wait. Ignoring his calls, the young woman fled the prayer chamber, all the while hiding her face. Lukien watched her go, wondering what had so upset her until he remembered Cassandra, and how lovingly he had spoken of her.
‘Lukien,’ he muttered, ‘you are an idiot.’
13
A Time For Men
On the night they had met, Lorn and Vanlandinghale had decided to travel into Koth together and afterward go their separate ways. At the time it had sounded to Lorn like a suitable arrangement. He appreciated the protection the mercenary provided, and with a young infant to guard another sword was welcome, at least until they reached the safety of the city.
But things had not worked out as planned. Koth, Lorn quickly learned, was an expensive city, with shortages of everything inflating the prices of the most basic needs. The long trip to Liiria had bled Lorn’s pockets dry. Without a penny to buy a room — even for a single night — the deposed king turned to the only friend he had in the city. To his great surprise, he found Vanlandinghale a generous man. Because he had recently worked for Jazana Carr the young soldier was not without funds, and so invited Lorn and his daughter to share his own room above a noisy tavern. Though Lorn had promised Van it would only be for a night or two at most, the temporary arrangement had already stretched into a week and a half. Yet Van didn’t seem to mind. He was, Lorn quickly realised, a lonely and big-hearted fellow who had already fallen in love with little Poppy and saw no reason for the girl and her father to leave. The room was big enough for all of them, he had said. And Lorn, who was not immune to feeling lonely, was grateful for the company.
Both men found paying, menial work in the tavern, keeping long hours while Van guarded the door and protected the prostitutes from over-enthusiastic customers. Eager to keep hidden, Lorn took the even less glamorous job in the kitchen of washing dishes and glasses that were always greasy and piled high beside his steaming basin. It was shocking work for Lorn, who had never in his life stooped to such chores. In Norvor, washing dishes was work for a woman, and he could barely believe that the innkeeper — a surprisingly pleasant man named Foric — would employ a man in such a capacity.
And yet, Lorn was oddly satisfied. All his life servants had taken care of him, cooking his food and washing his clothes while he concerned himself with wars and treasure. He missed those things, admittedly, but he was blessedly anonymous in Koth and happy he had made it this far. He was alive, and Poppy with him. They had escaped Jazana Carr. And they had made it to Koth. Now, he could wait and bide his time. He would listen and learn, and when the time came he would make his move.
But time moved like syrup in the kitchens of the inn, and Lorn did nothing to force it. He kept up his pretence with everyone, including Van, explaining how he and his daughter were refugees from the Norvan wars. No strangers to war themselves, the Liirians working at the inn were friendly and generous, something Lorn had not expected. Even the prostitutes were kind, more than happy to look after Poppy while her father scrubbed dishes. An older whore named Deine seemed particularly keen on Lorn, bringing him food and volunteering to care for Poppy more often than any of the others. Lorn liked Deine, though he never allowed himself to express it. When she hinted that he could bed her for free, Lorn pretended not to understand.
Van, however, never held back his affections. He was popular with the ladies of the Red Stallion, and often did not come back to his room at all, preferring instead to cap off a hard night’s work in the arms of a working girl. To Lorn, Van seemed disquieted to be back in the city of his birth, although he seldom spoke of it, and when conversation turned toward the library and the defenders of Koth, he became predictably quiet. He spent none of his time exploring the city. Instead he stayed inside the Red Stallion, content with his menial work.
But for Lorn, Koth was a marvel. In the days of King Akeela, the capital city had been the envy of the world, and he was pleased to see there were still hints of those better days. Fighting had gutted many of the streets and grand buildings, but behind the burned walls and torn-up cobblestones were remnants of the city’s finer years, most notably the great library. Perched commandingly on its hill overlooking the city, the legendary ‘Cathedral of Knowledge’ kept a watchful eye over the capital, spying over its streets for rebellion and the borders for invasion. Patrols of Royal Chargers — men who still called themselves that despite the death of the old regime — walked the streets in well-armed trios, not unlike the warlord bands that had taken over so many Norvan towns during his own nation’s civil war. But these Royal Chargers were not brigands. They didn’t rob or threaten or take women as slaves. Instead they looked after the city and its people like concerned brothers. Dressed like Vanlandinghale in long capes or dark military coats, they retained an air of battered majesty, as though they didn’t care that their time had vanished, gone to dust with their dead king.
Lorn spent as much time as he could in the streets, usually at night or in the early morning when he wasn’t working. Having a baby made free time scarce, but it was important that he listen to the people of Koth and pick up what gossip he could about the library and its defenders. Just as Van had told him, a man named Breck was in charge of the city. Breck had less than two hundred former soldiers with him and had turned the vast library into a huge barracks. No one seemed to know exactly why Breck and his cohorts defended the city, but the people Lorn spoke to were grateful for it. Koth was the last bastion of the old Liiria now. Ravel and the other warlords had decimate
d the rest of the country, carving it up like a hen to feed their perverse appetites, but Breck and his men were trustworthy and solid.
The tales of their honour gave Lorn hope.
Yet he knew he could do nothing but wait. Eventually, when the time was right, he would reveal himself to Breck as a man who knew Jazana Carr and her tactics, a man with something to offer. Afraid that his offer would be spurned if presented too soon, Lorn knew that the time of his revelation was not to be wholly of his choosing. Before he could do that, he needed Jazana Carr’s help.
He was certain the Diamond Queen would not disappoint him. Surely she was far too greedy to keep her painted paws off Liiria.
A week later it began to rain. The bad weather kept patrons out of the Red Stallion, leaving Lorn and the other workers time to relax, play cards, and drink too much. Lorn — who was known as Akan by Van and the others — had grown comfortable enough with the people of the inn to take his meals with them and sit with them at the end of the day. Tonight, as the wind whipped rain against the windows, he sat by the hearth in the main room of the tavern. With Poppy in his lap and a mug of beer on the table, he stretched his legs while he watched Vanlandinghale gamble with a pair of customers, the only two patrons in the pub. Deine and the other prostitutes sat with them, gabbing and cooing at Poppy while the innkeeper Foric swept the floor and bemoaned the lack of business.
His belly full and his feet warm, Lorn smiled as he looked at the window, studying the rain trickling down the glass. He had found a good hiding place here. Though it had been a struggle for him to adopt the identity of a commoner, he had been an impoverished king for so many years his lack of funds hardly bothered him at all. More importantly, he knew he had been lucky to find Foric and his good-hearted band of whores. Kahlin, who had an infant of her own, had willingly wet-nursed Poppy, refusing any kind of payment, and the kitchens Lorn worked in were his to pick from whenever he got hungry. On more than one night he and Gleese the cook had sat down around the rickety butcher table for a kingly meal of mutton, cheese, and day-old bread. The bounty of Koth reminded Lorn of how little his people in Norvor had to eat. Guilt gnawed at him as he stared out the window. He wondered if Jazana Carr had done anything to stem the famine she had brought to their country.
‘I doubt it,’ he muttered. If anyone heard him, they didn’t bother to turn his way.
Still, it did not seem right to Lorn that his own stomach should be so full while his people starved. The notion made him grimace. Perhaps he was King Lorn the Wicked, after all.
But he was more important than anyone who had died in Norvor, more important than any of his loyalists he’d left behind. It was good that he’d survived, he decided. He nodded absently, gazing out the window, listening to the cleansing rain.
Van leaned back in his chair and gave a shout of triumph. He was not a good card player but tonight he was playing well. Kahlin, seated on his lap, squealed and kissed him as he laid down his winning hand. The patrons whose money he’d won cursed his good luck loudly. Lorn didn’t know their names but they were regulars in the Red Stallion, always ordering drinks but no food. At last one of them got up, retrieved his dingy cape from a peg on the wall, said his goodnights, and walked out into the rain. As he opened the stout door Lorn heard the wind howl with intensity. The breeze made the fire in the hearth shudder. Seeing that the game was over, Van’s other partner folded his cards and retreated with his tankard to a quiet corner of the pub, away from Lorn, who was happy to keep the fire for himself. He bounced Poppy gently on his knee. The child laughed and crinkled her sightless eyes. Lorn smiled. Hearing her chuckle, the pretty prostitute Deine came over and, without asking, lifted Poppy away from Lorn, hoisting her high in the air until she almost touched the beamed ceiling.
‘Ah, what a happy girl, what a good girl Reena is!’ Deine chirped. The sensation of the ride made the infant gurgle with glee. Reena was the name Lorn had given Poppy, and so far he hadn’t slipped. Truly, it surprised him how well he had taken to his new identity. The pretty woman lowered Poppy and cradled her in her arms, sitting down in a chair next to Lorn. This time, however, Lorn didn’t mind the company. Across the room he saw Van nibble Kahlin’s neck, and wondered if Deine was seeking the same. She smiled at him, her green eyes full of affection.
‘You’re quiet tonight,’ she remarked.
‘I’m quiet every night,’ replied Lorn, not unkindly.
‘What are you thinking about?’
It was an innocent question, but unsettling for Lorn. ‘Ah, just the weather. It’s been raining for days now.’
The dodgy answer made Deine sigh. At once she turned her attention back to Poppy. ‘She’s been so good tonight. Hardly a peep out of her. Now look, she’s falling asleep.’
It was true, and it made Lorn curious. There was magic in Deine’s touch. Whenever she cradled the baby, Poppy quieted immediately.
‘She should eat before going to sleep,’ said Lorn, but the way Kahlin was already occupied made that unlikely. No matter, thought Lorn. There was milk and fruit juice for her upstairs. When she awoke during the night — as she always did — he would feed her.
He let Deine amuse the child, not saying anything but enjoying the quiet company. Foric continued fussing with his broom, while the prostitutes excused themselves and went upstairs, except for Deine and Kahlin. Van told jokes that Lorn couldn’t hear but had Kahlin chuckling wildly. They were both more than a little drunk. Lorn smouldered a little as he watched the girl carry on, unhappy about letting his daughter drink from the breast of a whore but knowing he had little choice. And really, what did it matter? Poppy was happy and healthy and safe.
He reached for his mug of beer, long gone flat, and took a sip. Liirian beer was sweet and weak, and he was about to comment on it when the door to the tavern opened again. The stiff breeze surprised everyone, who turned to see a young man hurry in from the storm. His clean-shaven, boyish face was covered with rain. After closing the door behind him, he stomped his feet loudly to shake off the mud. He was barely twenty years old by the looks of him, but more surprising was the uniform he wore — that of a Royal Charger. The mere glimpse of him made Van wither, and he immediately shooed Kahlin from his lap and turned his face away. Noting Van’s discomfort, Kahlin excused herself and went up the creaking stairs to join her ‘sisters’. Lorn’s eyes panned between Van and the stranger as he slowly sipped his drink. The Charger’s young face was drawn. He looked haggard, or perhaps frightened. Happy to see a new customer, Foric put his broom aside and greeted the fellow.
‘It’s a witch of a night! Come in, come in. .’
The man — or was he a boy? — looked around in some confusion. The exhaustion on his face was plain as he let Foric guide him toward the hearth.
‘You sit here, by the fire,’ said Foric. There was one free chair across from Lorn. The young soldier collapsed into it with a grunt. Then, realising his cape was still on, he rose in embarrassment and handed the wet garment off to Foric. Surprising Lorn by smiling at him, the fellow took his seat again.
‘I’d appreciate a drink, and maybe something hot to eat if you’ve got it,’ he said politely.
‘A mug of hot cider will start you off,’ said Foric, ‘and I’ll see what I can do in the kitchen.’
The young man nodded in thanks, then dug into his pocket for a silver coin, which he tossed onto the table between himself and Lorn. Foric grinned when he saw the coin, then went off to fetch the man’s order.
‘Gods, what a night,’ the soldier sighed. ‘I’ve been on patrol all day in the rain, went to my post to report, and now I’m just plain dog tired.’
‘Your post?’ queried Lorn. ‘You mean the library?’
The soldier nodded. Lorn couldn’t believe his luck.
‘Shouldn’t you be there now?’ he asked.
‘I should, but I needed to get away.’ The young man’s eyes turned glassy as he gazed into the fire. He was obviously troubled.
Lorn did his best
to seem nonchalant. Next to him, Deine continued playing with Poppy. He turned to her with a practised smile, saying, ‘Deine, I think it’s time Reena got some sleep. Would you see to that for me, please? She likes it when you put her to bed.’
The older prostitute beamed, eagerly agreeing, then took Poppy upstairs, leaving only Lorn, the stranger, and Vanlandinghale in the main room. Van kept his back turned to them, but surprised Lorn by staying put. A moment later Foric returned with a tall glass full of steaming cider. He handed it to the stranger, who took it gratefully.
‘Ah, thanks,’ said the soldier. With both hands he tilted the drink into his mouth, then gave a loud smack of content.
‘I’ll have food for you shortly,’ said Foric. ‘We’ve had hardly any customers all day, so the ovens aren’t warm.’
‘I can wait,’ said the soldier. ‘Thanks.’
As Foric disappeared toward the kitchens the man leaned back in his chair, clutching his hot drink desperately in his hands. Rivulets of water dripped down from the curls on his forehead. He bit his lip as he stared into the fire, as if lost in faraway thought.
‘So,’ began Lorn carefully, ‘how long have you been a Royal Charger? You look rather young.’
Across the room, Van heard the question and cocked his head to listen.
‘I’m not really a Charger, not like the others,’ said the soldier. ‘I just wear the uniform. But Breck says I’m a Charger, and I guess that’s good enough.’
Lorn nodded as if he understood. ‘So you’re a soldier, then.’
‘I volunteered, like a lot of others.’ The young man focused on Lorn suddenly. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? You have an accent.’
‘I’m Norvan,’ replied Lorn. ‘New to the city.’
‘So you probably don’t know, then. About the library, I mean. Most of the real Royal Chargers left Koth. They fled to become mercenaries or just deserted. But some others stayed. Breck was one of the old ones. He knew King Akeela. He even knew the Bronze Knight.’