“The rumors are true,” Emethius muttered, mostly to himself. This was not a war between a heretic herald and the high lord. This was a war between father and son. Between young and old. Between the past and the future. Emethius’s stomach churned and he felt like he was going to vomit.
“Betrayer,” muttered Emethius again, only this time he did not know who it was directed toward. For how could the prince betray his own father?
“Lay down your blade, Emethius, I haven’t the heart to kill you.” Prince Meriatis lowered the tip of his own sword to show he intended Emethius no harm. “You’re confused, as all men are. You don’t understand what you’ve stepped into. Praetor Maxentius has done such a splendid job weaving his lie that you never realized you are the rebel.”
Emethius’s mind wandered back to the first confusion-filled day of the rebellion. The palace was burning. High Lord Valerius was reported killed. Then there were rumors that the high lord was safe at his estate south of the capital. Finally, word leaked that High Lord Valerius and Prince Meriatis had been taken captive in a failed coup. Through it all, Praetor Maxentius had been in command. He placed the capital under martial law. He personally saw to the interrogation of captured rebels. He was the one who announced that Herald Carrick was the leader of the rebellion. Maxentius knew all along.
“The truth can be troubling, Emethius. Do you feel those twinges of doubt clawing at your brain? I don’t fault a single man for rallying to Maxentius’s banner.” Meriatis gestured outward toward the loyalist encampment. “Every one of you thought you were doing your duty to the throne. But now is the time to be sensible. Please, lower your blade.”
Emethius raised his sword instead. “Who is in the coffin, Meriatis?”
Meriatis smirked and looked sidelong at the box. “A man who has lost his way. A man who would lead us all into the clutches of the Shadow. One push and we save Merridia from this madness. If you lift one side, I’ll lift the other. We can end this together.”
Meriatis once again moved toward the box, causing Emethius to jump between the prince and the coffin. There came a soft knocking from within, followed by a pitiful moan.
Meriatis threw back his head and laughed, revealing a deep cut in the side of his neck that had been raggedly sutured shut. An inch to the right and it would have been a death blow. Apparently, Emethius was not the first person to face Prince Meriatis in combat today.
“Don’t make me finish the job,” said Emethius, jabbing toward the neck wound. “Tell me, who is in the coffin?” He already knew the answer, yet he needed to hear it from Meriatis’s own tongue; Emethius would do anything to stave off the inevitable for a moment longer.
Meriatis ignored the question. “Maxentius wasted a fine host of men against my walls.” His voice choked with genuine grief, and his eyes glistened with tears. “Maxentius should not have come. He should not have challenged my will!” He pawed at his face. “They forced my hand, Emethius. I did not want war.”
“Yet war found you,” said Emethius. He was still reeling from shock. Had this been Herald Carrick, Emethius would have already put a blade through the man’s gut. But this was Meriatis, the prince Emethius had sworn to protect, the prince Emethius had once loved like a brother. Emethius struggled to force his prejudices from his mind. I am a Soldier of the Faith, he reminded himself. My high lord is depending on me.
“Is High Lord Valerius in the coffin?” demanded Emethius.
Meriatis’s face contorted as if the very demon of his nightmares had been mentioned. “My father is no longer of significance. Or at least he shouldn’t be. Lies, he always told lies. He and his whole corrupt court. The Calabanesi are saviors!” he croaked, mimicking his father’s voice. “Pay homage! Give thanks! Bow your head in servitude to the demons of Calaban!” He gazed at Emethius with wild eyes. He was in a mercurial state, and his mood seemed to shift between elation and grief with every word he spoke.
Meriatis grinned devilishly. “They can die, Emethius, the gods can die like all of us. And I have the tool.” He gestured toward Emethius with his sword. It was like no blade Emethius had ever seen before. The blade was nearly black, the steel rippled. Dull gemstones ran the fuller that looked not so dissimilar to moonstones.
“Blasphemy!” cried Emethius. “Blasphemy, all of it! You dare challenge the gods? If they heard such words, you would be consumed in fire.”
“Would I?” roared Meriatis. He raised his sword skyward, more as a challenge to the gods than to Emethius. “Strike me down, oh gods all knowing! Do you hear my call?” His voice blared from the pinnacle of Imel Katan, but no divine response came. Meriatis’s face fell into shadows. “Omniscient divine fools, if they are even gods at all. I have my doubts.”
“What madness has seeped into your heart?”
“Is it a madness?” asked Meriatis. “That is what they told me, of course. My father. Maxentius. The Gray Prophet. No one would heed my warning.” Meriatis chuckled, cocked his head to the side, and opened his arms wide, gesturing to himself. As he did, the wound reopened in his throat, and a steady stream of blood began to spill down his chest. “I implore you, Emethius, do I look like a madman?”
Looking at him now, Emethius knew that Meriatis was mad, or at least very sick. Either way, Meriatis was now the enemy and he had to be stopped.
“Will you not come in peace?” Emethius begged, knowing there was little hope in that.
“Would you?” asked Meriatis. His face hardened, gripped by a sudden sobriety. “I challenged the gods and failed. There will be dreadful recourse.”
“You will have to face me,” said Emethius, growing stern and immovable. “I am more skilled with a sword than you.”
“Perhaps in the practice yard,” said Meriatis. “But the specter of death makes it different.” With that said, Meriatis approached with his sword at the ready. Emethius stepped forward and presented his own blade. Their deadly dance began.
Emethius had never killed a man in combat, but that did not mean he didn’t know how to handle his sword. He was viciously good with a blade, and throughout his years of schooling he had won titles and renown for his mastery of fencing. Despite Emethius’s martial skill, Meriatis did not fear him. The prince attacked like a madman, swinging his sword in wild hewing arcs. Sparks filled the air as Emethius deflected each of Meriatis’s strokes with expert precision.
Across the pinnacle of Imel Katan they fought, striking high and low, gaining advantage and disadvantage with each deft motion. No refuge could be found anywhere, save behind the remains of the old rotten scaffolding, which was quickly hacked to tinders and kicked aside. Twice during the duel, Emethius could have plunged his blade into Meriatis’s chest, but each time he refrained. You cannot kill the prince, nagged a voice in the back of his head, such is an act of treason. Instead, Emethius attempted to disarm Meriatis. Emethius’s reward for his noble efforts — a deep wound to his thigh and a lacerated shoulder.
Growing weary, the two locked blades. The violent clang rang from the pinnacle like a bell. Emethius and Meriatis drew near to one another.
“I’m warning you for the last time,” said Emethius. “End this now. I will not stay my blade a third time.”
“You need not,” growled Meriatis through clenched teeth. “For we are finished!”
Meriatis thrust out his sword, pushing Emethius back on his heels. Then in one quick motion, Meriatis freed a dagger from his belt, swung his arm around Emethius’s back, and sunk the blade to its hilt just below Emethius’s rib-line. For a moment the two remained standing, eyes locked, breaths intermingling.
“You cheat,” whispered Emethius as his body went chill.
Meriatis opened his mouth to respond. Blood came out instead of words.
During the prince’s final act of treachery, Emethius had struck with lightning speed, thrusting his sword through Meriatis’s gut.
For a moment, the two stood in silence, glaring at one another through fast-dimming eyes. Their knees gave out simult
aneously, and together they slouched to the ground, still locked in a deadly embrace. A shadowy haze slowly drifted between them, until Emethius’s vision glazed over and he saw no more.
CHAPTER
IV
THINGS PAST
Emethius was unsure of his surroundings. Glaring light cascaded through the translucent leaves overhead, giving everything an otherworldly green hue. His head ached and he tasted blood. He tongued his teeth, checking to see if they were all still there.
Several boys garbed in off-white tunics pranced around him, chanting as they circled. “Silly fool, hurt himself, tried to fight, went to night!”
“You had enough?” challenged a voice. “Honestly, for a moment I was worried I killed you.”
“Hardly,” said Emethius. His jaw was sore and his ears were ringing. He spit a mouthful of blood at his challenger’s feet. “We Lunens are resilient.”
“You’re going to be a resilient corpse if you don’t stop getting back up,” said the larger boy, who had already knocked Emethius down twice. A titter of laughter sounded from the ring of onlookers. “That goose egg on the back of your head looks ready to burst.”
Emethius gingerly ran his fingers through his thick blond hair and discovered a large welt forming on the back of his head. His fingers came back sticky and red.
“I’d say you’ve learned your lesson,” said the boy. “Just stay down this time — ain’t no one going to think less of you.”
Emethius didn’t listen, couldn’t listen. He still had something to prove. He staggered back to his feet, shook the cobwebs from his brain, and balled his tiny fists. Most of the onlookers laughed, but Emethius gave their ridicule no mind.
Emethius was slim for his age of ten years, and he was well aware that this opponent was beyond his skill and size. But that didn’t matter. This wasn’t about winning — it was about setting the tone for the rest of the school year. His father had advised him to pick out the biggest bully and punch him in the face. Unfortunately for Emethius, the biggest bully also happened to be of royal blood. Now, Emethius dreamed of only one thing — to land a single punch to the face of this hazel-eyed fool, this Prince Meriatis, this son of the high lord.
“I’m not done,” said Emethius, as much a reassurance to himself as it was a challenge to the prince.
Meriatis shrugged, clearly indifferent. He came in with a right hook faster than Emethius could react. In the blink of an eye, Emethius found himself once again lying face down on the ground, this time with a mouthful of dirt.
Emethius groped at the loose earth, and rose shakily to his hands and knees.
“Come now,” scoffed Meriatis. “Only a witless fool would get back up. Stay where you are — there’s no shame in knowing your place in the world.”
“He’s a worm eater, that’s what he is!” yelled one of the boys in the crowd.
The prince cocked his arm back and lunged forward for another strike, but this time Emethius was ready. He threw a fistful of dirt into Meriatis’s face. Meriatis cried out, suddenly blinded, and punched at the air. Emethius dodged Meriatis’s flailing fist and swung in with a punch of his own, striking Meriatis hard in his right eye. There was a satisfying pop and Meriatis floundered backward, falling in a heap.
Emethius leapt atop Meriatis’s chest and cocked his arm back.
For a moment, the crowd went silent. Then someone yelled, “Hit him again!”
“Yeah, do it!” agreed someone else.
Emethius complied, punching Meriatis in his other eye.
Emethius expected Meriatis to cry out, or to try to shove Emethius off of him. Instead, Meriatis did something completely unexpected. He began to chuckle, softly at first, but it soon grew into full-blown sidesplitting laugher. The onlookers shuffled uncomfortably, not certain what to make of the prince’s odd behavior.
Meriatis squinted at Emethius beneath his fast-swelling eyebrows. “Oh, please, hit the prince one more time,” said Meriatis, mimicking the onlookers who were goading Emethius on.
Emethius was tempted to fulfill Meriatis’s wish, but his hand was throbbing. During the span of his short life, Emethius had learned a few things about hitting from his father. Unfortunately, the drunkard never had the courtesy to teach Emethius the proper way to throw a punch. Emethius gave his hand a few sharp shakes, silently wondering if he had broken something.
“The headmaster’s coming!” screamed one of the onlookers.
The children scattered like mice caught in the kitchen by a knife-wielding chef.
Emethius considered fleeing with the others, but one look at the giggling prince wallowing on the ground revealed there was no point. He had given the Prince of Merridia a matching pair of black eyes. He wasn’t getting away with this one. Emethius flopped down next to Meriatis and awaited the inevitable.
• • •
“Your father would not be proud,” chided Brother Cenna, as he wagged his plump finger in Meriatis’s face. “Not proud at all. Fighting other students. I’d expect better behavior from a street urchin.” The yellow and green banded skullcap he wore tilted this way and that with every disapproving shake of his head. It was drawing dangerously close to falling off, and Meriatis couldn’t look away from the shifting cap. Brother Cenna snapped his fingers in front of the nose of the young prince. “Pay attention!”
A droll look overcame Meriatis’s face and he nodded dumbly. “Of course, headmaster. My apologies. You were saying?”
“I was saying you should have more sense than that.” Brother Cenna had Emethius and Meriatis seated in front of his desk. Brother Cenna was perched upon the lip of the desktop. He reached forward and lifted Meriatis’s chin, checking beneath the boy’s two swollen eyelids. “I’m pleased to report that you’ll have these marks for awhile. Whenever you look in a mirror these bruises will remind you of the consequences of behaving like a bully.”
Meriatis gave the headmaster a foolish toothy grin. “I will wear them as a sign of my remorse.” He attempted to wink at the headmaster, but his swollen face wouldn’t accommodate such deft motions.
Brother Cenna shook his head in exasperation. He readjusted his cap for the dozenth time, and turned his wrath to his next victim. “And you, Emethius. I know your father personally. He is a very stern man. If he knew that I let you get into a fight on your first day of school, and with the prince, of all people...” He held his head, as if the whole idea was simply too much.
“You didn’t let me do anything,” Emethius muttered sullenly under his breath.
“That’s true,” said Brother Cenna. “It would seem you made this foolish decision all on your own. But we adults bear the burdensome responsibility of trying to keep you safe.” He examined Emethius’s split lip and the welt on the back of his head, which was the size of an egg. He sighed. “Somehow you came out the better of this fight.”
I beat the prince! Emethius struggled to hide his brimming pride beneath a scowl.
The headmaster saw right through his false veneer. “Only a fool takes joy in hurting others,” said Brother Cenna, placing a firm hand on Emethius’s shoulder. A blinding pain flared through Emethius’s left shoulder, and try as he might, he couldn’t avoid flinching.
Brother Cenna’s eyes narrowed. He yanked back Emethius’s shirt collar, revealing the grotesque bulge in Emethius’s left collarbone. “The Weaver help me, what did you do to this boy, Meriatis?”
A cold panic seized Emethius. “He, didn’t, ah..., I...”
“I kicked him while he was on the ground, headmaster,” said Meriatis, quick to interject. He looked sheepishly at his feet. “I got carried away. I didn’t mean to break anything.”
That was a lie. Meriatis had not kicked Emethius while he was on the ground. In truth, Meriatis fought with a great deal more honor than Emethius did. But that wasn’t going to stop the headmaster from directing the blame where it didn’t belong.
“I’m fine, headmaster, really.” Emethius pinwheeled his left arm to support his claim.
For a second it looked as if Brother Cenna was going to slap Meriatis across the face. But in the end, he muttered something to himself about “pampered royals.” His hands fell to his sides and he exhaled slowly. “This child has been here for one day, and now I have to write his father to tell him he has a broken collarbone? Lord Lunen is not going to like this, not one bit.” He shook his head in disbelief as he began to rummage through his desk for parchment and pen. There was a low rap at the door just as he dipped his pen in an ink well. “One moment,” said Brother Cenna, walking off to answer the door. “Keep your hands to yourselves and wait right here. I’ll be back.” He pointed for emphasis, and then stepped outside to speak with whoever was at the door.
As soon as the headmaster’s huffing breaths had traveled from earshot, Meriatis spun in his chair and smiled at Emethius. “You performed brilliantly,” said Meriatis. “I was especially impressed by your trick.”
Emethius did not know how to respond. “Trick? What trick?”
“When you threw sand in my eyes,” said Meriatis. “It was a clever move.”
“It was cheating at best,” said Emethius rather glumly. He was starting to feel ashamed he had resorted to a foul trick to win the fight.
“You couldn’t beat me, and you were not going to accept defeat,” countered Meriatis. “What’s more, you were fighting with one arm tied behind your back.” He nodded toward Emethius’s misshapen collarbone. Meriatis gently guided Emethius’s shirt collar back over his shoulder. “You did what you had to do to win. My father would commend you as a tactician. Guile is not a sin, and there are certainly no rules in war.”
“Not even in the schoolyard?”
“No,” said Meriatis, shaking his head. “Not even there. That’s your first Royal Academy lesson — it’s something the teachers won’t tell you.” He tried to wink again, this time having even less success than before. He looked liked a squint-eyed raccoon. Emethius had to stifle a laugh.
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