Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “We need to do something,” said Emethius. His voice was oddly calm as he paced a circuit around the central colonnade that wreathed the dais. He disappeared behind a column and reemerged on the other side, sometimes a boy, sometimes a man. He held a bloody sword in his hand, beset with gemstones that glowed with an unnatural light. “Meriatis wasn’t ready. I told him he wasn’t ready. The throne is not a toy.”

  Leta nodded dumbly and followed Emethius’s gaze to the Throne of Roses. For what seemed like an eternity, Meriatis had been perched atop the throne with his short childish fingers locked around the copper armrests. His eyelids fluttered in their sockets, and drool was beginning to dribble from his lower lip. There was an electricity to the air, and the hairs atop his head rose in defiance of gravity.

  Don’t touch the Throne of Roses. It was a simple rule, known for generations. The throne put a man in commune with the gods and would break the mind of the unworthy. But poor Meriatis, foolish child that he was, could not resist the temptation.

  They had sneaked through the maze of tunnels beneath the palace complex in the middle of the night and broken into the temple through a ventilation shaft. Emethius had playfully challenged Meriatis to touch the throne. Not one to back down from a dare, Meriatis had plopped himself down upon the throne and declared himself the High Lord of Merridia. The smile on his face vanished the moment his bare flesh came in contact with the throne, replaced by a palsied mask of terror.

  This was another one of Meriatis’s cruel jokes, Leta was certain. The boys took devilish glee in harassing her. It was just a myth that the Throne of Roses could break a man’s mind. Her father sat atop the rough-hammered copper every day, and didn’t so much as bat an eye. Leta edged as close to the throne as she would dare and clapped her hand in front of Meriatis’s face. Meriatis didn’t even flinch.

  “He’s running out of time.” Emethius pointed at Meriatis with the sword, redirecting Leta’s attention.

  Meriatis’s pant leg had turned a shade darker. Urine began to pool in the seat.

  “Blessed gods,” she gasped. This was no jest — the stakes were truly life or death. Without hesitation she clasped Meriatis’s wrists and yanked backward with all her might. Meriatis rolled forward from his seat like a sack of sand. But in that desperate life saving motion, the little finger of Leta’s left hand came in contact with the throne’s armrest. It was only for a split second, but the ensuing moment seemed to last an eternity.

  A searing pain tore through her body. Every muscle seized at once. Then there was light, a blinding radiance hemmed by a sea of abyssal black. Leta swore she saw inky shapes squirming in the darkness, like the tentacles of a sea serpent trying to strangle its prey. But there was something else hiding in the gloom; something that forced the world on bended knee, something that broke the gods. It was grinning at her like a wolf. And when its lips parted the scent of sulfur filled her nostrils and polluted the air in her lungs.

  The vision shifted, and Leta was suddenly outside the temple in the Grand Plaza. Standing opposite her was a plain looking man. Dark skin, a soft round chin, brown hair and eyes. One of the sea folk from Elyim perhaps. “I have only spoken the truth,” said the man, softly, as if it were a statement not intended for Leta’s ears. His eyes fell earthward, his face filled with resignation. Leta found herself overwhelmed by a sensation of pity.

  The plaza was packed with onlookers — all of Mayal had come to see the spectacle. The man turned his back on the crowd, his face proud and certain.

  Leta saw herself seated atop the dais beside her aunt. Lady Miren’s mouth hung open, startled that this man would turn his back during the sacrament. She was horrified, in fact; she pointed at the man with her finger quivering in rage. “Seize him!”

  The masses were spurred into action, and they began to beat the man with flailing fists. And still the man stood, impassive amidst a storm of rage.

  Slowly he turned, or perhaps it was the world that was revolving around him. He met Leta’s eyes and reached out to her, grabbing her left hand. The silk glove she always wore wicked away in a bath of glowing cinders, and his fingers locked around the white pallid flesh of her wrist. His grasp was like ice. His hand was dead, rotten, crawling with worms. Maggots spilled out of his eyes, and when he opened his mouth it was as black as a grave. “I have only spoken the truth,” repeated the man. “Why is the Throne of Roses so afraid of words?”

  • • •

  Leta awoke gasping for breath. Her silk nightgown was soaked through with sweat, yet she was freezing. Her left hand pulsed painfully. Her arm had fallen asleep, tucked awkwardly beneath her pillow. She gave her hand a fitful shake, driving blood back into her fingertips.

  “What an unusual dream,” muttered Leta, as she rolled over and cast her arm across her husband’s side of the bed, hoping to find comfort in his embrace. Her hand came to rest upon his cold pillow.

  She grunted with annoyance, more at herself than anything else. A sane person would have gotten rid of the extra pillow long ago. She encountered enough reminders of her loss over the course of any given day — why she continued to torment herself at night, she could not say. Knowing she would find no more comfort beneath the sheets of her bed, she rose and prepared to face the day.

  Leta’s first order of business was not something she looked forward to. She was scheduled to join her aunt, Lady Miren Benisor, for breakfast. Leta took her time getting ready and purposefully arrived late, hoping to make the encounter as brief as possible.

  She was not surprised to find Sir Rupert, House Benisor’s master-at-arms, standing guard before the entrance to the royal dining hall.

  “Running a bit off schedule, priestess?” asked Sir Rupert as Leta approached. He gave her a lazy salute.

  “I found reasons to be delayed,” said Leta.

  Sir Rupert laughed. “I don’t fault you one bit. Your aunt is a miserable sot. She’s already three degrees off kilter and it’s not even noon.”

  It was nice to know Leta wasn’t the only person fed up with her aunt. She gave Sir Rupert a knowing smile. “People mourn in their own way. She’s taken the death of her son especially hard.”

  “We all lost somebody in the rebellion,” said Sir Rupert with a shrug. “There’s not much use in sulking about until the end of days, especially when you have a duty to do.”

  “Speaking of which, thank you for your help at the monastery,” said Leta. “What I ask of you is especially awful. If it ever gets to be too much...”

  “We Knights of Niselus are soldiers of Calaban,” said Sir Rupert, cutting Leta short. “What I do in the name of my gods bears no weight on my conscience.”

  “I wish we could both be so strong in our convictions,” said Leta, patting Sir Rupert’s shoulder.

  Sir Rupert smiled. “Enjoy your breakfast, priestess.” He opened the door to the dining hall and bowed.

  Lady Miren and her guests were already seated. They occupied one end of the grand table that ran the length of the dining hall. The whole table was set, enough chairs and plates to accommodate an entire company of soldiers, yet only five seats were taken.

  Herald Cenna was there, his hands templed over his large belly. His leech boy, who never seemed to be far, was leaning against the wall scratching down notes on a piece of parchment. General Saterius was also present. His wolf cloak was folded over an adjacent empty chair. Across from him sat his wife, Lady Gwenn, and their son, Orso.

  Gwenn was the only child of Praetor Maxentius. Although Leta and Gwenn were distant cousins, they hardly knew each other. As a child, Leta had always found the girl odd. On the rare occasions Gwenn accompanied her father to Mayal, she seldom came out to play with the other children, choosing instead to spend most of her time closeted in her room having one-sided conversations with her imaginary friends.

  Gwenn was still young, hardly a woman at all. She had boyish features, slender hips, and short-cropped hair. The poor girl had terrible acne scars, which she tried to hide by wea
ring far too much makeup. Her eyes were like pools of black ink, the pupils overlarge, with hardly any iris to note. They gave her an otherworldly appearance. Still there was an elegance about her, an elegance that all of the decedents of House Benisor seemed to possess, no matter how far removed they were from the ruling family.

  As it was with most marriages amongst the highborn, Gwenn’s was an act of political maneuvering. Gwenn was Praetor Maxentius’s only heir, and stood to inherit vast land holdings outside of Henna Lu. By uniting their two houses, General Saterius and Lady Gwenn might one day be the wealthiest family in Merridia. This was not lost on Lady Miren, who doted over the pair’s son as if he was her grandchild.

  “Let the lad have his fill,” said Lady Miren, sliding a serving tray brimming with biscuits and scones in front of little Orso.

  Orso was gleefully kicking the bottom of the table as Gwenn tried to clean strawberry jam off of his face. “When is the next course?” Orso screamed. “I want more. Why do we have to wait for that sour old priestess?” General Saterius sat across from his son, but did nothing to intervene. Gwenn looked hopelessly out of sorts as she tried to rein in the squirming brat.

  A child raising a child, thought Leta as she approached the table. She wondered if a smack from the sour old priestess might set the lad straight.

  “Um-hum.” Saterius cleared his throat loudly, notifying the others at the table of Leta’s presence in the hall. His back was turned to Leta, yet somehow he knew she was there.

  He misses nothing.

  Leta lifted her lips into her best false smile as everyone turned to greet her. “How pleasant it is to see you all,” lied Leta. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught dealing with matters at the monastery.”

  Lady Gwenn tucked away the handkerchief she was using to clean her son’s face and stood, giving Leta the slightest of curtsies. It will probably be the other way around in another decade, thought Leta gloomily. With Meriatis’s death, the line of Benisor seemed doomed. The way things were going, Gwenn’s pig-nosed son might well be the next high lord of Merridia. And I will be the old bitter crone that presides over the Vacian Sisterhood. There was no dishonor in such a fate, but it was certainly not the life Leta had envisioned for herself.

  Saterius kissed the back of Leta’s hand. “You grace us with your presence, priestess.”

  “The honor is mine, general.”

  Lady Miren stayed in her seat — she was not one to inconvenience herself with courtesies. She was still wearing all black, even though the normal alloted time for mourning had long since passed.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” said Cenna, as he pulled back Leta’s chair, seating her beside Lady Miren.

  “I am always grateful for the invitation,” said Leta as she eased into the chair. Her aunt lived in Chansel, the seat of her late husband’s diocese, and had only recently ventured to Mayal to oversee her son’s funeral. Leta assumed Lady Miren would return north as soon as she got her son’s affairs in order. Yet fall had turned to winter, and spring was not far off, and here she remained. Leta was starting to wonder if Lady Miren was sticking around just to torture her.

  Servants materialized from behind wooden screens, bearing silver trays brimming with food: boiled eggs set upon golden pedestals, a finely braised ham hock tenderized and stuffed with truffles, fruit tarts of all varieties, grilled trout covered with lemon slices. There were even apricot preserves mixed with goat cheese, a Chanselese delicacy. The chef had doubtlessly prepared the dish in honor of Lady Miren.

  A trio of serving girls were standing behind Lady Miren, and seemed to only be there to serve Miren’s needs. She vaguely remembered seeing two of the girls in Herald Cenna’s class, but the third she wouldn’t forget; it was Ionni, the girl Orso had almost gotten into a fight with. As if reading the wonder on Leta’s face, Lady Miren gestured toward the girls. “Lovely things, aren’t they. A Tosh, a Caird and a Tribold. I can hardly tell them apart — they all look so much alike.”

  The girls looked nothing alike, but no one bothered to inform Lady Miren of this fact.

  “Girls, introduce yourselves.”

  Each girl performed a short curtsy.

  “Awen Tosh,” said the first, a girl with rosy cheeks and a cherub’s face. She couldn’t have been older than five or six.

  “Bree Tribold,” said the second. She was closer to Orso’s age, although a great deal more mature it seemed.

  “Ionni Caird,” said the third. This girl was much older than the other two, a teenager on the brink of womanhood. She walked with a bit of a limp. Leta wondered if the girl ended up fighting Orso after all.

  Miren chastised each of them for their form. “Stiffen your back when you curtsy, Bree. Cross your feet more, Awen. Make sure to bend at your knee, not your hip. Ionni, hold your shoulders level and straighten up that gimp leg of yours — a lady keeps her knees together.”

  Leta had to fight not to roll her eyes. Her aunt was such a mean old bitch.

  “We’ll have to work on their manners a bit,” said Miren, turning back to the table. “It has been a joy having children in my house again. They keep my wine glass full and my heart merry. Isn’t that right girls?”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Bree, seemingly eager to please.

  Lady Miren had the girls very well-trained, it would seem. Tosh, Caird and Tribold; Leta mulled over the surnames. Each was the name of a minor household from the Estero River Valley. The girls are hostages, Leta realized with some disgust. Their families must have been too cozy with the rebel cause.

  Miren smiled and patted Bree on the head. “Pleasant lasses, all of them, but they do have a twinge of the traitor’s blood. That can’t be helped. I fault them no more than I fault you.” Miren placed her hand atop Leta’s in a patronizing manner. “We can’t be blamed for the actions of our loved ones.”

  Leta hid her ire behind a false smile. “I say let’s eat.”

  Cenna fell asleep before a single bit of food passed his lips. Miren began to go through the wine as if she was dying of thirst. Saterius stared broodingly at his egg. Gwenn ate mouse sized portions of everything and never stopped talking.

  Apparently a bundle of silk had arrived from Earnway, which Gwenn thought was of the utmost importance. “It is quite possibly the finest fabric I have ever seen,” she insisted. “I will make sure to send a length to your seamstress.” Leta did her best to seem grateful.

  Almost as important was a Tremelese jeweler Praetor Maxentius had commissioned to make Gwenn a brooch to house a large amethyst. She balled her fist to show Leta how large the gemstone actually was.

  Leta lowered her nose into her plate and shoveled food into her mouth every time Gwenn looked at her for input, grateful that it was considered impolite to speak with a full mouth.

  “I am glad you joined us this morning,” said Gwenn, patting her son’s head. “Herald Cenna mentioned the other day that Orso was overdue for his evaluation.”

  “The test? I’m sure I’ll get a perfect score,” said Orso, bouncing up and down in his seat.

  Gwenn slid a half eaten apple back in front of her son. “Please finish your food, darling, and let the adults talk.” Orso responded by throwing the apple the length of the great hall. It splattered against the far wall sending pulp everywhere.

  Lady Miren raised her eyebrows with disapproval. “The test? Orso is old enough for the test?”

  “He turns seven next month,” said Gwenn.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed,” said Lady Miren. She smiled at Orso, revealing lipstick stained teeth.

  Orso frowned in reply.

  “I usually administer the evaluation around a subject’s seventh birthday,” added Leta. “They’re old enough to understand what’s happening, yet their emotions are still raw enough to rouse a spontaneous reaction. If they possess the Weaver’s Blessing, it should manifest.”

  Lady Miren swirled her drink. “It’s such a cruel little exam, but I’m sure Orso will perform admirably.” She turned an
d looked at her trio of girls. “Have any of you been evaluated?”

  Each girl shook their head.

  “Why don’t you include these three? You can test multiple children at once, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” replied Leta. “But there are certain dangers.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Miren with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Every adult at this table took the test, and we all survived.”

  “That’s because we all failed the test,” said Leta. “That is, except for Herald Cenna.”

  Cenna blinked awake at the mention of his name. “The test? Oh, yes, the test! I still bear a scar. Some in my order call it the Weaver’s love bite. It’s quite the badge of honor.” He pointed to a spot on his neck. If there was a scar hidden within all of the crisscrossing wrinkles and folds, Leta could not see it.

  “These girls are my wards, thus it is my decision,” said Lady Miren. “I would be derelict in my duties if I did not have them tested. One of them might bear the Weaver’s Blessing and we wouldn’t even know it. Wouldn’t that be a waste?”

  “It is highly unlikely any of them bear the gift,” argued Leta. “They haven’t the bloodline for it.” The Weaver’s Blessing was hereditary, and seldom manifested outside of certain households.

  “I would like them tested all the same. I would feel awful if I returned north with these girls and they hadn’t been tested by the best proctor in the land.”

  Leta rolled her eyes. She administered the test no differently than anyone else.

  “When will you be returning to Chansel?” asked Saterius.

  “Soon,” said Miren. “My business in Mayal is almost complete. I plan to be in Chansel for the spring equinox.”

  “What business would that be?” asked Gwenn innocently enough. “I thought the affairs concerning Lord Fenir’s estate were settled. Is there some other business you are attending to while in Mayal?”

  “I am making sure my son receives justice,” answered Miren with a bitter laugh.

  The air seemed to be sucked out of the room, and everyone eyed Miren with disquiet. Miren never spoke of her son, not since the funeral, and now she was talking about justice. What kind of justice? Leta wondered.