Herald Cenna began to busy himself with his place setting. “Yes indeed, justice for everyone. Hmm... well... this is a fine breakfast. Pass the the ham, would you?”
“What do you mean by justice?” asked Leta.
“The tribunals are growing fewer and farther between,” said Lady Miren, as if it were common knowledge. “General Saterius has done a wonderful job tracking down the leaders of the heresy. The last few who remain free have gone into hiding. Still, I think we will have them all locked in fetters within the next few months. The tribunals will finish up shortly thereafter.”
Saterius was stone-faced, and showed no indication that he knew what Lady Miren was talking about. He kept staring at the untouched food on his plate.
Leta felt dizzy. “You’re holding tribunals? For whom?”
“For that little rebellion your brother perpetrated,” snapped Miren venomously. “We are a land of laws; laws that were passed on to us from the gods of Calaban, laws that are necessary for a civilized society. Your brother and his heretic comrades violated those principles. Or have you already forgotten?”
Leta had not forgotten. She wanted to punch the smug look off of her aunt’s face. “The war is over,” said Leta, using the calmest tone she could manage. “Those responsible have already been brought to justice.”
“Are you sure of that, dear? We are getting close. We’ve held three..., no four dozen trials now. Each name seems to lead to another.”
“Why haven’t I heard of this?” said Leta, growing sick to her stomach.
“You don’t wander through the forest shouting at the top of your lungs when you’re hunting vermin. You set traps, and you bide your time. So I have set many traps, and I wait and I watch, and when an ignorant little rat wanders into my snare...” She clapped her hands together, causing everyone to jump in their seats.
Gwenn clamped her hands over Orso’s ears. The boy looked thrilled by the prospect of hunting rebels. “Lady Miren, if you would please refrain from such talk in the presence of my son.”
Lady Miren did not refrain. She raised her hands above the table like a puppeteer controlling a marionette, splashing her wine all over the table in the process. “Once I catch a rebel, I set a leash about their tiny rebel neck and I let them wander around for a while. I see what other holes they go sniffling about and what rebel friends they go visit. And when the time is ripe the leash becomes a noose.” She downed the remainder of her wine, and raised her hand for a refill. The Tosh girl’s hands were shaking as she refilled Lady Miren’s cup. This seemed to please Lady Miren. She pointed at Leta. “You and I are alike, Leta. We have both lost husbands. We have both lost sons. You, too, would seek revenge if you had the chance.”
We are nothing alike, Leta wanted to scream in reply. Miren was spiteful and mean and nasty. Miren sought comfort through the pain of others. Then again, maybe she was right, maybe Leta would seek revenge if it were actually a possibility. But who could she seek revenge against? The gods? Leta looked down at her plate, finding herself more frustrated with each passing moment. “We shouldn’t be hunting people now that the rebellion is over, I’m sure of that.”
“What if we miss just one rebel? Hmm? Ideas are like cancer, we cut it out, or it grows and takes on a new life, corrupting everyone around it.” She motioned to Saterius. “Tell her. Tell her what you found the other day.”
Saterius bit his lip, clearly unhappy that he had been called upon to contribute. “We found a whole apartment filled with pamphlets. An old blind women owned the place. She said her nephew would come and go with other men. She had no idea what they were up to. We got her nephew, but his companions slipped our trap.”
“You’re hunting after people because they are making pamphlets?”
“We’re hunting after people because sedition is dangerous, priestess.” Saterius’s voice was calm, but his eyes were glowering, revealing a part of him Leta had not seen before. Leta had heard rumors that Praetor Maxentius used Saterius like a meat cleaver when needs arose. Some men were all bluster, and some men were silent until they acted. Her father had taught her to fear the latter.
“Maybe the rebellion was a test from the gods,” said Leta, turning back to Lady Miren. “Perhaps the Calabanesi wanted to see if we would do the right thing. We are supposed to forgive and move on.”
Herald Cenna nodded. “What did your father say during the service in the Grand Plaza? Seek not vengeance against the sword bearer of the rebel cause, nor wish doom upon their kin, for those too are sins, and thus our fall will only be greater.”
“How can we move on while the perpetrators of the rebellion, the men who killed my son, are still out there conspiring about our downfall?” demanded Lady Miren
Leta wanted to remind Lady Miren that half-a-dozen faceless men wielding crossbows killed her son, not some specific rebel who had so far eluded her snare; Leta decided such words would be unwise.
“If you want to see what sedition can do,” continued Lady Miren, “go north to Estri. See the empty farmland. See what remains of the city. The girls can attest to it.” Miren waved for her wards to step forward. “Go ahead, tell Priestess Leta what happened to your homeland.”
Ionni Caird was the only one who could manage to get a word out — the other two girls looked like they were on the verge of tears. “All that remains of Estri is the Temple of Tiber and the city keep. The rest is gone. We could see it burning from five leagues away. We stood out on the terrace of my father’s estate and watched the fire all night. When morning came, it was like there was a second sun.” Ionni’s voice was calm and level, but the hatred simmering in the her eyes was undeniable.
“Is that not proof enough of why every last rebel must be brought to justice?” said Lady Miren.
Leta sneered. “Need I remind you, Estri was a rebel stronghold, not a loyalist bastion. I’ve heard from reputable sources that the city was set on fire by Soldiers of the Faith long after the rebels were driven out of town.”
Lady Gwenn gasped. “This is seditious talk. How can you say such vile things about our fair soldiers? They have taken vows before the gods.”
Herald Cenna nodded in agreement. “It’s true, priestess. You must watch what you say. Too much wine. Sometimes it loosens our lips and we say things we do not mean.” He reached across the table and collected Leta’s glass.
Leta scowled. Not a single drop of wine had passed her lips. She stood up, having heard enough.
“I am the Priestess of Vacia,” snarled Leta. “My father is the High Lord of Merridia. My line has sat upon the Throne of Roses for a dozen generations. I am the state. Or have you forgotten this? One cannot commit sedition against themselves.”
This brought all conversation to a close. Gwenn glanced down at her feet. Orso began to drum his little hands against the table, looking from one adult to another, clearly hoping the fun would continue. For once Herald Cenna looked thoroughly awake. His leech boy was writing furiously on his piece of parchment. Lady Miren seemed more than pleased with the outcome of the breakfast, and she motioned for her wards to fetch her more wine. Only Saterius smiled.
The general leaned back in his chair and eyed Leta as if he was just now seeing her for the first time. It was a cold, creeping stare that cut to her core. “Your brother was also the state, Priestess Leta, until he was not,” said Saterius bluntly. “You’d be wise to remember this fact.”
• • •
Leta was still furious when she went to bed that night. She tossed and turned, and when she finally did slumber, the nightmares were back, this time more vivid than before. Meriatis sitting atop his copper throne quaking as urine ran down his leg. Lady Miren pointing an accusative finger in Leta’s face. The man from the memorial service standing with his back turned in opposition of the gods.
“I have only spoken the truth,” said the man, staring Leta dead in the eye.
Leta awoke. The sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon, and a cold hard certainty came with t
he new day. The man in her dreams — she now remembered why she knew his face. She had seen him in her monastery strapped to a table. He claimed innocence even as Leta granted him his last rights. She cringed as she envisioned the wet chop of Sir Rupert’s ax.
He was a clean soul, realized Leta.
But if the man was not afflicted with the Blackheart, how did he end up in Leta’s monastery? The horrible truth thundered through her like a poison.
“Oh, precious Vacia, what have I done?”
Lady Miren’s tribunal was the answer. She was funneling her convicts through Leta’s monastery, using the Blackheart to hide the purge.
“How many?” she gasped. Her patron god was silent in reply, yet Leta knew the truth. Dozens and dozens, that was the tally Lady Marin gave. Leta had performed the last sacrament on dozens of clean souls. Unable to bear the thought, Leta leaned over the edge of her bed and vomited.
CHAPTER
X
THE MADNESS OF THE WAYWARD PRINCE
Emethius couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and the sky began; they melded together in the blackness of night. The stars were concealed behind a low curtain of clouds. The waxing moon was vacant from the sky.
Dressed in a gray wool cloak, Emethius was nearly invisible. The sea rolled black around him, lapping against the hull of his skiff and spraying him with near freezing water. His hands were numb before he finished navigating through the maze of half frozen canals that coursed through Mayal. By the time he reached the open waters of the bay his clothes were completely soaked.
I’ll be of little use to anyone if I freeze to death, thought Emethius as he turned the skiff’s prow into an oncoming wave. The sea was rough, and the undercurrent created by the surge of water flowing from the mouth of the Estmer River threatened to pull him out to sea. It took all of his strength to keep the mainland in sight. His destination, the abbey of Atto Ifoire, was located on the far side of the bay. As the bird flies, it was only half-a-league away, but with the current behaving as it was, it might as well have been a hundred miles.
I’m losing a yard for every two I gain. Emethius doggedly pressed onward and soon was sweating despite the chill.
The dragon whelp Ftoril wove a treacherous web with her intriguing tale. He believed the dragoness when she said Meriatis was alive. What’s more, he had seen the fabled blade Shadowbane with his own eyes, so he knew she wasn’t lying about that. It was the risk that bothered him. If Emethius’s actions weren’t treason, they were very close. Conveniently for Ftoril, she had convinced Emethius to assume all the risk. He would be the one tortured for information if things went ill. He would be the one dangling from the hangman’s gallows. But I am also the one responsible for thrusting a blade through Meriatis’s gut. The guilt was unshakable.
Emethius grit his teeth with resolve and pressed onward. After what seemed like an eternity, the far shore finally came into view.
Ftoril was waiting for Emethius on the beach.
“The healer is expected soon,” said the dragoness. “Come quickly.” She led him to an outcrop of rock that offered concealment and began to hand him objects for his disguise — a hooded fur cloak, a sheer headscarf, a few religious totems, and a collection of thimble size bottles filled with elixirs.
Emethius looked at the objects queerly. “How did you come by these things?”
“They’re all authentic, I assure you.” She flipped a large medallion inscribed with wards in the air, catching it between her claws. “Old superstitious tools of an old superstitious trade. You couldn’t cure a cold with these relics, let alone the Blackheart.”
Emethius took off his drenched cloak and was about to put on the cloak Ftoril had offered when he recoiled with shock. Ftoril had handed him a cloak constructed from dozens of fox tails sewn end to end. “This is the cloak of a master healer!”
“I overtook the healer a few miles north of Mayal,” said Ftoril, as if the truth should have been obvious. “These are his personal effects.”
“You said the healer would be delayed, not killed!” Emethius dropped the cloak in disgust, suddenly feeling faint.
Ftoril swooped forward, catching the cloak before it fell on the ground. “Careful. Don’t be rash.” She brushed wet sand off of the hem. “I have bound the healer in a cave. He has a fire to keep him warm and bread and water to keep him nourished. I intend to set him free before the night is through. I thought you understood the stakes.”
Emethius glared at Ftoril. “Which stakes: that Meriatis be cured, or that the precious blade you seek be returned to your master? My priority and yours are not the same.”
Ftoril waved her clawed finger dismissively. “They are one and the same, you are just blind to the web that has been so carefully woven.” Ftoril draped the cloak over Emethius’s shoulders, then stepped back and gave his disguise a critical eye. “You look the part, but now you must act the part. Can I trust you?”
Emethius sighed. “Yes, you can trust me.” He filled his pockets with the healer’s possessions. I need to set all doubts aside. I have one job — get the information and get out with my head still attached to my body.
“They will expect the healer to arrive on a horse. The beast is tied to a tree. Ride into the ruins of the abbey’s great hall. They will see you before you see them. The ruins are guarded by the high lord’s most loyal, hard men who would sooner stick you with a blade than take you alive. If your disguise fails, you will likely die. Keep that in mind.” Ftoril explained what Emethius had to do once he was taken to the prince. When she was finished with her directions, she handed Emethius a small glass vial containing a milky white fluid.
“Make Meriatis drink this. It’s not a cure, but it will provide him with a few minutes of lucidity.”
Emethius popped open the cork topper and gave it a sniff. It smelled like burnt hair. “What is it made from?
“Dragon horn,” said Ftoril, tapping a stub of a horn on her head. Emethius hadn’t noticed it before, but the missing horn gave Ftoril’s head a rather lopsided look.
Emethius placed the vial in his breast pocket. “Dragon bone was one of the remedies Herald Carrick mentioned in his diary. How much more would I need for a cure?”
“For that, you’d need to boil the flesh off my bones, grind my skeleton to dust, and produce a gelatin from my marrow.”
Emethius raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an impossibility.”
“Why don’t you give it a try,” said Ftoril, baring her teeth.
“Perhaps another time,” said Emethius, taking the healer’s horse by its lead. He mounted the horse and began toward the abbey. The horse was a fair breed and well-trained. It calmly plodded along the path as if it already knew the way. Snow began to fall, great big flakes that floated lazily toward the earth. He pulled the hood of the stolen cloak over his head. The fox tail cloak was shockingly warm, almost to the point of being hot.
Such a cloak cost a small fortune, Emethius knew, and was well beyond the means of a Tiber Brother. Members of the brotherhood swore an oath of poverty when they became acolytes, forswearing any claims to inheritance or family fortune. Healers were awarded these cloaks when they attained the title of master. There were only a few dozen master healers in Merridia, and they all took orders directly from the herald of the Tiber Brotherhood. That could only mean one thing; the healer was sent at the behest of Herald Cenna.
It was the first time Emethius considered who else knew Prince Meriatis was alive. High Lord Valerius only had a handful of trusted allies, and amongst them, probably only a select few knew of Meriatis’s fate. If the great patron families of Merridia ever found out, they would demand the prince’s head. If High Lord Valerius refused, there would likely be a new rebellion, this time with a more assured result.
The abbey’s court appeared much like it had the week before, vacant and silent. The damaged statue stared down upon him like a sentinel. Emethius’s heart quickened. Wherever the guards were stationed he could not see them.
A voice called out, the words echoing through the ruins.
“Lep dis re?”
“Pasio di fet, vipapi op pajlr,” responded Emethius in the ancient tongue, reciting precisely what Ftoril had told him to say.
There was no response, only silence. Ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute passed. A cold shiver worked through Emethius’s frame. His hand crept toward the dagger he had concealed in his cloak. If this was a trap, he wasn’t going down without a fight.
Quite unexpectedly, a fissure broke in the eastern face of the abbey’s lone standing wall. Light poured through the crevice, revealing a tunnel that snaked down into the earth. Resisting the fear now screaming in the back of his mind, Emethius dismounted his horse and squeezed through the entrance.
The second he broke the threshold, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind and threw him face first into the earthen wall of the grotto. He was groped from head to foot; every pocket was checked, every trinket critically examined.
“He’s armed,” said the man, holding up Emethius’s dagger.
“Would you ride the North Road without a weapon at hand?” said Emethius, managing to speak despite the rock wall against his face. “The war may be over, but the countryside is still crawling with rebels.”
“Heretics,” corrected the guard. “Call them what they are. The title rebel gives them an air of righteousness they do not deserve.”
“Let’s have a look at him,” ordered a gruff voice.
Emethius was spun around to face his captors. There were three in all. The man holding him against the wall had a crooked nose and a slanting jaw. The man to his left had bright hazel eyes the color of the sea. This one is highborn, thought Emethius, although he did not recognize the man. The third had a twinge of a western drawl, and had a glob of engroot stuck in his cheek. They were all dressed in the clothes of commoners, woolen trousers, plain tunics. Slant Jaw wore a leather jacket, the other two wore fur cloaks. Each had a short sword hanging on their hip.
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