Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  In the northern lands near Midich Heights,

  a terror held its abode.

  The peasants fled and the warriors bled,

  no one dared go where the dragon strode.

  Heeding the victims’ call, came a dwarf quite tall,

  a man of noble breed.

  Ingel Lan of Tremel, clad in black mail,

  who was sown of Hearst’s seed.

  ‘Come forth,’ cried the dwarf as he held up his blade

  before Menalich’s abode.

  Smoke clouds plumed, and impenetrable shadows loomed

  as the dragon bellowed and blew.

  Menalich eyed the dwarf as she hissed out a curse,

  the same she spoke to all that she slew.

  ‘Fear is my blade, and darkness my shield,

  you will know both in due time!’

  At this the dwarf laughed, although it was crass,

  and told the dragon of her crime.

  ‘You stand quite tall, with tooth, nail and claw,

  yet you hardly fit your fame.

  Before this day is through, I will slay you,

  and bring an end to your reign!

  Ingel sought with his blade, and Menalich with her teeth,

  their battle raged on through the day.

  But scales are coarse and his sword broke from the force,

  thus he let out a woeful bay.

  ‘So I have won,’ cried the dragon unsung,

  as she looked upon him with vile eyes.

  ‘I will eat your heart first, your blood next I thirst,

  the rest I will leave for the flies.

  With those words uttered, she dove forth jaw unshuttered,

  but this was in Ingel’s plan.

  He dove right aside, and laid a poison prick to her eye,

  with a knife he held hid in his hand.

  She lurched back in shock, and cried out her last thought,

  ‘you have cheated me in the end!’

  ‘I have done nothing such, only what you deserve,

  and laid you with a wound that will not mend.’

  And as Ingel stood there and gloated, the poison corroded,

  and Menalich’s heart beat one final time

  And so it is told, the story of one bold,

  the Tale of Ingel Lan and Menalich.”

  Biriss bowed low, generally pleased with himself. His comrades at the corner table held their beers aloft and cheered loudly. The Merridian and Emoni patrons rewarded him with a lackluster response; a few clapped, a few more raised their drinks in a toast, but most everyone else appeared displeased to be outdone by a dwarf.

  Even after all these years, there is still no love between the races, thought Emethius.

  A low murmur came over the bar as Biriss sauntered back to his table and loudly ordered a fresh round of drinks for his companions. A few patrons goaded their friends to stand up, but in the end, no one was willing to follow the dwarf’s act. This seemed to please Biriss all the more, and he boastfully ordered a drink for everyone in the tavern.

  Malrich leaned forward. “Those Tremelese bastards act like there is something noble in using tricks to win a fight.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Emethius with a raised eyebrow. “Is there something noble in dying a fool’s death? Would you have preferred Ingel Lan simply let the dragon eat him?”

  “There’s a code of conduct in combat,” argued Malrich. “Lies, poisoned blades, and sleight-of-hand — those are the tools of assassins and betrayers, not warriors.”

  “And cunning is not an acceptable weapon?” asked Emethius, tapping his head.

  “Be cunning with sword craft,” countered Malrich. “Be cunning with when and where you field your army. Then you’ll have no need to cheat.”

  Emethius’s face soured. “We Soldiers of the Faith live by a chivalrous code that demands we defeat our enemies in a civilized fashion. But it’s wrong. War is not beautiful. There are no rules except this; kill or be killed. Defeat the enemy by any means necessary, be it through skill, guile, or just sheer luck.”

  Emethius leaned forward in his chair. “During the Culing War, it took our ancestors years to clear the Cul from our lands. The dwarves defeated the Cul within a matter of months. A Cul army fled into a forest, the dwarves burnt the entire forest to the ground. When the surviving Cul sued for peace, the dwarves threw plague rats in their wells. Unthinkable acts, yes, but damned efficient.”

  Malrich eyed Emethius for a moment, clearly put off by Emethius’s sentiment. “I don’t think you really believe those are an effective means to an end.”

  “I would have agreed with you a year ago, but the world has changed.” I have changed, was more like it, but Emethius kept that thought to himself. Emethius stood, and made a short bow to the dwarven table in honor of Biriss’s performance. He then lifted his mug, and finished his drink in a single long draught. Before heading off to his room for the night, he turned to Malrich. “Sober yourself. We have a long road ahead of us. If we hope to survive the journey, we may have to act more like the dwarves than you would like.”

  CHAPTER

  XIV

  THE HERALD OF TIBER

  Herald Cenna dabbed a piece of bread into his glass, letting it soak up the wine. The red wine looked like blood as it trailed up the length of the bread. Leta sat across from him, her legs primly crossed, her fingers steepled on her knee. Her breakfast remained untouched on the table.

  “Isn’t it a miracle what happened with Little Orso?” said Herald Cenna, plopping the piece of sodden bread in his mouth.

  Leta raised an eyebrow. To discuss Orso Petrius was certainly not the reason she had asked Herald Cenna to meet. She had been trying to speak in private with Herald Cenna for nearly a fortnight, but every time their paths crossed he was always in the company of others. By day, his gaggle of students was never far away, be it the children he lectured in the morning, or the young acolytes and Tiber Brothers he trained in the afternoon. At night, Lady Miren was at his side so often one might have thought Herald Cenna was courting the old widow, were it not for his oath of celibacy. To win a moment of his time, Leta had arranged for Sister Beli to take his morning class on a tour of the Vacian Monastery.

  Unfortunately, Herald Cenna and Leta were not entirely alone. Treves, Herald Cenna’s leech boy, sat in the corner. For once Treves wasn’t jotting down notes on his scratch pad. His hands were wrapped in gauze. Apparently, Sir Rupert had badly injured his hand in a training accident, and Treves was nice enough to volunteer a bit of his vitality to save the old knight’s hand. Leta would have felt sorry for the boy if she wasn’t so frustrated by his presence.

  “It’s a miracle that Orso didn’t bleed to death, if that’s what you mean,” said Leta, trying to keep her irritation from showing. “My father already lectured me on the topic. I shouldn’t have cut the rabbit so deep. I’ll admit it was my fault.”

  Cenna gave her a dismissive wave. “That’s not what I meant. Isn’t it a miracle that Orso’s a transfuser! The gods have given us a gift. Merridia was rudderless and without direction. But now I see a clear path forward. He’s only two generations removed from the ruling line, you know. Some say he looks like High Lord Leonius.”

  Leta forced a smile — it was the only way to contain her scowl. Leonius was Leta’s great-grandfather. He was also Leta and Orso’s last common ancestor, and Orso’s only legitimate link to the Throne of Roses. “You believe Orso will become High Lord?”

  “High Lord Valerius has no direct heir, that is, unless you have another son.”

  “I consider myself the heir,” said Leta hotly.

  “That is an interesting, albeit, unlikely notion.” Cenna tapped his knee twice. It was an innocuous gesture that most would have missed, but it had a hidden meaning — this was a discussion for another time. Cenna shrugged. “But who am I to tell you it’s not possible. In the end, it’s the choice of the gods.” Cenna dunked another piece of wine soaked bread into his mouth. Wine dribbl
ed down his chin. He cleaned his face with a silk handkerchief, staining the precious fabric red.

  A decadent display of wealth for a man who has sworn a vow of poverty, thought Leta, feeling rather annoyed. Of course, everything was decadent in the palace complex, even in the humble quarters of the Herald of the Tiber Order. Leta looked around the room. The marble flooring was mostly covered by precious rugs from Saterland. A Tremelese dagger hung over the mantle; the finely folded metal of its blades had ripples that seemed to shimmer and move. There was gold everywhere. Gold inlay. Gold statues. Gold trays beset with gold cups. Even the map on the wall was covered in gold leaf.

  Leta stood to get a better look at the map. The borders of the six diocese were outlined in silver, and the cities were represented by gemstones. The size of the gemstone seemed to reflect the size of each city’s population. “Did you ever see the results of the last census?” asked Leta, as she examined the map.

  “I did, but I fear to say the results were not very useful,” replied Cenna. “The numbers were inaccurate. It’s my fault, really. Herald Carrick put me in charge of tabulating the results as they came in. I didn’t catch how off the numbers were until your brother had already toured half of Merridia. In hindsight, I believe your brother was sending in false tallies.”

  That piqued Leta’s interest. “Would it be possible to see the results?”

  “I’ll see if I can find them for you,” said Herald Cenna, as he cracked open a pomegranate, letting its red innards spill down his fingers. He sucked his fingers dry between words. “A great many documents were destroyed when Herald Carrick was declared a heretic. I can’t say precisely what happened to the records.” He called over his shoulder. “Treves, will you go to the court archives and see if a copy of the most recent census is available?”

  “Right now?” asked Treves, not rising from his seat.

  “Yes, you daft child. Right now. Why else would I have asked?” Cenna chuckled to himself as he watched Treves fumble with the doorknob with his bandaged hands. Treves finally got the knob to turn and hurried out the door. “Leech boys aren’t always the cleverest of lads, nor the most obedient, but we take what the gods give us.”

  Leta watched Treves depart from the corner of her eye, waiting until he was out of earshot. “Did you know that two of the children Lady Miren is holding hostage are from Estri?” Leta tapped her finger on the gemstone representing the city. “Both of their fathers assisted Meriatis with the census. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

  “Honestly, that doesn’t surprise me,” said Cenna. “I believe your brother was using the census as cover to recruit men for his rebellion. He spent over six months away from Mayal. The gods only know who he talked to and where he went.” Cenna stared down at his plate and frowned. “Had I only been paying closer attention to the numbers he was sending in, I might have noticed something was wrong before things got out of hand. But that’s the way it is with the Blackheart. A person with the affliction can hide in plain sight for years, secretly doing the Shadow’s bidding, and no one is the wiser until it’s too late.”

  Leta couldn’t ignore her own blame in the matter. She, too, had failed to detect Meriatis’s symptoms. And I’m a trained healer. She turned away from the map and returned to her seat.

  Cenna read the displeasure on her face. “We’re alone now. It’s time to be forthright; you didn’t request a private meeting to discuss census results.”

  “No, I did not,” Leta admitted. She thrummed her fingers against the armrest of her chair, trying to come up with a delicate way to preface her question. She decided to just be blunt. “I want to know what Lady Miren is doing with the rebels her tribunal finds guilty?”

  Herald Cenna’s bushy eyebrows raised with surprise. “That is an important question, and I’ll be honest with you — I don’t know.”

  “They’re being condemned to the headman’s ax.” Just saying it, caused Leta to feel sick to her stomach. “Can’t you be straight with me and admit the truth?”

  “Headsman’s ax — now there’s a farce.” Herald Cenna gave a half-hearted laugh, and for a second it looked as if he might choke on his food. “You should eat something. You look as thin as a rail.” He was clearly trying to change the subject.

  Leta slid her plate to the far side of the table. “I haven’t had much of an appetite of late,” said Leta. “My conscience has been troubling me.”

  “That’s unfortunate, my dear,” said the herald, still acting oblivious. “But a bit of guilt is not an awful thing. In the eyes of the gods we are all failures.” He plucked the choicest strawberry from Leta’s plate. “We must do the best that we are able, finding pleasure in the gifts the gods have granted us.” He plopped the strawberry in his mouth and smiled.

  Leta was not letting him off that easily. She swatted his hand aside when he reached for another strawberry. His face curled in mock umbrage.

  “Will you at least admit to serving on Lady Miren’s tribunal?” demanded Leta.

  Cenna’s face softened and for a moment he looked a bit like a child caught in mischief. He lifted his hands in surrender. “Heretics and rebels, Leta, we are convicting heretics and rebels. And yes, I’ll admit it. I did serve on the tribunal.” He reached for another strawberry, and this time Leta let him have it. “It was not by choice, I would like to add, but orders are orders. A man of the faith was needed to rebuke the claims being made by the heretics.”

  “I knew it,” snapped Leta, letting her excitement get the better of her. “What happens to the men who are found guilty?”

  “As I said before, I don’t know precisely. It has been months since we last convened. My memory of it all is a little hazy.” He waved his hand as if it were a trivial matter. “I heard one rumor that the convicts were being sent to work on Tremelese galleys. Another said they were being sold to the Citilian family in Caore to serve as field hands. I know a few men whose crimes were less severe were allowed to sign service contracts with Admiral Ferrus. A little military vigor might be precisely what those heretics need. But I can assure you, no one is receiving a death sentence. That would be a violation of God’s Law.”

  Tell that to the headsman, Leta wanted to reply. She decided to hold her tongue. “I’m not imagining things, Cenna. The man who led the protest at the memorial service was in my monastery. I granted him his last rights.”

  Cenna gave her a patronizing smirk. “I fear your eyes are deceiving you. I know for a fact that there were no arrests made at the memorial service. All of those heretics disappeared into the crowd.”

  “It was the same man.”

  “I’ll humor you, let’s say it was the same man. We didn’t send him to you, so that means he ended up there of his own accord. Doesn’t it make sense that a person afflicted with the Blackheart would be bedfellows with the rebels? Madness seeks out madness, or so they say. Your brother had the Blackheart, it stands to reason that some of his followers would as well. It was only a matter of time before some of the rebels ended up in your monastery, not because the tribunal sent them there, but because the Blackheart progressed to such a degree it was no longer safe for them to be free in our society.”

  “They’re being sent to me!” snapped Leta. Unable to contain her frustration, she smacked her hand against the table. She couldn’t stand to hear another dishonest answer slip past Cenna’s lips.

  Cenna leaned back in his seat and eyed the hollow pomegranate rind. “I don’t know,” Cenna said finally, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s true, but I just don’t know.” He looked up at Leta, his old rheumy eyes regarding her queerly. “They are traitors, Leta, every last one of them. Lady Miren is correct when she says they are a danger to this state. The rebels would have the Line of Roses come to an end.”

  “That’s not how I remember the rebellion,” snapped Leta. “My brother intended to seat himself upon the Throne of Roses, replacing one of Benisor’s descendent's with another. The line would have continued.” In her mind’s eye she envisioned Meriati
s as a child quaking upon the throne, his face frozen with rictus. She shuddered at the disquieting memory. “Who ordered the creation of the tribunal?”

  “This is something I am not at liberty to say.”

  “I am the priestess of the Vacian Order and daughter of the high lord. I deserve to know.”

  “I’ll take delight in that knowledge when I’m brought before the tribunal for treason.”

  For a moment Leta imagined a hint of fear flared in Cenna’s eyes. Is he afraid of Lady Miren?

  Cenna sighed. “Your father’s own orders, my dear. The tribunal was created on your father’s own orders.”

  Now Leta was truly furious. Her father had asked her to take over the administration of last rights to Blackheart victims because he was too much of a coward to do the job himself. Then he ordered Lady Miren to hunt down the rebels who had sworn to his son’s banner. He delegated all tasks, and took on no responsibility of his own. She was tempted to storm into the Court of Bariil and confront her father immediately.

  Cenna reached out and took her hand, perhaps sensing her turmoil. “Calm, Leta, be calm. Now is not the time for rash decisions. If you truly intend to sit upon the Throne of Roses one day, something no woman has ever done, the politics of all of this are very important. Your service as the Priestess of Vacia gives you merit, and your birthright gives you a legitimate claim. But most would not suffer a women in a seat ordained by the gods for a man.”

  “The god-saint Tiberius granted the throne to Benisor’s line — there was no reference to man or woman. As things stand, Benisor’s line ends with me.”

  “All trees have many branches, my dear. Some limbs have grown sturdier than others,” said Cenna, clearly referencing Orso Petrius and his newfound abilities as a transfuser. “All of your actions must be calculated, or you will find that your branch has grown brittle. It will only take a sharp breeze to send you toppling over once your father is gone. A degree of care now will pay dividends in the future. It is crucial that you don’t look sympathetic to your brother’s heresy.”