Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  Emethius gagged beside him and weakly pointed toward the sky. Malrich followed his companion’s quivering finger and let out a stifled cry.

  In their haste, they had reached the end of the Barren Tracks and stumbled upon the Tower of Interleads. The tower loomed before them, carved into the face of a cliff. The tower was cold to the eyes, gray, almost to the point of being black. Much like Hardthorn, a beacon sat atop its pinnacle, serving as a signal to the citizens living in the Morium Vale that the Barren Tracks were open and safe. The beacon of Interleads was extinguished, yet smoke still lingered. A device not so dissimilar to a roasting-spit was leveled over the beacon cauldron.

  The Cul eat the flesh of the living, recalled Malrich with horror.

  The setting sun served as a backdrop to the cursed tower, a glimmering half circle of orange and red. Dusk was almost upon them.

  Malrich scrambled back to his feet and tried to pull Emethius along. “We need to move on,” began Malrich. “Dusk will be here...” The words died in his throat.

  The blackened walls of Interleads were not as solid as they first appeared. They moved, and writhed, and moaned. Malrich grabbed Emethius’s arm to keep from collapsing.

  The bodies of Dunie soldiers were tied to the face of the tower. Their eyes were gone, and from the sounds they made, Malrich imagined their tongues were missing as well. They were stripped naked and their skin was sun-burnt and dark, strewn with sores.

  Malrich felt like he was going to hyperventilate and frantically reached for his canteen. He cursed upon remembering it was empty and fell to his knees. “Is this the original host of Interleads?” managed Malrich between gasping breaths. “I didn’t know flesh could endure such misery.”

  Emethius looked upon the tower long and hard, drinking in the horrid sight as he slowly passed his gaze from one victim to the next. A grim certainty entered his eyes. “All of the stories are true,” he muttered, almost to himself. “The Cul truly are demons, devoid of value and caring. The cat may kill for food, or the talsani for war, but the Cul kills for something else entirely. It’s a perversion, a twisted pleasure.”

  “We’ve been here too long. We need to go!” Malrich tugged weakly at Emethius’s arm. The sun was nearly down and the cackling had grown into a chorus, a hundred voices strong. For a moment Emethius refused to budge, his gaze still focused upon the tortured bodies hanging from the tower. Finally he let himself be led away.

  Holding each other for support, Malrich and Emethius slunk from the tower. They fled into a hidden valley half a league away, and there they found a crevice between two slabs of granite. It was a narrow gap, and Malrich was forced to take in shallow breaths to squeeze inside. They piled rocks and brush in front of the entrance until not even the last embers of the setting sun could be seen within their hideaway. The sun dipped below the horizon and the cackling cry of the Cul became a roar. They had entered the world of the Cul. They had entered the Shadow.

  CHAPTER

  VI

  THE FALSE SHADOW

  Leta lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her bedroom window glowed yellow with the light of the morning sun. A week had passed since her meeting with Admiral Ferrus, and each new day brought with it a fresh wave of anxiety. Leta hated feeling this way, and she damned Lady Miren for filling her head with doubt. She was beginning to wonder if she should have gone with Admiral Ferrus to Elyim.

  I could have returned to Mayal married to Ferrus, my father’s blessing be damned, and with the Elyim fleet to my back I would have gotten to the bottom of this conspiracy once and for all. I could have ordered a reevaluation of Meriatis’s census. I could have demanded an end to the secret tribunal. I could have tracked down this supposed gray prophet.

  I could have...

  I could have...

  I could have...

  Leta shook her head in frustration. Lying in bed doing nothing was a great deal easier and a lot less risky. She had ordered her carriage driver to take her to the private docks a few days after her meeting with Admiral Ferrus, not quite certain what she would do once she arrived. The docks were empty, the entire fleet was gone. Even the sign marking the dock as private had been stripped from its post. She scowled at the missed opportunity.

  There came a soft rap at Leta’s door, the unsure knock of a person not yet confident in their duties. “May I enter, priestess?” called a quiet voice.

  Leta sighed and sat up in bed. “Please come in, Ionni.”

  The girl hesitantly opened the door and peeked inside. When she saw that Leta was clothed, she shouldered the door aside and padded across the empty expanse of Leta’s private chamber with a serving tray in hand. Leta regarded the newest addition to her flock with mixed feelings. The girl looked prim in her brand new acolyte’s robe, if not a bit uncomfortable. She walked with slouched shoulders and a disinterested grimace on her face.

  She’s a teenager, there’s no denying that, thought Leta.

  Ionni was quick to roll her eyes and take on an obstinate posture whenever she was asked to do a menial task she perceived beneath her status. Still, she did what was asked of her without vocal objection, and she was learning quickly. Part of Leta felt proud of Ionni’s progress, while another part felt guilty for drawing someone so young and innocent into the maddening intrigues of the court.

  It was selfish of me to involve the girl, thought Leta as Ionni placed the breakfast tray at the foot of her bed. But perhaps it was necessary.

  “Your breakfast, priestess,” said the girl in a small voice.

  Leta inspected the cuisine. An apple, an orange, a pair of rolled tarts, a bundle of grapes, eggs, and several links of steaming sausage. It was enough food for two or three people.

  Ionni curtsied. “I didn’t know what to bring you, so I grabbed a bunch of food that I would eat. If it displeases the priestess, I would be happy to fetch you something else.”

  “The priestess is not displeased,” said Leta. She lifted a silver lid off the tray and discovered there was even more food hidden beneath it.

  “My father always insists that breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” said Ionni, obviously sensing Leta’s amazement at the amount of food.

  “Fathers are full of practical wisdom,” said Leta with a smile. “My father says wealth should be shared. Please, help me eat all of this.”

  “I... ah... well.” The girl was so accustomed to waiting on Lady Miren that she didn’t seem to know how to respond. “You are too kind, but it would be inappropriate for me to accept.”

  “Nonsense,” said Leta. She handed Ionni one of the rolled tarts and patted the side of the bed, motioning for Ionni to take a seat.

  Ionni sheepishly complied and took a hungry bite out of the roll. “Have you received word from my father concerning the sisterhood?” asked Ionni, talking with a full mouth.

  “Not yet,” replied Leta, noting that they needed to work on Ionni’s etiquette. “But that is to be expected. It will take at least a week for the message to be delivered, and then another week or two for your father’s reply to reach Mayal.”

  “I hope it arrives soon. I’m eager to take my vows and begin my studies.” Leta was having a hard time determining if Ionni was actually interested in the Vacian Sisterhood, or if she was simply that good at selling a lie.

  While they awaited final approval from Ionni’s father, Leta was allowing Ionni to shadow Sister Beli. This soon resulted in Sister Beli dumping some of her more monotonous duties, like delivering Leta’s breakfast, off on the girl.

  Showing a degree of initiative, Ionni plucked a sausage off the tray. As she did, the sleeve of her robe pulled back, revealing little red scratches all over her wrist. It looked like she had gotten in a fight with a cat. “What happened to your wrists?” asked Leta, pulling back the girl’s sleeve.

  “Oh, that? It’s nothing really. Sister Beli had me up at dawn collecting rose petals.”

  “She had you preparing rosewater? That’s quite the honor.” There were a dozen
basins scattered throughout the Court of Bariil that needed to be refilled each morning. Leta was pleased to hear that Sister Beli was already trusting Ionni with the task. The entire process was filled with ritual. The water had to be drawn from the natural spring beneath the Court of Bariil. Petals had to be plucked from only certain bushes in the palace garden, then muddled, boiled, and blessed. From start to finish, the entire process could take several hours.

  “I’m surprised you’re done so quickly,” said Leta, worried that a step might have been skipped. “How did you have time to fill all twelve basins and bring me my breakfast?”

  Ionni looked confused. “All twelve basins? There was only one, priestess. The one in the Vacian Monastery.”

  Leta raised an eyebrow at the news. “That basin is only used to provide blessings during the Final Sacrament.”

  Ionni nodded. “A patient came in to the monastery last night. He’s in real bad shape. Sister Beli thought it would be wise to prepare the water. She wasn’t keen on letting him suffer any longer than was necessary.”

  Leta was out of her bed in an instant. She quickly put on a gown with Ionni’s assistance, then marched straight to the Vacian Monastery. She stormed through the doorway, causing all chatter within the monastery to stop. She spied Sir Rupert through a window. He was in the inner courtyard prepping his chopping block. The cloying scent of rosewater struck Leta’s nose, and she had to fight off the impulse to gag.

  A single bed stood in the middle of the room. A patient lay in a stupefied state atop the slab, tugging listlessly at the fetters that bound his hands and feet. An entire host of sisters were busily moving about the room — only a few were actually tending to the patient. Sister Beli stood at the center of it all, listing off directions as she looked over a piece of parchment containing the day’s itinerary.

  “Good morning, priestess,” called Sister Beli from across the hall as if everything was perfectly normal.

  “Why wasn’t I notified?” demanded Leta.

  Noting the irate look on Leta’s face, Sister Beli stopped what she was doing and rushed to Leta’s side. “I’m sorry if you are displeased,” said Sister Beli, as she placed a reassuring hand on Leta’s elbow and guided her into the room. “The patient arrived in the dead of the night. You’ve been sleeping so poorly lately; I didn’t want to bother you until it was necessary. I was going to notify you once all of the preparations were made. You’re not angry, are you?”

  “I’ll answer that question in a moment,” said Leta, doing her best to stay calm. “Let’s have a look at the patient.”

  As they approached the patient’s bed, Leta recalled the attributes of the man she had followed to Admiral Ferrus’s dock. Although she had never gotten within a hundred feet of the man, she was certain she would recognize him. A picture quickly formed in her mind’s eye.

  The man was a head taller than Leta. His nose was stubby with flaring nostrils. His eyes were slightly too far apart. She had not seen their color. His hair was bushy, the color of sand, with a slight wave that parted to the right. Or was his hair blond? He had a thin narrow jaw with a dimpled chin. His left leg was bowed, and his foot would drag ever so slightly behind his body when he walked.

  Leta apprehensively approached the head of the bed, certain that the patient’s face would conjure up a hint of familiarity. The face that met her eyes was unrecognizable. She couldn’t help but gasp.

  The man’s face was a mask of purple bruises. His brow had swollen over the lids of his eyes, leaving him mere slits through which to see. Most of his hair had been pulled clean from his scalp, leaving behind only a few mats of dark blood-clotted hair. His left ear was little more than a stump. She had seen the afflicted pick off parts of their own body, but she had never seen anything this clean. Her gut told her that someone had done this with a knife.

  This looks a lot like torture, thought Leta, her stomach roiling with disgust. This looks a lot like a message.

  Leta took a deep breath and stiffened her back. “I need everyone but Ionni and Sister Beli to go outside.”

  There was a small chattering of surprise amongst the Vacian Sisters, but no one questioned the command. They filed outside, and Leta shut the door in their wake.

  Once the room had cleared, Leta reevaluated the man. She wanted to believe that this was Lady Miren’s doing, but doubts immediately filled her head. The man was very thin. That was how it always was with the afflicted. Family members would rather see their loved ones starve than send them to the headsman for a quick end.

  “Damn them for doing this to me,” said Leta in frustration. They were making her question every one of her choices. This should be an act of compassion, thought Leta, and the gods know this man looks sick. She rubbed her palms into her eyes until she was seeing stars. “Do you recognize this man, Ionni?”

  The girl stood on the tips of her toes to gain a better vantage. She showed no signs of being squeamish, and got within a hand’s breadth of the man’s battered face. She examined all of his features and finally shrugged. “He looks a great deal like many men I’ve seen,” began Ionni, reporting her findings with a voice that lacked any hint of sympathy. Nor did her eyes show any sadness over the pitiful sight before her. The girl saw too much death at Estri, thought Leta.

  Ionni lifted the man’s shirt, exposing his belly. “He’s got the skin complexion and features of a southlander,” continued Ionni, her voice emotionless. “His skin is a bit like leather. Too many days in the sun I’d wager. There’s dirt under his nails — maybe a bit of blood; it’s hard to say, really. He’s likely a farmer, priestess.”

  Leta had come to the same conclusion. The exposed flesh of the man’s neck and chest were mottled with freckles and sun damage. What is a farmer doing in Mayal? That, in and of itself, set alarm bells off in Leta’s head.

  “Does my lady not like what she sees?” asked Sister Beli.

  It was an innocent question, still Leta’s first impulse was to yell at her assistant. How can Sister Beli not see what is going on? Leta took a deep breath. “I am torn, that’s all. What does the report from the court say his name is?”

  Beli skimmed over the parchment and pointed to the name. “Aiger.”

  “No surname?”

  “That’s correct, priestess.”

  Leta whispered into the man’s ear. “Aiger. Is that your true name?”

  The patient groaned in mild recognition. His head moved ever so slightly in what might have been a nod.

  Leta turned to Ionni. “Is Aiger a name Lady Miren ever mentioned?”

  “No.”

  “No, priestess,” corrected Sister Beli, not realizing that Leta couldn’t give three damns if Ionni used the proper honorific right now.

  “No, priestess,” echoed Ionni.

  Sister Beli read over the report. “It says here that he stabbed his wife in the arm with a knife. She would have bled to death had the neighbors not intervened. It seems he has been sick for sometime, priestess. It’s just his time. I know this has been troubling you of late, but be comforted, this is an act of mercy. Look at his hands, he has been living his life in shackles.” Each of the man’s wrists were riddled with open sores and galled flesh from where he had pulled against his bindings. “He’s dangerous. His wife should have brought him to the monastery a long time ago, but you know how love is.”

  Beli was right, she did know how love was. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Leta still wanted to believe that her brother rebelled for a noble cause. She was so desperate for this to be the truth, she was willing to believe the words of Admiral Ferrus, an admitted rebel. It was somehow easier to believe that General Saterius and Lady Miren were the enemy than to accept the truth that Meriatis was actually a monster. Maybe we’re all wrong, Leta thought glumly. All of us wrong and damned to repeat our mistakes.

  “Gods forgive me for what I’m about to do,” said Leta, crossing herself in the gesture of the faithful. “I have to be certain.” She dropped to one knee and put
her lips near the patient’s ear. She felt a chill come over her body as she spoke the first verse. “He is not your maker, but your master all the same,” began Leta, resisting the urge to recoil. “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame. He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil, and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.”

  Sister Beli’s eyes flared wide with horror. “Priestess Leta, no! You cannot say such things.” Her voice was hardly a squeal.

  Beside her, Ionni actually looked interested for once. A devilish smirk crossed the girl’s face, and she leaned forward, eager to see what would happen next.

  Sister Beli frantically crossed her hands across her neck and face. Her lips curled with disgust, and then she went about crossing herself four more times.

  Leta ignored her dramatic assistant. Instead she kept her face level with the patient and watched his mouth. His lips parted; his tongue worked against the roof of his mouth.

  “I...”

  “He is not your maker, but your master all the same,” repeated Leta, hoping that it would coax the evil words from the man’s throat like a snake charmer cuing a serpent with his flute.

  “I... I...” His voice rattled in his throat, his breath struggling to pass through mucus and phlegm.

  Leta’s eyes flared with hope. Say it, Leta wanted to scream. Say the cursed incantation so I can send you to the headsman with a clean conscience.

  The man complied.

  “I-I lived by the sea... in a b-b-boat made of reeds...”

  Leta’s heart jumped into her throat. “No, no, no. He is not your maker, but your master all the same!”

  The drunken chantey spilled from the man’s lips with no regard to what Leta said.