Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “But Praetor Maxentius is a servant to our house,” said Leta, still not comprehending who the true enemy was.

  “No, my lady. He betrayed your brother.”

  “Maxentius is the rebel?”

  The men looked at their feet in mute response.

  Lord Lorans and Sir Ruvon positioned themselves at the top of the stairwell, awaiting the inevitable press by Maxentius’s men, while Lord Lumkell guarded the door to Leta’s chamber. Sister Beli lit a candle to Vacia and knelt beside Leta. Hand in hand the two silently prayed.

  The twang of steel announced the arrival of Praetor Maxentius’s men. Lord Lorans was struck lame by an ax blow to the forearm. He came back into Leta’s chamber with his gauntlet bent grotesquely and blood gushing through the cracks of the lobstered steel. “I’m sorry, priestess. I have failed you and your brother.”

  Sir Ruvon fought so fiercely Maxentius’s men had no choice but to kill him. The dwarf died at the top of the stairs, having sent eight men to the afterlife before an archer managed to aim an arrow through the eye slit of his helm.

  When Lord Lumkell saw Sir Ruvon die, he sued for peace. He was dragged away for questioning and Leta never saw him again. Lord Lorans threw himself on his own sword rather than be taken captive.

  Praetor Maxentius personally escorted Leta from her apartment, guiding her gently by her arm. Leta was petrified, falsely believing that Maxentius was the rebel and that she had just been taken captive. The ramparts were crawling with Maxentius’s men, and the snarling lion standard of House Leonius fluttered above the gatehouse. She knew her brother would never rest as long as she was held captive, but what could he do against so great a host?

  Leta began to cry, but through her tears she spied a familiar face being tended to by a Tiber Brother. It was Emethius, and she knew in her heart he would never betray her family.

  Leta threw off Maxentius’s grasp, and ran to Emethius, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a sobbing embrace. “What is happening, Emethius?” she cried into his ear.

  When she withdrew, she found Emethius’s eyes were wreathed with pain. “Your father’s been taken, priestess.” Emethius choked, hardly able to manage the words. “Herald Carrick is leading the revolt. The heretics have fled north toward Estri.”

  “Estri? Herald Carrick?” Leta did not believe her ears. “What of my brother?”

  Emethius could not answer. His eyes strayed earthward.

  “Taken as well, priestess,” answered Maxentius, his voice oddly sedate. He came to her side and led her away before she and Emethius could discuss the matter further. “This is a treacherous day. I vow the rebels will pay for this heresy in blood.”

  Only in hindsight did Leta see the true genius of Praetor Maxentius’s deception. Had word gotten out that Meriatis was the true leader of the rebellion, people would have flocked to the rebel banner from every reach of the globe. Meriatis was the most beloved person in all of Merridia, while High Lord Valerius was an elderly man. It would not be the first time a son had pushed aside a father who had ruled past his prime. The rebellion would have been a success, the dire results of Meriatis’s census would have been exposed to the world, and it would now be Meriatis sitting upon the Throne of Roses trying to find a way to end the scourges of the Blackheart.

  And what would have happened to my father? Leta tried to shake the disquieting thought from her head. If Meriatis truly planned to challenge the gods and overthrow a thousand years of doctrine, could he really have let someone like their father, a stalwart of the old ideology, remain alive to speak out in opposition of his aims?

  Probably not, Leta concluded. It was either my father or brother. One of them had to die. Looking at her father now, hunched over his chair with his face curled in a grimace, Leta was not certain the correct Benisor had survived.

  “I ignored the message from the gods,” said Valerius sadly. “I allowed Meriatis’s folly to grow until it was too late. Now the future has grown silent to me. I will not sit upon the throne again.”

  Leta was aghast. “You haven’t sat upon the Throne of Roses since the start of the rebellion?”

  Valerius shook his head. “In the end, all the gods showed me was fire and death. After everything that has happened, I haven’t the strength to face their judgment and scorn. I haven’t the strength to see the world as it truly is. To sit upon the Throne of Roses is to sit naked before the gods. There is nothing you can hide, nothing that you can keep for yourself. They see everything, Leta. Your strengths, your weaknesses. Imagine every insecurity laid bare, every sin exposed. Every lustful thought mocked, every selfish motive questioned. What’s more, there are truths no man would ever want to know. The kind of truths that will cause a man to go insane. I can’t bear it, not after everything I’ve lost. I can’t stand to know that there is still more they can take from me. Your brother...”

  “Don’t blame this on Meriatis,” snapped Leta, unable to contain her anger any longer. “What you’ve done is a dereliction of duty. The people of Merridia count on you to be the Prophet of Calaban, the Tongue of Tiberius. All of those lectures... all of those sermons...”

  “My own words.”

  Leta looked at her father in dismay. We have been led astray. “The gods will judge you, Father. They will judge all of us!”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Valerius. “The gods can be vengeful, Leta. You of all people should know this, mother of a dead child, wife of a murdered husband, sister of a slain brother. The gods have granted you a difficult fate to test your faith. Don’t fall short of the challenge.”

  “I don’t intend to.” A disconcerting thought suddenly entered Leta’s head. “You don’t actually know if the results of Meriatis’s census were false, do you?”

  Valerius’s eyes narrowed. “Who have you been talking to?”

  Leta shook her head with disgust. “The affliction is getting worse. You know it. Herald Cenna knows it. Damn near every citizen of Merridia knows it. But that’s just hearsay, and can easily be dismissed. But you couldn’t refute the numbers from Meriatis’s census, could you? So you labeled him a liar and proclaimed him afflicted with the Blackheart. You gave Meriatis no choice but to rebel.”

  “The Blackheart is getting worse, yes, but that is only because the land is mired in sin. The affliction is Calaban’s way of sorting the sinners from the saints. It creeps through the land, pulling the sinful into oblivion. Rich and poor, highborn and low, young and old. The Blackheart is justice. If the Calabanesi intend to use the affliction to wipe every last sinner off the face of this earth, then so be it. May Calaban’s will be fulfilled.” There was a flicker of madness in his eyes that Leta had never seen before.

  “Is that what your throne told you?” hissed Leta. “Did Tiberius come and whisper those wretched words in your ear, Father?” Leta stamped her foot and the shade of madness slipped from her father’s face, replaced by shame and exhaustion. “No, I thought not, because you’re too much of a coward to sit upon the throne. The Blackheart is a plague. The sooner we call it what it is, the sooner we can stop it. We can start by clearing the weeds from this house. Lady Miren’s tribunals must come to an end, and a new census must be conducted to verify Meriatis’s results.”

  “I can’t permit either of those things, Leta. I’m no king. I reign at the stead of the gods, and I fear their confidence in me has run its course.”

  No, her father was no king. Just an old man who had passed his prime. Meriatis was right. “How did the gods ever have faith in such a coward?” The words hissed from Leta’s mouth full of venom.

  To Leta’s surprise, her father didn’t rise with anger, or lash out with words full of rage. Instead, his shoulders slumped forward and he looked down at the floor. “I am not the only prophet walking the halls of this court,” he whispered.

  Leta couldn’t contain her gasp. “Then it’s true — there is a Gray Prophet!”

  Valerius nodded weakly. “Rumors of the Gray Prophet’s meddling first reach
ed my ears shortly before the rebellion. It makes sense, really. I would not heed Calaban’s warning, so they sent a Gray Prophet to Mayal to guarantee that their will was fulfilled.”

  “You don’t know who it is?”

  “I have my suspicions, but no proof. Gray Prophets have never worked out in the open. They tinker in the background, whispering into the ears of the influential and stoking the flames of public sentiment. I believe the lynch mobs that roamed the streets of Mayal last winter were the work of this Gray Prophet. There are many amongst the upper nobility who are no longer walking in lockstep with the throne. That leads me to believe this Gray Prophet is someone of significance, the patriarch of one of the great houses most likely. That narrows it to only a few people.”

  Her father’s inability to envision a woman as a prophet was blinding him from the obvious truth; Lady Miren was the Gray Prophet.

  This explained her aunt’s self-righteous vindication — Miren was convinced she was doing the work of the gods because she actually was. Leta didn’t know if she should laugh or cry as she pondered the implications of this new information.

  Lady Miren was trying to crush a truth the gods meant to keep hidden, a truth the census had uncovered, a truth Meriatis had tried to reveal to the world. To act against Lady Miren was to act against the gods. That would make Leta a heretic, no different than the men who had conspired to usurp her father’s throne. But perhaps a bit more heresy was necessary to save Merridia from the ravages of the Blackheart. Someone had to stand up to the gods and demand a cure. And that person is me, Leta realized with stark certainty.

  Leta stared her father dead in the eyes. “For the stability of Merridia, it’s time for you to declare me your heir.”

  Valerius blinked with surprise. “I have discussed the prospect of you inheriting the throne with many influential people. Some have laughed, some have been resolute in their objection, and some have even accused me of growing senile. Little Orso is the obvious candidate, is the response I hear most often. Little Orso is the one chosen by the gods.” Valerius frowned. “I agree its time to declare an heir, but I fear that person is not you, my dear.”

  This was Lady Miren’s true end game, realized Leta. Her aunt was trying to discredit both Leta and High Lord Valerius so that the throne did not remain in the hands of House Benisor. The gods wanted someone they could control sitting on the throne, someone who would be complacent about the Blackheart and not demand a cure.

  This couldn’t be allowed to happen. But as long as Lady Miren continued to fulfill the secret whims of the Calabanesi, Leta would find her efforts thwarted at every turn. She had to draw Lady Miren out of the shadows and discredit her work. To do that, Leta would have to exploit Lady Miren’s weaknesses and use her own tricks against her. Without asking her father for leave, Leta sprung from her seat and hurried toward the door.

  “Leta, wait, stop!” Her father’s words were less a command and more a plea.

  Leta spun on her heels and met her father’s tired and rheumy eyes. The instinct to quail before his gaze was gone. “You can’t stop me, Father.”

  “Please, don’t do anything foolish. Not now, not while my hold on power is so tenuous.”

  “Our hold on power, Father,” said Leta, correcting her father. “Our hold on power is tenuous, and it will cease to exist altogether if I don’t do what is necessary.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I will do what House Benisor has always done when someone tries to usurp our monopoly on prophesy,” said Leta. “I will discredit this Gray Prophet by proving to the world that they are insane.”

  CHAPTER

  IX

  THE NORTHERN ADOR

  Departing from Cesca proved more difficult than Emethius anticipated. Foolishly, he expected the ancient road that once led through the Great Northern Ador to still be intact. After wasting half the morning searching for a trailhead, Emethius finally succumbed to the truth; the forest had swallowed the road ages ago. They would have to forge their own path forward.

  Emethius and Malrich set out into the forest, heading in a southwesterly direction. If the old map Emethius had in his possession was accurate, they were only ten days out from Cesca. They needed only to follow the curve of the mountains south until they ran into the Puttdale River. The river would lead them the rest of the way to their destination.

  They were close, but Emethius knew they couldn’t take this final leg of the journey lightly. The gods forbid mortals to enter the Great Northern Ador, and here Emethius and Malrich were, traipsing about as if they were on a nature hike. His mind wandered to the yellow-eyed Watchers they had lost at the crossing of Lake Iora. We haven’t seen the last of the Perim Lu, Emethius concluded, as they ventured deeper and deeper into the forbidden forest.

  These truly were virgin lands, untouched for over a thousand years by mortal hands. The trees grew thick, one nearly atop another. Their trunks were knotted. Their ancient roots delved to depths unknown. Only thin slivers of sunlight reached the forest floor.

  “Dark, cold, and damp,” were the words Malrich used to describe the forest as he shivered beneath his cloak.

  Haunted and watched, Emethius added in his own head. He couldn’t shake the sensation that they were not alone.

  Little was heard of living things, and nothing was ever seen. The rare croak of a toad, the distant warble of a bird, the quick rustle of dead leaves — those were the only signs of life within the ancient forest, and even then, the sounds felt distant and faint.

  “Ghosts and shadows,” muttered Malrich, whenever they heard a distant sign of life.

  The first day passed like this, then the second, and the third.

  Malrich took first watch on their fourth night in the forest. He was supposed to rouse Emethius at midnight so they could switch shifts. Instead, Emethius awoke to searing heat wafting against the exposed flesh of his face. The camp fire was raging almost out of control, and Emethius had to scurry backward to keep from being burned. Inexplicably, Malrich’s boots were sitting atop the blazing stack of wood. Emethius frantically yanked the boots off the fire before they were engulfed in flames.

  “Gods help me, Mal. What are you doing?”

  Malrich didn’t reply.

  It took Emethius a moment to locate his friend. Malrich was standing just beyond the reach of the firelight with his back turned to the fire. He was staring out into the depths of the woods with an almost palsied look on his face.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Emethius, as he rushed to Malrich’s side.

  Malrich still didn’t respond, and Emethius had to snap his fingers in front of Malrich’s eyes to get his attention. Malrich blinked at Emethius with surprise. “I thought I heard a horn,” said Malrich, his voice oddly distant. “There were lights in the forest.”

  “Horns and lights?”

  Malrich shook his head, his face showing a degree of embarrassment. “It was nothing. Glowworms, most likely. It’s a little early in the season for them, but that’s probably what it was. I’m sure I just imagined the horn.” As if to prove his point, he stuck a finger in his ear to clear out the wax.

  “What about your boots? Why did you put them on the fire?”

  “My toes were cold,” said Malrich as he mindlessly stamped at the bed of needles beneath his bare feet.

  And your mind is half-mad with exhaustion, thought Emethius, finishing Malrich’s sentence in his head. The journey through the desolate forest was taking a toll on both their sanity. Emethius took over watch detail for the remainder of the night. He heard no horns, he saw no lights.

  Mist began to materialize just before dawn, creeping along the forest floor like reaching tentacles. By the time they finally packed camp and set out, the fog had reduced visibility to a few dozen feet. The mountains that had been so clear the day before vanished from sight. The sun became a dim sphere in the sky.

  Using the sun’s pale gleam to get their bearings, they hiked south. The fog seemed to thicken a
s the day wore on. Emethius tried to keep from jumping to conclusion, but it was hard not to draw parallels between this fog and the fog that had dogged their progress in the Veren Downs.

  Malrich came to the same conclusion. “First lights in the forest and now this fog. Those yellow-eyed bastards could be standing a hundred feet from us and we would never know it.” He readjusted his pack and grunted unhappily.

  Around midday their progress was blocked by an unexpected obstacle. Cutting through the forest was a thirty foot wall made of weathered stone. It ran in a straight line, running off in either direction as far as the eye could see. Although its battlements were worn and crumbling, its base was sturdy and acted as an insurmountable barrier to the south.

  “Did you know about this?” asked Malrich. He kicked the base of a stone turret that sprouted from the face of the wall. He seemed to be considering if there were enough cracks in the stonework to scale the wall.

  “It was on a few of the maps I examined,” said Emethius. “This wall marks the northern border of Cella.”

  Malrich hurled a rock over the wall. It landed with a muted thud on the other side. “I don’t think we’ll be climbing over.”

  “No,” agreed Emethius. “We will have to find a break in the wall.”

  Malrich smacked his palm against the wall as they walked, finding a new thing to curse with each thwack. “Damn this wall.” Thwack. “Damn the Cul.” Thwack. “Damn those yellow-eyed Watchers and the gods they serve.” Thwack.

  Emethius understood his friend’s frustration. Any progress that wasn’t southernly in direction didn’t feel like progress now that they were close to Bi Ache.

  “Why did the Cella build a wall in the middle of the forest?” asked Malrich as the day wore on and they continued to find no break in the wall.

  “It may not be as deep as it seems. The city of Bi Ache was built atop a great hill, and they raised the Tower of Red Guard on its peak. From the tower’s observatory, Atimir could see for leagues upon leagues in all directions. This wall supposedly marks the northern limits of his vision. Even on a clear day, one can only see so far. I’d wager we’re no more than fifteen leagues from Bi Ache.”