Grand Traitor

by Jayden Woods

  He found the Castle Commons in a state of genuine revelry. People danced around the tables and laughed throughout the room. Most of them gathered around a group of musicians with flutes, drums, and tambourines. Such musicians could often be found in the Castle Commons. But normally, their music went ignored. Instruments would strain to make themselves heard over the grumble of plotting castle-folk. Tonight they filled the room with song, so that the stones themselves seemed to reverberate with melodies. Arken didn’t understand. What had changed?

  Then he saw the woman in the center of it all: a small, bouncing, cute young woman who twirled across the tables from one man to the next with the rhythm of the pounding drums. She had curly blond hair that swished about her face as she dipped and turned. Her pink lips were spread in a wide, beaming smile full of so much joy, Arken could feel its contagious power, even from across the room. She had the beauty and grace of a seasoned woman, combined with the innocence and vigor of a young child, that combined to make her incredibly captivating.

  Captivating, at least, to any man who could still be captivated by such things.

  For a long time, Arken stood in the corner of the room, watching. Eventually he got himself some ale, then returned to the corner and kept watching from afar. Soon enough, he gathered that the woman was Vivian Trell. He knew that his mother would want him to join the dancing, to introduce himself to her, to attempt to sweep her off her feet more gracefully than any other man had done yet. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

  He knew himself to be a good liar. He had successfully tricked and charmed more people than he could remember. To pull it off, he pretended to feel whatever emotion he wanted to convey, like a very skilled actor. But to join the scene before him, to join a celebration of such pure joy and happiness... this was something he could not do. He could not fake an emotion he could no longer feel. Not now. Maybe never again.

  Gradually, he became aware of a looming presence in the corner next to him. The presence had been there a long while, he realized, but stayed hidden beneath his consciousness until now.

  He turned and looked at the bystander at the very same moment the bystander looked at him.

  Red eyes. Long, black hair. A thick cloak, covering his wiry body. A knife spinning in his spindly fingers.

  As soon as their gazes met, they both quickly looked away.

  An awkward silence stretched onward. Arken sipped from his ale. Pretended to pay complete attention to the dancing once more. But he couldn’t. Now that he had seen the Wolven, he could focus on nothing else. Not because he felt particularly afraid of the Wolven. He knew that he should be afraid. Without a doubt, the Wolven could probably kill him before Arken ever noticed him moving. These days, nothing really scared Arken. To be afraid, one needed to fear losing something.

  “Aren’t you going to join them?”

  The voice surprised Arken, a pinched and drawling voice, and it took him a moment to realize that the Wolven had spoken. Xavier wore a bitter frown on his face as his red eyes flicked from Arken to the party in the center of the room.

  Arken cleared his throat. He couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated. “I uh... I don’t think it’s my sort of gathering.”

  “Oh really? Fumbling bodies? Stinking breaths? Idiotic glances? What’s not to love?” Xavier snorted, then resumed spinning the knife in his hands.

  Arken studied the Wolven with fresh curiosity. He had always wondered what a Wolven would be like in real life, and he wasn’t sure whether Xavier met his expectations, or exceeded them. In any case, Arken felt increasingly at ease around the bitter youth. “So. You’re an assassin?”

  “Oh, so perceptive!” Xavier scoffed and shook his head again.

  “Just checking.” Arken’s gaze focused on the blade in Xavier’s fingertips. “The knife is your weapon of choice?”

  The blade stopped spinning. And then, before Arken could even blink, the knife flew towards him. He was vaguely aware of a breeze against his face and something tickling his ear. Then he saw a few strands of his own hair floating to the ground below, and turned to see the knife quivering in the table behind him.

  “One of many,” said Xavier. Then he went to collect his knife.

  Arken took a moment to recover his breath and wait for his heart to stop pounding. He finished his ale with a few quick gulps. Then he noticed that the musicians had stopped playing, and the dancing fools in the middle of the room were finally parting ways. Vivian had left them to approach Xavier and see why he had flung a knife across the room.

  “Sorry, sorry,” grumbled Xavier, before she even said anything.

  Still breathless from dancing, Vivian looked from Xavier, to Arken, and back again. Even though the girl was small and altogether adorable, Arken found himself intimidated by her presence, though in a different way from Xavier. Her big blue eyes had a sharp clarity that seemed to pierce straight through him. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing, her chest heaving with breath and straining her breasts against her vest. Arken could not resist feeling physically attracted to her, despite his desire not to be.

  He found himself speechless for a moment, staring dumbly at the young woman while his hand kept searching his hair for its missing strands.

  “And who are you?” snapped Vivian at last, wholly unamused.

  “I’m... I’m Arken Jeridar,” he replied. Then he made a belated bow, letting his silk cloak swish around his shoulders. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Jeridar?” Vivian made a gagging sound. “Mallion spawn, in other words.”

  Arken blinked with surprise. Tristan had warned him of the woman’s audacity. But she had insulted both a god and a powerful House in one quick blow. Such brazenness verged on stupidity. “He is... my great grandfather.”

  “And you’re proud to be a child of avarice?”

  “Why not?” Instinctively, Arken felt the need to defend himself. He even stood a little straighter and took a step closer. “Greed has many forms, you know. Like anything in this world, it can be bad, but it can also be good. Without the desire to achieve something, people would live their lives in a state of meaningless labor. Greed gives us purpose. It fuels our ambition. Who are any of us without it?”

  Vivian’s scowl lifted, replaced by a look of curiosity. Arken found himself surprised by his words, as well. He recited them easily; Tanya repeated mantras like that on a regular basis. But he had said the words as if he actually meant them, and he had not expected to do so.

  “Nice speech,” said Vivian, perhaps sarcastically, but her pink lips twisted with a smile. “You’re better spoken than your brother, at least, who just reached for my necklace like a baby for its mother.”

  Some of the nobles nearby laughed. No doubt they reveled in hearing the Jeridars insulted, though none of them dared to voice such insults themselves. Instinctively, Arken’s golden eyes scanned the room and made note of everyone who laughed at his brother. The laughter stopped abruptly.

  “I wonder.” Vivian reached into her shirt and pulled out the necklace. “Are you as easily tempted?”

  She walked towards him, turning the key before his eyes. Arken couldn’t help but stare. After all, everyone in the room wanted that key, and to pretend otherwise would only make him look like a fool. But he only wanted to get the key to show that he could obtain it—to impress his mother, and to prove that certain items in this world were still in his grasp. He had little interest in the key itself. It was a strange and rusty thing, and its sharp teeth looked like they could slice the hand of whoever gripped it incorrectly. He realized he did not even want to obtain the key easily. If he wanted to redeem himself, he would need to endure a worthwhile struggle. He wanted a real challenge.

  And as Vivian watched his reaction, she seemed surprised. She could see that the key itself did not tempt him, even though the rest of the room continued to drool in its presence.

  “We all want something,” said Arken, feeling more calm now than he had felt a
ll day. “It is only a question of what. What do you want, Vivian Trell?”

  Her eyes widened, then she let out a giggle. “Oh! If only you knew! Then everything would be too easy, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled back at her. “In that case, I have a proposal for you. Tomorrow, I would like to take you riding with me. I think you would enjoy it.”

  “Riding horses?” Vivian shrugged. “How... trite.”

  His smile only widened. “Have you ever ridden a wilderhorse, Vivian? I assure you, I could use many, many words to describe the experience. But I would never use the word ‘trite.’”

  Her little mouth gaped with surprise. “You have... a wilderhorse?”

  “Yes. I caught it and broke it in myself. Though I must warn you, a wilderhorse can never fully be ‘broken.’ If you wish to ride it yourself, that would be very dangerous.”

  “Oh... my.” Vivian’s eyes sparkled with so much excitement, Arken felt dizzied. Then she clapped her hands and turned to Xavier with a cry of delight. “Did you hear that, Xavier? Cancel all our plans tomorrow.”

  Xavier’s frown deepened, if such a thing were possible. “I... wasn’t...”

  “I’m going to ride a wilderhorse!”

  Vivian leapt forward and clutched Arken’s hand. And for the first time all day, Arken felt as if he belonged here in Krondolee, after all.

  CHAPTER 3

  Intervention

  Nadia knew that she should eat, for the sake of the baby. But as she stared down at her plate of breakfast, her stomach turned with nausea. And she was long past the stage in which she could blame her unborn child.

  “Does the food not please you?” asked Gerald.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Hungry or not, you should eat.”

  Nadia glanced across the table at her husband, wondering whether he really cared how she felt, or if he merely asked such a question out of obligation. The Grand Prince sat perfectly composed in his chair, fully groomed and dressed as always, his brown hair swept neatly beneath his golden crown. Even though they sat upon an open balcony, prone to a hot summer breeze and pesky bugs, he did not seem bothered by the small beads of sweat upon his brow, nor did his hair or cloak ever fall askew. He actually looked handsome in the morning sunlight, his tan skin glowing, his green eyes crisp. Indeed, Gerald seemed as if he had been born to wear the crown. No matter what, he always looked regal.

  Stricken by a sudden urge, a question burst from Nadia’s mouth that she had never dared ask before. “Gerald. Which god do you worship?”

  He sat a little straighter. His brows furrowed slightly. He dabbed his lips with a napkin. Otherwise, he did not look disturbed in the slightest. “I thought you knew. I worship none of the pagan gods. I believe that there is only one.”

  “Yes. I know that is your family’s tradition. But I have never understood it. After all, we have seen adequate enough proof that the gods exist. The Jeridars...” Her heart fluttered, and she realized she had stumbled onto another sensitive topic unintentionally. But Gerald did not even flinch. So she forged on, emboldened. “The Jeridars possess special abilities from Lord Mallion. Tristan can change rocks into diamonds. Arken can change simple fabrics into silk.” She managed to say his name without pausing. But after she finished the sentence, she needed a moment to catch her breath. “And I... I do suspect I am related to Demetral. Perhaps not closely. But the Elborn gardens provide the most succulent fruits in the kingdom; our harvests have always been the most plentiful. So how can you ignore the gods altogether?”

  “I see little reason to discuss it. No matter what I say, we shall disagree on this matter.”

  “I don’t care. I just want to understand what you believe, damn it.”

  He stared at her long and hard. Nadia wondered if the squinting of his eyes represented a hint of irritation, or whether he merely guarded himself from the sun’s glare. “You call them gods. I call them concoctions of chaos; impure deviations of the one true God, God of balance and order, a power not blinded by wayward emotions. The Guardian.”

  “The Guardian.” Nadia had heard the term before, as a child, when her parents tried to educate her on the many religions of the world. But she had never fully understood this one. “But if you believe in him so strongly, why do you never speak of him? Why don’t you show any outward signs of worship?”

  “The Guardian is not subject to pride, nor does he require some sign of human affection from a person like me. To worship the Guardian, I simply need to live my life in a state of reason and balance. And by example, perhaps I will convince others to do the same.”

  Gerald’s example did not tempt Nadia to relinquish her emotions, however. In fact, the more he sat there with that cool stare of his, explaining his beliefs as if they were rules from a math lesson, the more she wanted to scream and shout at him, throw her food over the edge of the balcony, and demand to know why life mattered at all if it never made him feel something.

  Instead she took a deep breath, looked out at the golden savannas stretching out towards the sunrise, and found what comfort she could from its beauty. “You’re right. We’ll never agree on this. But I am still glad you told me.” Steeling herself, she finally reached for her plate and picked up a sausage. “What will we teach our daughter, when the time comes?”

  “Daughter?” He blinked curiously. “We will teach our son—or daughter—the full range of Darzian religions, so that he or she may choose for himself. It is the sensible thing to do.”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re right.” Nadia swallowed a bite and waited for it to settle.

  “In any case, we have more important concerns right now. Have you decided what to do about the two foreigners? My sources tell me that the young woman will go riding with Arken Jeridar today.”

  Nadia’s food hit her stomach like a rock. “What?”

  Gerald watched her reaction carefully. But if he harbored any of his own emotions about Arken, he hid them well. “If the Jeridars get the key, then you know they will keep whatever is in the Grand Keep for themselves, no matter how important it might be. We should not let the key fall into their hands.”

  “Yes. Of course not.” She folded her hands over her lap to hide their trembling.

  “You should speak to him,” said Gerald.

  She looked up with a start. “What?”

  “You should talk to Arken Jeridar. I suspect he is a very emotional man. It is why he would listen to you. Convince him that he should not pursue the key. Tell him it is in his own best interest, if you cannot appeal to his reason. It is in the interest of the entire kingdom that this key belong to you. So you should do what you must to ensure that happens.”

  Nadia stared back at her husband long and hard. How could Gerald speak so casually of a man whom she had nearly run off with on their wedding day? Everyone knew that shameful little fact: after all, she had been the one to confess it. Was this a test of some sort? Did Gerald believe she never really loved Arken? Or did he simply not care?

  She felt a fury burning in her veins she could not quite explain. She would never understand how easily Gerald discarded his emotions. But if he was going to do it anyway, she might as well use his indifference to her advantage. “Very well,” she said at last, throwing down her napkin. “I will talk to him. Though I do not think his current ‘emotions’ towards me will incline him to listen.”

  “You’d be surprised, Nadia.” The tone in Gerald’s voice was one she did not recognize. He looked away from her, as if for once, he could not meet her gaze. “You have a stronger influence on people than you seem to realize.”

  He got up and left the table before she did.

  *

  She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.

  She stood in the hallway, trembling so fiercely she feared for the health of her baby. Elborn mothers rarely miscarried or suffered complications during childbirth. It was one of the many reasons people suspected they carried the blood of Demetral. But
Nadia still worried that the fears and burdens she suffered might have some negative impact on her little Serafina. She could not remember the last time she felt so physically unstable. Her hands sweated uncontrollably. Her body felt weak from lack of food. And yet her one bite of breakfast continued to churn in her stomach.

  Two rows of Darzian soldiers shared the hallway with the queen, prepared to give their lives to protect her. She wore a crown on her head, ensuring her that everyone on this vast and powerful continent must obey her command. And yet she felt as vulnerable as a small child alone in the wild. Any moment, Arken Jeridar would come strolling down this hallway. She had chosen this part of the castle for that very purpose, so she might intercept him. But the thought of seeing him again—of staring into those fierce golden eyes, full of anger and maybe even hatred—terrified her beyond belief.

  “I, uh... I’m not feeling well,” she said aloud, even though the soldiers were trained not to speak to her. Some of them exchanged puzzled glances, as if wondering whether to respond. “I’m going back to my room!” she declared. Then she started to turn around.

  But it was already too late. For at that very moment, Arken appeared at the end of the hallway.

  He froze at the same time that she did. He stared at her across the stones of the hall, through the bright beams of sunlight from the windows, and she wondered how she looked to him. There she stood, fat and pregnant, her ridiculously large dress spreading out from her swollen midriff, a look of shock on her face. Crowned, bejeweled, and surrounded by soldiers, she still managed to feel pathetic and sickly.

  Meanwhile, Arken looked as radiant as ever. He had traded his silk robes for leather riding boots, simple trousers, and a loose-fitting shirt that showed the softly-sculpted lines of his chest. He had pulled his yellow hair behind him, tied with a silk ribbon, though a few soft strands still fell to accentuate the squareness of his jaws and the sharp length of his nose.

  He recovered before she did. He resumed walking, and his steps did not waver as he swept his long legs down the hallway. He stopped just a few feet away from her and feigned a graceful bow. Somehow, this theatrical submission felt equal to the most flagrant insult he might have thrown upon her.