by Ari Marmell
The king, of course, sat in state upon his throne, Crown Marshal Laszlan as ever at his side. Present, too, were the Palatine Denuel Jarta and Prelate Domatir Matyas, also hardly unusual. Hasyan had also, however, gathered to him the astrologer, Balmorra; Amisco Valacos, Kirrisc’s Judge Royal; and a small entourage of other politicians and military leaders, several of whom Nycos had never before seen save in passing. Even the king’s offspring, their Highnesses Elias and Firillia, stood amidst the group at the dais, as advisors, rather than in their customary spot along the other wall.
Nycos found himself standing beside Zirresca, who offered him a polite if frosty nod of greeting. Nor were they the only knights of the realm present. In fact, the entire front row of those waiting along the wall was made up of men- and women-at-arms. The other nobles, margraves and counts and barons, stood behind them. Nycos wasn’t entirely comfortable with Andarjin at his back, even though he knew the man was too clever to do anything violent or foolish, but he did appreciate the need for a show of strength.
He heard many footsteps approaching from beyond the hall doors, and a symphony of voices that were not all Kirresci. The other accent sent a scurry of centipedes down his spine; his shoulders tensed hard, bunching the lines of his tunic. He could only hope that the kaftan he wore over it hid his discomfiture.
Messengers had run back and forth between the palace and the approaching delegation long before they arrived, as would have been standard, so Nycos was unsurprised when Denuel Jarta stepped forward, even as the massive doors swung open, and announced, “Haralius Carviliun, emissary of honored Ythane!”
Honored. Nycos wanted to spit.
The man at the head of the contingent boasted the same pallid skin and sharp, smirking features as Justina Norbenus once had, though not so alike as to suggest any familial relation. His thinning hair was a pale yellow that didn’t much stand out from his flesh, and he wore a burgundy robe of office with a golden sash. His guards and assistants halted near the entrance, moving to stand along the back wall, while he alone advanced.
Only when he stood a few paces from the dais did he make obeisance, a peculiar combination of a low bow and a brief kneel, his fist clasped to his breast. “I greet his Majesty, Hasyan III, in the spirit of warmth and friendship. I am humbled. You do me great honor by allowing me to appear before you.” His timbre was soft yet powerful and carrying at once.
Somehow, Nycos thought it would take more than an audience with royalty to humble this man. Possibly an ancient invocation, or an act of divinity.
“As you do us,” the king replied with equal formality. “We are overjoyed to receive the greetings of our dear friend Praetor Anurius, and his senate, from whom we hear far too infrequently.”
A very polite and political way of saying We have no ambassadorial ties or treaties with you, we rarely have anything to say to one another, what the hell are you doing here? Nycos had to choke back an amused snort.
It was a question that would go unanswered for some minutes, however. First there were additional exchanges of pleasantries, regards from this ruler to that noble, expressions of affection and honor that were such patent nonsense in both directions it was a wonder Prelate Domatir didn’t combust where he stood. Then, of course, nothing would do but to discuss political matters in the world that could impact both nations (of which there were few) and the various possibilities for trade agreements and other economic treaties (of which there were even fewer).
Finally, at just about the point where Nycos worried whether the shortened lifespan he could expect while in human form might not be enough to see him through this interminable charade, Haralius at last got down to the meat.
“I do have one other matter I must discuss with Your Majesty,” the envoy said, each word all but marinating in reluctance. “I hate to bring up something so unpleasant during the first real conversation our peoples have had in so very long, but I fear the issue must be addressed.”
“Of course. You have our complete attention.”
“It has to do, Your Majesty, with the murder of one of our highest and most revered citizens.”
Hasyan frowned. “We are deeply sorry to hear of that, emissary.”
“Yes, well. It was, it is my sad duty to report, not merely her death alone, but that of a great many others, honest workers and craftsmen all, who labored under her at the mine she owned in the Outermark Mountains.”
Nycos felt it then, surging, raging beneath the surface of his skin, of his heart, as it hadn’t for months. The fury, the fire, the searing hatred for all that had been done to him and all who were responsible. No matter its source—his resentment of the direction his life had taken, the pain of his experiences and the wound that would never heal, Smim’s foolish ramblings about the alien influence of human blood and brain upon his soul—he had forced it back. Through iron will and careful thought, self-examination and constant practice, he had pushed it deep, extinguished all but its faintest embers, until he had almost forgotten, save in his darkest or angriest moments, how it had felt.
No more. It roared in his mind, shrieking at him to lash out and damn the consequences, to salve his pride in the blood of those who had wronged him and to dare these mewling, insignificant primates to protest his actions!
Had he tensed? Growled? Was it something less material, a change in his breathing or his attitude visible only to another warrior? Whatever she’d sensed, Zirresca placed a hand before him—not touching, but ready to hold him back if necessary.
“Steady on, Nycolos.” Her gaze remained straight ahead, at the yammering Ythani fool, and her lips barely moved with the whisper. “I’m sure he more than deserves whatever you’ve got in mind, but trying it here and now won’t help anyone.”
That she spoke at all was, he knew, not out of any affection for him, but rather concern over the political repercussions of any ill-conceived violence. Nevertheless, he grunted his thanks and worked at taking deep, calming breaths.
So he listened, quivering with repressed emotion, as Haralius told his tale. He spoke of mangled, bloody bodies, brutally slain and left strewn about the mine and its surrounding camp, including the deeply lamented Justina Norbenus herself—although, Nycos couldn’t help but note, he made no mention of the unnatural wounds that would have been left by the mountain fey. The envoy spoke, as well, of many months and many Ythani soldiers, searching the mountains, the rocky hills and the badlands, the wilds of the Outermark, in a desperate hunt for survivors. How they had found mostly lingering scraps—a length of torn fabric caught in a thicket, the remnants of an old and long-cold campfire—or, on occasion, bits of human bone, picked clean by scavengers. How, after battling fearsome beasts and marauding goblins, they had successfully located barely half a dozen survivors, guards or escaped slaves who had managed to flee the massacre and survive the many hardships of the Outermark.
And how each and every one of those survivors had offered sworn testimony as to precisely what had occurred.
“It grieves me terribly to say it, Your Majesty,” Haralius concluded, hand to his heart, “for I dearly dislike the notion of bringing you pain at such a nascent stage of what I hope will be a new brotherhood between our nations. Yet I am sworn to the truth—and the truth is that, by the descriptions offered by every witness, the attack on our mine, this massacre of innocent Ythani citizens, was led by a knight of Kirresc.”
The volcano within Nycos’s soul erupted, refusing any longer to be suppressed. It was all he could do, required every ounce of will he possessed, to keep his outburst partially contained, to resort only to bellows rather than blades—or worse.
“And what of the rest of the tale, you lying worm?” His shout was a gale to shake the chamber. “How this knight who supposedly ‘led the attack’ was enslaved in the depths of your mine! How many of your slaves, he included, were waylaid, taken by no legal or moral right! How they were beaten like beasts, how this Norbenus was a criminal and a monster, and how she and her torturers died, n
ot at the hands of any intruder, but in self-defense as these poor souls made their desperate escape! How—!”
“Sir Nycolos! Stand down!” Many voices called to him as one, but it was, as always, the battlefield-spanning cry of the Crown Marshal that penetrated. Nycos found that he had stepped forward without realizing, that not just Zirresca but several in the crowd had reached out to haul him back. The Ythani guards had dashed from their posts by the door to surround the envoy, each ready to draw the thick-bladed short sword hanging at their waist. Only their own restraint, the knowledge that pulling steel in their host’s throne room would instigate far worse, kept their fists empty.
“Really, Your Majesty,” Haralius said, his tone unconcerned save for a touch of disappointment, “is this Kirresci courtesy? Am I to be subject to shouted incivility and slander? We use only the most respectable of slavers, known throughout Ythane, Mahdresh, and beyond. Men who would never stoop so low as to acquire merchandise by any illicit means, let alone violence. Frankly, I would be insulted on their behalf were I not already offended on mine—and my deceased countrymen’s.
“I know not who you are, Sir Knight,” he continued, now turning toward a fuming Nycos, “but you have no right, and it would appear no honor. And I wonder if what we are seeing here is, mayhap, the outpouring of a guilty conscience?”
Nycos straightened, statue-rigid. Firmly he brushed aside the many hands that held him, then—internally wincing at but otherwise ignoring the livid expression on Marshal Laszlan’s face—directed his next words toward the king.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” He was honestly faintly amazed at how steady a tone he managed now. “I believe it would be best for all concerned if I were to absent myself from the remainder of this discussion. By your leave?”
Hasyan nodded, saying nothing. Nycos bowed and, equally wordless, made for the door, ignoring the glares every one of the Ythani soldiers cast his way in lieu of their weapons. Palace servants hauled the great portal open before him, slamming it shut again behind, and Nycos was more grateful for his Majesty’s forbearance than he could have expressed.
Now, if nothing else, he could find himself somewhere private before the violence came. Now he could avoid humiliating himself further, and could ensure that only objects, rather than people, broke beneath the wrath he’d thought to have mastered.
Chapter Sixteen
For the third time in less than twenty-four hours, Nycos found himself approaching the throne room.
He’d been summoned back, as he’d known he would be since he’d taken his leave so abruptly and with the bare minimum of civility toward his liege. The moments immediately following that departure were a crimson blur he could scarcely recall. He had no notion of how long he’d stalked the halls of Oztyerva, conflicting urges waging brutal war within him.
Ultimately he’d decided not to return to his quarters, instead passing the bulk of the afternoon in one of the palace’s most distant and most isolated gardens. There, once he’d determined he was truly alone, he’d allowed himself to run amok, purging the worst of his wrath in a paroxysm of violence. Whole bushes were uprooted and left strewn about, soil-encrusted roots dangling like the entrails of slain soldiers. Several of the smaller trees, which even his strength could not wrench from the earth, had instead been mauled, whole stretches torn asunder by inhuman claws, leaving behind a disturbingly sweet-smelling abattoir of bark and sap.
Presumably, when the groundskeepers discovered it, they’d assume a wild animal must have somehow wandered onto the property, though the walls and the gate guards should make that impossible. Maybe they’d even launch some sort of hunt. He decided—later, when his thoughts had emerged from the fog and reassembled themselves in some sort of order—that it might make a good exercise for some of the younger soldiers.
He also recognized, not just later on but even in the moment, if he were being honest with himself, that the whole tantrum was silly. Immature, childish, and very much not in keeping with either who he once was, or who was supposed to be now.
Maybe Smim had a point, damn the little creature.
Again the great doors swung open before him, and Nycos forced his mind back to the present. The hall was less crowded than it had been. Not only was the Ythani contingent no longer present—doubtless making themselves comfortably at home in Oztyerva’s sumptuous guest quarters—but well over half the bystanders had been dismissed as well. Only his Majesty’s advisors and particularly high-ranking nobles remained. It meant, at least, that Zirresca wasn’t here to see him berated. Then again, as both a margrave and as the heir apparent to Kirresc’s most powerful archduke, Andarjin was, so his rival knight would probably hear every word of it regardless.
Well, so be it.
As was customary, Nycos approached the dais and then dropped to one knee, speaking only after receiving permission to rise. “I apologize for taking so long to respond to your summons, Your Majesty,” he began. “I was walking the halls, and I fear I did not make it easy for your page to find me.”
“And do you feel that is the only breach of decorum worth discussing, Sir Nycolos?” It was not the king, but Orban Laszlan, standing beside the throne with one hand on his Majesty’s shoulder, who spoke.
“I certainly acknowledge that my outburst was inappropriate.”
“’Inappropriate’ is the word you’d choose? Not ‘undiplomatic’? ‘Offensive’? Possibly ‘damaging to your king and country’? You’ve been doing marvelously over the past months, Sir Nycolos, but this is an unfortunate, and worrying, step back.”
“In the face of that Ythani bastard’s lies? His effort to paint me as the villain after all I endured? I think ‘inappropriate’ is sufficient, Marshal. Or are we to allow the insults to flow in one direction only?”
“In this court, such insults and falsehoods are not yours to answer!” Orban bellowed. Then, less vehemently, “Ythane enjoys throwing their weight around, as the only remaining vassal state of Tir Nalon. They know well that, despite generations of quiet, the elven empire still has a reputation for both great power and unpredictability. This? They’ve merely turned what happened in the Outermark into an excuse for rattling sabres. They can be assuaged with a diplomatic apology and a modicum of… restitution.”
From the low grumbles to his right, Nycos could sense that he was not the only one present displeased with that particular resolution. “You mean a bribe they can extort from us, and an admission of wrongdoing that was never committed.”
“Sir Nycolos—”
“I will offer Ythane no apology, Marshal Laszlan. Under any circumstances.”
“Even were I to order you to do so?”
The knight bowed his head. “I am your loyal soldier, but this is a matter of personal honor, not a military concern. No.”
“And if your king commands it?”
Nycos looked up, his expression stricken, helpless to answer. To refuse a royal command… Well, Hasyan didn’t seem the sort to declare such minor disobedience treason, although he surely could, but it would permanently besmirch Nycos’s honor, and probably obliterate any chance he had to succeed Orban. Yet, how could he possibly bring himself to—?
It was the king himself who saved him. “Fret not over that impossible choice, Sir Nycolos,” Hasyan said, reaching up to squeeze the fingers that Orban had laid upon his shoulder. “I’ll not be giving you any such order.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Nycos bowed, low and sincerely.
“Amisco?” Hasyan called.
Kirresc’s Judge Royal stepped to the front of the dais, the heavy fabrics of her robes and cape of office sliding audibly against one another like heavy leaves in the wind. “Your Majesty.”
“Please work with Denuel to draft a message of condolences and apology worded to contain no admission of guilt admissible in any court—Kirresci or, to the best of our understanding, Ythani. Make no mention of Sir Nycolos by name, either. We’ll send that to the praetor and his senate along with a sm
all token of restitution.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Hasyan leaned back in his throne, uncomfortable though it must have been, and then met Nycos’s eye. “You still object, Sir Nycolos?”
“We owe them no apology, Your Majesty, and we certainly owe them no gold. This is extortion, pure and simple, and we’re giving in to it. This—forgive me, Your Majesty, for saying so—makes Kirresc appear weak.”
“Sir Nycolos!” It was the palatine, Denuel Jarta, who spoke now. “It is inappropriate for you to question his Majesty’s decisions, particularly in the presence of—”
Prince Elias stepped forward. “I think he’s right, though. Why should we pay Ythane a single zlatka? It makes no sense, and it’s humiliating.”
“Your Highness…” Jarta spoke with the tone of a man repeating the same lesson or explanation for the umpteenth time. “Sometimes it’s better, in the long run, to pay a small amount in gold and pride now than to suffer greater expenses later.”
Elias looked as though he desperately wanted to disagree, but wasn’t remotely sure of where to begin.
Nycos decided it was as good an opening as any. “Your Majesty, your Highness, Palatine, perhaps I’m too close to the issue to see the larger picture. And I assure you, I mean no disrespect, I simply wish to understand. We have no financial or diplomatic ties with Ythane. We share no borders with them. What future costs are we avoiding by conceding to these baseless demands?”
He took a risk even asking, he knew that. Everything he’d learned of Hasyan III over the past months suggested that this was a monarch who welcomed discussion, so long as it did not cross into disobedience or insubordination, but he’d never seen said discussion quite reach the point of open questioning as he did now. Further, it was just possible that he was outing himself as ignorant on a matter that he, as Nycolos Anvarri, should already be familiar. His genuine lack of comprehension conspired with his anger to make him ask, however, and he could only hope that selfsame anger, the fact that this was personal to him, would excuse any apparent gaps in his understanding.