Conquests and Crowns

by S E Meliers

  ‘Shhh,’ Rue gripped the sleeping baby closer. ‘Stories, that is all. It may not be them; anyway, it may just be bandits, pretending to be them…’

  ‘No, they were too organised, too lethal,’ Patience swallowed hard against bile; a remembered image of blood on the polished marble of the great hall, a dark, viscous, sticky pool. ‘Torture,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot bear for them to harm Charm or Joy. I am so afraid I am sick with it,’ her voice broke.

  ‘Shhh,’ Rue leaned against her sister, as if to apply comfort with body warmth and weight. ‘It will not happen. We will not let it happen, Patience.’

  A sound caught their ears, and they both tensed, looking towards the heavy oaken door. The silence had been oppressing, but sound was terrifying. Yellow torch light spilled through the gaps in the jamb. Patience could barely breathe, her rib bones ached, and she felt that she drew in sand, not air, her lungs grated so. ‘Someone comes.’

  A key sounded in the lock, and the door swung inwards. Patience and Rue blinked in the sudden light as two soldiers, their chainmail glinting over matte leather, set torches into the brackets near the door. ‘Stay where you are,’ one of them ordered, though they had not moved, his face terrifying in his disdain for them. They stood between the sisters and the door, with expressions like granite; there was no mercy, no kindness there.

  They were Shoethalian – olive skinned and dark of hair, built not as large as the giant EAeryians, but on a larger scale than even the brawniest Rhyndelian knight. Patience had always considered Charity to be an imposing man, but the Shoethalians’ physical domination made her feel her own mortality; her bones felt as brittle as shell within skin as frail as spider web.

  A servant entered – not one which Patience recognised, but quite possibly one of her own – bearing a small wooden table, finely wrought with inset tiles in blues and greens, and delicately carved legs; at odds with the crudeness of their surroundings which Patience could now see clearly for the first time, and it was both better and worse than her imaginings. The walls were damp with mildew, especially around the air vent, but the floor was bare and well swept. There was no furniture, other than that incongruent table and the matching chair which the servant now carried in, but nor was the room filthy or rodent infested. It was simply a cold, damp cell: as hopeless a thing as that was to know.

  The servant brought in a tray heavy with food. Food enough for a family: fragrant and steaming. She could smell lamb, rosemary, onions, fresh baked bread, and possibly pumpkin. Her mouth watered. She prayed the scent would not arouse Charm.

  ‘Please, Goddess,’ Rue whispered.

  The soldiers remained on guard, hands resting on the hilts of their swords as if they meant to lop off any limb that ventured towards the tray.

  Patience’s stomach growled – how long had it been since they had eaten last? Charm slept on, for which she was thankful. Restraining him from eating would have been intolerable. He would not have understood the implied threat of the soldier’s stance.

  The food was not for them.

  A new figure entered the open doorway. Shorter than the guards, but generously taller than either of the Rhyndelian women, and masked from head to toe in a cloak of sinful black, feathers flicking at the shoulders and bone rattling at hem. It paused in the doorway, the torch light catching a nose, a cheek, the glint of an eye.

  ‘Dear Goddess, save us,’ Patience dared not close her eyes to pray. Her heart hammered so hard she felt sure Charm would wake, and it were better he did not. Better he die in his sleep, she thought.

  ‘I presume you know what I am from your blasphemous prayers to your heathen goddess,’ the figure spoke with a feminine voice, light and harmonious, and darkly amused.

  ‘You are a woman,’ Rue exclaimed, astonished.

  ‘I am a Hallow,’ the Hallow replied, indifferently. ‘We are without gender. As you have heard of Hallows, I assume you realise that it would be futile to attempt to overpower me,’ she concluded. ‘You may go,’ she gestured the soldiers from the room. Evidently they believed she could defend herself against them if needed, as they left without comment, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Please,’ Patience pleaded. ‘Please… the children…’ she could not articulate her fears; indeed, feared feeding savagery by suggestion.

  The Hallow threw back her hood. She was lovely, Patience noted numbly out of habit. Not the sort of beauty that would be appreciated in the Rhyndel court, the current fashion being willowy and ethereal like Rue, but beautiful in the way a wolf was beautiful, wild and fierce. The Hallow was pale of skin and dark of hair, with eyes the colour of grass, but none of these things mattered, it was the tilt of her head, the expression in her eyes, the quirk of her lips, that took the mundane into wildness. She wore boots to her knees, and pants and a shirt like a man, though with the curves of a fecund woman. She threw her cloak over her shoulders to sit at the table, stretching out long legs indolently, and crossing her ankles.

  ‘When are children ever spared in war?’ the Hallow asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Dear Goddess,’ Patience moaned.

  ‘You fear me,’ the Hallow broke open a bread roll. ‘You have heard of Hallows – merciless killers and torturers devoted to the Monad, raised to the sword from children barely weaned. It is all true.’ She popped a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘You torment us,’ Rue challenged when the Hallow did not speak further and picked at the food on the tray with disinterest cruel to their empty stomachs, ‘with your talk; yet you sit and eat as if you are nothing to do with the words that fall from your lips. Why are you here?’

  ‘Hush – do not provoke her,’ Patience hissed.

  The Hallow set the roll down and speared a piece of meat with her dagger. ‘Maybe I am here,’ she commented, ‘as it is the most peaceful place for me to break my fast. Maybe I am here, as it pleases me to eat in front of those who have none.’ She chewed. ‘But, maybe I am here to warn you that I am not the one you should fear.’

  She sat forward suddenly causing the sisters to recoil. ‘Do you know how a Priest forces conversion?’ she asked eyes bright. ‘He carves it out,’ she sat back and picked at her nails with her blade tip. ‘They teach it in seminary school. You start with the first knuckle of the smallest finger, and take off just the finger tip. They then heat a blade over a flame until the metal glows red and white, and they will press that metal into the wound, sealing it. The smell-’ she sniffed her plate suggestively and raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘The smallest finger does not prevent a man from wielding a hoe, a woman from her needlework. In the long run, indeed, the loss of the tip of the smallest finger does not maim a person much at all.

  ‘But the pain,’ she smiled, wolfishly. Patience felt the hair on her arms and neck stand up in horror. ‘The pain is excruciating.’

  The Hallow speared a mouthful of roast meat from the platter and chewed it with relish. ‘A good cook knows that a piece of meat needs to be let alone for a while before eating, to finish cooking. The heat from the cooking stays in the meat, and will continue to cook it long after you have removed the flame. We have some excellent cooks amongst the Shoethal.’ The smile on the Hallow’s face gave meaning to the segue even before she continued: ‘We are all meat, when you get down to it. Have you ever burnt yourself, maybe being careless with a candle? I think we all have done so at some stage or another. At first, the burn may not seem so bad; you might suck your finger and move on. But after a while, the pain just gets worse, and worse, until it seems that all your blood is concentrated on throbbing in that one finger. The burn, you see, gets worse, even after its cause has been removed, because your meat is still cooking.’

  Rue put a hand over her mouth and made a gagging sound. Patience wondered if she could ever eat meat again. The smell wafting over from the Hallow’s plate that had tantalised not long before now nauseated. Even more, though, was the relish with which the Hallow spoke – the enjoyment in her eyes, and the
way she nibbled at her meal unperturbed.

  ‘After a day nursing their finger,’ the Hallow went on indifferent to their visceral distress, ‘brave men have begged to be converted. But some hold out, and so the Priest will take the next knuckle of that same finger, and leave you to think it over in the coldest, darkest, dankest cell, with no food, no water, and only the rats for company.

  ‘If you still hold out, it will be the next knuckle, then the first knuckle of your ring finger, and so on. I know of only one man to have held out for three fingers,’ she slipped the dagger back into its sheath. ‘And his mind slipped in between.’

  ‘My Goddess,’ Rue whispered.

  ‘But, and this is a most pertinent fact, I believe,’ the Hallow continued conversationally, meeting and holding Patience’s eyes with an intensity belied by her tone. ‘If you have children, it will not be your fingers he will take.’

  ‘Save us, Mother,’ Patience began to cry, clutching Charm to her.

  ‘And it is me you fear,’ the Hallow smiled, amused. ‘I am positively tender in comparison, I think. I should take your filthy heathen tongues and feed them to your children for the heresy you have spoken in my presence, but I admirably restrain myself, I am so very tender,’ she picked at a piece of meat.

  ‘Talking of tongues, perhaps you can answer for me a theoretical question that has been in my mind for some time. I often find myself intrigued by heathen religions; you cling to your beliefs so adamantly. My question is: if you had no tongue, would your stinking heathen Goddess still hear your prayers?’ she paused as if expecting a reply, but merely shrugged when none came. ‘My God would still hear me,’ she said. ‘For my God hears the prayers of my heart, not just my tongue. That is the difference, you see, between worshipping a true God and a false idol. My God will always know those true to him, regardless of what they confess,’ she pushed the tray aside. ‘Disgusting,’ she sneered, ‘fit only for the rats.’

  She stood suddenly, sweeping her hood back up and disappearing back inside her cloak. ‘Very soon,’ she said striding to the door. ‘The Priest will come. He will carve your conversion from your children’s flesh if force is required,’ she paused, the hand resting on the door knob the only humanity about her. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘I do,’ Patience whispered.

  The Hallow yanked the door open and locked it behind her. She did not remove the torches, the table, the chair, or the platter, and after some time had passed during which no further noise arose outside the door, it seemed that no one intended to do so.

  ‘Do you think she is right?’ Rue asked eventually.

  Patience cleared her throat. ‘That the Priest is coming? Or that the Goddess will hear what is in our hearts?’

  ‘That the food is terrible,’ Rue stood carefully with the baby. ‘Smells good, looks good, and I am hungry enough not to share with the rats.’

  ‘How can you eat after - ’ Patience shook her head.

  Rue lifted and dropped a shoulder in a shrug. ‘I am that hungry I can eat despite any words that strange woman uttered,’ she said.

  ‘Leave some for Charm when he wakes.’

  ‘You should eat,’ Rue said after a moment and half a bread roll. ‘At least some bread. The food is fine. I do not know her issue with it.’

  ‘I cannot eat,’ Patience closed her eyes. ‘I need to think.’

  ‘You can do both,’ Rue suggested.

  Patience shook her head. ‘Not with the thoughts I am having, I would just be ill.’

  Rue looked at her hard. ‘You will not allow the children to be hurt,’ she said with certainty.

  ‘No,’ Patience said definitely. ‘No, I will not let the children be hurt.’

  Cinder

  The castle stood where hill became cliff, with the grand EAeryian Mountains ranging behind it. He’d heard that the castle went as deep as it was tall, though they had not had the opportunity yet to explore thoroughly to prove this true. It was an elegant jumble of imposing buildings, jutting turrets, labyrinth-like walkways, and cloistered little gardens that had been built over time around the original fort. The fort was still there, somewhere, hidden beneath the layers of new growth. The builders had been practical, and the structure was carved out of the same rock that formed the cliff that jutted out over the ocean – yellow and gleaming in the sunlight, and simply beautiful. The gardens of the castle were a delight – some rambling walks amongst sweet scented roses, others structured, paved, with precisely trimmed lawns and hedges sculpted into the shape of swans and hearts.

  This elegance was so at odds with his own austere life that he wondered at the manner of man the late Lord Charity had been to surround himself with such trifles. Soft, he thought disdainfully, and prideful.

  Inside the castle courtyards, it was almost as if an occupation had not taken place. There was no yelling, screaming, or anguish. The presence of armoured and mail clad soldiers seemed to be disregarded by the finely dressed lords and ladies who leisurely strolled the pavement or gathered in small groups, partaking of dainties and wine. They seemed unaffected by the demise of Charity. This lack of loyalty was distasteful to him.

  The Priests and Priestesses of the Monad in their red robes moved amongst the butterfly array of courtiers, no doubt spreading the word of the Monad and reassuring the nobles that their grievances and concerns would be heard and addressed by the proper authority – whoever was elected to that position as he refused to fill it.

  Cinder passed unheeded, glad that he had not yet identified himself, and thus spared himself the snivelling and grovelling of the turncoats.

  It was the far side of the castle, the side that opened out onto the cliff top, to which he was headed. The Lord Charity had jumped from the cliff top rather than surrender during the invasion, an action that Cinder could not decide to be noble or cowardly. Regardless, Charity most certainly would have perished in the rocks at the foot of the cliffs or drowned in the sea. Cinder had men combing the beaches searching for the body, though as more and more time passed without success he was beginning to think it unlikely they would find it; the sea had stolen Charity for itself and no doubt the crabs and fishes feasted on the nobleman’s flesh.

  At the edge of the cliff, a watch tower stood guard over the ocean. At night a great fire in its upper reaches warned merchant ships from direct approach. Even under occupation, the watch keeper had insisted on lighting the flames, he cared not who occupied the castle, his duty was with the great ocean and those who sailed upon her. Cinder admired that, and had commanded the man and his family left alone to fulfil their commendable role in lighting the seas.

  The dragons occupied the space between watch tower and castle, in the courtyard of gold tinged sun warmed stone. They tended to seek the highest point of any occupancy, and the elegant blending of man-made structure with rugged nature hewn cliff suited their nature. The smallest was about four times as large as the largest Clydesdale horse, with glassy scales of iridescent green and golden yellow eyes. The largest was a radiant red with blue around its eye ridges, and three times as big as the smallest. Between these two extremes ranged six others; in varying sizes and hues of purple, yellow, and blue. They lounged in a large jumble of muscular scaled limbs and wings of thin membrane between supple bone. Some appeared to doze, whilst others observed with vague contempt. One yawned, exhibiting a double row of sharply pointed ivory fangs.

  Amongst the dragon riders rubbing oil into scaly hides, the servants carrying water in buckets to fill large stone troughs for drinking and heaving barrels of fire-oil (consumed by the dragons with great relish and responsible for their toxic battle breath and flame), stood a single lone figure in priestly red.

  ‘Gallant,’ Cinder snapped.

  The priest turned. ‘My Prince,’ he bowed; his one eye glinting blue and gold in the sunlight. A raised red scar scored his face from right temple to left ear, narrowly missing the right eye but taking the left in its entirety. It was the face of a monster, a face from nightma
res. Cinder had heard varying tales as to how the horrible wound had been received; enough to know that the mystery itself was used by the priest to increase his aura of mystique.

  ‘There is a woman in my chambers! On your instruction she tells me.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ Gallant smiled and returned his gaze to the dragons. ‘That would be the lovely Lady Patience. An interesting woman, the Lady Patience: either incredibly intelligent, or incredibly naïve, I am yet to puzzle out which.’

  ‘Why - ,’ Cinder took a breath and centred himself. Gallant was a loyal man; but also a dangerous one. It was best to be careful. ‘Why is the Lady Patience in my chambers?’

  Gallant raised his un-scored eyebrow. ‘If my Lord Prince requires instruction on what to do with a beautiful lady in his chambers…’ Cinder growled. ‘Forgive my jest,’ Gallant amended, but with a mocking twist of his lips. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled towards the walled off cliff edge leaving Cinder with no choice but to follow although it was his place, as Prince, to lead, and the Priest’s to follow.

  ‘Enigmas and conundrums,’ the Priest mused, sounding pleased. ‘The lovely Lady Patience is a conundrum. She greeted me into her cell with effusive penitence for her heathen past and voluntarily, and rather convincingly, converted to the Monad - and after only one night in a cold cell. If only all heathens could be so easily persuaded as to the error of their ways, we would not have to wage such war against them. I could not have prayed for a better example of conversion, in fact - it is as if someone has given you a gift, a lovely present, my Prince, to speed your consolidation of Amori, and allow you to swiftly move on to the next conquest.’

  ‘What is the problem, then?’ Cinder demanded. ‘Why was she in my chambers?’

  ‘It is just too easy, my Prince,’ Gallant’s brows furrowed with displeasure. ‘It is too clean; too neat; too tidy. I never trust such things. Life is not easy: life is a bloody, glorious, gory mess. So, it occurred to me to test the Lady’s sincerity. I proposed to her that the Monad desires for her to bear you an heir -’