“And I am Miss, or Matron Healer, Captain Caleachey,” Theodora said. “And again, I must insist, please remove that toxic weed from my home. Now.”
“But-”
“Captain Caleachey, have I ever come on board your ship and defecated in your cabin?”
“No, but-”
“REMOVE THAT TOXIC WEED FROM MY HOME IMMEDIATELY!”
Josephine wrenched the tin from Kylpin’s hand, opened the front door and tossed it out into the street. Kylpin gave her a hard look. Josephine gave it right back.
“Do you know how much that was worth?” he grumbled.
“Does it look like I care?” she countered.
Theodora staggered over to the couch. Lumist shifted to one side and she collapsed beside him. Philson put down the chicken leg he was gnawing on. Garett uncrossed his arms and stepped away from the mantle. Lumist grabbed her hand. “Well . . .?”
“I . . .” Theodora sighed. “I don’t think so . . .”
Josephine dashed for the bedroom door. Kylpin was right behind her. Both crowded around the bed.
“Oh no . . .” she groaned.
“DAMMIT!” Kylpin shouted. He rounded on her. “Who the hell is this?”
Josephine put a hand to her mouth. Joy and sadness crashed together. Tears leaked down her cheeks. She had so wanted the man in the bed to be Lord Ian. It should have been Lord Ian!
“It’s my friend,” she whispered. “It’s Edgar . . .”
chapter 19
Lord Glavinas Roth stood in the walled off courtyard just outside the dungeon and watched as thirty or forty prisoners were led out into the midmorning sunshine. All of them cringed and shielded their eyes. Imprisonment had reduced about half of them to skin-covered skeletons with hollowed out faces. They shuffled into the light, hunched over like an assortment of gray old men. The rest were more recently imprisoned, but even those moved about looking lost and broken. Almost all were Gyunwarians, Glavinas noted, with just a few Yordicians sprinkled in the mix.
Glavinas scanned the group and tried to pick out which one of these men was Ian.
At last he found him, trudging into the courtyard last, his face a bloody mass of bruises and cuts. He looked more like what was discarded at a butcher’s shop than a man and Glavinas winced at the sight. If not for the crude sign hanging around his neck, he would never have recognized him.
“Ian Weatherall, King Slayer”
Ian tottered forward, too slowly for the likes of the guards and one of them shoved him hard in the back. He stumbled, fell, and landed face first in the dirt. The guards laughed, a few kicked him while he was down and eventually one dragged him back up and booted him toward the rest of the prisoners milling about in the courtyard. Two large wagons thundered ponderously through the gate behind Glavinas. Soon, the guards would begin herding the prisoners toward the rear of the arriving wagons. The one carrying those sentenced to death would travel to Tower Square. The other would head to the outside market, just south of the Annachie River, about five miles past the city wall. There the convicts were sold to various slavers. The practice was illegal, but that hadn’t stopped the crown from turning a profit. Some of those sold today would end up in the belly of a ship, chained to an oar until they died. Others would be taken to distant lands and auctioned off much like cattle or horses and still others it was rumored were taken as lovers, exotic house-pets by the wealthiest men and women in this and neighboring cities, castrated and magically silenced, their sole duty to perform sexual favors for their masters.
The wagons came to a stop and the guards moved forward, slowly dividing the prisoners into two separate groups. Glavinas burped and tasted alcohol, felt it churning in his stomach and running through his veins. It was too early in the day for this kind of nefarious work.
He spotted another battered Gyunwarian standing under a tree not ten feet away. His face was a mass of bruises too and he stared blankly ahead, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. He was the perfect candidate for the switch. All Glavinas would need do is discreetly remove the King Slayer sign from Ian’s neck and hang it on this other man. No one would know the difference.
Glavinas raised his flask to his lips and took a long pull. If he were going to make the switch, he would have to do it now, before Ian got into the back of the wrong wagon.
Now or never, he told himself for the hundredth time in just the last few minutes. Now or never . . .
chapter 20
Cecily reclined against the carriage’s thick cushion and fanned herself. The sun was nearly overhead, but thankfully it wasn’t quite as hot as days past. A cool breeze drifted up from the sea and the overall pleasant weather only made this day more delightful for her. She glanced over at Devin and offered him a smile. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he leaned forward, as if willing the team of horses to gallop faster. Ever since receiving the letter from Stephano Di Rygazzo, he had been extremely happy, giddy even, and almost completely neglectful of her. On any other day, his rude behavior would have been intolerable, but today . . . today she was in too good a mood to let him foul it. Today she would allow him to celebrate in his own way. She would forgive him today. Tomorrow was another story.
As they neared Tower Square, the driver was forced to stop at a checkpoint. Large barrels blocked a portion of the road and a handful of wardens manned a barricade.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked.
“Just a precaution,” Devin muttered. He slid the curtain open on his side, leaned out and called down to the wardens. Immediately, they were waved through.
A half mile further on, they stopped again. The road ahead was jammed with other carriages, coaches, wagons, carts, and spectators.
“Keep going,” Devin shouted to his driver. “They’re only commoners.”
Cecily heard the crack of the whip and the carriage lurched forward. Commoners were slow to move, but once a few were bumped aside and the driver announced the Virgin Princess was within, word spread quickly, and a lane opened allowing them to pass.
They arrived in the crowded square shortly before noon. A line of royal wardens, resplendent in their dress uniforms, cordoned off an area around a wooden platform. It had been hastily constructed overnight near the north end. Their driver skillfully guided their carriage between two others and brought them to a stop a dozen or so yards away from the stage.
“This is as far as we can go,” the driver called down to them.
She peered out the window.
“Can you see all right?” Devin asked.
Cecily smiled to herself. He was already remembering his manners. She nodded. She had a terrific view of the entire platform. A couple of rough-hewn tables and two thick posts were the only adornments. A filthy Gyunwarian boy suddenly darted across the platform, chased by a pack of equally dirty Yordician youths. The dark-haired boy glanced back, and in that moment of distraction, he blundered into the legs of one of the wardens, lost his footing and fell. His Yordician pursuers jumped on him immediately, punching and kicking. The disturbed warden spun around and barked an order. The Yordicians straightened and gaped up at the man. The warden scowled down at filthy Gyun and with a snarl, he kicked him square in the gut. The boy spun through the air and tumbled away, disappearing into the boisterous crowd. The warden barked something more and made a waving gesture with his hand. The blond boys ran off.
The filthy Gyunwarian reminded her of Tyran. He had developed a nasty habit a few years back of always returning to the estate dirty after a day of gallivanting around the grounds and more recently, the city. Ian would only tousle his unruly hair and send him off for a bath without a word of reprimand.
Cecily bristled at the memory. Often, she would wait for Tyran to emerge from the tub, red-skinned and freshly scrubbed, and send him up to the tower to ponder his wicked ways. Her scowl quickly became a smile when she realized she’d never have to do that again. Her smile widened. In fact, with any luck, she might never have to see Tyran again. The last time s
he’d seen him was at the courthouse yesterday. She assumed he had returned to the Weatherall estate with that barbaric red-haired tutor of his to pack. In a day or two, she planned to send over a few of Devin’s men to retrieve her personal belongings. If the little bastard and his southern barbarian were still there, lurking about, she’d have them caught, dragged to the border and literally kicked out of the country.
She scanned the crowded square, idly wondering if Tyran was out there somewhere among the throng of impatient onlookers. She hoped he was. It would mean he had defied Ian’s request to stay away. It would also mean he would witness his father’s death.
The deep knell of the carillon bells interrupted her thoughts. Noon! She shifted in her seat and drummed her long nails against the wooden armrest. An excited energy surged through her and the people crammed into the square. Their long wait was almost over.
Chapter 21
Glavinas shuffled out of the dungeon courtyard after the two wagons had left and wandered back toward his waiting carriage. He lifted his flask to his lips. Empty.
“Ni biswail,” he muttered.
Shoving it back into his pocket, he searched around until he found his spare flask. He uncapped it and with shaking hands lifted that one to his lips. A few drops of stale liquor whetted his tongue, but it too was empty. Then he remembered. He had emptied them all last night.
Glavinas sighed.
He dropped the barren flask absentmindedly as he stumbled up the steps and fell into the carriage.
“Take me home.”
As he bounced down the road away from the prison, Glavinas pulled himself up onto the seat and leaned against the cushion. Was Leorna looking down at him right now? What was she thinking? Was she satisfied by his actions?
Her ghost had not come to him last night. For the first time in months, she had not sought him out. Had she finally forsaken him after all this time?
“Forgive me for what I have done, Leorna my sweet wife,” he mumbled drunkenly. “And forgive me for what I will do . . .”
The driver woke him later from his stupor and helped him out of the carriage.
“Should I walk you to your door?” the driver asked courteously.
“No, I will do it alone,” Glavinas said. “Always alone.” He handed the driver a pouch filled with coins. “For all your troubles . . .”
“You are too generous,” the driver said.
“It’s only silver,” Glavinas muttered. “Twenty pieces.”
He left the road and struggled up the weed-choked drive toward his estate. Leorna would have fainted away to see her garden and the grounds so overgrown, but he hadn’t the heart to change one thing since she had gone away. He used only one tiny spare bedroom upstairs . . .
And the wine cellar.
He used the wine cellar extensively. There were days he lived down there, drinking and remembering. At one time, he and his wife had accumulated the country’s finest collection of wine and liquor. Thousands of different bottles, all carefully labeled and cataloged, by name, year, country of origin . . .
Vaguely, he recalled a time when he could taste the difference.
Now, it all tasted the same. It was all the same. Just like the days. One ran seamlessly into the next. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and at the end of each endless unit of time, Leorna was still gone.
Glavinas careened across the sagging drawbridge, not caring if he fell into the swamp below, but as luck would have it, he reached the other side, dry and unharmed. His steps slowed as he neared the front door. He didn’t want to go inside anymore. He didn’t want his life to be like this anymore.
He simply did not want to be . . . anymore.
Glavinas opened the front door and stepped into the foyer. Immediately, the sweet odor of wine and strong liquor assaulted his nose. Pushing forward, he crossed the sticky floor, stepping over scores of broken bottles and moved into the hallway beyond. The corridor reeked of alcohol. Dark wet stains marred the walls around each of the dark sconces. As he fumbled forward and neared the dining hall, Glavinas stepped on a piece of jagged glass. It punctured his sole. Liquor-laced blood oozed from the wound, but he did not stop. If he stopped, he might lose his nerve.
Limping into the dining hall, he stared distastefully at the hundreds of rats which had made this room their home. Not for much longer.
He lurched toward his great chair, kicking at the squealing rats in disgust. The last time he had eaten in here was the night he had learned of Leorna’s death. The messenger had raced into the hall, flustered and out of breath.
“M’lord, your wife is . . .”
He had been standing, raising a goblet to toast his absent wife and recounting a humorous anecdote about how she would always run late whenever a rare shipment of wine was involved.
“M’lord,” the messenger tried again. “Your wife is . . . I’m so sorry! Your wife is dead.”
The gathered lords and ladies had all quieted upon hearing the dire news. The laughter faded. Silence descended upon the room. He had fallen back into his chair unable to stand, unable to speak.
Glavinas kicked at the rats sitting on his great chair. They scrambled away squeaking. A goblet rested on the floor by his feet. He stooped to pick it up. It had tumbled from his hand that night.
“Your wife is dead.”
Glavinas dropped into his chair again. Reality and memory merged into one. Everywhere he looked, he saw the lords and ladies silently staring back at him. Glasses were lowered. A hush so loud it pressed against his skull threatened to strip him of his sanity. His life fractured that night. Even as the various lords and ladies offered their condolences, a part of him didn’t understand why.
Your wife is dead.
He had heard the four words, but together they made no sense. It was impossible. A mistake. Those four words did not belong together!
Your wife is dead.
He glanced around the table and saw it as he had seen it that last night.
And staring back at him, just a couple of chairs away, his face grave and filled with sorrow, was his dear friend, Ian Weatherall.
A frown pulled at the corners of Glavinas’s haggard face.
“What are you doing here?” he heard himself ask the memory.
“I am here for you, Glavinas,” Ian tried to console him. “If there is anything you need, anything at all, just ask. Day or night. I’m here for you.”
Glavinas blinked. Ian was at the party? But that couldn’t be right. Leorna’s ghost had said . . . Leorna’s ghost had said . . .
“Glavinas, I am here for you . . . I am here for you . . . I am here . . .”
Ian was at the party!
Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks as the cold realization of the truth pierced his drunken mind. The ghost had been wrong! He had been wrong!
Ian had been with him at the party when Leorna died! Ian had not killed Leorna!
But his betrayal had killed Ian!
Glavinas closed his eyes and watched again as the man wearing the ‘Ian Weatherall, King Slayer’ sign shuffled toward the wagon destined for the Tower Square. In his mind, he heard Cuci beg him to save Ian’s life.
But at that moment, his heart had hardened. He would not save the man who had murdered his wife!
“Forgive me Ian, I was mistaken!” Glavinas bowed his head. Tears fell from his cheeks onto his lap. “Estate . . .” he called out to the waiting magic, “give me LIGHTS!”
Glavinas raised his head as the dormant magic roared to life. Throughout the estate, every lamp lit at once and the orange flames found the alcohol he had poured over every sconce and splashed upon every wall. Thousands upon thousands of empty, broken bottles littered each hall and every room. He had drowned his estate just as he had drowned himself these past few months.
The vast wine cellar he and Leorna had filled was empty now.
Glavinas had only a moment to affix the memory of his wife’s face in his mind before the hellish inferno roared down the main c
orridor, screaming hungrily like an unsated beast, and surged into the dining hall. The tremendous blast of heat threw him viciously against the far wall and the flames hunkered down over him to feast upon his blistering flesh.
But by then, Lord Glavinas Roth was already dead.
chapter 22
When the last gong of the carillon bell sounded, Cecily inhaled sharply. It was time!
A tall, square-shouldered man with a trim black beard and mustache shot through with gray climbed the wooden stairs and walked proudly across the platform. His fine black robes twisted and twirled around his elegant black leather boots. An expectant hush blanketed the crowd as he placed a heavy case on one of the wooden tables. He raised his hands and began conjuring something . . . Cecily had no idea what . . . but she had heard the words once before.
The large metal lock on the case’s side clanked open.
“That’s Stephano Di Rygazzo,” Devin whispered. “He’s a Chondaltian cleric who specializes in torture.”
A Chondaltian cleric? Really? Cecily simply nodded.
“The prison wagon’s here!” a voice cried out.
The declaration was echoed by others and soon the square was filled with men and women chanting, “King Slayer, King Slayer!”
Cecily found herself muttering the same inglorious title and leaning out of the carriage to catch her first glimpse of the rickety wheeled cage. A pair of brawny draft horses plodded forward pulling the prison wagon behind them. A handful of wide-eyed men and women lined the bars clamoring for their release, but it was the lone man standing at the rear of the wagon, chained to the floor that captured her attention.
His head was bowed. His back and shoulders were hunched over, made uncomfortable by the short lengths of chain attaching each of his bruised arms to the floor. His dark hair hung loose, matted with blood and filth. He looked like some cowed animal being led to the slaughter.
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