Mad God's Muse

by Matthew P Gilbert

  It was far too late to pretend she was anything but shattered, but she stood straight and regarded him imperiously nonetheless. He would not be fooled, but he would at least know she had her dignity, and that she intended to preserve it as best she could.

  Rithard tried to strike a pose of his own, that of the concerned doctor who only wanted to ease the pain of others, but it was clearly not his best skill.

  He was certainly brilliant, Aiul's equal in intellect, perhaps even his superior. She had worked that out very shortly after meeting him. That had prompted her to ask some questions, and the answers had all painted a picture that matched her personal assessment almost perfectly.

  He was ruthlessly efficient, as the financial statements showed since he had taken charge of the hospital. He did not ordinarily see patients. He worked with the dead, determining causes, and liaised with the city guard on homicide investigations. Rumor had it that he was solely responsible for solving several grisly murders.

  So he was to be respected, both for his skills and his willingness to serve the House outside of his comfort zone. But there was a reason he chose to work with the dead. Try as he might, he was detached, analytic, and cool. His sympathetic smile didn't quite reach his icy eyes. So like my own. How did I not know he was of Amrath when I met him?

  As a physician, Aiul always had the right words, would have made physical contact, a hand on the shoulder, some sort of human touch, and not merely for decorum, but sincerely. Rithard did his best, but for him, this was process, and one still not fully perfected at that. He hesitated, uncertain of his place, or if he would cause harm. Perhaps it had as much to do with her station as his own lack of expertise in such matters.

  “You may speak,” she told him as she daubed her eyes with a kerchief.

  “To be frank, I was considering what to say,” he admitted, though he was not at all shy about it. “I know it is not my place, but it's obvious these visits take their toll.”

  “And what would you have me do?” she shot back. “He is my son.”

  Rithard frowned as he nodded, clearly less than pleased at her response. “And he is my charge. That makes you my responsibility as well, to the degree you will permit it.”

  “You would dispense advice? Then be quick about it.” She immediately felt guilty at her shortness. We are quite alike, I think. She gave him a sad smile. “It's not you. I am simply overwhelmed, as you just pointed out.”

  “Matriarch, far be it from me to tell you how to live your life, but I can tell you the facts, if you will hear.” He paused, and Narelki acceded with a curt nod. “There has been no change in his condition. I have not given up hope that he may recover, but I believe it is time for us to at least consider the fact that his condition may be permanent. Surely, whatever happens, it will happen in its own due time.” Rithard fell silent a moment, as if gauging her reaction. “It is my professional opinion that you are causing yourself unnecessary harm by neglecting your own wellbeing of late. It is my duty to see to his care, and I assure you, I do all that I can. But any change that may occur will be gradual. There will be plenty of time for me to alert you. You need not be here every day.”

  Narelki regarded him in stony silence. His words were hard, bordering on insubordinate, but she had invited them, and more to the point, they were true. She held his gaze a moment longer, searching for some crack in his facade, some hint that he was shirking rather than offering honest counsel, but she saw nothing of the sort.

  With a sigh, she lowered her gaze. “And what is your prescription, doctor?”

  Rithard nodded, more comfortable with her submission. “Why not weekly, or even bi-weekly visits? I give you my word, Matriarch, I will inform you personally if he changes.”

  Narelki stared at the marble floor in silence. “Very well,” she said at last. “I'll expect regular reports, of course, and immediate notice if his situation changes, for better or worse.”

  “Of course.”

  Narelki dabbed at her eyes again. “Then you will excuse me. I have neglected my own duties of late. See that you keep to yours. You're proving yourself a most valuable asset to the House, and I will not forget it.”

  Rithard bowed deeply. “It is good to be remembered.”

  Alone in his office, Rithard sat at his desk, his head buried in his hands. I am a villain, a monster, a traitor! Yet, what choice had he been given? Oh, let's not strike the martyr pose. It may have started that way, but you're a co-conspirator now, lying, betraying family, and for what?

  Surely the greatest benefit he was gaining from this whole fiasco was that he was not spitted on Davron Noril's sword. Not yet, at any rate. Davron had simply shown up at Rithard's office in the wee hours of the morning after the incident and made an offer Rithard found difficult to refuse. But Davron had not been present today, nor any other since. Rithard had become ever more a willing participant as his treacheries mounted.

  “I will be taking charge of your patient,” Davron had told him. Just that. The Patriarch of House Noril had been dressed for battle, in full armor, leaving no doubt that he had come prepared to fight if need be.

  “I think not!” Rithard had answered.

  Davron shook his head in amusement and lowered his hand to his blade. “I think so. You have two choices. I take your patient, or I hurt you and then take your patient.”

  “You wouldn't dare.”

  Davron's face grew dark. He grabbed Rithard’s collar in a swift strike, twisting it as he lifted Rithard off the ground with a single arm. “You misunderstand your situation and my resolve.”

  Rithard clawed at Davron’s arm, struggling to breath. How can he be that strong? It's impossible!

  Davron, a grim smile on his lips, held Rithard for a moment to drive home the point , then hurled him to the ground. “Your patient conspired with foreigners,” Davron said as he began pacing back and forth, examining the various framed testaments on the walls of Rithard’s office. He cast a disgusted look toward Rithard, then continued, “His reckless behavior has led to several deaths, including those of your cousin, Marissa, and his own wife.”

  He spun back to Rithard, eyes blazing, his right fist clenching and unclenching in barely contained fury. “And the council punishes him with what? A slap on the wrist, and even that will be called back after this mess! I won't have it!”

  Rithard rubbed at his neck, still gasping from the impact with the floor. “This is madness! Narelki will have you in chains!”

  Davron spat on the floor and sneered. “For what? Assault and kidnapping? Versus treason, malfeasance and criminal abuse of power? I doubt I have much to fear.” He hovered over Rithard, his fist still working as if he was only just restraining himself from violence. “Of course, I have no intention of yielding like a whipped dog, either. If they want a war, then I will give them one, and it will be more glorious than anything Nihlos has witnessed in eons.” Davron paused, looking at Rithard as a hunter might watch a deer. “So you see, physician, in the grand scheme of things, you are merely a bit player. Killing you to get what I want is the least of what I am prepared to do.”

  “Yes,” Rithard stammered. “I see that quite clearly, now.”

  Davron reached a hand down to Rithard. “I'm glad we understand one another.”

  Rithard, still woozy, had to admit to himself that he welcomed the assistance, even if it was from the same person who had just manhandled him. He took Davron's hand and rose to unsteady feet. “So am I.”

  “Good. Now bring me my prisoner, and make certain he is pliable. I'm sure you have the right drugs.”

  Rithard continued to rub at his throat as he tried to form a response. This was all moving too quickly. He preferred to contemplate things before acting, but Davron was not the contemplative sort. “And what will I tell his mother? She'll be here as soon as she hears the news about the prison. She might even be on her way here as we speak!”

  “Then you should hurry,” Davron told him, his voice cold and uncompromising. “W
hat you tell them is of no concern to me, as long as it's far from the truth. I've no doubt that in due time I'll have to confront the weaklings and make a stand, but I would have all the time I can to prepare.” Davron jabbed a hard, armored finger into Rithard’s chest to drive his point home. “Convince them, healer. I'll be back for you if you don't. It may be difficult, but it's not complicated.”

  Rithard drew in a shuddering breath and ran his hand through his hair. As usual, his body reacted to fear of its own accord, but he did not feel it as much as he might have shown. Already, his mind was racing, generating strategies, rejecting some, cultivating others.

  There might be a way through. It's audacious, and treacherous, but there is a path. “I'll need some time,” Rithard told him. As Davron opened his mouth to object, Rithard held up a cautioning hand. “Not long. A half hour. If you want this to remain secret, that's the price. I can do no better.”

  Davron ground his teeth. “A half hour, then. No more. Get on with it.”

  The plan was devilishly simple. He would tell Aiul that he intended to sedate him because he was behaving erratically and might be a danger to himself or others. That would surely provoke him into precisely the sort of frame of mind to justify the sedation, and Rithard would have witnesses to it. From there, it would be a fairly simple matter to switch him with a catatonic patient. Everyone knew Aiul had suffered trauma to his head. His face had been covered in blood when he had been brought in. It would be a simple matter to exaggerate things, and convince others that it was worse than it had seemed once he had cleared the gore away. Bandages would hide the face.

  It was a gamble, to be certain, but one he had to take. Perhaps, despite his best efforts, he would be caught. It was likely, even. At least Davron would be exposed at that point, and perhaps think twice about carrying out his threats, provided he believed Rithard had made a genuine effort.

  As for that, there was no predicting what Davron would believe or do. Rithard was only certain of what would happen if he refused to comply.

  It had gone spectacularly well. Aiul had erupted like a volcano, shouting at the top of his lungs, trashing the room, and fighting like a caged beast as Rithard and five orderlies struggled to hold him in place for the nurse to inject him. It was unfortunate that, at the last moment, Aiul had gotten an arm free and shoved the nurse hard enough to send her crashing to the floor. On the way down, she cracked her head on a table, sending a spray of blood across the tile. That had played to Rithard's advantage, to be certain. She was a fine witness to Aiul's irrational, violent behavior, but she hadn't deserved it. As Aiul succumbed to the drug, Rithard had rushed to her aid, and the rest of the staff came just in time to see him begin stitching her wound.

  Once Aiul was safely locked away, the rest had been easy. Rithard had shuttled some of the staff out of the immediate area with claims that it was for their safety, others with the simple argument that it was improper for them to see the heir to House Amrath in such a state. They had all heard the fight, seen the blood, and the rumors were spreading like plague. No one suspected a thing.

  Davron offered a cool nod of appreciation as he took charge of his prisoner. One of Davron's men, a slave named Salastin, had arrived while Rithard had been busy arranging the affair, and the two men from Noril dressed Aiul in armor and dragged him out between them, just two soldiers bringing their drunk friend home.

  It never ceased to amaze Rithard how easy crime was, if one had a head for it and a desire to break the law. No one ever watched too closely, and everyone saw what they wanted to see. I would have made a most excellent murderer.

  This crime, of course, was a bit more difficult. Davron and perhaps others knew the truth, which was always dangerous. It might come back at him some time, and Narelki would surely want his head, but Rithard had leverage there: he knew with certainty that she had been behind the first attack on Lara, the one that had set everything else into motion, and he would use that knowledge to save his skin, should it come to that.

  Narelki had covered her tracks well. Even Rithard might never have worked things out without a crucial data point. Her only real mistake was overestimating her thugs' intelligence. The fools had been stupid enough to seek charity care for the wounds Aiul had given them in the very hospital he ran! Fortunately for them, Aiul had been busy elsewhere. Unfortunately for Narelki, Rithard had been the one to treat them, and was able to connect the pieces as the rest of the information came to light.

  Everyone talks, not intentionally, but they volunteer data for gossip, or to cover a lie. A group of slaves chattered quietly about the Matriarch sending Slat on an errand the night before, certain it was to arrange a rendezvous with a lover, though none had seen such a suitor arrive. Rithard's patients were tight lipped about the source of their injuries, saying only that there had been a fight. The wounds were obviously blunt force trauma, and Aiul's favored weapon was a mace. Caelwen recounted over a drink how dreadfully tired he was, having tailed Kariana the whole evening. Aiul himself had ever been willing to volunteer his thoughts on his mother's meddling in his relationship.

  Means. Motive. Opportunity. And the only other possible suspect, Kariana, was accounted for by a trustworthy source. Therefore, Narelki had sent them.

  He'd had no proof, nor had he felt the need to find any. But he had shared the knowledge with his mother. Until recently, he had harbored some small guilt about that. It had seemed prudent to mention to someone, in case things got out of hand, and he could hardly bring it to anyone in Amrath, much less to Caelwen. They were long time friends, but Caelwen would have demanded action, and Rithard had wanted nothing of the sort. No, it was best to keep it in the family.

  And if half his family happened to be spies and traders of information? His mother would benefit if she could find proof, and Prosin would keep the knowledge quiet until it was important enough to share.

  Events of late, however, put things in an entirely different light. One might even call his sharing of that secret prescient. As it turned out, his mother had found proof, and according to her, the only person she had told was the Matriarch of her House.

  Rithard poured himself a drink and grimaced at the thought. Maralena Prosin was a wicked harridan, and had brought considerable shame to the House with her aggressive power plays. It will be a fine day when she finally comes across my table. Then we'll see if she actually has a heart at all.

  He raised the glass to his lips and paused, suddenly feeling as if he had been struck in the head with a hammer. His hand went numb as realization coursed like lightning through his nerves, and the tumbler of liquor slipped through his treacherous fingers to dash against the floor.

  Rithard stared at the amber liquid and the myriad glass fragments, as if they might, given time, form legible words that could help. “Mei,” he gasped, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  She engineered the whole thing, and now I'm holding the bag.

  A season in the abyss is a timeless expanse. Without the sun or moon, days bleed together into weeks and months with no clear demarcation. Time becomes fluid, pooling in eddies, even seeming to loop back on itself on occasion.

  Aiul marked the passing of the days by the pronouncement of the guard: “The Traitor lives.” Or he imagined so, at any rate. Who knew if the first meal came in the morning or at midnight? There was no reason to believe the schedule was consistent, and many to believe the reverse, if his suspicions of late were true.

  He had decided after a while that it was his captors’ intent to drive him to suicide, a convenient means of circumventing the Elder’s orders that he not be killed. It was, he conceded, a cunning plan, one that might actually succeed if he allowed it. Resisting at least gave some sense of purpose, and so he counted the days as best he could.

  At first, he had assumed he would be found soon enough. Surely his mother was looking for him, or Maranath? But as the time passed, by his reckoning stretching to months, his doubts had grown. Perhaps he wasn't even in Nihlos anymore. Rithard
might have even told them he was dead.

  Rage swept through him at the thought of his treacherous second. My own cousin! How could we have ever trusted his tainted Prosin blood? The rage passed as quickly as it came. Who knows if he had anything to do with it? He might be dead, or imprisoned as I am.

  Aiul felt as if his head were swelling toward explosion. A brief, bizarre symbol flashed in his vision, brilliant red. He had seen it many times before, and knew what it meant, but by the time it came, there was no changing things.

  He leapt from his cot and hurled the mattress to the floor, his voice a meaningless roar. It was frustrating to have nothing to smash but bedclothes. He spied the heavy metal tray from his previous meal, seized it up, and began battering it against the cell door.

  “Who are you?” he screamed. “What do you want from me?”

  It was not the first time he had resorted to a tantrum to attract attention. The guards, while not visible, were indeed nearby, within earshot at least, because they responded quickly to his outbursts, and this time was no exception.

  The guards did not speak. He could see little of them behind their armor, but they were clearly different men at different times. There were discrepancies in size, posture, and movement. Some seemed apathetic, others amused, and one actively hostile. It was Hostile who came down the stairs, his face hidden, but the rage in his deep blue eyes gave him away.

  Aiul pressed his head against the metal door and glared at the guard through the eye slit. “Release me, dog!” he shouted.

  Hostile slammed a mailed palm into the door. Aiul jerked backward, teeth ajar from the impact. The guard chuckled darkly, which was more reaction than Aiul had seen from any of them before.

  Wary, Aiul looked through the slit again, careful not to actually place his head on the metal. “Mei as my witness, I'll kill you for that some day!”

  The guard laughed at this, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Why stop with Mei? Why not make a deal with the Dead God, eh?” He kicked the door, setting it ringing again. “You're going to need more than one god to get out of here, Traitor.”