Transcendence and Rebellion

by Michael G. Manning

  Sir Thomas stepped back immediately, but Sir Egan was more stubborn. “Your Majesty, we agreed that your safety—”

  “Is not a matter of concern at this time, Sir Egan. I have pardoned Mordecai and his heirs. These are our allies now,” interrupted Ariadne.

  “You haven’t even spoken with them yet. How do you know they intend to return meekly to the fold?” argued Egan, his face growing stern.

  They had already taken to their feet at the Queen’s arrival, and Gram moved forward, bowing first to Ariadne and then following up with a respectful nod to the senior knight. “Sir Egan, my allegiance to the Queen never left my heart, but as much as I respect your skill at arms, if I desired to do her harm you could not stop me, much less my companions. You need not worry on our account.” Though his words were bold, there was no trace of boasting in his voice; it was a plain statement of fact.

  Egan’s face turned red at the affront. “Arrogant pup! You dare—”

  The Queen’s voice rang out, loud and sharp, “Outside, Egan! I’ll not order you again.” The angry knight trembled with rage for a moment before gaining control of himself and retreating from the doorway.

  Once the door closed, Ariadne turned back to them. “There’s a lot to be said and no good order for it, so let me clear my chest first.” After observing their nods of acceptance, she went on, “I owe an apology to you, Matthew, and to your family as well. I doubted your father, but even when I did, I didn’t believe his actions to be wrong. At the end of the trial I knew he was innocent, but I was too cowardly to overturn the judge’s ruling. I feared more for the kingdom than for doing what was right. Now that I’ve pardoned him, I’ve seen that my fear was pointless, none of the turmoil I feared has come to pass. I hurt your family for naught.”

  “You couldn’t have known that,” offered Matt graciously. “The good of the kingdom should come before the needs of an individual or a single family.” Irene gave him a sidelong glance of surprise before turning her gaze back to the Queen and giving a single nod of agreement.

  “As Queen, I cannot apologize for my past decision in public, or show weakness by explaining my pardon, but I felt I should at least tell you this in private,” finished Ariadne.

  Gram edged forward on his seat. “What about his title?”

  Matthew responded first, “Leave it as is. Father is in no state to hold it any longer, and I don’t want it. Conall will serve better as Count di’Cameron.”

  Ariadne pursed her lips and took a seat across from them, folding her hands in her lap. “That’s the other matter I need to tell you.” She looked from Irene to Matthew and back again. “Your brother has been gravely injured.”

  Irene stared at her in shock for a second before glancing at Matthew. “This is what you were worried about, wasn’t it?” she asked, her tone bearing suppressed anger. Matthew could only clench his eyes shut and lower his head.

  Ariadne hurried to ease their fears. “He’s still alive, and I have every hope he will recover. The wound was small, but his stomach was pierced. Lord Gaelyn gave him up for dead, but Elise Thornbear pressed me to allow her to treat him, and his fever has begun to subside. She thinks he may soon be out of danger.”

  Matthew expelled the breath he had been unconsciously holding with a loud sigh, and some of the weight bearing down on him lifted. “Tell us what happened, please,” he entreated. A soft whisper sounded in his mind, surprising him, Come find me after you see the Queen—alone. He recognized the feel of the foreign thoughts immediately. It was Moira.

  Ariadne explained Tyrion’s betrayal to them, beginning with the krytek putting most of the palace guard and staff to sleep before his attack on her and Conall in the palace garden, and Matthew was interested to note that she made no mention of Moira’s presence at any point. As he listened, he organized his thoughts into a message for his sister. How are you reaching me? We’re inside a privacy ward. He was careful not to broadcast his message, though, assuming Moira would pick it from the surface of his mind.

  Static wards are easier to peer through than even the sloppiest of personal shields, came Moira’s thought in answer. She followed that message with a mental image of the palace layout, highlighting the place she would be waiting for him.

  I’ll be there soon, he thought silently to himself.

  As his attention returned to the conversation at hand, Ariadne was winding down, finishing with a description of Tyrion’s desperate escape through the portal that led from her bedchamber to their family home. He noticed that Irene’s eyes were red and welling with tears, and she was watching him with a combination of sorrow and curiosity. Taking that as a sign he had missed something important, he went through his memory to replay the conversation, listening to the latter part of Ariadne’s story that had reached his ears while he was distracted.

  Harold was dead. The realization struck him like a hammer blow to the heart. The knowledge hurt, and he had to force himself to take a deep breath as his chest tightened. Glancing to his left, he saw that Gram’s face was stern, almost statue-like in its stillness. His friend was in shock.

  That made perfect sense, of course. Harold had been a recurring figure during their shared childhood, and Gram had been even closer to the man. Irene was showing her emotions more visibly, which was also understandable. She and Gram’s sister, Carissa, had harbored crushes on the handsome young knight when they were children.

  And he’s dead because of me, thought Matthew. Because of what I told Moira to do. His heart hurt, but he felt no urge to cry, just a dull pain that somehow combined guilt and numbness. An even bigger question haunted him. Was that the news his premonition had warned him of? Conall wounded, Harold dead—his intuition told him it was something worse than just those two things.

  “Don’t you have any questions, Matt?” asked Irene, her voice bringing him back to the present while her eyes studied him with suspicion.

  “No,” he blurted out, unable to formulate a better reply. “It’s a bit much to process. I’m sorry. It’s just—Harold—I don’t know what to think.” After a moment he followed his words with a mental broadcast for Irene, Moira wants me to meet her. She’s hiding close by.

  Irene’s gaze softened with understanding. Looking at Ariadne she said, “I’d like to visit Conall now, if it’s alright.”

  The Queen stood. “Of course. I’ll go with you. Elise will be happy to see all of you as well, especially you, Gram.”

  “I need some time alone,” said Matthew. “I need to think, to come to terms with what we’ve just learned.”

  Gram gave him an odd look, but Irene stepped in to save him. “I understand.” She nodded at Gram. “We’ll go ahead. Come join us when you’re ready.”

  Gram was looking back and forth between Irene and her brother, feeling certain he had missed something, but he made no objection. The two of them and Ariadne left, leaving Matthew to ponder the news.

  Matt didn’t get up immediately. He waited a few minutes to be certain they had gone beyond sight of the door before opening it to see if there was anyone in the hall. Sir Thomas and Sir Egan were gone, presumably to escort the Queen and the others, but another guard was posted there. He said nothing to the man as he left.

  Chapter 29

  The room Matthew found Moira in was small and modest, but well appointed. It was close to some of the other servants’ quarters, but it was obvious that this was the dwelling of but a single person, while the rooms that most of the servants stayed in held at least several people.

  Moira waited for him within, wearing a nondescript brown dress that matched that of the laundresses and scullery maids, probably part of a deliberate habit to avoid undue notice. At first glance she looked well, but her face was pale and somber. Matthew’s first look communicated his concern for her, but his words avoided the topic, “Whose room is this?”

  “Benchley’s,” she replied, knowing he would recognize the name. Benchley was a long-time retainer of the Lancaster family and currently served
as the royal chamberlain. A man of dry wit and unshakeable loyalty, Benchley couldn’t have been convinced to keep her secret, Matthew was certain. “No one remembers me,” offered Moira, “unless I allow it. Plus, he’s too busy to be here often, so I leave before he returns.”

  Matt understood immediately. His sister was minimizing her contact to avoid having to alter too many people’s memories. That explained both her choice of clothing as well as the room she borrowed. “Why didn’t you return home?” he asked. “I expected you would do that and then return after the announcement of the pardon, instead of going into hiding.”

  Actually, it hadn’t been his expectation, it had been the most probable outcome. Tyrion’s escape and Moira’s failure to return home meant one of the less favorable possibilities had occurred, though he didn’t know which.

  She looked away, as though shy, or perhaps ashamed. “That was the original plan, but after everything that happened, I couldn’t bring myself to go back. I needed time to myself.”

  Matthew wasn’t the best at reading people, but even he could tell something was wrong, and he knew his sister better than anyone else. She seemed less confident, less dark, and more uncertain than he remembered, almost like a younger version of herself. A grim chill began to seep into his heart, a creeping fear he was afraid to look at directly.

  His sister felt the shift within him immediately, reading his emotions as easily as some might read a book. When she lifted her eyes to meet his again, they were brimming with unshed tears. “I don’t know what to do. How can I face them?”

  “Myra,” he said simply, using her name as a declaration of fact. The spell-twin that occupied Moira’s body nodded in confirmation, her cheeks now stained by watery tracks.

  Matthew felt himself standing on the edge of a limitless black abyss, one that threatened to swallow his reason and devour his heart. Unable to prevent it, he heard his mouth say the words, “Moira’s dead.” The words were followed by a silent sentence pronounced by his conscience, and I’m the one that sent her to die.

  Myra shook her head in denial. “No! It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I shouldn’t have let her do it. It was my job.”

  “Get out of my head!” screamed Matthew, losing control of himself for the first time he could ever remember. Cracks formed in the stone walls as his power unconsciously reinforced the power of his voice. He lost all sense of himself for a few seconds as he squeezed his eyes shut and his emotions ran riot, but in the silence after his shout he heard—as well as felt—Myra softly crying. She sat on the end of Benchley’s bed, her legs drawn up and her arms around her knees, a pitiful sight as her shoulders shuddered.

  A wave of guilt washed over him, piling onto the considerable weight he felt already. He didn’t know what to do, and while he felt bad about lashing out, he didn’t feel capable of comforting another person either. Reestablishing control over his emotions, he pushed them away and spoke in a neutral tone, hiding his pain. “What else do you have to tell me?”

  Myra looked up at him, her face dreadful. “I saw Father. He appeared after it happened.”

  Matt wasn’t surprised. It fit into a pattern, which appealed to his need for order. His father had last appeared when he himself had nearly died, so it made sense he would show up at the time of Moira’s passing. He should have been there sooner, wished Matthew. “Describe it to me. Did he tell you anything?”

  “He was frightening,” began Myra. “A figure of black fire, radiating power so intense it almost overwhelmed me even though he never came close to me.” She stopped then, reluctant to repeat the message he had given her.

  Matthew’s inner turmoil edged closer to anger as he ground out his question again, “Did he tell you anything?”

  Myra’s hair covered her face. “I was thinking about following her, letting myself die. He didn’t say much, only a ‘no’ followed by stating that he didn’t want to lose another daughter. That’s why I waited for you.”

  His anger faded, replaced by an empty despair. “You were wise to listen to him.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t. I couldn’t decide, not on my own. I haven’t taken her aystrylin. I’m still fading; my strength dwindles even faster from maintaining her body. Now that I’ve seen you, I think it’s probably best for me to let go.”

  Matthew was torn between the desire to strike her and the urge to hug her, but he knew his emotions weren’t rational, and they didn’t necessarily even reflect how he felt about Myra. They were born in large part from his own inner guilt. So he did neither. Instead he commanded her, “Get up. Look me in the eye.”

  She did, and he continued, “None of this was your fault, and your dying serves no purpose. I need allies far more than I need another dead body. Take her aystrylin, assume her life. That’s what she would have wanted, and it’s obviously what Dad wants as well.”

  “I—”

  “Now, Myra. I don’t have the strength to waste arguing with you. I’m hurting as much as you are,” he added.

  She closed her eyes, and he felt something happen within her, though it was too subtle for him to pinpoint what exactly she had done. When she opened them again, she merely nodded, and he knew it had been accomplished. Staring at her, he had a dark thought, If we didn’t tell anyone they’d never know Moira was gone. It would be simple, and he’d never have to face Irene or Conall’s judgment for what had happened to their sister.

  “I could do that, if you want,” said Myra, once again reading his thoughts.

  He didn’t shout this time. Instead he met her gaze, seeing the doubt in her eyes, the need for acceptance. Myra felt a guilt as great as his own, misplaced though it was. She was desperate for anything that might validate her right to continue existing. Rising above the anger, the guilt, and his need to hurt someone, anyone, made his next words some of the most difficult he had ever said. “No. I need a sister, not a slave to guilt. Go home and rest. I’ll tell the others. If I don’t, they’ll blame me even more later, and possibly you as well for hiding it.”

  She looked at him for a few long seconds, and he knew she wanted to hug him, but she could also tell he wouldn’t react well to such an overture. Pursing her lips, she stood and went to the door. Before she left she said only one thing, “Don’t blame yourself too much. You’re not the only one who made these choices. We’ve both made mistakes.” Then she was gone.

  Grateful to be alone, Matthew sat on the bed and cradled his head in his hands. His grief was a tangible thing, so thick he felt he could almost cut it with a knife, and at last he could face it without someone watching his every thought. He and Moira hadn’t gotten along much of the time, for they had been polar opposites in most regards, but she had been his twin, even though they weren’t truly related by blood. He had grown up with her as a constant presence, a huge part of the world that he defined himself within. Now that she was gone, he felt lost.

  He allowed himself ten minutes, and then he went to find Irene and Gram.

  ***

  Conall was in a lavishly appointed guestroom rather than the one he had been occupying while in the capital. It was a room ordinarily reserved for visiting heads of state, and its present use showed clearly how much the Queen valued her wounded vassal. The young count was awake and sitting up, his face drawn and pale as he glanced up at Matthew’s entry.

  Matt took note of the others in the room, the Queen and Irene, who stood by the bed, and Elise Thornbear, who sat on a large couch, having evidently just awoken from a well-deserved nap. Gram sat beside his grandmother, talking quietly with her, but all eyes turned to Matthew as he came into the room.

  “Feel any better?” asked Irene, a hidden question in her eyes.

  “Not really,” admitted Matthew as he studied his brother. “Though I’m glad to see our brother recovering.” He went to stand beside his sister. “Conall, what happened to your face?”

  Conall gave him a confused look. “Huh?”

  Matthew went on, “Rennie, you haven’t shown
him a mirror, have you?”

  Irene scowled back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing happened to my face,” insisted Conall, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. “Did it?”

  Matt’s brows went up as though with a sudden revelation. “You haven’t told him?” he asked Irene, surprised. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure it will be fine as long as we don’t let him near any mirrors.”

  Gram chuckled, but Irene looked reassuringly at her brother. “Don’t listen to him, Conall. Nothing happened to your face.”

  Matthew frowned, staring intently at Conall. “Are you sure? I don’t remember him being quite this ugly before.” Then he glanced around. “Maybe it’s just the lighting.”

  Gram winked at him. “Perhaps I should open the curtains?”

  “No, that would only make it worse,” said Matthew in a deadpan reply.

  “That’s enough, boys,” cautioned Elise. “I won’t have you bullying my patient.”

  Conall growled for a second, then let out a weak laugh. “I must not be dying, or you wouldn’t be picking on me again.”

  Ariadne leaned forward, kissing Conall’s forehead. “He’s just jealous since you’re obviously the handsomer between the two of you.” Then she straightened. “I should go and let you catch up. I have some matters to attend to.”

  “But we haven’t talked about what happened yet,” put in Conall. “I’ve been out for so long. What happened after Tyrion and M—” He was interrupted as Matthew tripped and fell against the nightstand, spilling a pitcher of water onto him. “Ack! What! Why are you so clumsy?” cried Conall, shocked by the cold.

  Irene glared at Matthew, certain it had been no accident, while Elise hurried to Conall’s side with a towel to dry him off. Ariadne didn’t wait, and she was gone a moment later.

  “Gram, go and fetch me some more towels,” ordered Elise.