The Gods of Amyrantha

by Jennifer Fallon

  He reached across and took her hand, squeezing it affectionately. “I’ll find a way to repay your forbearance someday, Arkady.”

  “We’ve only been here a short time, Stellan,” she informed him with a wry expression. “You may want to reserve judgement on my wonderful levels of patience or the remarkable strength of my character until we’ve been here a while longer.” She downed the rest of her wine in an unladylike gulp and added, “If I haven’t choked anybody by ramming that wretched shroud down their throat in the next year or so, you can thank me then.”

  Chapter 8

  In the normal course of events, Declan Hawkes had no mandate to keep tabs on the affairs of the royal family. His job was to keep Glaeba safe from outside threats. The implicit understanding was if Glaeba were under threat, that threat would not come from a member of its ruling family.

  Lord Deryon, the King’s Private Secretary, was responsible for security in the palace and except on the rare occasion when a fractious nobleman needed reminding he was a guest in the palace and was expected to behave accordingly, the King’s Spymaster had little reason to interfere. All this had changed, of course, with the arrival of Kylia Debrell, the new wife of Glaeba’s crown prince, and Jaxyn Aranville, the Lebec Ambassador to Court.

  Were either of them the real Kylia or the real Jaxyn, Declan wouldn’t have had a problem, but the fate of the Duke of Lebec’s niece and the real Lord Aranville was anybody’s guess. The impostors who had stolen their names and their lives were immortals with their eye on a much bigger prize than the Crown Prince of Glaeba or an ambassadorial appointment.

  It might not have been so bad, Declan mused, as he strode the long tiled halls of the Herino Royal Palace toward his meeting with Lord Deryon, if it were only Kylia he had to deal with. Even if she was Diala—“The High Priestess” the Tarot named her—she was relatively powerless. She could heal—which meant she could probably kill just as effectively—using the Tide, and create localised disturbances that were unlikely to wreak the same sort of global devastation someone like Cayal or Jaxyn was capable of. Her accomplice, however, was a different problem entirely. Jaxyn, the Lord of Temperance (although he was anything but temperate), was one of the nine immortal Lords of the Tide—a creature capable of destroying Glaeba if the mood took him.

  And well it might.

  The Tide Lords had destroyed whole civilisations in the past, often over nothing more than an insult.

  So lost in this morose line of thought was he, Declan was quite surprised to find he had reached the end of the long corridor of the east wing where Lord Deryon’s private rooms were located. The King’s Spymaster was recognised by the soldiers outside the door and admitted without question, the guards seeing nothing odd in a meeting so late between two officials who arguably were the two most powerful men in Glaeba after the king. Declan nodded a greeting to the guards and closed the door behind him. Glancing around, he found the King’s Private Secretary seated at his writing table, muttering to himself as he signed his way through a pile of official-looking documents. The old man glanced over each one briefly before adding his name to it and then placed it aside on a pile that seemed about the same size as the one he was working on.

  He glanced up at the sound of the door closing, and tossed his quill down on the desk with relief. “Tides, but I’m glad to see you, Declan.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not especially,” the old man replied. “I’m just glad of the excuse to take a break. Do you have news on the whereabouts of the Immortal Prince?”

  Declan shook his head, crossing the beautifully worked rug so he could take a seat beside the writing table. It was a warm evening, but Lord Deryon had a fire going, anyway, his age making him more sensitive to the cold than most.

  Flopping into the chair, he shook his head. “Not a sign of him. He could be still trying to dig his way out of that cave-in up in the Shevron Mountains, you know.” In truth, Declan would be quite happy if they never heard from the Immortal Prince again, although he knew how unlikely that was, given the Tide was on the turn.

  Although Arkady had never admitted to it, Declan worried about what might have happened between Cayal and the Duchess of Lebec while she was his prisoner. Thank the Tides she was safely tucked away in Ramahn, at present. If the Immortal Prince did return, at least Arkady was out of harm’s way for the time being.

  Stretching his long legs out in front of him, Declan folded his arms with a glum expression. “Actually, I was hoping you’d have some good news for me.”

  “I’m no closer to learning the true identity of our new crown princess, if that’s what you’re asking,” Lord Deryon told him. He sounded tired, the lines on his face reflecting every one of his seventy-odd years. “It’s hard to get anyone close to her. All her slaves are Crasii, which means none of them is going to betray her confidence, even if they wanted to.”

  “Have you spoken to Mathu?”

  The old man’s brows knitted together. “And tell him what exactly, Declan? That we suspect his seventeen-year-old bride—with whom he is completely besotted—is actually a ten-thousand-year-old immortal with designs on his father’s throne?”

  Declan allowed himself a small smile. “It does sound a trifle peculiar, doesn’t it? What about Jaxyn?”

  “Lord Aranville is making himself right at home,” the secretary assured him. “He’s becoming a permanent fixture at Princess Kylia’s side. And he’s getting far too friendly with Prince Mathu, too.”

  “That could be a problem, you know,” Declan mused.

  “Yes, well I hardly thought it was going to help matters,” Deryon snapped. Then he sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Declan. I don’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just at my wits’ end. Every time I see the two of them together it makes my blood run cold.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “All my life I’ve protected the Lore and striven to keep humanity free of the meddling of immortals and yet here we are, with two of them living under our very noses, the Tide returning, and I find myself helpless to do anything about it.”

  “Not quite helpless,” Declan assured him. “We have the Scards on our side this time.”

  “And how many Scards can we count on, eh? A few thousand at most? That’s not going to bring down the Tide Lords.”

  “We need to get a Scard on Kylia’s staff.”

  “I would have thought that was obvious. The question is: who?”

  Declan frowned, trying to think of a suitable candidate. “None of the Scards I can think of that we’ve got stashed up in the Valley has the skill to carry off being a ladies maid. Most of them would try biting her soon as look at her, anyway.”

  Lord Deryon smiled grimly. “I fear you’re right about that. What about your chameleon Crasii? What’s her name? Tiji, isn’t it? Couldn’t she do the job?”

  Declan shook his head. “Her skill is her ability to get into places where she doesn’t belong and stay there long enough to find out something useful. She’s not trained as a servant and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t let you have her. She’s in Caelum.”

  Lord Deryon frowned. “What is she doing in Caelum?”

  Declan smiled at such a silly question. “I’m the spymaster and I sent her there. What do you think she’s doing, Karyl?”

  “Caelum is a Glaeban ally,” the old man pointed out, looking a little concerned. “Why are we spying on them?”

  “Two reasons. Firstly, because despite what she says in public, Queen Jilna of Caelum is furious over our refusal of her daughter, Nyah, as a bride for Mathu. Secondly, because someone called the Duchess of Torfail has offered her son as an alternative husband.”

  “And why do we care if the Caelish have managed to find some fool willing to marry a ten-year-old girl?”

  “Because once she weds him, Nyah can take the throne, and this unknown fool becomes king of our closest neighbour.”

  Lord Deryon looked quite puzzled. “Then we’ll deal wi
th him if that happens. I’m surprised you’re wasting a resource like Tiji on something like this when we have Tide Lords piling up all over the palace.”

  “I probably wouldn’t be,” Declan replied, “if there was actually such a place as Torfail.”

  Now the old man looked really confused. “You mean there’s not?”

  “Not on any map I can find.”

  He looked quite stunned. “Then it’s a good chance this man is…or rather this duchess…is running some sort of scam?”

  Declan smiled at the old man’s gift for understatement. “I’d say so.”

  “Have we alerted Queen Jilna to the possibility this man is an impostor?” he asked with alarm.

  Declan shook his head. “I’m more concerned about who this duchess and her son really are, than warning Jilna about them. She has her own spymaster and if she’s stupid enough to accept this suit for her daughter’s hand without getting Ricard Li to check out the suitor, then more fool her. I’m worried about something else. The Tide is turning, Karyl, and all of a sudden there seem to be impostors popping up all over the place. Given who we’ve got skulking around our own royal palace these days, I thought it prudent to discover if our neighbours are suffering from the same malady.”

  The old man visibly paled at what Declan was implying. “Tides! You’re not suggesting this duchess is another immortal, are you?”

  “Who knows?” he replied with a shrug. “What’s worrying me more than the notion she’s immortal, though, is the prospect of which immortal. A mother and son act? There’s only one lot of Tide Lords I can think of who can carry that off with any hope of success.”

  Lord Deryon slumped in his chair. “Syrolee and Engarhod. Or Syrolee and her son, to be more accurate.”

  “If the Empress of the Five Realms is back, then you’re right. But worse, it means so are Tryan and Elyssa. They’re the ones we really have to worry about, because they’re the ones who can manipulate the Tide. Syrolee and Engarhod are just the puppet-masters; the real show is their children.”

  “You may be wrong, Declan.”

  “And I’ll never be happier to admit it, if it turns out I am. I won’t know for certain until Tiji gets back from Caelum, however.”

  “Did you warn her of your suspicions?”

  Declan shook his head. “I didn’t want to prejudice her opinion. If she comes back and says she’s seen a suzerain, then we can rely on her information.”

  “Can’t she send word? Surely that would be quicker?”

  “I told her to report back to me in person and not risk sending a message. We can’t afford this news to fall into the wrong hands.”

  Lord Deryon nodded in reluctant agreement. “You mean another Crasii’s hands, I suppose?”

  He shrugged. “Any one of them could have been suborned by a Tide Lord, by now. The Scards are the only Crasii we can trust. That includes every Crasii in the palace, I hope you realise.”

  Lord Deryon closed his eyes for a moment, as if he hoped all these problems might be gone by the time he opened them again. Declan waited without saying a word, understanding how he felt, wishing he could offer the old man a solution, or even some comfort. Unfortunately, he could offer neither.

  “That limits the people in the palace I can trust to the king, the queen, Prince Mathu and a handful of aides I’ve known since they were children,” the secretary concluded with a heavy sigh. “Everyone else surrounding the royal family is suspect…Tides, Declan, that’s over a hundred people. And then there’s the Royal Guard to consider. How many of those felines will Jaxyn or this other immortal we have posing as Kylia get to? How many of their officers are human and how many are immortals in disguise…? The more I think about it, the more I think it’ll be less painful if I just fall on my sword now and be done with it.”

  “That does seem to be the easiest solution,” Declan agreed with a thin smile. “Probably try it myself, only I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  Lord Deryon took a deep breath. “Ah…If only it was that simple, eh?”

  “If only,” Declan agreed. To Declan, Lord Deryon looked like an old man trying to brace himself against the force of an incoming tide, a depressing analogy fairly close to the reality of their situation. “Did you want me to see if I can find you some more Scards to work in the palace? It’d be useful to get a few Crasii we can trust surrounding the king and queen, at least.”

  Lord Deryon nodded. “If you could. In the meantime, I shall start quizzing every palace staff member I encounter to see if I can trip one of them up in a lie.”

  “That’s going to make you popular.”

  “Nobody becomes the King’s Private Secretary if they want to be popular, Declan,” the old man assured him with a heavy sigh. “Nor the King’s Spymaster, for that matter. When do you expect to hear from Tiji?”

  “Any day now,” he replied.

  “And if our worst fears are realised?”

  Declan shrugged, certain there was only one course of action open to him.

  “Then I guess I’m going to Caelum,” he said.

  Chapter 9

  It took Arkady quite a few visits to the royal baths to get used to being naked in front of complete strangers and she was convinced she was never going to be comfortable being touched by them, either. Although the masseurs working in the royal seraglium—blind eunuchs, one and all—were very professional and completely impersonal as they pounded and oiled her body into submission, Arkady came from a culture where nudity was frowned upon and physical contact between men and women that involved anything more than a handshake or a peck on the cheek held sexual connotations for everyone involved.

  In Ramahn, however, bathing was a ritual in its own right. Full-body massages were considered a necessity, rather than an extravagance, and in a climate where more often than not clothing just made you sweat, it was—in the privacy of one’s own baths—considered optional.

  Arkady found this casual attitude toward the human body more than a little disturbing. Glaebans were much more conservative than Torlenians, she’d discovered, in addition to which, Arkady had plenty of her own reasons to be wary of exposing herself. She thought she’d concealed her discomfort well, until Lady Chintara, who was lying facedown on the massage table with her eyes closed, opened them abruptly and fixed her imperious gaze on Arkady.

  “You need to learn how to relax, my girl.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you must learn to relax. You flinch every time someone touches you.”

  Arkady lifted her head, trying to remember if she had flinched or not. She hadn’t done it consciously, but she also knew she was a long way from being able to lounge around wearing nothing but her bare skin and the family jewels in the presence of strangers—even if they were blind. And she certainly didn’t want to give this woman any cause for concern. Although this was her tenth visit to the royal seraglium in as many days, Stellan still hadn’t been able to get an appointment with the Imperator to discuss the Chelae Islands. As Stellan was keen for Arkady to ask Chintara to intercede on his behalf, she could do nothing that might offend her hostess. “I wasn’t aware of flinching, my lady.”

  The Imperator’s Consort pushed away the probing hands of the masseur who’d been working on her back and sat up, swinging her legs around so she was sitting on the edge of the table staring at Arkady. “You don’t like to be touched, do you?”

  “I don’t believe I said anything to indicate—”

  “It’s not what you say,” Chintara cut in. “It’s the look on your face. You’re not relaxing. You look as if you’re in pain. Is that ham-fisted fool hurting you?”

  “Of course not!” she hurried to assure her hostess, fearful for the man’s fate should she complain about his work. “Your people are very good at their jobs. I was just…” Arkady’s voice trailed off, as she realised there was no excuse she could offer. Better to just be sorry about it and move the discussion on to something less personal. “I apologise i
f I have somehow offended you or your generous hospitality, my lady, by giving the impression I don’t appreciate the honour you have bestowed on me by—”

  “Oh, for the Tide’s sake, Arkady, you don’t need to apologise. There are plenty of other women in Ramahn I could invite here if I wanted a sycophant. I’m curious, that’s all. Is your aversion to intimate physical contact common to all Glaebans or is it something unique to Arkady Desean?”

  Arkady hesitated, not sure how to reply.

  “It’s not that hard a question, is it?”

  “I’m not sure I’m in a position to speak for all Glaebans,” Arkady replied, finally. “Particularly when it comes to where or how they like being touched. That’s not something we discuss in polite society.”

  Chintara laughed and stood up from the bench. She was a truly extraordinary creature, her physique sculpted like a warrior’s rather than an idle woman’s body. The consort regularly shaved every hair from her body, with the exception of her eyebrows and her head of stunning blonde hair that cascaded in natural waves to below her waist. She had introduced Arkady to the custom, which seemed both decadent and delightful all at once. Torlenians considered unshaven women little better than Crasii, the consort had explained the first time they bathed together and she’d spied Arkady’s natural body hair. Chintara had insisted Arkady follow suit, assuring her that unless she wished to become a social pariah among the women of Ramahn, she would be well advised to continue the practice on a regular basis. Arkady—once she got over the strangeness of the notion—discovered she quite liked the smooth feel of her skin after the shaving was done.

  Chintara must have mistaken her silence for reticence in the presence of the masseurs. “Leave us,” she ordered the young men, and then waited until they had departed and the women were alone before fixing her gaze on Arkady. “You are uncomfortable when undressed in the presence of slaves. I find that odd. You’re used to being waited on, are you not?”