The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1)

by Ireman, M. D.

Crella was the object of raunchy jokes among Rivervalian boys. The Adeltian Tart, they called her, not yet ripened but already with a babe. Her bedchamber was a royal bordello, they said, and for a few silvers anyone could be prince for a night. The girl Alther had expected to meet on his trip to Adeltia was a younger version of any of the whores that worked the docks along the Eos: a loose-fitting dress, messy hair, crooked teeth, and a desperate smile devoid of all dignity. What he had actually seen was the opposite entirely. Her form-fitting bodice betrayed her slender curves, a modest bosom balanced by a delicate waist. Her hair was a perfect waterfall of loose golden curls, and the prideful look of derision she gave him let him know that it made no difference if he had all the silver in the realm—he could never hope to have her.

  “And I will be quick to relieve the old crones currently under my employ,” she continued, “once their replacements have proven themselves.”

  Alther trailed his wife as she went from one piece of furniture to the next, seemingly determined to rearrange every object in their home. So little had changed, it seemed, since he’d first seen her. In spite of their marriage and the child they’d had, to her, he was still the lustful boy chasing after the unattainable princess.

  “That does not lessen the amount. You will speak with Cassen, explain your lack of need for the services, and apologize for the miscommunication.” This time she goes too far. God of the Mountain, give me strength not to act in anger.

  “I will do no such thing.” Crella turned to face him, fastidious in her rebuke. “How dare you even suggest it? The wife of the heir to the throne and future queen will not be seen groveling to some lowborn upstart. Most certainly not one of Cassen’s persuasions.”

  “Then take care that no one sees it.” Alther could feel the tension in his jaw building, his teeth threatening to shatter. He had not yet revealed to Crella the king’s order that they change their place of residence, but Alther anticipated her response. They could not disobey the king, but Crella would seek every avenue of escape from this reality, and at Alther’s expense. In his desperation, Alther envisioned how his father might handle this situation, then cringed at the thought.

  “I refuse to live in squalor. A cobbler’s wife would not put up with such insolent servants nor such an impertinent husband. This residence requires the services of three lady servants, and that is the end of it.” Crella, quite confident in having won the debate, returned to her task of looking busy doing nothing to dismiss her husband.

  As she leaned to reach for items on the rear of the sideboard, he was reminded of how often she refused his advances: to the point that he no longer made them. In their near sixteen years of marriage he’d be surprised if they had been intimate so many times. “You reek of your putrid hunt,” she would tell him, months after his last excursion. The dress she now wore may have been the very one he’d first seen her in, she had remained so gracile. And he could have her now if he so chose, tearing fine cloth from flesh. Even the defunct Adeltian law had a version of the Rivervalian Husband’s Right, allowing a man to take that which his wife did not willingly provide. But he had never forced her to do anything she did not wish to, and although today would inevitably be a first in that regard, he resolved only to compel her to do as their king had commanded.

  “Aye, this home may require such services, for I believe I spotted a bit of dust gathering on the crystal chandelier… The one in the never-used dining hall.” He allowed her a moment to puzzle over his change in tone, but she only ignored him. “But I am afraid we will not be residing here for much longer.” Alther’s words had in them all the coolness he could muster.

  Crella had no interest in playing his game and continued with her faux tidying, muttering something under her breath about the absurdity of having to do a servant’s work. The fragrance wafting from the candles she repositioned was putrid in its strength: a funereal bouquet of flowers, powders, and wax that clung to the lungs—scents she knew he despised. He had told her before how they caused him headaches and sternutation. That she insisted they be placed in the anteroom, making it unavoidable for him not to whiff them upon every arrival, reminded him of her spitefulness.

  “We leave for Westport in three days by decree of our king. The arrangements have already been made.” Alther finished the statement and found he was oddly eager to see his wife’s reaction. She did not choose me as husband, but she will obey and acknowledge me as one when presented with no alternative.

  He had not predicted her fury.

  “You coward,” she turned and yelled. “You dare hide behind your father’s edict like a little boy? You shame us all with your incompetence and above all your impotence!” With her final words she came at him as if to slap him.

  Alther’s unassuming nature hid from many his true prowess with that of halberd or sword and shield. He had endured, in his youth, the countless hours of training with real steel expected of Rivervalian nobility—training that would make Adeltian boys shudder at the thought. Alther still had the scars and the skills to show for it, though neither served him much purpose with his current surroundings. Alther caught his wife’s wrist with one hand and struck her cheek with the back of his other. He immediately regretted not the strike, but the force with which he threw it, fearing it was too much for her delicate frame. His blow, it seemed, was if anything too weak. She screamed and swung her free hand clenched in a fist at his face. He caught her other wrist and attempted to subdue her, yelling in kind. “Stop,” he pleaded, but the moment her struggle finally ceased he felt something crash against the back of his skull.

  KEETHRO

  “I thought I was dead,” Keethro admitted. “And I thought you were dead asleep.”

  He and Titon had a fire built in the woods of the rocky foothills several miles south of Phylan. Having taken some clothing off the bodies of those they’d killed, they no longer looked so much like outsiders. Their new coats smelled of old sweat and fresh piss, but they were both too charged from the battle and too tired from so many days without proper rest to care.

  “It takes more than that cider they call mead to put me down,” said Titon. “I saw you eyeing that ugly barmaid and knew there was going to be trouble. I figured better sooner than later, should I truly fall asleep.”

  “Was she indeed ugly…aside from the sagging flesh?”

  Titon rubbed his jaw with a look somewhere between concern and humor.

  “Perhaps I have been too many days in travel,” said Keethro. On a voyage I did not wish to take.

  “More likely too many cups of southern cider. But you never could handle your drink.” Titon spoke in his usual gibing manner. “It has been like old times though, has it not?”

  “Aye,” Keethro replied truthfully. “It has.” But I must do what I originally intended or die out here like a fool. Tonight has only confirmed that. Bile rose in his throat at the thought, and he was thankful for the lingering effects of his earlier drinking.

  They sat in silence for a good while, both poking at the fire for no apparent reason. Keethro wondered what it was that kept Titon awake. They had been so long without sleep, and Keethro had an unsavory task to complete that he would rather get over with as quickly as possible.

  “How are you and Red?” Titon asked.

  “My daughter?” Keethro gave it a moment’s thought. It was not a topic of conversation he had expected from Titon. “She hates me. When she was very young we were close, perhaps, but no longer, not since she’s grown.” It seemed there should be more reason to it than that. He could not recall ever being mean or spiteful toward the girl. “I suppose she is simply too much her mother. And I am done with that woman.” He’d known it for some time now, but to say it aloud was relieving.

  “A shame to have a child that does not understand you.” Titon threw another log onto the fire, sending embers floating into the air only to die moments later. “It is the same with Titon.”

  “He is a good lad, I’ve seen. Fierce with an axe, and smart as a
ny from what I hear.”

  “Smarter,” said Titon. “I am a fool and a coward though. I told him in a letter before departing what I should have told him long ago, eye to eye. As much as I wish to return with a remedy for my wife, I wish equally to return and see my sons, to know they have been successful on their raid, and to let them see the pride they give me.”

  Keethro stared into the fire, letting it burn into his vision as punishment for previous misconduct. It was a cruel and stupid thing to have stolen, he thought, disgusted with himself.

  “Then we will see it done, my friend.” Keethro said, hearing his words but troubled by their lack of sincerity.

  “Aye. Good night, brother.”

  Keethro fought to stay awake until he heard Titon snoring, this time in earnest he hoped. His mind had been plagued with doubt during what felt like an eternity waiting for those snores. The finality of what he must do weighed on him like a mountain. Whether it was due to his lack of sleep or his rediscovered affection for his friend of old, he did not know, but he found himself wavering in his resolve to go through with his original plan.

  He studied Titon, the mammoth that he was, the chest beneath his beard rising and falling with each breath. How many times had Titon saved him and he saved Titon in scuffles such as earlier that night? He could not recall. When I sink the blade into your neck, will you awaken in time to know it was me? And with you gone, what will remain?

  Keethro had no desire to hurt this man who he was now realizing was perhaps his only source of happiness left. But I have already caused damage with my misplaced spite that I cannot mend, he thought with regret. He turned around to rummage through the bag he had been leaning upon, checking periodically to make sure Titon was still asleep. His throat tightened as he found what he searched for. You fool, do not do this. But he saw no other options.

  Keethro approached the fire with deliberate steps. “I am sorry, my friend. You deserved a better brother than I,” he whispered under his breath.

  Upon the fire he placed the two letters he’d swiped from Titon’s home before they departed, watching them wither and burn. It was bad enough that he had not thought to write a letter of his own to Red, but that he had cost Titon what would most likely be his last farewell to his sons was far worse. As the wind picked up the last remnants of Titon’s words, now turned to ash, Keethro’s insides twisted and shriveled.

  Now I must see this journey through and get you home alive. It was the only way he could think to rectify what he had done. Or at the very least, die a fool for trying.

  CRELLA

  Crella stood, dumbfounded, looking at her husband who lay unconscious on the floor, blood slowly pooling from the broken skin on his head, pieces of a large vase scattered around him on the porcelain tile of their anteroom.

  He was no Sir Stormblade, the dashing knight fawned over by all Adeltian girls prior to the war. Yet when held up against the other Rivervalian invaders, when held up against the men—Adeltian or otherwise—who remained alive after the best had been culled in combat, Alther was perhaps the least offensive. Fault him though she may for his timidity, she could hardly have wished in earnest for him to be a more assertive man. And forced to contemplate a life without him, she realized this man did not deserve the death she’d secretly prayed would befall him since they had been married. That he had taken her baseborn daughter, Ethel, as his own and kept her safe from harm should have been reason enough for Crella’s appreciation, an appreciation she had never shown.

  Crella knelt at her fallen husband’s side and was relieved to hear his breathing was regular. The bleeding from beneath his hair was just a trickle.

  “What were you thinking?” Crella demanded under her breath.

  Lank and noble, her son stood before her. Her unyielding nature toward Alther had seen its way even into the heredity of their only offspring, as the young prince appeared almost her twin in appearance.

  “I was thinking of your safety. I—”

  “This could be seen as treason,” she interrupted. Things had escalated with such immediacy she had no time to think. Moving to Westport suddenly seemed like it would not have been much trouble at all.

  “He was going to kill you,” Stephon replied, much too loud.

  Crella knew her son to be hot tempered and defensive of her, but she had never expected him to be witless enough to strike the heir to the throne. She thought she’d raised him with more sense than that.

  “Lower your voice.” Crella let her anger be heard in her voice as she rose to face her son. “He was not going to kill me.” Though that may be the story of necessity. “Now what can we do about this?” Crella posed the question to herself. She fought back the worry that was consuming her from the inside. I must be strong for Stephon’s sake.

  “Is he dead?” Stephon asked.

  “No, his chest still rises and falls with strength.”

  “Should we kill him?”

  Crella slapped her son across the face for his idiocy, though the blow seemed to illicit more shock in Stephon than discomfort as he recoiled.

  “He is your father!” Crella felt as though the world she had constructed had shattered along with the vase that struck her husband. All of the posturing, all of the effort to always look her best and act in a way that would not draw the ire of these Rivervalian invaders, but also not allow them to think that they could do with her as they pleased—all of it was being undone by one action, made by the one she strove most to protect. “I will say that it was a burglar or a jealous woman or some like.” A moment’s reflection revealed she much preferred the former. “We will hide you until this misunderstanding is resolved.”

  “Mother, that is foolish.”

  It did seem an outlandish story, but less plausible things had happened within the walls of the kingdom, and she could think of no alternative.

  “Just do as I say,” she said.

  “Cassen trusts me. I will go seek his aid.” Stephon boasted as if she would be impressed that he had made Cassen an ally.

  “Absolutely not.” The thought that he would seek Cassen’s assistance over hers nearly drove her to slap him again. “Cassen is the king’s vile pet, and you have just struck the king’s son. Have some sense. Cassen will only use this to his own advantage and to our detriment.”

  Crella paced, the hem of her dress catching pieces of the broken vase, making a scratching noise on the tile that threatened to wake Alther. She forced herself to stand still.

  “I have friends who bear no love for Alther or his father, Adeltian nobles who are still rich and powerful. I will send you to them for safekeeping.”

  Stephon frowned, still not grasping the seriousness of the situation. It seemed he was still thinking only of the punishment that would come from his father when he should have been concerned far more about the king. Lyell would not tolerate the half Adeltian prince striking Alther, no matter the story.

  “I do not wish to go live with those I do not know.” Stephon rubbed his brow as if exhausted by this unnecessary exercise.

  Crella scowled at him. “How many people do you know in the dungeons? You will be living with them and for much longer if you do not obey me and do so with haste.”

  At the mention of the dungeons Stephon’s demeanor changed. His face became more serious.

  “Pack some things. It must look as though you had been staying with them since yesterday. Make a note of anyone that may have seen you here today—I will need to know. I will write a letter for you to bring to my friends, and you will travel to them in secret as soon as can be arranged. Now hurry!”

  Stephon snorted the last of his defiance and obeyed.

  DERUDIN

  “Focus, Toblin, focus.”

  A stout boy of eight years stood at the front of the class facing away from the other students. He was focused intently on a candle. It floated on the surface of the water in a glass bowl atop an old wooden table. Beyond the table was a massive hearth with a fire ablaze. Beads of swea
t formed on the boy’s brow as he trembled. His luxurious violet cape with yellow embroidery, which he never was without, swayed with his efforts.

  “Do not strain. Use neither muscle nor strength. Only seek to guide the power from one source to the other, you the conduit.” Derudin encouraged without allowing his expression to change from that of complete stoicism. This boy does not belong.

  He knew Toblin had little chance of achieving this menial task. The boy simply had no natural focus. But his parents had influence, and with it they had insisted he be trained in the ways of a mage. Most of Derudin’s class was filled with those whose parents had enrolled them in an effort of last resort, desiring to see their children rise from mediocrity. No visions were required to know this boy would never heft a sword with any grace, and unfortunately, the same could be said for his potential for magecraft. In decades past, Derudin may have rejected the boy outright, but in these times he was lucky to be able to fill half the seats of his small classroom, even with the butts of non-potentials. Interest and faith in the abilities of mages had diminished greatly over the years, and so too had there been a decline in those with the natural predisposition for conductance. Of his seven apprentices, only two had any true natural focus that he knew of, and they lacked promise in other areas.

  Finally, Toblin let out a pathetic whimper and allowed his body to relax. His eyes turned downward with dejection, away from the unaltered wick of the floating candle.

  “A noble attempt, young Toblin,” lied Derudin. “Let us try to determine the cause of your failure so that your next shall result in brilliant flame.”

  Derudin floated in his robes toward the table—a mere trick of the eye due to proper starch levels in its grey fabric, but in a world where magic was all but absent, even simple artifice was a powerful tool in achieving respect without wasted effort. Derudin’s days of performing parlor tricks to convince nonbelievers were long and gone, however. He had the ear of the king, won by years of sound guidance preceding the conquering of the Adeltian Kingdom, and that was currently all that concerned him.