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

by Ireman, M. D.

  “Let this be a lesson to all of us in the dangers of magic. Had that gust of wind not come, Toblin could have been badly burned. Toblin, I assume you are all right? Let me have a look.”

  As he’d expected, Toblin had no actual injury beside that of his pride. His silk stockings had been ruined, but he had not so much as a red mark. Sture and Signy had already suffered worse from the Dawnstar.

  “You are fine. Everyone form up. Let us review what we have learned.”

  The seven apprentices, all who either had faces white from fear, red from tears, or both, slowly reformed their rows of four and three.

  “Who can explain why Sture was unable to set Toblin aflame without resorting to burning the grass beneath him?” No one seemed as though they had any intention of proposing a theory, so Derudin allowed them plenty of time to relax and think.

  Signy finally spoke up. “His breastplate?”

  “Although it would be hopeless to attempt to set a breastplate on fire, that does not explain why Sture was also unable to burn Toblin’s breeches or hair.” No one else was forthcoming with guesses, so Derudin continued. “Transferring power to candles and inanimate scarecrows is met with no resistance. Transferring power to a living thing is entirely different. Just as all living things have within them some arcane ability, they also carry some arcane contravention. Whereas transference requires focus for proper use, contravention—or resistance—does not. Even the weakest of men and animals are near impossible to use as an efficient target for the transfer of power. The same can be said for anything worn upon their person.”

  Derudin smiled to his class, attempting to further calm them. “If that were not the case, I am sure some of you would be without living parents by now.”

  His joke seemed to have had the opposite of the intended effect, as the children began to look sick, scanning their memories for the times they had focused their hatred on their parents and recognizing they might have harmed them. Eaira was the most affected, putting her face in the crook of her elbow.

  I should warn them of the exception so that they do not harm anyone by mistake. Derudin knew that lesson was meant to follow today’s demonstration, but he feared teaching them now would frighten them—or more specifically, Eaira—from ever practicing magecraft again. He resolved, instead, to teach them in the coming days.

  “Couldn’t a strong mage set fire to the ground beneath the feet of an army?” asked Sture, back to dreaming up methods of mass carnage.

  “Yes, bit by bit you can set the ground alight. But so can an archer with a flaming arrow. It is no great feat. And had Toblin not been standing so still, you would have had great trouble getting his stockings to catch by way of the grass.”

  Sture scowled with disappointment.

  “A great mage can be a powerful force on the battlefield, but his power comes more from utility. He…or she…is not the fountain of death-bringing flame as so often depicted in children’s tales.” Derudin glanced again at the turrets of the kingdom, focusing on the parts of stone scorched by fires he helped ignite. “And like all great powers, there is often a weakness. An arrow from a longbow can kill a mage just as easily as it can any other man. Remembering that will serve you well.”

  TALLOS

  Pain stabbed through him as Tallos jolted awake. He rolled once again to his stomach, away from the blades of straw that pierced the open wounds of his back. Though sleep was his only escape from the physical pain, that respite came with its own price. The daggers in his flesh that woke him were often less tortuous than the nightmares that caused his tossing.

  He had no reason to open his eyes. There was no light to be seen in his crypt of decay. It had not taken long for him to find a root cellar, and it may have been more merciful had the cellar not contained four barrels of vinegar, as he would have long since died of infection. The dankness of the cellar and the warmth of his body had proved the perfect combination for corruption to take in his festering skin. Twice daily, or so he guessed, he would submerge himself in the leftmost barrel, transforming the throbbing pain to that of combustion. Though Tallos preferred the burning, he did not believe he could remain submerged in the powerful vinegar for long without suffering unhealthy consequences. The fumes alone made him light-headed, and he limited the duration of his treatments, always careful to place the lid back on the barrel when done.

  The few potatoes and carrots he’d found in the cellar lasted less than a week. Hunger drove him outside, only at night, where he would crawl, naked on his hands and feet, still refusing to open his eyes, in search of food like some blind demon. The biting cold may have killed him if he had become lost and forced to remain on the surface, but he found it easier than expected to navigate through the snow, and never lost feeling in his bare hands or feet.

  The world he once called home felt alien to him without the benefit of sight. The sounds and smells of life that had filled the community were no more. The deafening shrieks of roosting ravens disturbed by his presence filled his ears, making the village that he knew sat under a boundless sky seem more like a town within cave. The smell of rotting flesh, burst entrails, and scorched hair was inescapable when outside his vinegary refuge. In vain, Tallos tried to forget the once-welcoming scents that he’d taken for granted in his former life: the bitter smell of rising dough that came from the baker’s home in the early morning, the scent of bland soap used by the woman who would wash a barrel of dirty clothes for five coppers or five potatoes—he even found himself nostalgic for the odor of dog manure that had come from the kennels.

  Regardless of the fetid bouquets and piercing sounds, regardless of feeling something slither under his foot or creep up his arm while he crawled in search of sustenance, his eyes remained tightly shut. He had no desire to be aided by moonlight while he groped around on the ground, trying to find a body not writhing so horribly with frost fly maggots that it would be too difficult to grasp. When he finally came across a suitable corpse, when his hand made contact with cold human skin, free from slime, he would drag it back to the hole from which he came, instinctively and without need for fumbling about. And into one of the other three barrels of vinegar he placed it, until he at last had all three filled with a body or two, depending on their size.

  He found that he much preferred the taste and texture of the pickled flesh he had procured to that of the raw potatoes and carrots. As long as he gathered handfuls of the hair and maggots that floated to the surface, flinging them far from his home, he was able to keep his barrels from giving off too much of a stench. Between the food he had gathered and the seep in the corner, he determined he had enough to last through the winter. The temperature outside decreased each day, but he knew that in his hole it would remain at a constant chill, something that did not bother him any. Even after dips in the vinegar, he did not shiver.

  There he remained, content with the fact that, for the moment, he was doing all he could to spite his tormentors, the Mighty Three. And, he assured himself, this was only the beginning.

  CASSEN

  Cassen knocked three times on the door and waited, not anticipating a response. It had been nearly a week since the High Council meeting. Certainly long enough for him to stew. After standing for a minute, Cassen pushed open the unbarred door and stepped inside.

  “Alther,” he called, almost unable to force out the single word as the reek of alcohol hit him. “I have come to speak with you. Please do not assault me.” Cassen was not one to be frightened by a drunken man, especially not after so recently being invigorated by his trip to see the Satyr, but it would do better to keep up appearances.

  Cassen crept through the dim anteroom, the only light provided coming from the open door behind him. He continued into the sunken main room, expecting to hear the crunch of glass beneath him as his feet moved into darkness and his eyes strained to adjust. If the stronger smell was any indication, he was getting closer to Alther, or at least his liquor-sodden corpse.

  A low growl stopped Cassen whe
re he stood. Lids peeled back as far as possible, he looked in the direction from where the noise had come, wishing, mostly in jest, that he had employed the trick he’d learned from his Sacaran ally: the Satyr’s men kept a patch over an eye before storming below decks, allowing them to see in near darkness. Instead, Cassen stood there for a while as the outline of Alther, propped up on a chaise, became known. He had a bottle of Spiceland rum in his hand. Ah, the joys of bachelordom.

  “Been sampling the spirits?” Cassen inquired.

  Alther was alive and awake, but he made no move to respond. Cassen went to the drapes and drew them open, pouring light into the room. Broken glass of various colors littered the ground, built up mostly where the tiled floor met with stone wall, the walls themselves covered with stains where each bottle had hit.

  “Don’t,” Alther groaned.

  Cassen pulled the drapes partway closed in compromise. He then found a chair tucked under a desk and placed it in front of Alther—at a healthy distance to avoid the majority of the stench the man produced. Cassen sat and waited, attempting to gauge the severity of Alther’s condition.

  “If you have come to kick a down dog, I would warn you, they can still bite.” Alther’s voice carried no humor. “And some carry with them disease.”

  Alther’s ability to analogize seemed a good sign to Cassen. Perhaps he was not as drunk as one would have expected given his surroundings. For all Cassen knew, smashing expensive bottles and sitting in the filth may have been a Rivervalian way of mourning.

  “I have not. I have come to offer my condolences, for what they are worth.” Cassen spoke with his normal demeanor, that of a concerned duchess.

  “I would not put too high a value on them.”

  “No, I would guess not,” Cassen replied.

  Other than their brief and recent conversation concerning Crella’s sudden lack of need for lady servants—something Cassen hoped had earned him some good favor as he had graciously allowed Alther to back out of the agreement—the two had never spoken outside of social gatherings and council meetings.

  “You may leave now if that is all you came here for, though I doubt it is.”

  “Do you still have plans to leave for Westport?” Cassen asked.

  Alther grunted. “I am afraid my father will have to find some other fool to ruin that city now. It is likely for the better.”

  On that Cassen could not disagree. Alther’s mismanagement of Westport had advanced Cassen’s own plans even more rapidly than he had hoped.

  “That is most unfortunate.”

  “Ha. Yes, perhaps for you it is. To have someone more qualified run the city may bite into your own profits.” Alther inhaled deeply and let it out in exasperation. “I was a fool to attempt such a task. All the plotting and politics and duplicity required… I have no appetite for it.”

  No appetite or no aptitude? “The politics of city management are a dirty business, you are right. Much the same are the politics of adjudication.”

  The light that hit Alther’s face from the side set his scowl afire.

  “Lyell is king. He decides who is guilty and who is innocent. It may be dirty, but it is not complex. I warned you not to taunt me with nonsense.”

  “I make no taunts. Have you considered demanding a trial?” It seemed another good sign that Alther referred to the king as Lyell and not his father.

  “On what grounds? There is no basis for demanding such a thing.”

  “In Rivervalian law there perhaps is not. But we are in the Adeltian Kingdom.”

  Alther scoffed at the idea. “Should such a spectacle be permitted—and it would not—what evidence could even be produced to show their innocence?”

  “Ah yes, what evidence indeed. For under Adeltian law it is not the responsibility of the accused to present evidence of innocence, it is the responsibility of the accuser. To the extent of my influence and abilities, I have inquired as to the legitimacy of the claims made against your wife and son. I regret to inform you that there is in fact ample evidence that Stephon had plotted, and clumsily so, that which he has been accused of. Yes, if it were up to Stephon we would all be drinking from a poisoned chalice, leaving clear his path to ascend to the throne.” Cassen smirked. “He is a most ambitious boy, that one you raised.”

  Cassen noticed the muscles of Alther’s jaw flex as the man closed his eyes and ran a hand over his head.

  “But the evidence against Crella is sorely lacking,” Cassen continued. “She may have referred to Junton as Lord, in deference to his safely stowing her beloved boy, one could argue, but other than that I am afraid there simply is nothing to show that she so much as offered a single utterance in support of, or in acknowledgment of, any such plots.”

  Alther hurled the bottle of rum at the wall behind Cassen. The glass shattered in all directions, and its dark contents followed. The smell of the oaken barrels in which it had aged and the myriad spices, so artfully balanced, wafted through the air, reminding Cassen of a similar incident in a similar room. Another drunken duke upon which I step.

  “What difference does any of it make?” Alther shouted. “My father would never allow it. It would undermine his authority. You are a fool if you think such a trial could ever happen.”

  Cassen let out a sigh of resignation. “I suppose you are correct. Forgive me for grasping at threads and opening wounds you’d rather let heal. I have in my heart a special place for Crella, having lived in the same household for that short time when she was so young… She became to me like a sister.”

  Alther did not respond.

  “But you are right,” Cassen went on. “Barring, of course, the unlikely event that the king should fall ill—just for a spell—and you were to relieve him… I see no way of it happening.”

  “You may leave now,” said Alther with finality.

  Cassen had expected as much. It would take more provocation to stir the meek and honorable Alther to move, even temporarily, against his mighty father. But the behavior Cassen had seen him display at the meeting of the High Council had given him hope that it was still possible. Cassen turned in his chair and began to stand, brushing some life back into his silks with his hands. He had but one more question for Alther, one more means by which to prompt him to action.

  “How is young Ethel handling all of this?”

  ANNORA

  Near a month had passed since Annora had come to live with her new acquaintance, a girl she could now honestly call friend. The small room they shared in the dormitories of the Adeltian Academy of High Manners had been transformed from what must have been a fortress of solitude to that of camaraderie. Ethel had confided in Annora, among many things, that she had hoped to gain respect from her fellow students by remaining in the shared housing rather than requesting a separate royal quarters—as was well within her right. But there seemed nothing Ethel could do to gain any acceptance among her peers, an undertaking Annora had come to appreciate as futile. Even the servants responsible for the upkeep of the main building showed Ethel no courtesy, knowing that there would be no repercussions.

  Of the activities they partook, Annora most enjoyed Ethel’s reading aloud her favored stories. It was not that Annora had grown fond of books; that which she looked forward to the least was being forced by Ethel to read aloud herself, the result of which was a story so broken by interruption that its meaning was lost. Even when Ethel smiled as if Annora had said something correctly, Annora then had to replay the sound in her head repeatedly before recognizing the words. Spicelanders were never meant to read and write, a thing she tried to impress onto Ethel, but the girl was steadfast in her resolve to prove Annora wrong in that.

  There had been no reading of late, however. The little light that peered through the mostly drawn curtains was not enough to break the spell of anguish cast on the once-happy room. Since hearing the fate that had befallen her mother and half brother, Ethel had been in mourning.

  “Drink this,” Annora said, having brought Ethel some tea, a st
rong, semi-sweet brew that they normally both enjoyed while breaking their fast.

  “You may leave it by the bedside.” It was as good as Ethel having refused the drink.

  “I will not.” Annora’s accent flared as it always did when she became angry, but her embarrassment only strengthened her resolve to stir Ethel from her perpetual grief and slumber. For the past three days she had eaten nothing and drank only sips of water. Annora was afraid not only for Ethel’s safety but for her own, should something happen to her. “You will drink this for me and have something to eat so that you do not die and condemn me to the same fate as your mother.” Annora felt a twinge of guilt at having said the last bit.

  Ethel slowly sat up in her bed and took the cup from Annora’s hand. She stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact and scowling, but at least she appeared as though she’d finally drink more than water.

  “Thank you,” Annora said in mild apology.

  Ethel had spoken to Annora about her mother prior to learning of her imprisonment, but not near so much as her father. “I am afraid you would not like her, my mother, if you were to meet her,” Ethel had confessed. “She is very much what you might expect of a highborn lady. She is not a bad woman… She is just very…particular. My father helped me understand that she is not the hateful woman I’d once thought her to be. He is a good man. I know you would love him as I do.”

  Ethel never spoke of Alther as anything less than a true father, and there was never any mention of some latent longing to know her birth father. Ethel explained how Alther had adopted her as his own and how embarrassing it must have been for him. She was the bastard child of some Adeltian man, and he was a Rivervalian conqueror. He had every right to have her drowned or exiled. Instead he’d suffered every silent ridicule and mocking expression without so much as blinking, and in doing so, gave Ethel the strength to do the same. So when Alther had knocked at their door days prior, and Ethel lashed out at him in anger, Annora knew the seriousness of her dejection.