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

by Ireman, M. D.

  With his composure reestablished, he made his way to the top of the stairs, placing his foot upon the landing and pulling his body to his final elevation. Before him stood the door to what he’d craved since having taken the position of Calder’s assistant, since having first laid eyes upon her. Visions flooded his mind of entering only to find her cut and bleeding, having found some sharp object with which to end her torment, or hanging from a chandelier that she’d managed to reach by flinging a weighted sheet, but he brushed those notions aside and knocked three times, with the utmost courtesy. He waited a moment, then proceeded inside.

  It was the same room he remembered from previous visits, back when King Lyell had requested Cassen find some use for the room. It was Cassen who came up with the idea of having it serve as a prison, an idea that amused the king very much, though he had no one at the time upon which to use it. Cassen, however, had had one such person in mind from the very start.

  “Princess Crella,” he began. Or would it technically be Queen Crella until Alther has been formally dispatched? The thought was amusing—how easily lines of succession could be toyed with to suit the purposes of those who truly held the power.

  “Leave it and begone,” she responded.

  How precious. She thinks me to be a servant. “I am afraid I am not quite what you expect,” not in the least, “as I have not brought for you any food or water.” Surely she must come to recognize his voice, the voice of the Duchess of Eastport.

  Crella was at the window gazing downward, dressed in the finery one would expect of a queen retired to a private evening: a long gown, simple and elegant. Cassen had stood there himself and remembered being rather disappointed by the view. From such a height, little could be made of what went on below. The people were all unidentifiable, and thus no more interesting than watching a mound of ants. The window to the south was far more entertaining; one could just begin to make out the structures of Eastport and Westport, which—despite their utilitarian nature—were still quite impressive. Such a lovely kingdom.

  Where she stood suddenly bothered Cassen. Had she chosen the window to the north in favor of Rivervale as some symbolic gesture? Did she have feelings for Alther in truth—brought to the surface from her imprisonment? The man must be dealt with, and the sooner the better. His living only complicated matters.

  If she recognized Cassen by now, she made no move to acknowledge it. He studied her. It was regrettable that he so rarely had the chance to these past years. For near two decades he’d had to avert his eyes in order to keep up appearances, but now he could bathe in the sight. What he saw was everything he had remembered from his youth, multiplied—not diminished—by maturity. Though barefoot and resting, her weight tipped forward toward the toe, lifting her heels ever so slightly in such a feminine manner. The arch where her hip became waist was almost lewd in its construction, as if purpose made for his hands to grasp and pull her tight. But for some reason, the graceful curve from her shoulder to the nape of her neck was what he noted most. Perhaps because she is always turned away from me in disgust.

  “You have no doubt heard the news by now. Even the best-trained servants must have difficulty not letting word of a dead king slip.”

  Her head turned briefly down and to the side, returning to its previous position thereafter, but not before burning into Cassen’s vision the image of her delicate profile.

  “Oh, you didn’t know? Well, Lyell is dead, though I doubt you cared much for the man. It would seem someone saw fit to poison him after all.” Cassen lowered his voice as if speaking only to himself. “Made quite a mess of a lovely banquet too.” Perhaps had it only been his wine that was poisoned, I would have had time to sample the rockfish. “It was a terrible shame, really.”

  Cassen gave her ample opportunity to reply, but she made no move to do so.

  “I am sure you are wondering who could be responsible for such treachery. Let us go through the list then, shall we? It could not have been Lord Junton, he’s just been sitting around ever since the whole impalement matter. And it, of course, could not have been Stephon, for he remains in a dungeon—a fine dungeon, mind you, though not in comparison to this one, I am afraid. It was not the daring Master Warin—too busy filling his mouth, nor Master Larimar—content in drowning himself with mead that evening. I suppose that only leaves your dear husband and Derudin.”

  Cassen studied her for an emotional response, a difficult task given her refusal to face him, and her reflection in the window gave up no details beyond an outline.

  “There is an entire kingdom rather upset at your husband and that old man who calls himself a mage. For some reason they think those two had the ambition to collude to usurp.”

  Cassen walked to the bed. It was a monstrous thing, hip high and covered in all sorts of fabrics, the specifics of which were quite tedious. The game he’d played of pretending to appreciate such things had become so tiresome he ached to reveal. He ran his hand along one of the hardwood posts that supported the canopy above, disgusted by the detail that had gone into its carving. It will do, though, he thought.

  “You wouldn’t be so dimwitted as to believe such a thing, now, would you? You knew your husband better than any; well enough to know he did not have the courage to do as he’s been so flatteringly accused.” Cassen had not even expected Alther to go through with the plan to sicken the king, not that it truly mattered. “Nor would Derudin, not that you should care about him. That anyone does is proof enough that the realm is populated—even ruled—by superstitious simpletons.

  “But no, your loving husband did not so much as lift a finger to free you. I think we both know he lacked the courage to ever oppose his mighty father. After all, he did not even care enough to object when Lyell told him of his plans to take Ethel to bed as his queen.”

  Excitement flushed Cassen as he saw Crella’s fingers bend, not so much to make a fist—she had stopped herself before that—but he had her undivided attention, that was not to be doubted. He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. That leaves only one person capable of killing such a tyrant, and you know who it is. Cassen’s joy quickly faded. You know it to be me, and yet again, you will not thank me. You will not acknowledge that I have saved you, once more. Finding his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached, Cassen was forced to open his eyes and remind himself of the power he wielded. But you will thank me, willingly or not.

  “It reminds me of a story,” he said, suddenly at peace again. “Perhaps you know the tale…

  “In this very kingdom lived a young princess, many years ago. Her mother and father were stricken with a shared illness, dying at a young age and leaving her an orphan. Luckily for the princess, her mother had a caring brother who volunteered to raise the girl as his own. Perhaps she would have preferred her aunt, but that woman had a kingdom to rule and little time for children. And at any rate, her uncle was much respected.

  “He was a robust and powerful man—a duke, no less. He took every precaution to ensure the safety of his little princess. He sheltered her from the harshness of the outside world, which he himself never shied from, for he was the adventurous, domineering sort. He did not negotiate with other men; he made demands. Under his command, he saw Eastport rise to be the third richest city in a kingdom of three cities.” Cassen had no choice but to snort at that fact. “Perhaps more impressive were his feats in the wilderness. An avid hunter, he would bring back trophies from the far corners of the kingdom. He had heads of wild pigs with curved tusks, elk with great antlers, and fierce cats with giant fangs mounted vainly upon the walls of his estate. The princess despised these trophies, but they were perhaps the least of what she hated of his hunting trips.”

  “What is it you want?” demanded Crella, not turning from her window.

  “For when he returned from these trips, he did so with his blood still fiery from the hunt. He had never married, you see, and had little appetite for whores as there was certainly no conquest to be had there. But what he did have was
a beautiful little princess. She could have been no more than—what was it—ten years of age when it began? He would come home putrid, not just from the days of filth that had amassed upon him during his time outdoors, but with the fetid stench of the dead animal he had skinned, gutted, and cleaned with his own hands.”

  “What do you want?” she turned and screamed at him, both her neck and her nostrils flaring in anger.

  “What do I want?” he yelled back, no longer using the voice of the duchess. He could see it frightened her as she flinched upon hearing it, his voice free from the cloak of pretense and in all its fury. “I want what you have denied me ever since I set foot inside that estate. You were the pretentious little princess—too good to cast even a sidelong glance my way. And what was I? Some lowborn shit who hacked off his own genitals just to climb a bit in status, is that about the measure of it?”

  She did not respond.

  “Well?” he shouted with rage. “But perhaps if you had looked at me, just for a moment, you may have seen a little more. Even if it was just the smallest amount, enough perhaps for you to have acknowledged my mere existence, then maybe that would have been enough.”

  Cassen began to unwind a solitary sheet of silk that was draped around him as he lowered his voice. “Do you think you were the only one alone in that hell of a home?” He placed the silk on the floor in front of him and began to unwind a second. “I was, what, five years older than you? I was no deviant like your uncle. I saw your beauty but never wanted to steal from you what he so forcefully took.” A small pile of silken wraps now formed at his feet, but Crella’s eyes remained locked on his own, her unjust antipathy as intense as ever. “A shred of respect was all I wanted… And perhaps from that, a friendship could have even grown. How nice it would have been for both of us to have someone with whom to share secrets with and discuss prospects for the future.” Another silk fell to the floor. “But you had no interest in that. I was less to you than a servant—for even a servant you must recognize from time to time in order for them to complete their duties.”

  The pile of silk in front of him mounted as he spoke, and as it grew, he was liberated from his costume and false frailty. “I was weak at first, I admit it. I should have done what I did long before. But I was likely near as tormented as you were to know what was taking place. I could not stand to sleep in a bed furnished by such a monster, so I slept upon the floor. It was all I had the power to do at first in rebellion and contrition.”

  So much of his silk had been removed that he felt the cool air on his hips and thighs. “And then came a night when he returned from his hunt, far more poisoned by substance than usual, and I finally saw my chance to save you. I was not a strong man, nor was he a weak one. My chances of success were slim despite his stupor, and slimmer still to escape the act without implication. But for you I did this one and final selfless thing.” Crella scowled as though he was lying, prompting his tone to bitter. “I shoved the fool man back down the stone stairs he had climbed to reach your room. Then I followed him with a rock of my own and bashed in his head to ensure the deed was done.”

  A single layer of silk was all that stood between Cassen and nakedness. He was no specimen to behold, he did not delude himself in that, but for a man of near forty years he was built well. He had the sinewy, thick-hipped look of an older man who had strength beyond that of his stature, and with his true physique nearly revealed, combined with the keys to a kingdom, he felt a god in comparison to what others thought of him.

  “I am no champion of the concept of fairness,” he continued. “For I have learned that everyone receives exactly that which they have earned—no more and no less.” Cassen now removed his final silk, more slowly than all those before it. “But it was not fair the way in which you overlooked me and continued to do so even after I had saved you from your vile torturer. It was not fair that the night I had finally dispatched him and went to your room to tell you in excitement—expecting, at the very least, a thank you or some sobs of relief—but no. It was not fair that you did not even have the appreciation to afford me the slightest of nods.”

  His silk fell, and the pile in front of him now reached well above his knees. Cassen could scarcely contain the elation that jolted through him, threatening to leave his fingertips as bolts of lightning. He saw the horror of realization on her face as she stared, powerless to look away from him. No, I am not the fool boy you thought I was, nor am I the epicene creature I pretend to be in order to assuage men like your uncle—that prideful halfwit who could barely stand to look upon the genitals I’d presented him, let alone conceive that they might not have been my own.

  “And it will not be fair, the way in which I will treat you, until you finally give me the respect that I have for so long deserved.”

  ETHEL

  “This was a bad idea.”

  Annora did not have to speak the words; her worry showed clearly on her face. And Ethel was of like mind.

  The impassioned shouting in the neighboring room was enough to put a chill in even a warrior’s spine, not that either of them were equipped with such a thing. Ethel had heard what she thought had been horrid fighting between her mother and father before, but this bellicose quarrelling made her appreciate just how frivolous their skirmishes had been.

  “Perhaps we should leave,” Ethel suggested.

  “I do not even know if that is possible.” Annora’s eyes went to the door through which they had entered, the same door that hid the source of the commotion.

  Upon arriving, they had been ushered into the solar by a male servant who had then, oddly enough, closed the door, sealing them in. The room was large, bright, and nicely furnished, but it was still the domain of a domineering man. It felt more like a cage for prey than a place of welcome, and the situation had already been uncomfortable enough prior to them overhearing the yelling, given Annora’s assertions about Master Warin’s character.

  “He is a rapist,” she had insisted.

  “The Master of The Guard?”

  “I know it with certainty. He debases Ryiah, my friend, with regularity. He is an awful man that I’d sooner see killed than go to for assistance.”

  “Then Cassen is our only option.”

  She said the words knowing it was not an option. Cassen was the very perpetrator of the current treachery. He had been at the heart of all her family’s conflicts since as long as she could remember. If it were merely his success in Eastport making her father look bad by comparison, she would not have held Cassen in such contempt, but she had long suspected him of purposefully undermining her father’s every negotiation with the Spiceland merchants to the extent that Alther’s failure had been inevitable. Cassen simply had a way of getting his claws into people and compelling them to do what he wished, and Annora’s revelation about Warin and his lady servant was further evidence of how far he would go.

  “We cannot go and beg the new tyrant to reverse the very things he has done to put himself into power,” Annora had conceded, and in doing so, admitted Warin was their only chance of having justice, poor that it may be.

  The door swung open, and through it stomped a woman near the age of Ethel’s mother. Though she was not near as stunning, she was still fair by any measure, and that she bore a look of contemptuous disdain only furthered her resemblance to Crella in Ethel’s mind.

  “Beth,” came the pleading voice of Master Warin from far off in the adjacent room. “You are wrong in this.” The angry authority with which he spoke made Ethel wonder what he must sound like when he was actually making a demand.

  Having heard enough of their earlier ranting to gather that their fight was about Warin’s infidelity, it was impossible not to feel pity for this woman—and that had been prior to Ethel hearing her name. Could this be the Beth my father had hurt so badly? It only took a moment to realize it could not—this Beth was Adeltian, but it did not stop Ethel’s sympathy from growing. This was clearly a woman wronged, pained, and tangled so thoroughly that ther
e was no escaping it. A woman her age could not simply leave her husband, no matter how badly he had despoiled her trust. Unless she had a wealthy family that would take her back in, there would be no breaking from him. At what age then can a woman escape? It was a question seemingly without an answer and did not bode well for her own growing need to flee.

  Warin’s wife may have been angry to begin with, but when she saw Ethel and Annora sitting where they were, Ethel feared for their own safety. The woman strode toward them with a hatred so palpable that it threatened to consume the room in hellfire.

  Ethel understood. Annora was a lady servant; it was evident in her dress. The clothing Ethel had bought for her served her well in their classes, but when they left the confines of their school dormitories, it was only proper for Annora to return to her normal silken attire. Ethel wanted to curl into a ball and, in doing so, hide her friend from this woman so Annora’s youth and exotic beauty would not cause Beth more torment.

  “Is this your new whore?” Beth yelled to her husband, still in the other room.

  Though Ethel’s attention was on the woman before them, she could see from the corner of her eye that Annora was looking downward. It would take an iron will to remain so composed with a threat standing so close, but Annora was a statue of servility.

  Then Beth did the unthinkable. In perhaps the most vile of acts Ethel had seen done by a proper woman—and Ethel had seen many, as her mother did her best to be repugnant toward Alther—she spat in Annora’s face.

  Weight pulled at Ethel’s jaw as she gaped, her friend’s face bearing all the shame this Beth could transpose to her. Yet Annora remained motionless, not even moving to wipe the spit that now dripped down her forehead, nearing her eye. This was humiliation on an intolerable level, and directed against a target wholly undeserving. Annora, the girl sold by her father against her will into foreign indenture. Annora, the one who had defended both Ethel and Eaira against the mortal tyranny of highborn Sture. Annora, her only friend.