The man speaks truth, Ceranor thought and frowned.
“Arden must advance,” he agreed, “or we’ll have the smallest slice of this pie. We must move. We must conquer more of the night.” He slammed his fist against the map. “I will not see the other sunlit kings claim more than we do. Arden has led the charge into Nightside; it is Arden who must claim the greatest spoils of the night.” His nobles nodded and slapped the table in approval, and Ceranor raised his voice. “All of western Eloria glows with the light of Timandra. But in the east, darkness still looms. We must advance into that darkness. We will march upon the city of Yintao, the distant capital of this wilderness they call the Qaelish Empire. We will bring Yintao to its knees!”
Some of his nobles cheered in approval; two even drew and brandished their swords. Others, however, bit their lips or tapped the table in concern.
“Your Highness,” said one, a slim man with a wisp of a beard. “They say that a great army musters in Yintao. They say that a boy emperor rules there, that he commands fifty thousand Elorian savages, a host all in steel, bearing spears and swords. They say that a dragon fights with him.” Laughter rose across the hall, but the slim man raised his chin and voice. “Your Highness, would it not be wiser to stay within Pahmey, to let this boy emperor march against us and perish against our walls?”
Ceranor stared at this skinny coward—more a worm than a warrior—in disgust.
This is what happens, he thought, when men ascend to titles through bloodlines rather than proving themselves on the battlefield.
“No,” he said to the coward. “We will not cower here in one city. Not when we have an empire to conquer. Not as the seven other sunlit kings bite and peck at the carcass of the night.” He raised his fist. “You may stay here among the savages. We true men will march to war! We—”
A high-pitched whine rose behind him, cutting off his words.
“Cery! Oh, Cery, my sweetling! I missed you, and oh … look! Dragon statues!”
Ceranor had faced barbarian hordes screaming for his blood, warships charging toward his navy, and the fire of cannons blazing … yet now, at the sound of that voice, his belly sank deeper than in any battle.
Oh, merciful Idar … she’s here.
Grimacing, he turned toward the hall’s doors and saw her there.
“Linee,” he said, voice choked.
His young wife—thirty years his junior—ran toward him with open arms. Rather than simply embracing him, she leaped onto him, wrapped all four limbs around him like a squid, and clung. She showered him with kisses.
“Cery! Oh, Cery, I missed you, my little piglet.”
Some of the nobles snickered behind him, and Ceranor groaned.
“Linee!” He tried to pry her off, but he’d have better luck freeing himself from iron shackles.
He sighed. He had married the girl two years ago, hoping to forge an alliance with her father who ruled some stone bridge Ceranor no longer cared about. At first, young Linee—barely more than a youth, a fey thing with golden elflocks and bright blue eyes—had been terrified of him, an old soldier with graying hair and battle scars. Yet quickly, her silly mind had filled with love for him, a love overpowering and clingy like a leech’s love for blood.
I invaded the night for glory … and to escape her, he thought as she kissed him all over his face. And now the little devil is back.
Finally he managed to extricate himself. He turned toward his nobles, saw them snicker, and glowered at them.
“This council is over!” he barked, then grunted as Linee leaped onto his back and began kissing the top of his head. “Leave this place. We’ll meet again in an hourglass turn.”
The nobles left, hiding their snickers behind their palms. Ceranor fumed. He grabbed Linee’s arms, pried her off his back, and placed her back down.
“Linee,” he said, “what in the name of sanity are you doing here?”
She gave him a bright, toothy grin. Her golden locks cascaded across her face, and her blue eyes shone with love. She held on to his waist and hopped upon her toes, her grin growing only larger.
“I was so bored back in Arden,” she said. “I was bored and lonely and … bored. There was nobody to play boardgames with. The bed was all cold. And I missed you. I know you missed me too.” She kissed his cheek, held his hands, then jumped up and down. “But I’m here now! I told all my knights that they had to take me here, that I just had to see my Cery again. Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Ceranor groaned inwardly. He vowed to find whatever knights had accompanied her here and have them whipped. In the same breath, he was shocked at his young wife’s initiative. The girl who chased butterflies, cried when flowers wilted, and squeaked when kittens hissed had somehow managed to organize a journey here. Linee would rarely leave her bed; to leave her entire kingdom was a feat he hadn’t thought her capable of. She was vacuous, childlike, and endlessly silly, but perhaps there was some courage lurking within the pink ribbons of her heart.
“Linee, this isn’t a place for you,” he said. “It’s dangerous in Eloria. We march to more warfare soon, and—Oh, damn it, Linee. Don’t cry.”
She sniffed, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t help it! You didn’t miss me at all. You don’t even love me. You…” She buried her face in her hands.
Rolling his eyes, Ceranor placed an arm around her. Truth was, he did love the young woman; he just couldn’t bear to spend any time with her.
“Of course I missed you,” he lied. “Of course I love you. It is because I love you that I want you safe. You understand, right?”
She peeked between her fingers. “You love me?”
He nodded. “I do.”
A tremulous smile touched her lips and she wiped her tears away. “Do you want to take a nap?”
“No, Linee. I was in the middle of planning a campaign to conquer an empire’s capital.”
She pouted. “But I like naps and I’m sleepy. I’m hungry too. Is there nothing to eat here?”
He sighed and took her by the hand. “Come, I’ll find you a warm meal. The dining hall is not far, and we’ve taught some Elorians to cook us Ardish meals. We’ll get some food into you, and once I’m done with my work, we can nap.”
She nodded, letting him lead her by the hand.
They walked down twisting halls that curved, rose up stairs, sloped down ramps, and still made Ceranor dizzy. Holes lined the walls and guards peered through them. The builders of the Night Castle had created a labyrinth to trap and slay invaders. Ceranor had lost three hundred men storming this castle. Their blood had blessed the bricks of this place, and Ceranor vowed that Arden would forever rule here.
“… and I saw fifteen butterflies since you left!” Linee was prattling as they walked. “Oh, and new puppies were born! I brought one with me. I named him Fluffy. And … and … once I saw a really blue bird, and…”
Ceranor tried to ignore her as she spoke of her adventures. Finally they reached bronze doors and entered the castle kitchens.
The scents of a feast filled Ceranor’s nostrils. Pies and breads baked in a dozen ovens. Suckling pigs and slabs of beef roasted upon several fire pits. Pots simmered on stoves, full of stews and soups rich with meat, vegetables, and oats. Every turn, new ships arrived downriver from Timandra, bringing the richness of sunlit produce into the night. Every turn, this kitchen prepared meals from home. Ceranor had slain the enemy soldiers who had once guarded this castle, but he had kept its cooks. The Elorians stood in new livery—the black and gold wool of Arden rather than their old silken robes—as they tended to the meals. Their pale skin, oversized eyes, and large ears seemed comical in their sunlit clothes. Whenever he entered here, Ceranor felt tickled to see them; it was like seeing one of Linee’s pups dressed in a miniature gown.
“Your Highness!” they said, accents thick. They bowed and curtsied as he’d taught them.
Ceranor nodded at them. “You may rise. My wife, Queen Linee, has arrived in the Night Castle.
Prepare her a meal.” He turned toward his wife. “Linee, what do you—”
Seeing her expression, he paused. Her face had blanched to near-Elorian pallor. She gaped at the servants, trembling.
“Are those … are those Elorians?” she whispered. “I’ve never seen Elorians so close before.”
The cooks bowed toward her. “Your Highness.” They knew little more Ardish than those two words.
“They’re harmless,” Ceranor said, feeling a rare smile tickling his lips. “These ones are loyal to their new masters. Here, sit!” He led her to a stone table. “Point at whatever you wish to eat, and they will serve it to you. I return now to my chambers upstairs; I have much work to do. When you’re full, ask the servants to take you to me.”
“Aren’t you hungry too?” she asked, staring at him with huge, hurt eyes.
He kissed her forehead. “I hunger for power, for war, for conquest. Those are the meals of kings.”
As Elorians brought forth plates of stewed vegetables, slabs of turkey, and chicken pies—proper Timandrian fare—Ceranor left his wife in the kitchen. He had not eaten in hours, but after only a short walk with his wife, he needed a break from her already. He had become antsy in this palace, and Linee felt like the last straw. Six months of idleness was fraying his nerves, and he longed to charge forth again, to discover new lands, to leap into battle and spray blood and taste glory.
“Yintao will be our next prize,” he said to himself as he walked upstairs. “The greatest city in the night.”
He walked down a hallway between braziers, approaching his chamber, the place where the castle’s Elorian lord had once lived. He kept several books at his bedside; they were written in Qaelish, which Ceranor was only learning to read. Every time he opened those books, he learned more about this empire and its army. He read about Qaelin’s battles with other Elorian clans—the cruel Ilari nation of the south, the renegade Chanku riders of the plains, and the mysterious Leen folk of the northern island. With every page Ceranor read, he learned about how Elorians fought—their code of honor, their battle formations, their weapons, their tactics. With every page, his hope to defeat the darkness grew brighter.
He reached his chamber doors, longing to delve into his reading, and stepped inside.
For the second time, his heart sank.
Inside his chamber, hunched over the books at his bedside table, stood Ferius.
A growl fled Ceranor’s lips. “Why do you slither here, snake?”
Since taking over the Sailith Order, the monk had been intolerable—lurking in every shadow, slaying Elorians for sport, and spreading his twisted faith through the ranks. But this offense—entering the king’s chamber—was taking things too far, even for the head of Timandra’s most powerful religion.
Ferius smiled thinly. In his hands, he held not one of the Qaelish books Ceranor had been studying, but one of the letters Linee had written him several months ago. He read out loud.
“‘To my sweet noble hero of sunlight!’” Ferius’s hiss of a voice gave the words an eerie menace. “‘How I long to see you again, my piglet. How sad I am that—’”
Ceranor marched forward, snatched the letter from Ferius, and glared.
“Leave,” he said, voice strained. “Leave now if you wish to live.”
Ferius licked his chops and his smile widened, showing small, sharp teeth. “Oh, I think I’ll stay, noble hero of sunlight. I have entered your chamber to deliver tidings of peril, Your Highness. I will not depart without my warning.”
Ceranor grabbed the monk’s robes and snarled down at the shorter man. “I tire of your poisonous words. For too long, you have slunk in my shadow, spreading your hatred, whispering your fear mongering into the ears of soldiers. Too many dead bodies litter the streets, slain by the hatred you sowed. What is your warning? That Elorians are demons? That the darkness threatens the light? That Eloria must be cleansed of evil for Sailith to rise?” Ceranor snickered. “I’ve heard all your sermons. They are useful for swaying the simple-minded, but I see through your lies. You are a tool, Ferius, nothing more. Remember that. I keep you alive so your words may serve me, not warn me. Save your doctrine for lowborn soldiers, not kings.”
Ferius stared silently for a moment, eyes burning with unadulterated hatred, then began to laugh. It was a horrible sound, a sound like blood bubbling up from a wound.
“The danger lurks right under your nose, noble King Ceranor, and you are blind to it. In the city streets, more than corpses rot. An Elorian resistance rises against your rule. The uprising begins in tunnels, hovels, alleyways, and rooftops, a force of countless shadows. Already soldiers of your army lie dead, daggers in their backs and darts in their necks.” Ferius hissed his laughter. “Do you truly feel safe in your palace, oh brave warrior?”
Ceranor tossed the monk back and turned toward the window. As infuriating as Linee could be, he suddenly missed her and regretted leaving her alone to eat. She was a silly thing, but her company was infinitely better than Ferius’s. He stared outside the Night Castle upon the city he’d conquered. The streets snaked across the hillside, lined with lanterns and houses. The new Sailith stronghold—once a temple to Eloria’s stars—rose a few blocks away, topped with the sunburst banners. Every time he stared outside, Ceranor saw more monks in yellow robes, their numbers swelling with new recruits. They were raising their own army now; their warrior-priests marched in crimson armor, guarding their temple and patrolling the streets.
This is the real threat, Ceranor thought, gazing outside at the distant monks. Not some shadow resistance of Elorians, but the menace I brought here with me upon my own ships.
His belly twisted. He had hoped to use the fanatics for his own gain, yet now they burned with a fire he could no longer control.
I have to eradicate them, he realized. Their temple must fall.
Before he could march against Yintao, he would have to face the enemy within.
“The Elorian resistance is but a whisper of a threat,” he said, leaning against the windowsill and gazing upon the shadowy city.
Ferius snickered behind him. “Your Highness, do you remember the Fairwoolian girl, the orphan named Yana—the one I slew a year ago?”
Ceranor gripped the windowsill. “Of course. You murdered her and blamed the Elorians to spark this war. You—”
His breath died.
He gasped.
Pain bloomed from the center of his back, spreading across him. He tried to breathe. He could not.
A hand rested upon his shoulder, pale, its nails broken and yellow. A voice hissed in his ear.
“I will do the same with you,” said Ferius, the stench of his breath wafting. “Your death too will be blamed upon the Elorians … and they will pay.”
Ceranor reached for his sword. Before he could draw the blade, the monk behind him laughed, and the pain twisted through his back, cracking against his spine, and his blood stained his shirt and filled his mouth. He managed to spin around, tearing the shard from his flesh, and saw Ferius with a bloody dagger.
The blade thrust again. The dagger drove into Ceranor’s neck.
He coughed blood. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. With his last strength, he drew his sword. Before he could swing the blade down, the dagger thrust a third time, entering his eye and driving deep, cold darkness into him.
But I promised her a nap, was his last thought. I promised Linee that …
He hit the ground, saw pools of blood, and heard laughter fading into silence.
* * * * *
Linee stood at the doorway, the plate of cake in her hands, staring with wide eyes.
I … I only came to bring you cake. I …
She watched as the monk Ferius twisted the blade. She watched as her husband fell into a puddle of his own blood. So much blood, red everywhere, flowing across the tiled floor toward her, and the scent of death, and her sweet Cery on the floor …
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry for him. She opened her mouth
and then froze.
Don’t make a sound, she told herself. You have to run. You have to escape!
His back toward her, Ferius leaned over the body and laughed.
“For so long, you ruled over me with brute force,” the monk said to the corpse. He spat upon the dead king. “Yet I am a being of light; I will always be victorious. Your kingdom is now mine. All that is yours belongs to me, from your castle to your armies to that pathetic little wife of yours. Oh yes, Ceranor. She will be mine too.”
At the doorway, Linee gave a small whimper, barely audible.
Inside the chamber, Ferius stiffened.
The monk began to turn toward the doorway.
Linee leaped away and hid against the wall.
Run! spoke the voice inside her. Run or he’ll kill you too, or he’ll force you to marry him, or he’ll torture you, or—
She shook her head mightily. If she ran, he would hear her footfalls. Breath held, her back to the wall, she inched along the hallway. She reached another door, grabbed the handle, and twisted. She glimpsed Ferius’s yellow robes enter the hallway, but before he could see her, she stepped backward into this new chamber.
She glanced around and nearly fainted. Soldiers of Arden lay here, clad in the raven armor, their necks slit. Blood stained Linee’s slippers. She gasped and nearly squeaked, then saw a shadow in the hall.
Ferius.
She gulped, fear pounding through her. The monk had killed his king; he would kill his queen just as readily. She didn’t know where to go. But she knew she had to flee.
Silent as a cat, Linee ducked behind a bed as Ferius entered the room. The oil lamps in the hallway cast orange light, framing the monk’s squat form.
Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels Page 36
