Victor, Vanquished, Son (Of Crowns and Glory—Book 8)

by Morgan Rice

It was the only way to be safe. For now, though, he would continue, and pretend that all was well. He pulled Stephania to him and kissed her. He would enjoy being a married man while he could—and he would enjoy his triumph even more.

  ***

  Stephania was enjoying the fruits of her vengeance. Every time she saw one of Irrien’s men dead, she looked at his face, trying to remember if he had shown her any hint of cruelty or disdain. Even when they hadn’t, she thought of Irrien, and the way he’d bellowed when he’d lost his hand.

  The castle was hers. The Empire was hers. Ulren walked beside her down the corridors of Delos’s castle, but it was Stephania who showed the way. She toured the castle with him like a guide, and at each stop there, she found herself thinking of all she’d done there.

  “These are the gardens,” Stephania said, not saying anything about the lover she’d murdered there.

  “A waste of land that could be used to feed soldiers,” Ulren replied.

  “And up here is the library.” Whose librarian she’d had executed after he told her all he knew.

  “Books are for fools who want to read history rather than make it.”

  Stephania was starting to see why Ulren had been the Second Stone and not the first. The man had no wish to be more than a thug. He was the aging remnant of a warrior who had once been, who had always gotten by through violence and saw no reason to change. Stephania forced herself to smile.

  “We have certainly done that,” she said. “Down there is the room where I tortured Ceres in the hopes of using her as a bribe for Irrien.”

  “Do not say his name,” Ulren said, catching her by the arm with bruising force.

  Stephania leaned closer to him, brushing up against him. Her fingers whispered along his belt, brushing the grip of his sword. “But husband, how are we going to celebrate his death without that?”

  “I can think of all kinds of ways,” Ulren said.

  Of course he could. Men always thought in the same ways. Even so, Stephania made him wait. She kept touring the castle with him, pausing in different spots to take in the view or point out a space where the events of the past had touched her. If she happened to slip a note into the hands of a slave here or a guard there, Stephania made sure that Ulren never saw.

  She showed him entrances to the tunnels and passages that ran beneath the castle, and showed him the great hall, where his soldiers were busy tearing down what was left of the hangings. She showed him the space where the master of birds kept his ravens and the doors to the old king’s rooms.

  She gestured for him to follow, and he did, as obediently as a pet or a slave. She led the way further along, to a door she knew very well.

  “And these were my rooms,” Stephania said. “Shall we go inside, husband? I have sent servants ahead to prepare things.”

  She led the way inside without waiting for an answer, and wasn’t surprised to find that the rooms were a lot more bare than they had been before the invasion. A slave girl was setting out wine for them, and Stephania had been careful to pick a beautiful one. She looked faintly familiar.

  “It seems that you have been careful to pick distractions for me,” Ulren said. “I wonder, is there poison in the wine?”

  He made a joke out of it, but Stephania caught the sharper edge there beneath it all. She hadn’t survived as long as she had by ignoring warning signs when they came to her.

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” Stephania asked. “Dancing around one another waiting for a moment to strike without repercussions?”

  “Direct as always,” Ulren said. “Although you have forgotten one thing.”

  “What’s that, my husband?”

  He struck her then, too fast to hope to fight, in spite of his age. He was a warrior, after all. The slap sent Stephania to her knees. She heard the slave girl give a cry of shock.

  “I am the First Stone!” Ulren bellowed. “I can do what I please!”

  Stephania looked up at him, her eyes streaming with the impact of the blow.

  “You think you’re going to do something clever,” Ulren said. “You think you’re going to survive me the way you survived Irrien. You think I didn’t see you passing notes around the castle? My men will round up all those you talked to and torture them until they tell me everything.”

  Stephania laughed at that.

  “What is there to laugh at?” Ulren demanded. “You think I won’t kill you?”

  He drew his sword then, standing over her with it.

  “Irrien’s mistake was to make things complicated. He gave you to the priests for their ceremonies. I will… simply…” He stumbled for a second. “No… what have…”

  He fell to his side, and Stephania picked herself up, taking his sword with a cloth, while being very careful to avoid touching the hilt. The poison she had applied wasn’t deadly, but it did paralyze quickly. She replaced the weapon in its sheath.

  “Unlike you, I must be more subtle,” she said. “So let’s see. A disgruntled slave took a chance and seized a dagger, I think.”

  She knelt, drawing one of the Second Stone’s blades. She looked down at the man who had so recently been declared her husband and drew it across his throat without hesitation. She heard the slave girl shriek again.

  Calmly, Stephania walked over to her. She threw Ulren’s dagger down beside her, drawing one of her own. “Thank you. Your screams should summon the guards quite nicely.” Again, that sense of familiarity came to her. “Do I know you, girl?”

  “I was… I was a noble here,” she said. “We were friends! Please, Stephania.”

  Friends, and yet Stephania couldn’t remember her. Still, that was normal. Stephania only remembered useful people.

  “We were friends, and yet you murdered my husband?” Stephania shook her head ruefully. Then she struck with the dagger, thrusting fast while the girl cried out. After so many deaths, so much murder, it felt like nothing.

  Stephania stood, waiting for the guards to burst in. She looked down at Ulren without contempt, just with gratitude. He’d given her what she wanted, after all. He’d given her back her position, her power, her Empire.

  Now, he’d handed her more than that. He’d given her the keys to ruling Felldust.

  And maybe—just maybe—a way to get back her son.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Athena fell clumsily as a guard pushed her back, stumbling among the detritus left outside one of Delos’s inns. She’d learned enough by now to bow her head when it happened, hiding her anger. She’d learned to be subservient, or at least to give the appearance of it.

  “Out of the way, slave!” the man snapped.

  “Yes, master,” Athena said, but he was already moving on. Athena continued on her path around the city, going from spot to spot, picking what she could from the waste of the city, keeping out of sight.

  Her bones ached as she walked. Every part of her seemed to hurt these days, from too long spent sleeping in rough corners and eating only what she could scavenge. There had been days when she’d starved, and days when she’d had to hide to keep away from the threat of violence.

  Living on Delos’s streets was a harsh business, and it had withered away whatever excess flesh had been on her body. It had hardened her too. Athena had always known how to survive in the Empire’s court; now she had learned to survive in an environment that was even less forgiving.

  Athena wandered down to a place where a slave handed out water from a fountain. She had to wait beside her for her turn until all the soldiers passed. That was fine, though, because it meant Athena could listen.

  “There’s a change going on in the city,” the girl said. “These soldiers aren’t the ones from before.”

  Athena nodded. She’d seen the difference as much in the way they behaved as the way they looked. She’d seen soldiers who were more interested in tearing things apart than in organized looting. She’d heard about the small battles in the streets, with men cut down where they stood. Now, she needed to unde
rstand what was happening.

  It kept her safe in one way, pretending to be one of the weakest of the city. She wasn’t worth the time or effort to bother. It meant that she could walk from place to place, listening here, passing on information there. She had nothing, she was nothing, but she could serve as a conduit for the things people knew, and a way for them to connect.

  She carried a roll of stained bandages to a family whose father had been stabbed in the latest battles, and heard the same story again: of new soldiers, and changes. She carried water down to the docks and saw that the bulk of the invasion fleet was gone, only to be replaced by fresh ships. Athena knew their banners.

  Ulren, the Second Stone, had taken the city from Irrien.

  That would explain the fresh rounds of looting. Already, Athena had found herself forced to hide from soldiers twice, and to kneel and play the part of the slave more times than that. If she’d been younger and less easy to forget, maybe even that wouldn’t have been enough.

  It still didn’t fit, though, because now the looting seemed to have stopped. Athena had taken the time to learn about the rulers of Felldust when she’d been a queen, and Ulren was not a man to hold back his appetites in victory. Nor was he a man to sit there in Delos, the way Irrien had. Winning the city like this, he would see the danger that came from leaving rivals unattended back home.

  What could make a man like that call off his ravishing of the city?

  That was enough to make Athena be more direct than usual. She walked toward the wealthier sections of the city, picking up a basket of fruit when a merchant’s back was turned and using its presence to deflect the attention of anyone who might want to know what she was doing.

  Of course, by this point, even the wealthier sections were partly ruined. The successive waves of invaders had been thorough. A few had taken noble houses, though, and Athena had spent the days since the invasion learning which had slaves and servants who could be trusted to tell her things in return for small favors, and which held former friends, reduced to servitude.

  She went to another inn, on the basis that inns seemed to have become a kind of neutral ground in the city. Everywhere else, there were factions and rivalries, but it seemed that the invaders were willing to keep from killing one another while they were drinking. Athena walked forward with her stolen fruit, heading for the spot where the new innkeeper stood, polishing tankards. Beside him, a young man was chained to the bar, serving drinks. Athena could remember when he’d been more, though.

  “My master sent me with this,” Athena said. “He said it was to sell.”

  “Three coppers,” the innkeeper said. “No more. You,” he snapped to the young man, “go with her to the storeroom with it. See that she doesn’t steal anything.”

  Athena went with the young man, passing him the fruits as soon as he was there, slipping a dagger across to him afterward. How many blades had she hidden around the city now? How much support had she built?

  “Matteius,” Athena said. “I remember when you were an eager young noble. Now you’re chained to a bar.”

  “Not forever,” the young man said.

  That part remained to be seen. Athena was careful not to make promises about what would happen next. There was only so much power she had out on the street.

  “There is something different in the city,” Athena said. “Do you know what’s happening?”

  “They say that the First Stone’s fleet is gone to Haylon,” Matteius said.

  Athena shook her head. “That’s not news. Anyone with eyes can see that it’s gone, and they’ve been building up to attack Haylon for days. There’s more.”

  The young man nodded. “Ulren took the city.”

  “I know that, too,” Athena said.

  “Do you know that he’s dead?” Matteius countered.

  That caught Athena by surprise. If he was dead, how did his men still have the city?

  “You’re sure?” Athena asked.

  “I’m sure.” Matteius moved from Athena to put the fruit away. “I heard the men in the inn talking about it. They say he beat Irrien, and then a slave murdered him. His wife rules now.”

  Athena frowned at that. “His wife?”

  “Lady Stephania.”

  That name was like ice being poured through her veins. For an instant, Athena couldn’t believe it, because she’d been so sure that Stephania was dead. Yet, if there was one person who could survive the fall of the city, the cruelties of the First Stone, surely it was Stephania.

  That meant that her need for vengeance finally had a sense of direction.

  “What’s going on down there?” the innkeeper called. “I swear, if I find you slacking, I’ll skin you both!”

  He stormed into the storeroom, looking around in obvious anger.

  “I told you to help her, not to waste time.”

  “No,” Athena said, “we shouldn’t waste time.”

  He turned to face her, his face reddening. “Did I tell you to speak, slave?”

  “No, you didn’t.” Athena drew a knife, plunging it into his chest with all the strength she had. “But then, I’m not a slave.”

  She nodded to Matteius, who looked shocked, but then held the innkeeper while he died, forcing him to remain quiet. He looked terrified.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “When they find out—”

  “It will already be too late,” Athena replied. She could feel a sense of life seeping back into her, the fires of vengeance warming her and making her stronger. “It is time. Tell that to the others. It is time.”

  Time to rise up, time to kill those who stood against them and take the city back. Athena had assumed that it wouldn’t happen in her lifetime. She had assumed that the movement she was building would be a question of ripples on a pond, spreading out from her life, and her eventual death.

  Stephania’s presence changed that.

  Now, it wasn’t a question of a long, slow revival against the might of an invading power. It wasn’t about building a movement, or a network. It wasn’t even about trying to prepare the way for something that might come in the future.

  Stephania had taken everything from Athena, and now the former queen intended to return the favor. She stalked from the inn, ignoring the looks of the patrons there, and went off to spread the word to the next of the slaves and the hidden folk, the rebels and the loyalists.

  Along the way, she discarded her rags, digging into a crevice in a wall until she found a dress that she’d hidden there. Athena washed herself in a water butt, pulled it on, and then wrapped a cloak around herself to hide it until the moment was right. She checked her knives and then started to walk toward the palace.

  She would almost certainly die doing this. She hadn’t prepared enough to have a way out, and she had no doubt that eventually, the invaders would come for her. A year ago, a month, and she might have cared about that.

  Since then, she had lost a son, a husband, and an empire. Athena had fallen as far as it was possible to fall, and one person, just one, was responsible for that. If she died ensuring that Stephania went to her grave, it would be worth it.

  “I’m coming for you, Stephania,” Athena promised.

  She marched toward the castle.

  And slowly, one by one, figures began to march with her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Irrien lay in a world that seemed to be formed from pure agony. In spite of his priests’ efforts with herbs and drugs, in spite of calm seas and careful rowers, every stroke of his flagship’s oars brought a jolt with it that made him hiss with pain. Every rough wave or crosswind made him bite down to keep from crying out, hard enough that he tasted blood.

  What was a little more blood, compared to the amounts of it pouring from his arm.

  From what had been his arm. There was an empty space where his hand and forearm had been, as disconcerting as a sudden silence where there had been noise before. Irrien stared at that space blindly, as if he could will his lost fingers back int
o being. He swore that he could still feel the hand there, its phantom presence taunting him almost as much as the absence.

  He could hear the whispers around him, of men who had never believed this possible, and who couldn’t work out what to do now that it had happened. Their words came to Irrien as if from a great distance, so that he was half convinced that they were the voices of the dead.

  “The wound is bound,” one of the death priests said, as calmly as if he were speaking about the order of sermons in the temple. “But it will need to be cauterized. I have prepared a brazier.”

  “It is not for us to decide if he lives,” another argued. “The gods of death will choose him or not, according to their will.”

  Irrien looked over at them, and through the haze of pain and things designed to dull the pain, they seemed like specters in their dark robes. Perhaps they were, and the dead were there to taunt him.

  For now, the living were more of an insult.

  After the assassins, he should have guessed that Ulren would try to strike at him again. Yet, he’d been arrogant in assuming his security. He’d been certain that there was no one left who could possibly hurt him.

  He’d reckoned without Stephania.

  She’d survived, somehow. He should have cut her throat and made certain of the whole thing, but instead, he’d discarded her without checking that she was dead. His repayment was a dagger thrown at just the angle he couldn’t hope to block with his wounds, a poison that he’d had to lose a hand to counter.

  Around him, the whispers continued. Did they really think Irrien couldn’t hear them?

  “Who will lead if he dies?” one man asked. “Do we become Ulren’s men?”

  Irrien saw another spit over the side of the boat in disgust. “I’ll not work for the old man, even if he has Delos. If Irrien dies, I’ll strike out on my own. There will be war in Felldust. It will be good business for looting.”

  “And bad business if we pick the losing side,” the first man whispered. “If not Ulren, then who? Vexa? We have to go to someone.”