JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING II

by JANRAE FRANK

  JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING

  Book II

  SINS OF THE MOTHERS

  By

  JANRAE FRANK

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-58873-789-6

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2005 by Janrae Frank

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  Publisher@renebooks.com

  PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Fantasy

  First Book Edition

  TO

  My daughter,

  Sovay.

  "Rape is the ultimate insult. Among my people, we pick ourselves up, go back after the asshole and when we catch him, we cut it off, and hang the little sack–after we tan it–on a string around our necks along with his ears. Mortgiefan, however, is the ultimate evil. Those who commit that we will hunt to the ends of the earth, burn them alive and cast their ashes to the winds."

  –Gaeatyra, a Sharani of the Taladrim

  "Lying to your King will cost your life,

  Lying to your God will cost your soul,

  Lying to your self will cost you both."

  –Old Sharani proverb.

  "When sa'necari kill sa'necari, they do it well,"

  –Old Waejontori proverb.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HOMECOMING

  Every morning before opening the tavern master inspected the place, starting with the common room and bar where most of their business was done. Becca, a bosomy woman with a tiny waist and boyish hips, standing just half past five feet tall, strictly maintained the high standards that were responsible for the Cock and Boar's growing reputation. A triangle of black silk scarf held her chestnut hair back. A narrow sleeved, wide-cuffed scarlet shirt covered her high ample breasts, tucked into the wide waistband of black trousers that fit tight in the seat and loose in the legs, ending in a pair of practical low-heeled black boots. Her hips swayed coquettishly when she moved, more out of habit than advertising though she had done a fair bit of that in less prosperous times, turning tricks to make ends meet. Until late last summer she had worn dresses like the rest of the women in Vorgensburg, but after getting into an "anything you can do, I can do better" match with one of the two female owners of the Cock and Boar, which involved unloading a wagon load of supplies, she had been forced to admit the practicality of pants, bought her first pair and discovered she liked them. Now there were no dresses in her entire wardrobe. Giving away her dresses, many of them beautiful and expensive – purchased since the upturn in her fortunes – had brought an odd pleasure: For much of her life she had been the recipient of hand-me-downs, now, for the first time in her life, Becca had done the handing, taking them down to the poor quarter and it felt good. She would have given them to the household servants, but the majority of them had followed her into pants as a way of setting themselves apart as members of Aejys Rowan's household.

  Zacham, the scullery boy, his wealth of shiny black hair tousled and mixed with straw from sleeping in the stable loft, shoved a push-broom with a handle that was longer than he was tall through the common room past Becca. The tables and chairs stood stacked in the corners to allow this daily cleaning. One of the adults would come through later with a mop, which Zacham was not yet strong enough to manage. The Cock and Boar, the cleanest establishment near the wharves, attracted as many traders and mid-level merchants as they did sailors, which had not always been the case; it had only been since Aejys Rowan and Tagalong Smith purchased it that the Cock and Boar stopped being a cheap dive and became a first rate tavern. And, since last spring, when Aejys lured away the Duke of Beltria's best pastry chef, it had begun to get the occasional wealthy merchant and guild master with a sweet tooth.

  Becca nodded at Zacham, appraising his efforts and finding them adequate. He flashed her a grin, then ducked his head in the self-conscious way some children had simply because he did not know what else to do. She had just started toward the kitchens, the Cock and Boar would be opening for breakfast soon and the regulars would be pounding on the doors if she did not get them open on time, when a flash of blue light erupted in front of her, stopping her in her tracks.

  "What in Nine Hells!" Her hand dropped to her pocket where the ends of a sling dangled above a handful of smooth stones. She wore a dagger at her waist and, although she had had some recent training, her instinctual reaction was still to reach for her sling. It was the only weapon she had known since childhood and felt entirely comfortable with. She always had a pocketful of her lucky river stones.

  The blue light faded, leaving two people huddling in the middle of the floor in front of her: a mon cradling a bloody, grievously wounded nude mon in his arms. Becca was already moving before the mon's face registered in her mind and she recognized Josh's deeply seamed, weatherworn face and abraded complexion framed by a heavy, gray-streaked, brown beard. Becca went to her knees beside him, searching his face for clues to what had happened and who the mon was.

  "Help her," Josh said, his voice strained with weeping. "Please, Becca."

  "Of course." The tavern master brushed back the long tangle of sweat-drenched, blood-crusted hair from the mon's battered face and a scream rose in her throat before she could stop it. "Oh My Gods! Aejys!"

  Zacham dropped the broom with a clatter, racing to her side. The scullery boy crouched at her elbow, staring through the crook of her arm. "Ohhhhh."

  Becca glanced at Zacham and bent forward, trying to block his view of Aejys by covering their liege-lord with her body and elbowed the boy back. "Get away, Zacham. You don't need to see this."

  The kitchen staff poured into the common room, clustering about them. An irritating cacophony of shocked questions rose around Becca. "Get out, all of you!" Becca shouted before she thought, then recovered enough to start issuing orders, "Zacham, Molly, wait. And Ash. The rest of you get back to work. Zacham, roust Omer and Raim. I'll need them to help get her upstairs. Ash get the healer fast. Molly, fetch a sheet and a blanket. We'll wrap her in the sheet first so no fibers from the blanket get in her wounds."

  As she straightened, a soft sob just behind Becca's shoulder, caused the tavern master to swivel on her knees. A small girl of seven stood there – obviously frightened – worried tears running down her round cheeks.

  "She'll be all right, Sami," Becca said, not really certain of anything. "Get hold of yourself. Go sit out front and tell the regulars we'll be opening a bit late, to be patient. But don't tell them why. This is very important. Don't tell them why. Just say 'opening late' nothing more. Can you do it?"

  The little girl wiped her tears away with the back of a grubby hand, nodding.

  "Good." Giving them things to do would keep down their talk and brooding on what they had just seen.

  As they departed, Becca turned to Josh. "What happened? Where are the others?"

  "Rowanslea," Josh said, adding quickly. "They're okay." The sot reeked of whiskey, a nasty sour smell: He had consumed so much that it was sweating through his pores.

  "That's something," Becca muttered. "Who did this? How did it happen?"

  "Margren."

  "Her sister?"

  Josh nodded. "Talk later, Becca. I don't feel so good." Strain from the incredible Jump and reaction had set in; he felt dizzy and sick.

  Becca caught Josh as the sot collapsed, lowering him gently to the common room floor to lie beside Aejys. She checked him for wounds and, finding none, wrote his unconsciousness off to the alcohol. Molly reappeared and together they carefully wrapped Aejys in the sheet to protect her wounds and then the blanket to keep her warm.

  Molly was a small middle-aged mon who wore her gold
en, curly hair caught at the back of her head with a bit of cheap red ribbon. She had warm brown eyes thickly lashed. Her small, delicate mouth was twisted tight with worry and concern. A soldier's widow, she had spent years following her husband on campaigns, serving as nurse, cook, and general forager for the company. When her husband died, the commander felt that it was improper for her to continue with them, took up a collection from the men, and sent her away. It was the blood, gore, and ugliness she had seen during those years of endless marching that caused her to say what Becca was afraid to, "She's been tortured. Get someone to build up the fire in her rooms. I'll need some warm water and soft cloths. The least we can do before the healer gets here is to start bathing some of the blood off so he can see what is hurt and what isn't."

  Becca felt grateful to be able to put Molly in charge. Although the tavern-master had seen her share of brawls, she had never seen anything as ugly and upsetting as this.

  * * * *

  The healer lowered Aejys' wrist, shaking his head. "Massive blood loss. Someone revivified her..." He gently pulled the pillow from under Aejys' head, moving it to beneath her feet and added the pillow from the far side also. He wore deep green robes and trousers; his waist length, glossy black hair tied back with a simple bit of green leather; a broad woven green band around his neck concealed his gills in an attempt to obscure his mixed species parentage – unnecessary for a member of Aejys' tolerant household, but Taun was new, having been enlisted by Becca after Aejys' departure from Vorgensburg last summer.

  Oil-lamps sat on the nightstand, a small table in the center and the two end-tables framing the window seat, their wicks turned all the way up, sending a dancing orange glare through the room in response to the tiny draft entering along the edges of the windows.

  Becca shook her head. "What does that mean, Taun?"

  "She died." Taun's pale sea-foam eyes hooded with distress, for the thought clearly bothered him. "They brought her back. Sometimes, if a healer gets there in time, they can restart the heart and breathing."

  "But she'll be all right?"

  "I can't say yet – her blood-pressure is almost too low to..." Taun broke off, changing the subject – he had looked eagerly forward to finally meeting Aejystrys Rowan, but not like this. This was the worst thing the young healer had ever seen. "That's lifemage work." Taun's finger lightly traced the scars on Aejys' stomach. "Those wounds are only about an hour old."

  Becca blanched, folding her arms across her stomach and fighting back nausea at the thought of what had been done to her liege lord. Before Aejys Rowan pulled her out of the gutter side of life, she had been a tavern wench, serving drinks and turning tricks just to survive. Aejys recognized and rewarded her talents, showing her that there was a better way to live, even arranging for Becca to learn to read and write. And if Aejys is lost, then the whole household is in danger. Everything we've gained is lost, she thought, then flushed with shame: I should be worrying about Aejys, just that, not what will happen to myself and the rest of us. No. Aejys would want me to worry about them.

  Taun turned to Josh. "Why did they not finish the healing? Why only a makeshift mending?"

  "They're dead." Josh dropped his eyes, focusing with distressed intensity on his fingers drawing circles on the clawed arms of his chair. He wore a long nightshirt with a wool blanket wrapped around him, his well-shaped legs sticking out beneath. He had roused from his exhaustion and alcoholic stupor the moment Omer and Raim tried to slide him into bed, managing to stagger down the hall to Aejys' room where he curled up in an over-stuffed chair. Josh had collapsed mainly from reaction to the strain of making the long Jump to safety in Vorgensburg from Rowanslea.

  Taun's eyes went distant, unfocussed. "Genocide," he said softly. "I've heard rumors that the lifemages were all slain by the sa'necari." Then he visibly shook himself free. "Keep her warm. Keep her feet up to reduce the strain on her heart. Should she wake don't let her out of bed for any reason. Find some kind of bowl for her to relieve herself in. Get all the liquids into her you can. Lots of broth and tea." He pulled three bottles from his satchel. "Three fingers of this three times a day. It's a blood tonic." He sat a large bottle of amber liquid on the nightstand, placing a bottle of golden holadil next to it. "Two fingers for pain and to keep down the chance of infection. As needed. But at least three times a day for now."

  "What's that for?" Becca picked up the smallest bottle, which contained a blue powder.

  "With her blood pressure so low there's a chance of seizures. Should it happen, rub the powder into her nostrils and gums."

  "That would mean we're losing her..." Becca guessed this.

  Taun's expression clouded again. "If we can't stop them quickly enough..." He pulled the blankets over Aejys, tucking them in around her. "If it happens, get me immediately. I need to get some splints made for her hands and fingers. I doubt she'll ever have much – if any – use of them again – but we must try. And don't leave her alone. Not for a moment!" He shouldered his medicine satchel, rising to his feet.

  "Taun," Becca's hand on his arm stopped him. "Would you mind moving into the main building here? I want you right next door to her."

  "Can Skree stay here with me?"

  "Of course. Skree is always welcome."

  "Thank you." Taun's face brightened. His lover was a skeptic, harboring grim suspicions about all landsmyn; so Taun saw this as an opportunity to turn him around. Even more importantly, Skree was a sea-mage with gifts and knowledge more wide ranging than Taun's: if Skree could be persuaded to help, then Aejys' chances of survival would be vastly improved. However, only a lifemage could make a real difference and neither of them were one.

  "I'll send Omer and Raim for your stuff."

  * * * *

  Becca could hear the kitchen crew banging pots as they washed up from the evening meal in the room beneath her office; the day had crawled away at last and yet she had gotten very little done, running as she had with her spirits at half-mast. It had taken all the strength and discipline she could muster just to keep the worry schooled out of her face and voice for the sake of all who depended on her and who ultimately depended on Aejys. Last time there had been a serious crisis Tagalong and Clemmerick had been there to back her up, this was the first time that it was all up to her. There had been several rich influential merchants hovering about like vultures ever since Aejys left for Rowanslea last summer, held back only by the knowledge that Aejys and her crew would be returning in the spring. If Aejys did not make it, they would descend on the properties to rip it and everyone there into bite size pieces before eating them alive. It would happen fast, because they would want to get it done before Tagalong Smith could return. Most of Aejys' people were social outcasts, pariahs, rogues and rebels, people who rarely got a first chance, much less a second; as a result they were fiercely devoted to her. Many influential people, Thomas Cedarbird being the ringleader, would like to see them put back in their places, shoved down into the gutters and ghettoes from which Aejys had rescued them. Without Tagalong Smith and Clemmerick Poetson things could get very, very bad indeed.

  With all that weighing on her mind, she sat at her big desk, staring at the open ledger book distractedly without really seeing it. She was still new enough to reading that she had to think about the words in front of her, and she could not find the concentration just then. Next to the ledger was a slender book of children's poems that Brother Arlethan had left her as a primer. Her life had been both easier and harder back when the only person she had to worry about was herself. "Well, rise with the waves or sink to the bottom," she muttered resolutely.

  The finish on the enormous monstrosity of an oak desk had long ago been worn away in all but a few places; the edges were nicked and battered. It had dozens of drawers with unmatched pulls on them. She could have had a new one; Aejys had suggested it often enough, but the otherwise unsentimental tavern master and seneschal would not hear of it. She had wanted this odd desk for her own from the day she first saw it
when she worked for the previous owner. To have his desk was a cherished symbol of how far she had come since that first day in Vorgensburg ten years ago. She had had to sleep with the old bastard just to get the meager job serving and whoring in the Cock and Boar; now she not only had his job, she had his desk.

  She had slept alone for over two years now, despite frequent temptations, and that would have felt just as good as the desk, except that she had finally found someone she genuinely wanted a relationship with. Unfortunately the big ogre did not seem at all interested in her except as a friend, and she had let it go at that out of fear of endangering what they did have. Now that Clemmerick was far away in the Rowanslea Mar'ajanate of Shaurone, she could not stop thinking about him, imagining and wishing she had done something about the situation before he left with Aejys. What made it even worse was that their last encounter had been a bad one. She had beaten him with a broom stick and chased him out of the tavern after discovering he and Josh had managed to consume most of the north cellar in a single night of uncharacteristic, for Clemmerick, drunkenness.

  She missed him in more ways than just his company. He had taken care of the stables (she had to hire two myn to get anywhere near as much work done as Clemmerick had alone) and he had helped her with the books. Becca knew she had to start delegating some of the work around the properties since there was getting to be too much of it. Maybe she could have Brother Arlethan, the Willodarian cleric who taught reading to all in the household who wanted to learn, to help her with the books – at least until Clemmerick got back.

  She dipped a quill in ink and painstakingly wrote a request to Brother Arlethan to come to her office. She had to concentrate hard just to form the letters readably and wondered for a moment at the end of each word, hoping she had spelled them right. Then she sighed and blew on the ink to dry it: if she had not spelled them correctly, she had at least gotten close enough that the good monk would be able to figure them out. Becca folded the note, walked to the door, and shouted into the hallway, "Zacham!"