Godblind

by Anna Stephens

  Dom nodded and eyed the saddle. ‘Have to leave that here,’ he said. ‘Can’t sit a horse with an arrow in the back of my thigh.’ His leg was shuddering constantly and he was dizzy with pain and blood loss.

  Rillirin unsaddled his gelding and gave him a leg-up, and Dom lay face down over the horse’s back. ‘Take it slow, all right?’ he muttered. ‘Really slow.’

  Rillirin mounted, gathered up the gelding’s leading rein, and clucked her mare into a walk. Dom grabbed the reins and a handful of mane and did his best not to slide off as they made their way on to the plain.

  DURDIL

  First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  North Harbour docks, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  Durdil watched the ship approach on the current, the harbourmaster himself flagging them to their berth close to where Durdil waited with the carriage and a hundred of Rastoth’s Personal Guards. His heart lightened at the thought of the princes’ return and that they’d have Galtas with them.

  ‘Time for some answers, Lord Morellis,’ he muttered. ‘Guard! Attention!’ he snapped and the Hundred snapped erect, spear tips winking in the weak winter sun.

  The ship didn’t slow, didn’t turn for the harbour. Instead it carried straight on, past the cheering crowds, down the side of the city towards the private jetty by East Tower. The cheering faltered and Durdil squinted at the ship’s mast – Janis’s insignia flew, but there was something wrong with it. The wind unfurled it and he saw the scarlet slash across the crest. His stomach lurched.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he breathed. ‘Personals, with me,’ he barked and quick-marched off the dockside towards the gatehouse. Once in the city he broke into a jog down the King’s Way, sentries waving him through the gates with puzzled expressions.

  Never going to reach East Tower in time. Have to meet them in the palace; they’ll take the tunnel. Why is Janis in mourning? A wave of cold prickled up his spine and across his scalp. Not Mace. Please, gods, anyone but my boy. Durdil tried to convince himself Janis wouldn’t proclaim mourning for a man he barely knew, but this was Janis. Of course he would, especially if he was bringing the news to the newly bereaved himself.

  ‘Move,’ he roared as a carter struggled with his horse. The animal took one look at the running, metal-clad soldiers and panicked, dragging the cart along the road. Durdil dodged it and ran on, faster now, breath whistling in his throat. The blood pounded in his ears, calling his son’s name with every beat.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Durdil managed, ‘what has happened? The mourning colours – You didn’t stop at the harbour …’

  The words dried up as Rivil’s honour guard carried the bier out of the gloom of the tunnel that ran from the palace to East Tower. Durdil looked from it to Rivil, the scarlet of his mourning sash bright against the green velvet of his coat. Durdil’s throat clicked as he swallowed. ‘Where is His Highness Prince Janis?’ he croaked.

  ‘My brother has left this world, Commander,’ Rivil said, resting his hand on the rough wood of the open casket. ‘Janis is dead.’

  Durdil stared at him, bewildered, relieved, horrified. His eyes moved slowly across the guards standing at attention behind the prince and the coffin. The room the tunnel emptied into was sparse and cold and Rivil’s pronouncement seemed swallowed up by the blank stone walls.

  Lord Galtas slouched at the back, the red of his sash stark against his black coat and trousers. He sported a scarlet eye patch too, an affectation that made Durdil want to rip it off his head and ram it down his throat.

  He looked at the guards again. ‘You are missing men,’ he said, clinging to the comprehensible. ‘Were they caught up in this tragedy?’

  ‘Some of the men died with …’ Rivil trailed off, a mute gesture more eloquent than words.

  Durdil had no choice now; he had to look. He crept to the casket. Janis was pale and still, no visible injuries, though his open eyes spoke of terror-filled final moments. Durdil tapped his fingertips to his heart. ‘My prince,’ he whispered. ‘Sleep now in the Light.’

  He was turning away before his brain processed the corpse’s odd foreshortening. His fingers twitched the silk sheet from Janis’s lower half and he cried out, stumbled back. Janis’s legs were missing.

  He sucked in a deep breath and studied the body, then Rivil. The prince was solemn but not as grief-stricken as Durdil would expect. He gazed at the space where Janis’s legs should be without emotion. He’s had longer to process this, of course, but this – this mutilation … How can he be so calm?

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I should tell my father first,’ Rivil said. ‘He has lost his son and heir.’

  Rivil went to brush past him and Durdil stopped him. ‘His Majesty is fragile, Your Highness. Break it gently, whatever it is.’ Rivil nodded; then he arched a brow when Durdil didn’t stand aside. ‘And you, Your Highness? How are you?’

  Rivil gusted a sigh and stared up for a second. ‘Broken,’ he said, but it was forced. Durdil stood aside.

  ‘Take my brother to the temple,’ Rivil said to his men. ‘With me please, Commander. Galtas, you too.’

  Durdil followed Rivil up the stone stairs into the palace proper, then through corridors and chambers to the king’s private study. Galtas dogged his heels, oppressive as a summer storm, yet nothing compared with the thoughts swirling treacherously through Durdil’s head.

  GALTAS

  First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  The palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  If Crys lives, this is where we get arrested for treason. A thrill of nerves shivered through Galtas. The Lady’s will.

  ‘Father, there has been a tragic accident.’

  Rastoth’s brow furrowed and his welcoming smile faded. ‘Where is Janis?’ he asked, and Galtas noted how he turned to Durdil for reassurance. Durdil was silent.

  Rivil bowed his head, every inch the grieving brother. ‘Gone, Sire. We were riding to Dancer’s Lake to charter a boat when a storm blew down from the mountains. Snow, ice, hail, winds so strong we could barely stand up in them. We made it to a small copse, looking for some shelter. We’d just set up camp when a branch fell and pinned some of the men, Captain Tailorson included. Janis ran to their aid. He was pulling at the branch, trying to free the trapped men.’

  Rivil stopped and adjusted his sash. Rastoth’s eyes were huge and watery and misting with pain. Durdil’s face was blank, calculating, the muscles around his mouth tight with suspicion. Come on, Rivil, convince them. Or at least Durdil.

  ‘I should have realised the danger,’ Rivil said and Galtas ventured a shake of the head and a heavy sigh. ‘I should have seen it coming. If the branch could come down, then the whole tree … and it did. Before I had a chance to react, the tree fell. It crushed Janis, crushed his legs, killed the men he was trying to save. The rest of us, we tried everything we could, but we couldn’t free him. I’m sorry, Father, but Janis is dead.’

  Not bad. Look at Rastoth. With luck the shock will kill him. Go on, drop dead. Die, you fuck, just die.

  Rastoth didn’t die, but he did crumple like parchment curling in a fire. Boneless, he slid from his chair, a high wailing shriek dragging from his chest. Durdil had one hand on the wall to steady himself, the other to his brow hiding his eyes.

  Galtas opened the door. ‘Get the physician instantly,’ he snapped and one of the guards saluted and ran off down the corridor.

  ‘How? How?’ Rastoth said, over and over. Rivil tried to pull him back into his chair, but Rastoth wasn’t moving.

  Rivil knelt opposite him. ‘I stayed with him until the end, Father, prayed with him, did what I could to ease him into the Light. He didn’t die alone, at least.’

  ‘Who else witnessed the death of the heir?’ Durdil asked.

  ‘All of us, of course,’ Galtas said. ‘We were trying to free him and the others – Crys, Joe and Mac. We were all there with him. But the cold, the wind – it was impossible.’

>   ‘Come now, Father,’ Rivil murmured, ‘come on, let’s get you into a chair. You shouldn’t be sitting on this cold floor. Durdil, help me with him.’ Together they lifted Rastoth and bundled him into his seat. He was still mewling like a crippled cat, but then Hallos arrived with a sedative and forced it down his throat. Slowly, he quietened.

  ‘What is going on?’ Hallos asked, and then he saw the mourning sashes. Wordlessly, he turned back to the king.

  ‘Where exactly were you when the storm blew in?’ Durdil asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Rivil snapped, showing a flash of anger.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Your Highness,’ Durdil said.

  The room was quiet but for the crackle of the fire, Rastoth’s whimpering. Durdil lit several more candles, shining the light of suspicion on Galtas and Rivil. Not even pretending to believe them.

  ‘On the road to Dancer’s Lake, as His Highness said,’ Galtas put in, clenching clammy fists. ‘A few days out from the West Rank.’

  Durdil’s gaze was steady and penetrating. ‘I don’t recall there being a copse anywhere after Trickster’s Mount,’ he said.

  ‘It was before the mount,’ Galtas said. ‘Wasn’t it, Sire? Didn’t we pass the mount the day after?’

  ‘I think so,’ Rivil said absently, watching Rastoth and Hallos fluttering around him.

  ‘I understand this is difficult, Your Highness,’ Durdil said, ‘but any information you can give me is invaluable.’

  Rivil turned at that. ‘Why? Janis is dead, isn’t he? What difference does it make?’ His tone was brutal and Rastoth jerked at it. Hallos winced and suspicion hardened in Durdil’s face.

  ‘Commander, the prince is devastated and his memory of the … tragedy is hazy,’ Galtas said, smooth as silk. ‘It happened before we reached Trickster’s Mount. But why is the location so important?’

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Durdil said in a low voice. He turned his shoulder to the king. ‘Prince Janis’s body is not intact. We must send a recovery party out to bring back the rest of his remains so that he can be interred beside his mother.’

  What? Sweat slid down Galtas’s ribs, gathering in the socket under his eye patch, itching.

  ‘Commander, we did everything we could to retrieve the heir’s body intact,’ he said, ‘and, as His Highness has already told you, it was impossible. It will be impossible for someone else.’

  ‘You were in shock, you’d lost your prince and your captain, and it was imperative you got back here to tell the king. I understand that … sacrifices had to be made,’ Durdil said.

  Oh, Commander, you have no idea. Galtas fought the nervous urge to giggle at Durdil’s choice of words.

  ‘But now, of course, we simply must do better. I expect General Mace Koridam will have men there already?’

  Rivil and Galtas exchanged a glance. ‘Your son, Commander?’ Rivil asked in careful tones. ‘Why would that be?’

  Durdil looked surprised. ‘Well, if you hadn’t even reached the mount, then obviously you sent someone back to inform the general of the accident. You were only a day or two out.’

  ‘I am afraid our grief clouded our thinking,’ Rivil said, spreading his hands. ‘You understand.’

  Durdil was silent. Apparently he didn’t understand. ‘You were closer to the West Forts than the Tears, and still you continued to the Tears?’ He scratched his cheek. ‘I would expect your honour guard to have advised differently.’

  ‘Captain Tailorson is dead,’ Rivil said. ‘The men were as much at a loss as the rest of us. He was a popular man, after all.’

  ‘Ah,’ Durdil said, ‘of course. That explains it. Hallos, how is His Majesty?’

  ‘The king sleeps,’ Hallos said. ‘I will stay with him.’

  ‘Thank you, Hallos,’ Durdil said. ‘Your Highness, milord, with respect you look exhausted. Grief can do that. Perhaps we should leave His Majesty alone for a while? I’ll have private quarters readied for your guard – I think it would be wise to keep them separate from the rest of the Rank until we have decided how to break the news.’

  So you can question them, you mean, Galtas mused as Rivil thanked Hallos, not that they’ll say anything to compromise us. Gold and treachery sealed many a mouth.

  ‘Galtas, let us retire to the temple. There are torches to burn and prayers to say,’ Rivil murmured. Galtas bowed to the drooling figure of the king and followed Rivil from the study, his shoulder blades tingling under the heat of Durdil’s glare.

  DURDIL

  First moon, eighteenth year of the reign of King Rastoth

  Commander’s wing, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands

  ‘Lies, lies and more lies, gentlemen. And one of them at least I can prove.’ Durdil slapped his palm on the table. ‘Their location. Lord Galtas said they were between the West Forts and the mount in a copse when the accident happened.’

  ‘There isn’t a copse on that road, not until a day out from Dancer’s Lake,’ Major Wheeler of the Palace Rank said.

  Durdil’s smile was grim. ‘Exactly.’

  Hallos cleared his throat. ‘They were in the middle of a snowstorm, Commander. It’s quite possible they got turned around, wandered into the treeline.’

  Wheeler was already shaking his head and Durdil gestured for him to explain. ‘Treeline’s half a day from the road. Too dangerous to be any closer – wild animals, Mireces. There’s no freestanding forest around that area.’

  ‘So they weren’t in a copse when Janis was killed by a falling tree,’ Durdil said. ‘So is it their location that’s a lie, or the nature of the heir’s death?’

  Hallos grunted and tugged at his beard. ‘About that.’

  Durdil’s head swivelled towards the physician. ‘You have examined the body, then?’ Hallos nodded. ‘Wheeler, check the door.’

  They waited while Wheeler opened the door and peered both ways along the corridor. The Commander of the Ranks had his own suite of rooms, and Durdil had ordered that there be no guards stationed there for this meeting. That in itself would cause rumour, but with Hallos there they’d assume it had to do with the king’s health. Rather gossip that the king is ill than gossip the heir is dead and his brother is under suspicion for killing him.

  ‘Clear, sir,’ Wheeler said.

  Hallos stood and led them from Durdil’s study into his planning room. Wheeler skidded to a halt when he saw the body on the table.

  ‘Yes, Hallos and I brought him from the temple,’ Durdil said before Wheeler could speak. ‘Prince Rivil and Galtas are with the king again; we have some time. Hallos, tell us.’

  Hallos slid the red silk coverlet from Janis’s corpse, exposing his naked flesh and the raw, splintered ends of his legs, hacked off above the knee. Wheeler put his hand to his mouth.

  ‘Nothing from the waist up. Not a scratch, not a bruise. No impact bruising from branches anywhere on his body. Yet the bruising on the face is consistent with a blow, and I found a couple of lumps on the back of his skull as though he’d been hit there too.’ He leant closer and beckoned. ‘But that’s not what’s significant. See the discolouration of the face, the stars of broken veins in his eyes?’

  Durdil peered into Janis’s face. ‘The colour isn’t due to decomposition? He’s been dead nearly two weeks.’

  ‘Much of it is, yes, but look at his fingers, too. Again swollen, discoloured. And here, there are faint restraint marks on his wrists.’

  Durdil’s head snapped up. ‘Restraints?’

  Wheeler gave a strangled yelp and they both looked where he was pointing.

  ‘Ah yes, and then there’s the state of the prince’s genitals,’ Hallos said.

  Durdil swayed on his feet and grabbed at the edge of the table. ‘His genitals?’

  ‘Specifically the trauma to the testicles.’ Hallos reached out and lifted Janis’s cock out of the way and prodded carefully at the scrotum. It was flat and torn. He pulled Janis’s legs apart. ‘The arsehole too, ripped open.’

  ‘I’m going
to be sick,’ Wheeler muttered.

  ‘Control yourself, Major,’ Durdil snapped. ‘Hallos, what are you saying?’ he asked over the rushing of blood in his ears.

  ‘If a tree pinned Janis’s lower legs, we’d expect to see more evidence. Scratches, bruising, abrasions from branches up his thighs and across the abdomen. Abraded palms where he pushed at the wood. Instead, his body is entirely unhurt except for his genitals and his head.’

  ‘He’d have hit his head when he fell,’ Wheeler said. His face was greasy with sweat.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And a branch could have skewered him through the groin,’ Durdil added. His mouth watered and acid burnt his throat.

  ‘Again, perhaps,’ Hallos said. ‘And yet, there is no evidence a branch did this. No flakes of bark left in the wounds, no abrasions to such delicate skin. Whatever did this, it was driven into him with great force but did not splinter or break, and leaves no part of itself behind.’ He met Durdil’s eyes. ‘Whatever caused this, great care has been taken to remove it afterwards.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Hallos ran a palm over his bald head; his big shoulders slumped. ‘I think Janis was tortured.’

  ‘Cover him up,’ Durdil said and headed back to his study. They sat at the table and stared at each other. ‘You’re saying Janis was murdered.’

  ‘I’m saying he didn’t die under a tree,’ Hallos said, ‘and that his injuries are consistent with torture.’

  Durdil shifted his gaze to Wheeler. ‘Who wins, Major? With Janis dead, who wins?’

  ‘Prince Rivil, sir. He becomes heir.’

  Durdil shoved himself out of his chair. ‘Wheeler, the king is never to be left alone. Two guards at all times, when he eats, when he bathes, when he shits, when he sleeps. More when Rivil or Galtas are present. Hallos, is there enough evidence to accuse the prince?’

  ‘No, sir. We can question his story, but we can’t prove torture or anything else. The most we can do is cast doubt.’