Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  As Gorlym said, two guards waited outside of Victeris’s rooms, muttering to each other. As they saw Krellis, they stopped talking, and snapped to attention. Krellis strode between them.

  He opened the door, ready to beat his brother bloody for the waves he was making during this delicate time. The smell of shit hit him like a physical blow, and he covered his nose with his arm.

  “What the—” Krellis growled. Piles of human feces littered the floor. Puddles of urine stood in the hollows of the flagstone. Brown smears painted the walls. Victeris’s immaculate desk had been turned on its side. Papers were mixed with human waste. His bed linens had been stripped and lay crumpled on the floor. The mattress sat askew on its frame, streaked with two erratic stripes of blood. It smelled like it had been this way for weeks.

  Victeris crawled out from behind the bed and started across the floor on bloody knees, heedless of the filth. He thumped into the desk, circumvented it, and continued on his way. He was naked, and he murmured constantly to himself, oblivious of his brother’s arrival.

  Krellis stared in shock, then turned and slammed the door behind him.

  “By the Nine, what is wrong with you?” he shouted.

  Victeris jumped, paused. He rose up on his knees like a gopher. “Krellis,” he said, beaming. “My brother, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh. I’m so pleased you are here.” He put his hands back on the shit-covered floor and began crawling again. “I need to tell someone. I need to tell someone who knows.”

  Krellis ground his teeth. “What happened to Shara?”

  “My lady,” Victeris intoned. “Shara-lani. She did it. She set me free.”

  “Set you free? You set her free, you idiot. Her and the rest of the Zelani!”

  “No no no. She set me free. I am free, brother.”

  Krellis flexed his fingers. “Where is she? You had her in hand for more than a month. I wanted to give her to Father Lewlem when the fleet arrived.”

  “She set me free,” Victeris said. “She listened to me. I told her everything, things I have never told anyone else, and now I’m free of it.”

  Krellis wanted to throttle his brother, but he spoke evenly. “Freed you of what?”

  “Our mother’s curse. She bound me, bound me to silence.” Victeris crawled headlong into a wall. His head cracked off the stone, but he only paused a moment, then continued crawling in a different direction. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead, dripping onto his hands.

  “Stop it, or I’ll have you tied,” Krellis commanded. What had that witch done to him?

  Victeris crawled onto the bloody mattress. “You always thought it was Father who made us who we are,” Victeris said, clinging to the edge of the bed. “Father was nothing. Father crawled. She made him. He crawled.”

  With stiff precision, Krellis turned away and opened the door. He stepped out and closed it behind him.

  “Bring some rope, strong wine, and sleeping powders,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Gorlym gave a small bow.

  “And prepare a bath.”

  The Master of the Citadel motioned to one of the guards, who turned to go.

  “And Gorlym,” Krellis said, looking meaningfully at the man who was about to leave. “If any of your soldiers breathe a word of this, they die the next day. Understand?”

  Krellis’s second-in-command paused, then inclined his head. “Yes, sir.” The guard hurried off.

  Krellis went back into the room. Victeris didn’t seem to have noticed his absence. He had crawled off the bed and resumed his circuit of the room, still talking. “Father knew I saw him. That’s why he never touched me. That’s why he took it out on you and Phandir. You always wondered, didn’t you, why he never struck me? I know you did. He was ashamed around me, ashamed. He knew what Mother would do to him if he touched me.”

  Krellis flexed his fist as his brother stirred up long buried memories. “I know what kind of man my father was,” Krellis said. “He had no shame.”

  “No. He was weak. He crawled.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw them, when I was very young. A few years after you were born. I fell asleep behind the changing curtain, and I saw them naked. Fucking. Mother told him to wait. Mother told him to hold back, but he couldn’t. He lost control of his manhood, and she punished him. She made him crawl. She said he disgusted her and sent him from the room. I started crying, and Father saw me. He saw me and hated me ever since. I promised Mother I would never be weak, I would never lose control of my manhood. I never have. I have never been disgusting. I have never crawled. They crawl. I don’t crawl.”

  Krellis tried to imagine his father that way. He couldn’t. There was no way that monster from his childhood could have been the weak puppet of a mother he could barely remember.

  Victeris rose to his feet, stiff and awkward. “I have told you now. Shara-lani wanted me to tell you, but there is something else.” He blinked, found Krellis, and staggered over. Krellis caught him, his brows furrowing as he held his brother stiffly at arm’s length.

  Quick as a snake, Victeris snatched the dagger from Krellis’s belt and thrust it into his brother’s belly. Krellis twisted at the last second. The dagger went deep into his side, through skin and muscle.

  Krellis roared and clubbed Victeris on the side of the head. The slender man crashed to the floor, his cheek torn and bleeding, but he laughed and jumped to his feet again, pointing the dagger at Krellis. Putting one thick hand on the leaking wound, Krellis stared at his brother.

  “That was for Brophy.” Victeris giggled. “She said to say that was for Brophy.” He lunged again, dagger first. Krellis batted the weapon aside, grabbed Victeris by the throat, and flung him backward. His head cracked against the wall next to the window, and he crumpled in a heap below the casement, mumbling.

  “She is my master now and forever. When she calls, I will come to her. When she speaks, I will obey.”

  Keeping an eye on his brother, Krellis examined his wound. There was a lot of blood, but his guts were not punctured. He got lucky. The seventh and final assassin could have been his own brother, caught in the grips of a witch’s enchantment.

  Senseless and sprawled on the floor, Victeris continued mumbling. “There’s only one more thing I have to do,” he slurred. “One more thing to do…”

  Shaking his head, Krellis stepped into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

  “Sir, you’re wounded!” Gorlym said, looking at the blood dripping down Krellis’s cupped fingers.

  “No one goes in there,” Krellis commanded. “No one. Not until I return.”

  Gorlym turned to the remaining guard. “Run and get a healer, and send three men up here.”

  The guard sprinted down the stairs and disappeared.

  “Lock that door,” Krellis said to Gorlym, then started down the steps. He wanted to get away from here, away from the shit-covered, babbling fiend in that room, away from this pink palace with its perfumed halls. He paused in front of the tapestry of the Fall of Efften. Victeris was a strong Zelani, the strongest user of magic that Krellis had ever met. What had that bitch done to him?

  Gorlym locked the room and ran to catch up with Krellis. The Brother of Autumn frowned at his second-in-command.

  “How many men have seen him like that?” Krellis asked, as they started down the stairs.

  “Just a few,” Gorlym said.

  “I want their names.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And no one else is to see him. Only me.”

  “Yes, sir. What about your wound?”

  “It’s nothing. Hot water, a needle, and some horsehair and I’ll live.” They reached the bottom of the stairs, strode past Sybald’s dead body and into the fresh air. Krellis took a deep breath.

  “Sir, what—”

  “Shut up, I’m thinking—”

  A sickening crunch interrupted Krellis’s thoughts, and the two guards at the gate shouted. One of them ran toward the noi
se and disappeared from sight around the side of the building. Krellis sprinted after them, despite the pain that fired into his side.

  Victeris lay at the base of the tower in a splash of his own blood. His broken limbs pointed in awkward directions. His eyes were still wide-open, staring at nothing.

  Krellis’s run slowed to a jog, then a walk. He stopped and looked down at his brother’s smashed face, put his hand against his side, and drew a breath. Three guards and Gorlym stood around the Zelani master’s body, and no one said a word.

  Krellis thought of the tapestry, the minarets, the flames devouring the city. He glanced up at the tower far above, and his breath caught in his throat.

  A young woman in a blue gown stood at the tower window. Her long dark hair flew to the side in the steady breeze. She smiled at the scene below, instantly reminding Krellis of his dead brother’s sly grin.

  Shara looked away from the body and met Krellis’s gaze. His heartstone throbbed under his shirt, and he put his hand to his chest. She raised the bloody knife that Victeris had dropped and pointed it right at him.

  Gorlym turned to follow his gaze upward. “What do you think made him jump?” the man said, seeing nothing in the window above.

  Krellis clenched his jaw and tore his gaze from the gloating witch. He tapped Victeris’s body with the toe of his boot.

  “Somebody cover that up,” he said in a flat tone. “And pull our men out of here.”

  Giving one last look to the now-empty window, he turned and walked away.

  20

  BROPHY SAT beside the wardrobe, staring into the darkness. He was not surprised when he heard a tiny scrape from the wall to his left. Ossamyr stepped through in her white-feathered cloak, the cowl drawn close over her face. She crossed to his bed on silent feet, the light of her lamp glowing before her. His heart beat faster as he watched the way the feathers separated slightly along the curve of her hip. The moon had risen, filtering light into the room, and her black hair shimmered as she pushed back the hood.

  “Brophy?” she said softly, turning. She spotted him. “What are you doing over there?”

  “Watching you.”

  He knew she would come, just as she had every night for the past two weeks. Ossamyr said she would give him a rest tonight. Tomorrow he would run in Nine Squares for the third time, and he needed his strength, but he knew she would be here.

  After Scythe left, Brophy had continued his training alone. The other contestants treated him like a poxy beggar. Tidric was the only other person who would talk to him. Even Phanqui kept his distance. His sad eyes said that he regretted it, but he never lingered when Brophy was near.

  Ossamyr took his hand and led him to the bed. With a quick tug on the cord at her neck, she loosened her cloak. The feathers whispered off her shoulders and piled on the ground. She climbed naked into the swinging platform and winced.

  Brophy grabbed her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just not feeling my best.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head, her dark hair swinging. “A warm bath and I will be fine.” She looked up at him and smiled.

  Brophy untied his pants and climbed in next to her. She did not slide on top of him and make love to him, as she always did. She just lay on her side staring at him. Brophy started to kiss her, but a look in the queen’s eye made him stop.

  She scooted closer and laid her head upon his arm. Her slender fingers traced a spiral across his chest. Brophy relaxed onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The sting of her rejection faded quickly. He wanted her close to him, that was enough.

  “Are you still determined to compete?” she asked.

  Determined? No. Required. After Athyl’s death, after Scythe’s speech, after the last three months of dancing to Phandir’s strings, Brophy could not walk away. He couldn’t.

  He looked at Ossamyr, her smooth skin glowed in the moonlight. The queen’s black eyes were old and unfathomable. He had never hated a man more than he hated King Phandir.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  “So much has changed since then, Brophy.” She paused, as if she would say what his heart longed to hear, but instead she murmured, “You have lost your friends and your teacher. You are alone in this contest.”

  He wanted to ask her about Scythe, wanted her to tell him that she had never laid a hand on the man, that she had not bedded any other man but the king, but he couldn’t seem to ask.

  “Tidric will run with me,” he said. “He cannot compete with his broken hand, but he will help me make the final nine. And Phanqui is still running. He may yet change his mind.”

  Ossamyr watched him, as though deciding something. “It is not simply the boys. The king will not let you win.”

  Brophy drew an even breath. “He’ll cheat.”

  “Oh Brophy,” she murmured. “It is his contest. Do you think he would let it serve anyone else?”

  It was the first time he had ever heard fear in her voice. His resolve strengthened.

  “It doesn’t matter. I have to win. Now more than ever.”

  Brophy touched her cheek. Her hair glowed silver with moonlight on one side, gold with torchlight on the other.

  She smiled, the edges of her eyes crinkling, but it was not a happy smile.

  “Brophy, I—” she started, winced, and sucked in a quick breath. She put a hand to her stomach and sat up.

  “Ossamyr!” Brophy flipped to his knees. The bed rocked on its chains and he held her arm, leaning over her.

  “Something’s wrong,” she murmured. “I don’t know…”

  She hissed through her teeth and fell forward onto one hand. She moaned and shifted backward. “Gods, Brophy!” She scooted to the edge of the bed and almost fell. He leapt after her, landing lightly on his feet, keeping her steady.

  The queen pushed his hand away and rose. She took a few steps and doubled over. “I can’t, it’s—”

  “Come. Sit down.” Brophy led her to the wall. She squatted, putting her back against it. “What’s happening?” Brophy asked.

  “My monthly cramping, I thought.” She let out a thin cry. “But it’s worse. Ah!” She clutched her belly and bowed her head.

  Something tickled Brophy’s bare foot. A thin rivulet of blood snaked across the floor and pooled around his toe. “Ossamyr!”

  She followed his gaze. Her thighs were covered in red. “No. It can’t be.” She put a hand between her legs and stared at the blood on her fingers. “I’m always late. I skip for months at a time.”

  “What do you mean? You’re pregnant?”

  “Oh Brophy…” She started crying. “Oh no.” The blood kept pouring out of her.

  Brophy clenched her shoulders. “You said you couldn’t have children.”

  “I never have. But this is…It has to be.”

  Brophy pulled her to him. Her back spasmed under his arms and she struggled to breathe. She clung to him and sobbed, the queen’s tears were wet against his cheek. Brophy began to cry with her.

  “I told myself I was glad,” she murmured. “I didn’t want children—” Ossamyr cried out, her hands went to her belly.

  “What should I do?” he asked. “Should I get help?”

  She shook her head violently. The contraction passed, and the queen tried to stand up. “I have to go, it’s not safe.”

  Brophy wouldn’t let her stand. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “It will be all right.”

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “All those men I’ve been with and nothing. Nothing. I didn’t think it could happen.”

  He didn’t say anything, and Ossamyr did not speak again. They clung to one another for hours. She stared ahead, looking at nothing, and Brophy held her, his knees in the blood of their child. Her thin ribs shuddered against his chest as she cried, and he didn’t ever want to let her go.

  Eventually, her sobbing subsided, her eyes focused on his face, and she pushed him back. “I have to go. I can’t be found here, espe
cially now.” She struggled to rise.

  “Wait.” Placing a hand on her shoulder, he rose and fetched the washbasin. He dipped the cloth in the water and gently began to clean her. Again, her eyes took on that distant look. Brophy couldn’t stop himself from crying as he wiped her down. What would it have been? A boy? A little girl? Would he have been a young soldier, an academic, studying long hours in the library? Would his daughter have had her mother’s dazzling dark eyes?

  When he finished washing her, the water in the basin was dark red. He gave Ossamyr his own robe and mopped the blood off the floor with her feathered cape. Finally, he tied the bloody clothes together in a bundle with one of his old bandages.

  Ossamyr had ceased crying. She took the bundle from him and crossed to the hidden door. He stared, unable to move, unable to banish the thought that the tightly wound lump might have been his son, his daughter.

  Ossamyr laid a hand on the wall, looked back at him for a moment. He could see the beautiful slope of her nose, the rise of her shoulder where it covered her mouth.

  “Thank you for your kindness.”

  “It was my child, too,” he murmured.

  “I know.” She opened the hidden door, but paused again. “I wish I had met you twenty years ago.” She paused, drew a shuddering breath. “Before Phandir. I wish we had met in your Ohndarien.”

  Brophy reached for her, but she was too quick. The queen stepped through and shut the door.

  21

  FOR THE third time, Ossamyr’s chariot drove Brophy into the desert, but the queen was not with him. She sent a message that she would be at the arena when he arrived. Brophy watched the horizon, watched the slaves’ muscles bunch and release as they pulled the chariot across the badlands. He gazed at the gray predawn sand, but no matter what he looked at, the only image he could see was the bloody bundle in Ossamyr’s hands as she left his room last night.

  Brophy closed his eyes and felt the wind on his face. He listened to the muted sounds of the desert, felt the impending heat of the sun. What was he doing here? The queen lay suffering in her room, and he was to compete in Nine Squares. It wasn’t right. He didn’t belong here. He belonged at her side.