by Ellyn, Court
Beside him, Lady Athmar plunged in: “The ogres entrenched between here and Bramoran are testing our defenses. They send sallies nightly to the edge of camp. Commander Sha’hadýn here says she’s lost a dozen Miraji to them in the past two nights.”
The bronze-faced Elaran woman couldn’t understand a word, but she nodded at the reference to herself and her people. Laniel translated the basics for her.
As if the rug were too hot to stand on, Eliad paced; something ate at him.
Johf, Lord Haezeldale contained his emotion with far more skill. Standing at-ease, he added softly, “And we’ve found two of our foraging parties slain on the road, not half a mile from Tírandon’s wall, their wagons empty.”
Eliad stopped abruptly and faced Kelyn, his arms crossed, nose raised. Why should he look so defiant? “With your permission, sir, we’d like to return in kind. Send us to ride on the trenches.” A sweep of his hand included all the commanders present.
They had discussed the assault several times in recent days. When the ogres had fled the onslaught of the Miraji, Kelyn expected them to fall back to Bramoran. But they’d been more clever than that. They’d stopped within ten miles of Lothiar’s stronghold and dug in, extricating an intricate latticework of trenches across the highway and out into the countryside, barring the path to Bramoran. Kelyn had never imagined anything like it. He could barely believe his scouts’ reports.
Drona, he knew, was itching to fill those trenches with ogre blood. Likely Eliad’s anxiety came from an assumption that Kelyn would refuse them.
“Cavalry,” he whispered, careful to measure each expulsion of breath, each intake, lest his ribs shift. “It will take cavalry. Eliad, means you stay here. This is not a job for your highlanders.”
“Damn it.”
Kelyn tried clearing his throat; it sounded more like a growl and sent a spike of pain through his middle.
Eliad got the point. He ducked his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
After the death of Lord Rhogan, the Leanians had yet to promote a strong leader. Looked like the Fierans would have all the fun. “Haezeldale, your regiment. Drona, ride along with them as Johf’s second-in-command, in case something happens to him. Sha’hadýn?” He raised two fingers. “Two companies. Hide the humans inside your veil.”
Laniel translated. The Miraji commander replied in duínovan: “Yes.”
Kelyn beckoned sharply to all of them. “Listen to me. You are not to take the trenches. There’s no point in it. By no means push on to Bramoran. Bramoran is not our objective, it is too well defended. Give them hell, then return.”
The commanders saluted, some more eagerly than others, and began to file out. Drona paused. “Dax?”
Kelyn waved away the question. His ribs throbbed with too much talking already. “Yes, of course, take him. But do not give him command. He has much to learn from you.” He had underestimated the young Lord Ulmarr once already, and it had cost his troops dearly.
Eliad stood his ground, as disgruntled as a child. “Kelyn, c’mon. Just me. My highlanders can stay here.”
Oh, for the satisfaction of a deep breath and a thunderous bellow.
Queen Briéllyn rose from her unobtrusive chair near the window and raised a hand toward the door. “That’s enough, Eliad. Out.”
Ever since he was a boy huddling inside Briéllyn’s cloak through an ice storm on the slopes of Slaenhyll, Eliad had worshipped the ground she walked on. He did not buck her now, but bowed sharply and about-faced for the door. He didn’t make it farther than the vestibule. A woman spoke to him. Kelyn couldn’t discern her words, but he recognized the timbre of his daughter’s voice.
“Why didn’t you come earlier?” Eliad cried. “Two days you’ve left him like this. Shame on you! Look at him, will you.” He shoved Carah into the bedchamber.
She stubbornly glared at the rug beside the bed. She wore her resplendent silver robe, establishing her presence as avedra. Duty had brought her, nothing more.
When at last she raised her eyes, astonishment flooded her face. She failed to mask it fast enough. What had she expected? Her da beating about as usual? Kelyn would’ve snorted if it didn’t hurt so much. He’d been bashed with a hammer as broad as a stallion’s chest. He didn’t remember taking to the air or hitting the ground. The right side of his face was bruised and scraped from that inglorious tumble, and every muscle ached when he risked moving at all. But, he suspected, it was the sight of him lying helpless that shocked Carah so.
She donned a cool expression, curtsied for the queen, and took a seat at the bedside.
Eliad huffed, cursing her for a bitch, then left.
Mechanically, Carah removed the ice pack and bandaging that did a damn poor job of holding Kelyn together. Her hands settled upon the discolored flesh. Her eyes closed and a frown deepened.
You left him! You left him! Kelyn’s memory, not hers. Because of me, because of us! You abandoned him so they’d take him.
Do you really think I’m that cruel?
How she had stared at him, as if at a stranger. Then she’d replied with the unthinkable: I don’t know.
Was she right?
Thorn had asked the same thing of him yesterday. “Are you secretly pleased that Rhian is no longer a problem?”
“No,” he’d replied, then turned to stare at dust motes glinting with afternoon sunlight. “And yes.”
Carah’s hands leapt away. “Don’t. Think about something else or I’m leaving.”
“Will you now?” said Briéllyn. She strode to the door and snicked the lock.
Carah grit her teeth. She didn’t dare defy the queen, but the lamps flared a little brighter.
Do not become Thorn. I couldn’t bear it, dearheart. What should I think about? How lovely you are? How proud I am of you?
Kelyn knew she heard his thoughts because a tear welled across the blue iris of her eye and rolled down her cheek. “Don’t think at all,” she said and laid her hands to his side again. She promptly got to work.
Kelyn soon wished he’d requested more poppy wine. Bone knocked against bone as his ribs reset. Pain-swaddled flesh began to tingle, to protest, to scream as new bone rushed to bridge the break. Did Carah handle all her patients so severely? Or was this the easiest way to exact her revenge? Sweat beaded across her nose, trickled into the hollow of her throat, and Kelyn swore that her hands emitted a soft glow.
At last she sat back, lowered her hands into her lap, and opened her eyes. They were flat with exhaustion. “It will take a couple more sessions.”
She rose to go. Kelyn caught her by the wrist. “He wouldn’t come.” Please understand. “Rhian threw me onto his horse, gave it some order. It wouldn’t let me turn around.” Already he could breathe a little deeper, force more power into his voice. “You don’t have to believe me, but that’s the truth.”
Her mouth pinched tight around sobs that fought to rise. “Is it true, what I heard you did to him?”
“That I flogged him like a dog? Yes. He never should’ve … he was in the wrong, Carah. You both were, and you know it.”
Her eyebrows jumped, and her eyes were like blades as they fell upon him. “And you’re the one to know all about that sort of thing.”
Kelyn stared at her in horror. His grip on her arm slid away. That his own daughter would use his youthful indiscretions as a weapon against him… Who are you?
She heard that too. Regret wiped the disdain off her face. She retreated toward the vestibule, but paused at the door. Over her shoulder she said, “I’ll tend to you, Da, but I won’t discuss it. It’s mine to cherish, not yours to spoil.”
~~~~
Carah stepped into the corridor and slouched against the wall, a hand smashed over her sobs. They echoed sharply anyway. When had she become so vicious? She had always been a champion when it came to wielding words like swords. She had wanted to wound him, it was true; she hurt too deeply to bear the pain alone.
Do not become Thorn… She didn’t understand. When had he
r uncle been anyone else? Could he be as malicious as she?
I’m sorry, Da, I’m sorry. But she couldn’t tell him.
She drew herself up, dabbed her face dry on her silver sleeve, and started for her rooms. She didn’t care what anyone said. She would move her things into Rhian’s suite, and that was the end of it. What harm now? There was no getting him back. And it was too late to reel in the rumors.
“Tst!” The hiss lanced toward her from the far end of the corridor. A hand beckoned. As she neared, Alyster emerged from the shadows. The red, gray, and black cloak of his kindred was draped over his head like a shawl, as if the colors and pattern weren’t obvious. Why so clandestine?
He examined Carah’s face, which must be puffy and blotched red from hours of weeping. “Is he dying?”
His concern astonished her, and yet … it didn’t. “He’s broken up, but he’ll recover.”
Alyster’s jaw clenched, and he nodded, but he didn’t seem relieved. “Does he have guards about him?”
“No, why?”
He shook his head in reply. I’ll bring Haim, a couple of the lads. His thoughts rolled toward Carah, but he didn’t explain what they meant. “Don’t tell him I’m here. I don’t want to see him. Just … he’s vulnerable, and … don’t tell him.”
Carah kissed her brother’s cheek. The gesture made him uneasy. He shifted feet. Her fairy pendant glinted on his chest. “Look, Carah … about Rhian … I liked him. He was good for you. I’m sorry.”
She held up a hand, stopping him from saying anything else. “He’s not dead.” Tears strangled her voice. She knew with every pulse of her blood that Rhian still lived. But how long would he survive in the hell Lothiar had devised for him? “Don’t let him take you, too. Be watchful, Alyster. Promise?”
He nodded.
Carah retreated to Rhian’s suite and locked the door. Someone had been kind and delivered a tray with a tea service, cheese, and black bread. Uncle Thorn, likely. But she had no appetite. The tea was cold, so long had she tended to her father. Her arms and shoulders ached with the effort of mending his wounds.
Rhian’s red-brown robe was draped over the foot of the bed. Carah put it on over her own. The gold-embroidered hem dragged the floor; the sleeves covered her hands almost to her fingertips. Bundling herself inside it, she curled up on his pillow and tried not to imagine the horrors he was enduring. Did Lothiar torture his captives? Did he starve them?
Instead, she imagined Rhian on a shore, a shore she had never seen, the salt-wind all around him and gulls crying overhead. She had glimpsed him there before, the night before the massacre when he slept near the hearth in her suite at Bramoran. It was an image so tangible that she could almost taste the salt in it.
He stood alone on pale yellow sand, gaze turned toward the rolling waves. Seals danced in the brine, watching him in return. Son of the Sea.
Turn and see me, she called, but he didn’t. He could no longer hear her. He meant to slip into the sea and vanish, and she couldn’t run to him fast enough.
~~~~
2
The vast dome of Windhaven’s Magistrate Hall echoed with a clamor of voices, scrapes of wooden chairs, shuffle of papers, jolts of heels and walking sticks. Sunlight pierced the slit windows set high among frescoes of ships sailing on sun-gilded clouds, and careened off the marble floor with unmitigated brilliance. A gavel hammered. “The duke’s court will come to order!”
The gavel might as well have struck Kethlyn on the head; the tat-tat pounded in his skull; the ricocheting light bombarded his eyes. He squeezed the arm of his throne to still the spinning in his head and prevent his stomach from revolting. He had drunk too much last night, as he did every night. The morning, and the foul business it brought, had dawned all too soon. The jarring carriage ride down from the palace and across the city had been more than he could bear. Twice he ordered the driver to stop until his stomach settled. It wouldn’t do to be seen vomiting in the streets.
He had arrived an hour late, but what could the barristers do? He was judge and jury today. The business of the hour ran on his time. He occupied the high bench, trying to appear sober.
The barristers weren’t fooled, however. Neither were the hundreds of townsfolk filling raised tiers of seats circling the floor. Kethlyn noted glowers of disapprobation, raised eyebrows, taut mouths, sideward glances and not-so-sly whispers. A clammy sweat broke out on his face and oozed down his chest, between his shoulder blades. His face was likely a stunning shade of green.
Someone brought him a goblet of ice-cold water. He drank it greedily.
“Order! Order!” The gavel thundered.
Kethlyn glared at the instrument of torture. Two judges shared the bench with him, in the event that he required council. The one seemed intent on glaring the masses to silence; the other appeared to be tenderizing meat with that damn thing. Kethlyn laid a hand over the judge’s wrist. The gavel stuttered, then stopped.
A round of chuckles bounced down from the audience. Kethlyn humored them with a grin that felt more like a wince.
The din tapered toward rustling silence.
A herald tapped a tall staff of office on the marble tile, and in the rich, cultivated voice of an orator announced the purpose of today’s proceedings. Kethlyn was to mete out justice on the rioters who had spoiled the sanctity, safety, and beauty of the city. His people hadn’t taken kindly to his mother’s heir ascending prematurely to the ducal throne and had torched half the market district, a goodly portion of the docks and slums, and three villas. The cowardly lot had waited until Kethlyn had ridden south with his army. Ridden south to protect them, as irony would have it. His beloved people. Didn’t they appreciate his efforts on their behalf? Didn’t they understand the Black Falcon had lied to him?
“Bring in the accused!” called the herald. His voice slammed under the painted dome like a fist.
Opposite the judge’s bench, tall double doors opened, admitting well over a hundred prisoners. Whatever their station, profession, gender, or age, they had been stuffed into the civil dungeon beneath Kethlyn’s feet. They were light-starved and grubby. Wrists shackled, they shuffled up the aisle between the tiers of onlookers and filed into defendants’ boxes set behind the barristers’ tables. What a sorry, subdued bunch. Where were their shouts of defiance now? Where were their demands to see the duchess’s ashes?
Kethlyn was sure there were more, there had to be more, the streets had been a sea of chaos when he returned, but these were all who had been caught in the act. Normally he would have tried traitors in the palace, for why should a duke descend to walk among the populace? But there were simply too many to herd across town and up the cliff, so he occupied a strange chair in a strange hall.
The barristers didn’t like it either, giving their sacred halls over to one whose voice outweighed theirs. Their reception of Kethlyn upon his arrival had been chilly. Or perhaps they disliked him as much as the mob did. You’re not here to be liked, Kethlyn reminded himself. You’re here to rule.
Once the prisoners were inside their paddock, the Head Barrister heaved himself up from his table. Flowing black robes only accentuated his girth. The act of standing caused the man to break out in a sweat. Slick beads rolled from under the velvet hat of his office. “Your Grace, may I present the case of—”
“Stop,” Kethlyn said. He barely raised his voice, but the word carried across the room.
The barrister gave an affronted huff. If the magistrates had their way, each case would be presented individually, and Kethlyn would be sitting here until the end of the month. He had no stomach for it.
He gestured at the stack of paper near his elbow. “I’ve read each of the case files. Thoroughly. And have considered. Thoroughly.” Yesterday afternoon he’d actually been sober enough to focus. “Let’s make this easy, shall we?” Paying the barristers no further mind, he called to the prisoners, “Rapers. Those accused of raping, step forward.” He gave a nod to the herald, who read eight or ten names on
a list. Men and youths pushed their way free of the crowded boxes and shuffled into the aisle. Some appeared to be barely in beards. A few glared, maliciously defiant. Most stared at the floor and shook in their boots.
“Is this all of them?” Kethlyn asked.
The herald conducted a head count and bowed affirmation.
“At sunset, hang them from the city wall. Stick a sign on each body declaring them monsters. Let everyone know that this crime will not be tolerated in my mother’s city.” Kethlyn seized the gavel from the judge and hammered it once.
A cry went up, mostly from the prisoners themselves. Soldiers wearing Windhaven’s dark red livery ushered them from the Magistrate Hall among a barricade of pikes.
The Head Barrister bellowed an objection. His under-chins quivered in outrage.
Kethlyn pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the throbbing. “Individually or collectively, barrister, their sentence would have been the same. So don’t waste my time.”
“But, Your Grace! Their defense. The proper channels of justice must be observed.”
Kethlyn shouted over him. “Let me remind you, this is the duke’s court. You are present out of courtesy for your office. Arsonists.”
The herald read two dozen names. The accused crept forward. None looked so haughty now. “Throw them in a cell for a year. Allow them a lamp’s light only one hour per day.” Down came the gavel.
“Thieves.”
Most of the prisoners had been caught looting. The musical voice of the herald read on and on. The accused filled the aisle. A few had to remain inside the boxes but peered over the rail in terror of Kethlyn’s judgment.
Near the fore, standing only as tall as the elbow of the man next to him, was a little boy. His cheeks were shiny with tears, his clothes threadbare. He wore no shoes.
Kethlyn beckoned him. “You, come here.”
The boy shuffled half a step toward the bench.
“How old are you?”
“N-nine.”
“What did you steal?”
