JOURNEY OF THE SACRED KING III

by JANRAE FRANK

  The Master of Blood cursed. Galee would be unhappy. Doubly unhappy. First that they had failed to kill Mohanja, who was becoming a thorn in her side, and secondly because Eshraf was obviously preparing for war – why else have a temple battle unit prepared and on call?

  * * * *

  Shaheeramaat had Mohanja propped up in the middle of his bed, and the normally calm, serenely controlled mon was aggravated and excited, angry energy flowing in all directions as the healer and three of his most trusted Guild comrades tried to get him cleaned up. A long tear in his right thigh ran nearly to his knee. The healer had had a devil's own time of it stitching the damned thing closed. He'd been bitten twenty times, though most had not gotten so much as a taste before perishing – else he'd be dead. Shaheeramaat had given him a crutch, telling him to keep his weight off that leg lest he cripple himself or reopen it, which would prove just as bad. The crutch made him feel a cripple already, which angered and irked him.

  He feared to leave the Master to Galee's clutches, although he dared not yet say as much directly – imply and dance around the edges – so he begged Queiggy, by way of a message sent through Eshraf, to have someone stand in his place with the Master until he could go himself. Queiggy had sent Yukiah.

  Who do I protect? Mohanja wondered.

  "You will stay off that leg, Lord Mohanja?" Shaheeramaat asked one last time, dropping the last of the bloody rags into the basin. Last night had been make-do; today had been finished work.

  "Lord?" Mohanja tried to frame a small teasing with his voice at her formality, but only ice remained in her expression and he let it go. "I promise nothing."

  There came a knock, followed by Yukiah entering.

  "Where is the Master? Why aren't you with him?" Mohanja demanded.

  "He's coming here. Lord Channadar's bringing him in a little sedan chair. He became concerned when I showed up in your place and learned you were hurt."

  Mohanja smiled, that small, small, private smile. That sounded like his old master, the one who had brought him into the Guild and raised him like a son. "How long will it take them to arrive?"

  "They traverse the palace slowly. Everyone wishes to touch him, to talk to him. It has been months since anyone has seen him. He's ill."

  "I know it."

  Yukiah scowled. "Why haven't you spoken?"

  "It is my duty to protect him, not to gossip about him."

  "But all these rumors–"

  "Did not come from me. I want people assigned to me. At least five."

  "You have the guard," Yukiah said coldly.

  "I don't want the fucking guard. I don't want the servants. I want Guild or priests or Guild students if you can verify them. But no more guards or servants in my apartments. None."

  "Mohanja–"

  "Do I have to command it and force this subtle mutiny of yours into the open? I'm allowing the game. I'm ignoring it for the time being. I also know you have at least one yuwenghau, possibly two. I want my chambers warded and myself. I don't want to end up doing the Passion-Dance like poor Yahni. And, if I were you, I would check all Guildsmyn in the wing for signs of it."

  Silence settled.

  Yukiah motioned for Shaheeramaat to close the intervening door. "What happened last night that you haven't told the others?"

  "Six guardsmyn led the attack. I killed one. The one who said 'my god demands your death, Guildsmon.' Him I slew. Then one I did not see, whom they called the Master of Blood, sent his creatures in after me and the guardsmyn fell back as if afraid of these things."

  "I'll stay here in your apartments until Yukiah can speak with Queiggy, but I believe when he hears this that you will have your myn," Sha said.

  Yukiah nodded agreement and then they stepped out of the bedroom for a private word away from the mon who should have been giving them their orders.

  Mohanja found himself speaking aloud into the silence as if to his god and his words ran swifter and swifter, taking on the clicking notes of his mother's people, the Guild side of his family. "It is a dangerous game I play and all because the Grand Master supports no one. What if Hanadi does not return next spring from her wanderyear? What if she already lies dead? Then how I have voted her proxy could come under question when a successor is named and I have only a single vote on that. I could be called traitor for my votes and executed. There would be no problem if the Grand Master would exercise his rank and responsibilities. But he barely functions and when he does, he drifts toward Galee, away from the principles of the Guild, as if she controlled his mind. Now I dance upon the edge of a knife and evil creatures attack me in the dark."

  He fell silent then, thinking furiously. If I protect him by concealing how badly he fails, physically, mentally, emotionally, then I betray the Guild and the heir. Where should my loyalties lie? Mohanja, you are in over your head, man, and nothing is simple any longer. If loyalty and honor begins with my god, then it is with my god that I must begin.

  Mohanja tried to push off from the bed only to feel first pain and then the tautness in the many stitches throughout his body, forcing him to think again about kneeling. "Forgive me, my lord and liege-god, grant me a dispensation to begin my prayers lying down as I fear I shall only make matters worse if I try to kneel."

  A wave of warmth swept over him and Mohanja took that as a yes, beginning a formal prayer, rather than his initial rush of words.

  * * * *

  Bryndel sat for a long time outside his bathing room while servants filled his tub with hot water. He felt everything with an acute sensitivity, the softness of the chair against his arms and bare back, the cool breeze blowing in through the open windows. There was an unusual clarity to his musings despite the alcohol in his system and the dark hallways he walked in his memories. He was working his way to a decision with an unsheathed blade between his leg and the turn of the chair arm, and an open bottle of dragonsbreath, a dwarven whiskey more famed for its raw potency than its taste, lodged in the curve of his groin.

  He would pray for a while, take another swallow from the bottle, and shove it back between his legs. He thought about his mother, who for all her faith in her god, had still been beaten to death by his father while he watched. He took another pull from the bottle, and thought about Yahni and Belyla. Finally he thought about Talons. Shame, guilt, and an abiding sense of worthlessness overwhelmed him. He had failed them all. Perhaps if he had been stronger. If his faith in his god had been stronger ... the gods acted through their believers, their paladins and priests, those whose faith and strength were enough to make them true vessels of the divine ... channels of power.

  The servants interrupted Bryndel's musings, gathering in front of him. Their spokesman said, "Your bath is ready."

  "Good. Now get out of here. I don't wish to be disturbed."

  He watched them go. Then he picked up the bottle, took the blade from its hiding place, and walked into the bathing room. He set the bottle and the blade on the stand by the porcelain tub and took his pants off, dropping them on the floor. As an afterthought he closed the door and locked it. The room was pleasantly steamy. He slid into the soothing heat of the water.

  "I am a coward. I have always been a coward. I am not going to be so any longer."

  Bryndel moved the whiskey bottle and the dagger to the floor beside the bathtub. People said there was very little pain doing it this way. Bryndel never liked pain; he had never been good about taking his lumps on the practice field the way the rest did. If he had been a stronger mon, none of this would be happening. Everyone would be better off without him. He was expendable. This was the right thing to do – maybe the first right thing he had ever done in his entire life. Galee would not be able to use him to hurt Talons or anyone else anymore. Having to stand and watch his father ride her had broken his heart. There could not be a wedding without a groom. They would have to leave Talons alone. He took another long pull from the bottle to bolster his courage, and used the dagger to open his wrists, dragging it halfway to his elbows.
He watched his blood spread through water as he lowered his arms into the warmth, his mind feeling oddly detached and clear. Then he laid back and closed his eyes.

  * * * *

  Edouina built up a small fire in the little stove and put a pot of water on for tea. She was still rummaging in the cupboard for the canister of her favorite black tea when Alora rushed in, looking flushed and alarmed.

  "Edouina! Bad news!" Alora gasped out, winded.

  The tall Sharani Guildsmon immediately closed the cabinet and turned to look at the youth. "The Grand Master?"

  "No. Bryndel tried to kill himself. Lord Wrathscar is blaming it on you. He's saying you kept Bryndel from Talons' bed and he became distraught. He wants you banished from the palace and grounds entirely."

  "So they can get at her more easily," Edouina said grimly. "I'm going to the Patriarch, then I'm going to try and see Bryndel."

  She strode past the soldiers at the door as if nothing were wrong, hoping they had not heard yet and clearly they had not since they made no moves to stop her, and walked quickly from the west wing. All the wings opened directly into the Great Central Hall, there were no secret ways that she knew of – though they were rumored to exist – so she went out into the forest of pillars rising in groin vaults and conchoidal arches, sidling along, trying to keep crowds of other folk between her and the searching soldiers, heading for the entrance to the Cloverleaf. A soldier spotted Edouina and shouted for her to halt. She did so and a group of them approached with loaded crossbows. They knew she was Guild and were taking no chances.

  "Edouina Hornbow?"

  "Yes." With every fiber of her being, she wanted to run. But if she did it would be taken as an admission of guilt and they would bring her down with something sharp and deadly in her back. They knew their business just as she knew hers.

  "The Grand Master wants to see you," said their officer, a sergeant by his markings.

  "Am I being arrested?"

  "Not yet," the officer sneered. "But you will be. Everyone knows about your kind."

  My kind. Edouina thought about all the hideous rumors that had been going around for months and her stomach tightened. Someone had set her up. She had a feeling it was either Wrathscar or Galee.

  * * * *

  Jimi found Dynarien and the Patriarch together in Dynarien's rooms in the temple dormitory. As a mage, Dynarien lived in a special section with a suite that included a parlor, a bedroom, and a workroom. They were modest, but comfortable quarters and Dynarien had decorated the rooms with many wondrous things from his magical cottage near Imralon.

  The knight arrived breathing hard, clearly winded from running. His words came out in a gasping rush as he clutched a stitch in his side. "Holy Father, Dynarien, Bryndel tried to kill himself. Lord Wrathscar is blaming Edouina and the Grand Master has had her taken in hand."

  Dynarien came close, his brow furrowing with concern and the fragrance of roses intensifying with his emotions. Jimi looked up at him as his words continued to rush out. "Holy Father, we're afraid they're going to order her killed as an aberration. The talk is getting ugly."

  "No," Dynarien growled. "I won't allow it."

  Eshraf motioned for Dynarien to be silent, taking control of the situation. "Slow down," the Patriarch told Jimi, gripping the youth's shoulders, his voice reassuringly stern and steady. "Take a deep breath."

  Jimi did so.

  "That's better. What did Bryndel do?"

  "He slit his wrists. Servants found him."

  "Is he in the infirmary or his rooms," the Patriarch asked, his tone of voice keeping the youth from saying more than necessary and costing them precious minutes.

  "His rooms." Jimi began to steady, sounding calmer.

  "Good. He should be accessible. Where are they holding Edouina?"

  "I saw soldiers taking her to the council chambers. I followed and listened."

  "Good mon. Dynarien, have you ever been to my assistant's offices?"

  "Yes." The expression on the Rose Warrior's face suggested he still wished to simply go in and rip the council chambers and the councilors apart.

  "Jump us there."

  * * * *

  "What is happening?" Mohanja demanded, hearing the buzz of voices from the parlor. He lay flat on his back with a pillow under the heel of his injured leg, propping the foot up. Light from the westering sun threw bright spears across the bedclothes and lit the edges of his tight cap of curls, bringing out the tiny first bits of premature gray in his black hair. If someone did not answer soon, he would try to get up on his own. He refused to allow himself to be invalided.

  Sha detached herself from her companions, poking her nose into the bedchamber, "Bryndel has tried to kill himself. Wrathscar claims Edouina magicked him. She's been taken in hand."

  Edouina! He remembered the day she came to him for help and he sent her away. No wonder no one trusted him. "Damn it, woman, get in here and help me with this crutch! Get people down there to tell them I'm coming to have my say."

  Shaheeramaat came in and put her shoulder under his arm, helping him to his feet. "Blaming Edouina is wrong."

  "I know. Wrathscar is trying to isolate the heir. He's got most of the court intimated or bought. I suspect most of the guard and the servants also. Maybe it's for the best I don't know what you and your little plotters are doing, Sha. Just keep enough eyes at my back that I don't end up dead. And a few to run messages between us."

  Sha shook her head at the stream of words coming out of him. "We will, Mohanja."

  "I need hard evidence before I can act."

  Sha looked surprised and hopeful. "But you will act?"

  "Yes, Sha. I will act." Mohanja snatched the crutch up and took some of his weight off her. Then he searched her face for what he wanted more than anything else in the world to find there and he kissed her.

  * * * *

  Dynarien and Eshraf appeared so suddenly in Mikkal's office, the assistant dropped his handful of papers, scattering them on the floor. He stooped to retrieve them.

  "Mikkal, leave them," said Eshraf.

  Mikkal straightened and abandoned the papers, sensing the urgency in Eshraf's manner. "What has happened?"

  The Patriarch filled him in quickly. "Go to the council chambers, try to prevent their making a decision concerning Edouina until I get there. You are acting on my authority. If you cannot, place her under the temple's protection, and get her out of there."

  Once placed under a temple's protection a mon was removed from secular jurisdiction and, in the case of sanctuary, a temple could not even give out information about their presence there without the protected mon's permission. It would be as if the mon no longer existed. People were known to seek sanctuary and then simply disappear as if the priests had magically removed them to a haven far away.

  "At once," he started for the door. The Patriarch caught his arm. "This way. Dynarien?"

  They Jumped to the west wing. Mikkal, with his usual presence of mind, took the Jump in stride and rushed away without another word.

  "Where are we going?" Dynarien asked, as the Patriarch set off.

  "To see Bryndel."

  * * * *

  Arruth curled up on the couch, staring listlessly at the opposite wall, muttering, "I wish he'd died. I wish he'd died."

  She wanted to be back in her closet, but Alora had dragged her out. She felt exposed and uneasy as if Wrathscar could somehow see into the room as he had when she stayed with Jysy. He always seemed to find her whenever she stepped foot from Talons' rooms. Arruth suspected it was because only Talons' apartments had been shielded by Dynarien. She straightened the scarf around her neck and then fingered her necklace of ears. If only Wrathscar's ears were there, then she would be all right. Then she would be safe.

  "I wish he'd died. I wish he'd died."

  "That's not a nice thing to say," Alora told her, sitting next to her. She wrinkled her nose at the nasty odor rising from the youngster. "How long has it been since you've taken a bat
h?"

  "I don't bathe." Arruth shivered at the thought of willingly taking her clothes off. She had not changed her clothes in a month and she slept in them. Only when he caught her did her clothes come off. Some of the knights had insisted she help them bring supplies up from the kitchen to restock the pantry a few days ago and Wrathscar had caught her again. He got in her mind. Arruth shivered harder, her body folding tighter in on itself.

  "Why not?"

  Arruth did not know what to answer, so she said the first thing that popped into her head. "I don't want Jysy to see me."

  "Well, if that's all you're worried about, bathe here." Alora gestured at the private bath. "Talons won't mind. There's a lock on the inside."

  "I don't want to."

  "We're going to the trial and you are coming with us. Now bathe."

  Arruth's face screwed up. "I don't want to go."

  Alora looked furious. "Don't you care about Edouina? Besides, there's going to be a lot of us there, you'll be perfectly safe. I'm not going to take no for an answer. Bathe!"

  A bath was drawn and Arruth locked herself in. Fresh clothes and towels were laid out on a chair. Arruth stared at the water for a long time. Taking her clothes off meant she would have to look at herself. She did not want to do that, it made her stomach queasy. It meant feeling vulnerable and exposed, the way she did whenever Wrathscar caught her. But she knew Alora would be angry if she refused to bathe.

  Arruth climbed out of her clothes and into the water with a minimum of looking down, but she could not manage entirely. The water stung her sore loins and the vampire wounds on her breasts and side. He was getting rougher with her. He'd torn her again between the legs, as had the two soldiers he had shared her with. He had stood over her, giving them pointers. "I hate him. I hate him. Some day I'll kill him."

  * * * *

  The moment of clarity had passed. Bryndel felt a little sick from the liquor and weak from blood loss. He lay with his arms atop the light cover, his wrists and arms bandaged to the elbow. A sense of failure and impotence gripped him in a fist of depression. The servants had returned after he dismissed them, knocked on the bathing room door; and when he did not answer, they broke the door open. Something in his manner had given his intentions away. He had done a proper job of it with the blade, but it had not been good enough. He could not even kill himself successfully. Everything Galee said about him was true. He was a total incompetent. His mother's frightened face passed through his mind along with a thousand times a thousand flickering images that swept through too swiftly to touch, much less to grasp and he tried to hold them and remember them. Yet he forgot them as quickly as they brushed his consciousness, leaving only a fleeting taste of emotion in their wake. Tears welled in his eyes and the man dissolved further into a boy. And the boy remembered how to pray as he had at his mother's knee. So Bryndel once more did the one thing Galee never expected him to do: he prayed.