These new walls had never faltered, and Corenn studied their architecture with admiration. She walked through an outer wall, passing under a heavy wooden door, which to their luck was open. This interior courtyard was just as big as the Grand House’s square in Kaul. Housed there were guards, stables and enclosures, the workshops of royal artisans, and administrative offices. Only the soldiers slept within the walls, as the Broken Castle couldn’t house all of the queen’s employees. There were still plenty enough to constitute a little city within a city.
Corenn and Grigán had advanced only twenty yards toward the entry into the inner enclosure when a suspicious guard stopped them. With all the discussion about the succession of the throne, the guards were more wary than usual. Grigán asked for the chamberlain’s office, and the guard escorted them to one of the largest buildings, equally as interested in helping as keeping an eye on them.
They stood in a line that already stretched ten yards long—every soul in front of them wanted to meet Séhane or pass along a message. The queen kept an open ear to her people, and it seemed to serve her well. But the chamberlains, who gave each request due consideration, only granted approval to a few. “The queen is tired,” they would respond. “She is very busy revising a new treaty with the barons. You may be able to find a magistrate who would be sympathetic to your affair.” The Junians would then leave with obvious disappointment on their faces.
After a long wait it was Corenn and Grigán’s turn. The chamberlain scoffed mildly at these strangers who wanted to meddle in the kingdom’s business, but ordered them to present their request anyway.
“We would like to meet Her Majesty,” Corenn announced in Ithare, since she couldn’t speak their native Junian.
“For what purpose?” the man asked in Ithare, unable to hide his boredom at their request.
“I cannot say. I would be putting Her Majesty in danger by explaining myself in the presence of strangers’ ears.”
The man cocked an eyebrow in surprise and examined the Mother and the warrior. “You must know that a joke of this kind could cost you several days in prison.”
“Unfortunately, this is not a joke.”
The chamberlain scoffed again and stood to exchange a few words with one of the guards stationed behind him. Corenn sensed Grigán’s restlessness. In principle, they were in friendly territory, but the warrior had a hard time dealing with the suspicious look coming from this man armed with a spear, regardless if he was an ally or not.
The chamberlain led them to a small room behind his office and bolted the door. This place seemed like it was designed for this sort of occasion. There were no windows and not a single crack in the walls, allowing for complete and utter discretion. The only furnishings were four modest chairs. All three individuals took a seat, their faces displaying the gravity required for the situation.
“Now, tell me more,” he said.
“In no way do I mean to offend you, but I doubt you will understand what I have to say. Our affair is known uniquely by the queen, and I trust she has kept it secret.”
“I’m the one who decides whether or not an affair requires Her Majesty’s attention. It’s up to you to convince me.”
Grigán sighed heavily. This situation reminded him too much of their conversations at the Small Palace.
“Please tell her that we’re the heirs,” asked the Mother. “My name is Corenn. She will understand and agree to receive us.”
The latter part of her statement was more of a hope than a certainty, but the Mother’s intonation didn’t betray her doubts. The chamberlain stared blankly at them briefly, perhaps waiting for further explanation. The word “heir” had hit a chord with him, as the succession was the main concern these days for all Junians. He stood up. “Stay here.”
The order wasn’t needed. Besides, the guard that Grigán caught a glimpse of as the chamberlain exited would have made sure they respected it.
“What do you think?” he asked Corenn.
“She will meet with us,” the Mother stated. “If only out of curiosity.”
However, the wait that followed their exchange was a long one, and Grigán was on his feet, pacing around the room to pass the time. While he walked, he stroked his mustache, a sure sign of nervousness. Even though they hadn’t expected it to be easy, there had been no doubt that they would at least be granted an audience… until now.
At last, the chamberlain was back. For a fleeting moment, Grigán saw in him a resemblance to a Zü priest, with his fine robe and his haughty attitude. He kept his mistrust quiet long enough to listen.
“Have you come from the island of Ji?” he asked with interest.
“Yes.”
“Her Majesty agrees to meet with you.”
Corenn let out a sigh of relief. They had crossed the sea for this sole purpose, and to have met failure now would have been hard to swallow. Séhane was their best chance at getting somewhere in their quest. Their only one, in fact.
“When?”
“This evening. How many are in your party?”
The Mother searched for a cue from Grigán. There was no reason to hide their number, but this question seemed out of place.
“Her Majesty believes you are not alone,” the chamberlain added. “You are going to be honored by dining at her table. I need to know so that I can inform the chef.”
“There are six of us,” Corenn said with resolve.
The rest of their meeting was dedicated to settling key details for the meeting, including the absolute rule against carrying a weapon. Grigán warned him that he would carry his broadsword anyway, and that he would leave it with the guards upon arrival. The chamberlain reluctantly accepted.
The warrior had a sense of foreboding. This kind of intuition had kept him out of harm’s way in the past. Under any other circumstances he would have left the city, but the danger was no less prevalent outside the walls of the Broken Castle than inside of them.
A man with a painted face walked on a fertile field. He had made a long journey to meet another whom he thought of as inferior. It was a terrible humiliation to come so far out of his way to meet someone of such low standing. Zuïa had no pity, he mused. She had no mercy for those who betrayed her trust. For failures, like him. He deserved punishment.
Warriors with strange faces and odd weapons cleared the way in front of him. None of them could hold his dark gaze, his eyes carrying the only flicker of life in his face painted like a skull. The man knew that these men had sworn to die for some superstitious cult. He walked past swaths of them, more than two hundred, who were chanting an incantation to protect them from the “dark eye.” Soon the entire camp resonated with the monotonous chant, repeated ten times by thousands of warriors, archers, cavalry, and other men-at-arms that the Accuser had gathered.
The only thing he felt toward them was scorn. He hastened toward the group of tents that held the captains. He had never been here. But the Accuser had to be with his captains. He slipped in under the stretched canvas tents. The guards made no motion to stop him. If they had tried, he would have slit their throats. He almost regretted that they had simply let him through.
“Zamerine,” a voice called from inside. It was a voice Zamerine recognized instantly, though he had heard it only once before. “Have you come here to tell me about how your miserable little murderers failed?”
The voice came from a man who was comfortably seated in a sumptuous seat, the type of comfort that didn’t belong in a military encampment. The man was wearing a thick coat of mail and a helmet encircled by a wide black band. Zamerine didn’t know his name. He was just the Accuser.
He didn’t respond, because they weren’t alone. A second man eyed Zamerine with a calculating air. He must have been from the same land as the thousands of warriors teeming outside. If for no other reason, Zamerine stared back at him. This barbarian was the largest human he had ever seen. Larger, even, than the fugitive Bowbaq. And his strength seemed proportionate to his size. Zamerine fing
ered the hilt of his dagger; even for a man that size, all it would take was a scratch with his hati to send him to his grave.
The giant said something to the Accuser in one of the strange languages spoken in this place. The two men burst out laughing, and the giant left without so much as a look at Zamerine. Now, the killer could talk. “Just because Zuïa expresses her justice through your words doesn’t give you the right to insult me with impunity. I strongly suggest that you don’t do it again,” Zamerine said.
The Accuser leapt up from his seat and ran toward Zamerine. The Zü had his hati drawn in a flash.
“Give me that dagger! Give it to me!” the Accuser yelled.
“You know that I would never do that,” Zamerine reassured him.
The Accuser took a step back and put out his hand. Zamerine handed the blade over to his adversary, without knowing why. He had been resisting it with all his force at the same time. The Accuser had put a pressure on his mind, controlling him like a marionette, forcing him to watch the strange sight as if from outside his own body.
The Accuser took off his left glove. His skin was wrinkled and spotted by old age. His fingers delicate but strong. And he didn’t so much as flinch as he forcefully shoved the hati through his wrist.
“Your poison can’t do anything to me!” he screamed. “You are nothing! Don’t come here, in the middle of my army, and tell me what I can or can’t do. I control the whole world! You understand? I have all the power!”
Then he turned his back to Zamerine, giving himself enough time to put his glove back on over his unbloodied hand and gather his thoughts. He handed the dagger back to Zamerine and released his mind.
Zamerine had never experienced anything so traumatizing. The Accuser had paralyzed him, had stripped him of control. No, he hadn’t made this voyage to meet with a mere mortal after all.
A few moments of absolute silence followed. The Accuser finally returned to the subject at hand.
“So. How’s our business coming along?” he said evenly, as if nothing had just occurred.
Zamerine gave him a detailed report, relieved to have things return to their normal course, although for a Zü that meant conspiracy, hunting, and murders.
“We are almost certain that the meddlers are in Junine. I was hoping to go there myself to put an end to this story.”
“That won’t be necessary, my little Zü-Zü. You will be much more useful here. You are staying, aren’t you?”
Zamerine could still feel the steel vise of the Accuser on his mind, annihilating his free will. There was no question. If he didn’t want to become the Accuser’s slave, he would have to become his ally.
“If I could help you…”
“You won’t regret it. I know how to reward my friends,” the helmeted man said, with a troubling intonation.
“And… the fugitives?” Zamerine reminded him, timidly.
“They’re as good as dead. I am going to send them something much more dangerous than your kids in their red tunics.”
The Accuser savored this moment. His creature had been sleeping for too long. It was time to wake it.
The heirs spent a considerable amount of time preparing for their meeting with Queen Séhane. They were all overjoyed when Corenn and Grigán delivered the news, though Grigán couldn’t bring himself to share his ominous feelings. Their first day in the Baronies crawled by, impatient as they were for the evening to come.
Léti and Corenn visited several tailors and shoemakers and came back with a set of long robes and laced shoes, classic Junian attire. A pair for each heir. Grigán thanked his friends for thinking of him, but insisted on keeping his black-leather outfit. He made do by polishing off the layer of sea salt that had accumulated on it while on the Othenor.
Rey played with his newfound wealth by making several purchases, which he revealed to the group at the last minute. The actor had dressed himself head to toe in the traditional attire of Lorelien nobility. Léti stared wide-eyed at the sight of her friend’s light cape and delicately crafted shirt. Yan blushed at the sight of her overt admiration for Rey. He looked down at his robe, feeling ridiculous. Even the fact that Bowbaq looked even more ridiculous wasn’t enough to console him.
Like Grigán, Léti decided to carry her broadsword, too, though her sheath concealed no extra dagger like the warrior’s. She had grown so accustomed to carrying it the past few days that she would have felt vulnerable without the cold sensation of steel against her thigh. She didn’t want to feel vulnerable ever again.
The small group started their walk over to the palace as the seventh deciday neared. They drew plenty of curious looks from the Junians, although none was overly suspicious, and the heirs reached the palace walls without trouble.
The chamberlain they had met before was waiting for them at the outer wall. He greeted them politely and led them to the citadel, escorted by four stone-faced guards armed with traditional spears.
It seemed like an excessive escort to Grigán, but then again he knew nothing about the Broken Castle’s customs. He allowed himself and his companions to be led through the inner wall and finally into the castle itself with a wary eye, but without complaint.
Neither the architecture nor the decorations could compare to the pretentious luxury of Lorelien palaces. The Junian royal residence was welcoming but understated, spacious but intelligently designed. It was a prestigious building, but also one where plenty of work was done.
The heirs followed the chamberlain through several rooms until he stopped and pointed toward an ordinary-looking door at the end of a hallway.
“Her Majesty will join you shortly. You must leave your weapons with the guards.”
Léti waited to see Grigán’s reaction before removing her sword. The warrior surrendered his weapon but, as expected, kept his sheath. The Junians thought nothing of it.
Corenn pushed open the door and entered what appeared to be a reception hall. Wood crackled in a huge fireplace. Despite the warm sun outside, it was cold within the castle walls. Seven lavish chairs were placed around an equally stunning table, which was filled with an array of porcelain dishes and the finest silver cutlery. The walls were decorated with hunting trophies, magnificent paintings, and tapestries that represented several of the Baronies’ significant historical events, such as the signing ceremony of the First Treaty.
The heirs marveled at it all as they waited. Grigán nudged Yan and pointed at a mounted acchor head, unable to hold back a smile. The young man wondered if the artisan who made the trophy had a tendency toward sensationalism or if he had only preserved the animal’s dying expression. Without question it was a terrifying beast. A sort of giant wolf equipped with a boar’s defenses. Yan thought he recognized its skin as the same material that Grigán’s leather outfit was made of, but he didn’t have the time to ask. The door opened.
An elderly woman dressed in a classic Junian robe walked toward the center of the room with two well-built guards on her either side. The only things that distinguished her from commoners were her elaborate hair and the modest crown she wore.
“You’re not Séhane,” Corenn stated, to her companions’ surprise. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I’ve met her.”
The woman turned to the nearest guard, unsure of how to react. Grigán took a step back and placed a hand on his sheath, his fears suddenly materializing.
After a prolonged silence, another woman made her entrance looking so tired that even walking seemed difficult. The guards respectfully cleared the way for her. No crown sat upon her head, but there was no question she was their queen.
“Lady Corenn,” she greeted in a shaky voice. “I’m happy to see you again.”
“Majesty,” the Mother said with a bow. “It’s an honor that you remember me.”
“Oh! My memory isn’t as perfect as you might think. Indeed, it’s my mistrust in it that made me resort to this scheme. I feared that I wouldn’t recognize you and that I could be tricked or harmed. The sound of your voice
alone was enough to convince me.”
Séhane thanked the guards and the lady who had so bravely, though unconvincingly, played her role. The queen knew that she had nothing to fear of Corenn and that she could certainly trust her friends too.
The Mother took it upon herself to introduce everyone, which she did with the respect and graciousness fit for a queen.
But Séhane found her friend’s formality out of place. “Corenn, during our conversations in Kaul, you called me Séhane. Have I aged so much to lose your friendship?”
The heirs liked her right from the start. Although she was a queen, and much older than anyone in the group, Séhane was an heir too. Her ancestor, King Arkane, had lived through the experience on Ji and had come back with an arm missing. As punishment for his refusal to relay the events that occurred on Ji, his peers had made him an outcast. He had suffered, and passed on a memory of this suffering to later generations. Indeed, Séhane endured this strange curse like the rest of them. They didn’t know each other and perhaps only had this one thing in common, but it was more than enough to make them feel close.
Séhane had never participated in the reunions on the Day of the Owl. She had no idea what happened on Ji during the gatherings. And she had never, at least up until now, been threatened by the Züu.
“You hid yourself behind plenty of mysteries in order to meet with me. I suppose there was a reason for that…” Séhane began.
“The worst possible reason, Séhane. We’re in danger, and we think that you are too,” Corenn explained.
The queen listened with an attentive ear as Corenn filled her in on how the Züu had launched a war against the heirs. She didn’t leave out any details, telling her everything from their individual experiences in the Small Palace to their episodes in Berce. She paused only when the servants brought the courses to the table. By the end of her story, Séhane had heard all there was to tell. Almost. Corenn intentionally left out their escape from the island of Ji.
The Orphans' Promise Page 18
