Lady of Drith

by Chad Huskins

  Thryis stiffened. She looked at Drea, then back at Lord Syphen. “Drea Kalder is not to be left in danger while Thryis Ardenk still draws breath,” she said coolly. “Every fool knows this.”

  “Your friend is no longer in danger,” Syphen said tersely. “But you might well be, girl, if you don’t do as I say.”

  One of the guards stepped forward and put a hand on Thryis’s shoulder. She slapped it away angrily, and stood up, fists balled, ready to fight—

  Until Drea grabbed her by the hand and yanked her back into her seat. Drea cupped Thyris’s face in her hands and put her face an inch away from her friend’s. “Listen to me, you arrogant little snob! Your friendship is appreciated but it is not needed right now. Right now, what is required is for you to do exactly as the senataor he says—”

  “I don’t take orders from him! Smack his bottom—”

  “Then take this order from me,” Drea said. “Stand up, walk away, and join Uncle and Fritt outside. Do you understand me?”

  Drea’s eyes welled up. She did not like speaking to Thryis this way, but sometimes it was the only way to penetrate that high wall of outrage she so often built up around herself.

  Another guard put a hand around Thryis’s arm, more forcefully this time. She was pulled away, and the last Drea saw of her, Thryis was still staring back at her.

  Drea cupped her hands in her lap, all composure and manners now, facing Lord Syphen. “I apologize for her behavior.”

  “A most fearsome brand of loyalty, that one,” the senator mused, watching her being dragged across his lawn. “I’d always heard that it was the Kalderus who were so quick-tempered. Your father certainly proved that more than once in the Senate when he defied whatever bill I put forth.”

  Drea essayed a smile, hoping it would put the man at ease. “The anger is our curse. Ours is slower to build, though. Like a volcano. It may take ages of simmering and steaming, but once it happens, the explosion is much more…severe…than the anger of others.”

  Syphen nodded. “Also true of your father. Now that I reflect on it, there were signs all along that he was going to, ah, erupt as you might say. Signs that showed he was going to help the Imperator overthrow Drith.”

  He was never going to “overthrow” Drith, Drea thought bitterly, but didn’t say. He was going to reform it. Political reform doesn’t mean the destruction of a civilization; it means it’s evolving. These were thoughts that Drea had been meditating on in her own time, independent of her father’s political views. Of course, to share them would be to overstep her bounds.

  Still, she disliked Lord Syphen’s interpretation of what her father had tried to do by introducing bills such as the Five-Year Law. Allowing slaves to work their way towards freedom wasn’t only justice, it was a way to motivate them to work harder. It also just made good sense. More freedmen meant more potential consumers, more businessmen, more money flowing through Drith.

  How was that a bad thing?

  But the Syphenus had always had a political platform that said slaves were the life’s blood of Drith. Without the slave caste system, they said, such monumental achievements as the Aqueduct and the Great Generator could never have been reached. The slaves worked harder, the Syphenus claimed, because they knew they could be killed at any moment, in any way, for any reason. Slaves were the engines of Drith, they said, not the steam-powered machines that the Steamwright Collegium had built.

  “And now I must ask you this last question,” Lord Syphen said. He leaned forward, and placed both elbows on his knees. Drea fought to keep her composure. She took another steadying breath. “What do you think of me?” he said.

  Drea blinked. “You, my lord?”

  “Yes. What do you think, now that I’ve killed the Imperator, the ruler of Drith, and your husband-to-be?”

  One last time, Drea decided that if she was going to lie, she ought to at least couch those lies within ample amounts of honesty. “You frighten me.”

  His flat expression never changed. “Why?”

  “Because you were brave enough to slay a titan today, and you had the power and charisma to convince twelve other men to help you do it,” she said. “And now here I am, the last daughter of an almost extinct House. I’ve no reason to believe I’m worth much, no reason to live, really, since I have no House to serve, and no Imperator who can use my name to validate his citizenship.”

  Drea shrugged.

  “I’m a tool without a use. The only thing in my character of note is that you might suspect I am such my father’s daughter than I will seek to do you harm, somehow.”

  Lord Syphen nodded slowly, then sighed and leaned back in his seat and drummed his fingers across his knees. He ruminated on something for a moment, then said, “You’re wrong.”

  “Wrong, my lord?”

  “Wrong about your use. You have one—and only one—and that is the access to your family’s fortune.”

  Drea blinked, dubious. “Our fortune?”

  “I’m not surprised you missed that point. Imperator Fedarus didn’t need a dowry from you, for he was already so wealthy, so it probably was never brought up. But you still have some assets inherited from your father, and your marriage to others could be seen as advantageous.”

  Drea shook her head. “But who would marry me now, my lord? I have no political connections, my family is extinct, and I am perhaps thought by some to be loyal to a conspiring father.”

  She used the words thought by some purposefully. She was careful not to indict her own father, for even now, even as she faced a potential fell-sorcerer, Drea would not condemn her father for crimes she knew he never committed.

  “Your dowry alone would be sufficient to tempt many men,” Syphen said. “You’re also a Lady of Drith, which is a handsome status symbol. And your face, while plain, is well enough that it wouldn’t be too difficult to find a man willing to have you.” He smiled. “But, as it happens, we won’t require a search.”

  Drea stiffened. “Oh?”

  Syphen threw his head back and laughed. It was so jarring that Drea almost jumped out of her seat. “No, you won’t be marrying me, child. No, not me. But perhaps someone else in my House. I haven’t thought of it yet, but it could be arranged. In the meantime, your finances, such as they are, can be managed by myself.”

  Drea watched as Lord Syphen stood up, whispered something to one of his guards, then dismissed him. The guard ran off quickly on some errand.

  “A room will be prepared for you,” said Syphen. “Your manservant—Halorax, is it?—he will be dismissed from your service, but perhaps he will be allowed visitation.” He nodded towards one of the other guards. “I’ll have my man here show you to your quarters. Tomorrow I’ll arrange for a governess to come and see about continuing your education.”

  Drea’s mind was racing, and she stumbled over the words, trying to catch up. “I…I beg your pardon, my lord. Quarters? Education? What are you talking about?”

  Syphen regarded her curiously, then chuckled. “My, you are a slow one after all, aren’t you?”

  Drea just gaped at him, not comprehending any of it.

  “Drea Kalder, you are henceforth Drea oda Syphen,” he clarified. The oda denoted a person who was favored by a House, yet was not of that family’s blood. It was often given to slaves that had been manumitted, yet chose to keep working as servants in their preferred House. But it was also sometimes used to signify someone that had been adopted by a House.

  “My lord…do I understand you correctly? I’m to be your ward?”

  “You are.” He smiled. “Don’t look so troubled. Sleep easy tonight under the three moons, for tomorrow is a new day and you will see the dawning of a bold new world.”

  Drea couldn’t speak.

  “Be thankful, Drea. Fedarus was killed at the Hour of the Wyrm, and the Red Wyrm has ever been your House’s sigil. Perhaps it was fate, an omen, that the moment of the tyrant’s death was also the moment of your liberation.”

  With that, he
turned and walked away.

  Drea sat there a moment considering the ramifications of this. For a moment, she thought she might still be dreaming. This certainly felt like a dream, because life rarely changed this drastically this quickly. The last time she had felt this lack of control was…was…

  When Mother died, she thought. And before that, Father.

  It didn’t seem right that Loraci would let Drea’s life get this saturated by tragedy. Surely the goddess’s scales need balancing by now?

  A hand touched her shoulder. It stirred her. She turned and saw the guard looming over her. She stood and was led out of the house and into the foyer. The iron door whined and chuffed steam as it opened, and there, she met Thryis, Halorax and Fritt.

  “Sia!” said Halorax, rushing to her.

  But Thryis was there first, taking her in her arms. “Tell me what happened?”

  “I hardly know how to put it,” she said. Drea saw that Fritt was already turning his back on her and walking away. “I’m to be his ward.”

  “His ward?”

  Halorax stepped forward, and clutched her arm. “Oh…Sia…” He kissed her hands. “I’m so thankful! So thankful to the gods.”

  Drea winced. “The gods, Uncle?”

  “Yes, they delivered Thryis to us just in time. She was right to guide you here. I was wrong. So, so wrong.”

  But as Drea looked at Thryis, she found that her friend did not look at all happy about her decision.

  “Thryis,” she said, taking the girl’s hands in hers. “It’s going to be all right. In fact, perhaps this is even best. I’m no longer a bride in-waiting, so this means we’ll likely see more of each other.”

  Thryis nodded stiffly, then looked back warily at the great house of the Syphenus. The suspicious look she had, one might think she was a wolf peering into a trap, wondering how its machinations worked.

  : Skin of Iron, Breath of Steam:

  The corpse of Imperator Fedarus was desecrated. Declared a tyrant by the very Senate that had betrayed him, the man that had come to Drith as first a conqueror, then a liberator, would have his name erased from all the histories. He was not to be given proper funeral rites. His body was torn to pieces by dogs, and what remained was tossed into the Split. During the week that followed his death, people claimed they had seen Fedarus’s ghost slinking along the shore at night, asking passersby, “Where’s my crown? Have you seen my crown?”

  Anyone living near the Split made sure to paint their doors with the Black Four, in case the Imperator’s spirit became vengeful.

  Many were scandalized that an Imperator’s body would be treated such a horrible way, even one so hated by the Senate. But it was important that both Fedarus and his remaining supporters be seen as committers of the ultimate crime: treason.

  Town criers took this message to every corner of Drith, and shouted it so that all could hear. “Hearken all! Hearken!” they screamed, waving their golden capes to draw attention to themselves. “The last remaining loyalists of the tyrant Fedarus have been found and killed!”

  This drew gasps from some, tears from others, and some smattering of applause.

  “No Drithean need fear retribution from the Senate, for a tyrant is dead and it is time to erase his crimes!” they said, using a flourish of the hand to indicate something being wiped away forever. “The city of Drith may now begin to heal and rebuild, with the comfort of knowing that the Triumverate will bring peace, justice, and eternal goodwill here! To Drith! The city favored most by the gods!”

  The Triumverate the messengers were referring to consisted of the three men that had been elected to rule in place of the dead Imperator. Those three men were Phaedos Syphen, Markus Dustrang, and Harkonex Det. Until such time as a new Imperator could be decided upon, the Triumverate would rule over Drith and its vast Empire.

  Drea heard most of this from the servants of House Syphen, who attended her at all hours and told her of the latest gossip to be heard from the Forum. She had no other contact with the outside world, for she’d been cooped up for the whole week since she’d met with Lord Syphen.

  Her first day as a ward had been strange. Drea had experienced strange dreams, some of them including the Man in the Charred Temple. Then she had woken in a large bed made of the finest horsehair cushions, attended by three slaves in silk and leather tunics, and with breakfast fully prepared.

  Drea’s quarters were in a small cottage on the north side of the Syphenus family estate, hidden by trees that had become overrun with vines. Around the cottage stretched acres of gardens and hayfields, and all that green was studded here and there with cobblestone paths leading to chapels, studies, and more gardens.

  The cottage looked to have once been lived in, but that had probably been long ago. It had been spruced up by slaves, with flowers and incense to try to overcome the drab surroundings and dusty odors. To Drea, it smelled of mildew and wasted potential, and resembled a cage more than anything.

  Drea was used to cages. Like a bird kept inside one all its life, she was accustomed to captivity. It didn’t mean she liked it, but once she realized that this small, dank cottage surrounded by gloomy trees was to be her home, she didn’t panic. She’d survived worse and more, she was only thankful that she would live, and that Thryis and the others would not be punished.

  Her governess was a stern woman named Osween, who demanded to be called by the honorific Taja.

  “Am I understood?” Osween said, after finishing almost any sentence.

  “Yes, Taja,” Drea repeated time and again.

  When they first met, Drea had been ushered outside by slaves, onto an enormous gazebo that overlooked much of the plantation. From this windowless, wall-less stage, a person received a commanding view of the estate of House Syphen. Stables on the west side of the plantation, a track on the east, and the main palatial home in the north. And lining almost all the paths were either gas lamps, which hung from steel stanchions, or electric globes, which were perched atop tall poles.

  Osween had been on Drea at the gazebo, along with a stack of leather-bound tomes and a bagful of scrolls. She’d looked over Drea like a storm cloud, considering her. The old woman was gray-haired and had a severe eye, and she wore white robes with many folds and always looked ready to kill.

  “My name is Osween oda Syphen,” she said. “But you will address me as Taja. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.” Drea had been somewhat frightened. She stood before the woman, head bowed in deference, hands cupped politely in front of her.

  “I have no children of my own, but I’ve had plenty of students,” she said, pacing around Drea. “More than three dozen in my lifetime. I’ve raised mostly Syphenus children, raised them up from infancy and managed their instruction precisely. I will use equal precision in your education, regardless of the fact you are not Syphenus blood. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Lord Syphen tells me there are large gaps in your education, many of which you admit to yourself. This is good. Being able to admit to weakness is absolutely necessary in order to make great progress. You will work hard for me. Am I understood?”

  Drea nodded. “Yes, Taja.”

  “Because I am not in the habit of having people take my teachings for granted,” the governess made clear. “I do not tolerate tardiness, nor any of my students giving anything less than all their attention. It is my belief that the mind wants busywork, and that it decays without it. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Very well.” Osween turned and waved to the numerous books she brought with her. “We will begin with these texts, and I will determine your abilities with astrology and arithmetic. I should also like to see your abilities at drawing, for that is my own particular specialty. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Later, I will listen to you play the harp and the flute. I am not a proficient musician myself, but I have an excellent ear, and I can tell where improvements should be mad
e and I can recommend specialist tutors for you. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Good, then let’s get started.”

  That whole first day had been spent with Drea trying to remember her teachings from her mother and other tutors. It had been almost a year since her instruction had ceased—she’d been in-waiting for much of the time, after all. Drea struggled to control her diaphragm in order to carry the notes at length, she thought too long about the equations that Osween placed on the parchment in front of her, and when it came to astrology, she was positively rubbish at using the direction of the wind to forecast the will of the gods.

  As it turned out, Osween discovered what Drea could have told her outright if the governess had only asked: that her greatest strength was her lettering and her drawing.

  “It seems you’ve a talent for naught but a brush and quill,” the governess said, walking around her and watching her technique. “At least you’ve some redeeming quality, or else I should think my time here wasted.”

  “Thank you, Sia.”

  Osween paused, though, to point out something. “The ring on your hand, is it authentic?”

  Drea had completely forgotten about the signet ring that Halorax had given her. At some point, without thinking about it, she had put it on. “Yes, Taja, it is. Is it wrong to wear it?”

  “Why should it be? The Red Wyrm of House Kalder is part of your legacy. But you are Drea oda Syphen now, so whenever we have dinner guests or visitors, you will take it off and keep it in your quarters. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Good.” She waved at Drea’s work on the easel. “I’ll want to see at least one complete drawing on a different subject each day.”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “You will meet with me out here every day unless I say otherwise. We will work until midday, after which you will help your new-sisters inside with wool-spinning, sewing, and whatever else. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  By new-sisters, she meant the pureblood women of House Syphen, the ones whose responsibility it was to take care of the estate, manage the slaves, keep the home clean, and provide all the clothing that the men and women of House Syphen would wear.