The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1)

by Matt Gilbert

  It was all Aiul could do to keep her slashing claws from his face. She was a mad tigress. He seized at a flailing arm as she brought the other up and grabbed a handful of his shirt for leverage. “Stop it, Kariana!”

  She spat at him and delivered a series of savage kicks to his shins, punctuating each with a curse.

  Aiul had suffered enough. He shoved her away, harder than he had intended. She flew back from him, still maintaining her death grip on his shirt. The fabric parted, and she staggered back, unbalanced, a look of shock on her face. She teetered briefly, then fell to the floor, striking her head against the table where Yazid lay dead. The Southlander’s massive, plank-like hand seemed to reach for her hair on her way down. She looked up at Aiul, a mixture of fear, fury, and pain on her face, the scrap of cloth from his shirt still clutched in her hand.

  Aiul shook his head in consternation, torn between the contradictory urges to tend her wound and flee from her. “Damn you, Kariana! Why did you make me do that?”

  She looked up at him, tears running down her face, no longer an empress or a savage beast, just a heartbroken little girl, exhausted and defeated. His heart went out to her.

  “I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I just—“ She paused and wiped at the blood on her forehead. “I never felt like this before, don’t you understand? Not until you came back to me. It’s too much! I can’t bear it!”

  “You need rest, Kariana. And you need to sober up.”

  She brightened. “I’ll sleep, I promise! Come with me. Put me to bed.”

  Aiul sighed, exasperated. He had walked right into that one. “I cannot Kariana. I have a wife. I have responsibilities.”

  “Don’t you leave me, Aiul! Not now, not tonight! I need you.”

  “My wife needs me.”

  “I command you!”

  Aiul shook his head. “Not this time, Kariana. And not ever again.” He turned away and walked toward the door.

  “Cocksucker! Motherfucker son of a bitch bastard—“ She trailed off, out of words crude enough to express her contempt. “Mei as my witness, I’ll fucking kill you and that wretched whore! Do you hear me?”

  Aiul hunched his shoulders against the onslaught and stepped out of the room.

  “Aiul! I’m sorry! Aiul! Please!”

  Aiul kept walking.

  Kariana lay in a heap on the cold stone floor for some time, trembling, unable to control her warring emotions. She wept, cursed, and screamed, buffeted by rage, humiliation and deep, agonizing loss. How could this be? How had she come to this? “It isn’t fair!” she screamed, and tore at her hair in frustration. She tried to rise to her feet, staggered, and tried again, hauling herself up against the table. The dead Southlander seemed to leer at her, mocking her, drinking in her pain like a fine wine. She reached for her knife and stabbed him again, swooned, then steadied herself with both hands. Blood dripped from her gashed forehead onto the Southlander’s face, ran slowly down his cheek like a tear, and mixed with the rest she had spilled from him.

  “Blood calls for blood,” she whispered, wondering why she should think of the phrase. She had heard it somewhere before, but why did it come to mind now?

  She raised the scrap of Aiul’s shirt to her forehead and daubed at the wound. It was superficial, really. She barely felt it. But then, she thought, she might not notice a sword shoved through her gut right now, not against the rest of her pain. Well, that and the drugs.

  It was all her wretched brother’s fault. If he hadn’t gone and gotten himself killed, none of this would have happened. He would have been emperor, and she would have been happy. But instead, they had put a crown on her head, and whispered secretly that she had engineered the entire affair.

  They called her murderess and whore, a poor ruler, stupid and vain. She could accept some of it. A whore? They never complained when they were with her. No, they took their pleasure and then spit on her because she took hers as well. Better a whore than a hypocrite. A poor ruler? Certainly. What had she ever been taught of such things? Who had prepared her? And yet they cursed her when the crown they placed on her head failed to magically infuse her with wisdom and knowledge. Vain? Her father had been of the mind that the entire point of her existence was to serve as decoration. She was but what she had been groomed for, what she had been expected to be: a toy. Was it so wrong to accept her place as had been defined for her by others, to take joy in it? Stupid? Oh, yes, very, up to now, and it was high time for that to change.

  But murderess? She had never hurt a soul until tonight. Well, not without their consent and a safe word in place. She knew how, of course. Torture was a womanly art, handed down from mother to daughter for centuries. The only use she had ever found for it was to entertain her friends who had peculiar, embarrassing tastes that their wives would not indulge. The same friends, she thought bitterly, who denounced her to hide their own shame. She was nothing but a receptacle for their vile spew.

  Suddenly, everything seemed too close, too tight. She had to get out, get some air to clear her head. She looked briefly at the rapidly cooling body of the Southlander, wondering what should be done about him, then dismissed the notion.

  Let someone else clean up the mess. She was empress.

  Aiul spent most of the trip home cursing himself for letting things come to this. It was all idiocy, pure and simple, and had been from the start. He had no idea how it would play out with the Southlanders, but one thing was certain: his part in their story was over.

  He was only interrupted from his brooding once, when a group of three men moved toward him menacingly. Aiul hitched the edge of his cloak aside, grasped the handle of his mace, and stared at them from beneath his hood with pure, undisguised malevolence. In truth, he would have been quite pleased to bash in some thug’s skull, a fact that was apparently clear to his would-be muggers. The men slowly backed away, then turned and fled at full speed.

  Aiul shook his head and moved on, his mind turning back to Kariana. He ground his teeth in frustration. Damn her! He could barely contain his fury at her presumption, her selfishness, and yet he felt a deep sympathy for her, as well. He resolved not to hold it against her. She was who she had always been, and he should have known better. He would check in on her in the morning. A night’s rest should clear her head of the drugs and exhaustion, and she would be in a more sensible state of mind. Perhaps we could even be friends again, he thought. Mei knows, she needs some true friends.

  He found himself home before he quite realized it. His feet, apparently, knew the way well enough to take him there without his head having to be overmuch involved. He looked up briefly at the towering building, his head clouded with strange thoughts. The Cradle of Nihlos was one of the tallest buildings in the city, practically clawing at the sky. It bespoke privilege and power like little else could, a middle finger raised to the sky, defying the gods and their petty gravity. And we who live there imagine it speaks of us in such terms, when in truth, we’re all just devolved wretches, children playing with the masterworks of our betters who came before us, as the whole thing winds down like an untended clock.

  Aiul entered the Cradle’s large, opulent foyer, his boots clicking against the marble tiled floor and echoing from the polished granite walls. The light from the few candles the staff kept burning at night cast a soft glow over the room, enough to see by, but not so much as to trouble the eyes of those coming in from darkness. The concierge, an elderly and dapper man with white hair, stood his usual post behind the huge reception desk. As Aiul crossed toward the elevators, the older man looked up briefly and examined a chart hanging from the wall on his left, pressed his pencil to his lip, then turned to examine a chart on his right. Satisfied, he turned back to his work. It was a practiced gesture, one that allowed him to scrutinize anyone entering the establishment without seeming to focus on any particular person. Aiul had been fooled by it for months when he had first moved in, only later realizing the level of service and subtlety his coin had bought him. This last week, he h
ad begun to appreciate the true value of it.

  Aiul entered the elevator, giving a tired nod to the short, well dressed attendant. The man was a commoner, of course, such menial tasks being beneath even slaves, but he still bore the air of professionalism upon which the Cradle’s reputation depended.

  “Twelfth floor, sir?” the attendant asked.

  Aiul nodded again, and the man responded by sounding two bells, once strike against a lower pitched one, twice against a higher pitched one. The elevator jerked slightly, then began a smooth ascent.

  “Still using bells?” Aiul asked.

  “Aye, sir,” the man answered. “Most of the residents prefer it this way, so I am told. They are more comfortable with slaves powering the elevator than with magic. The accident…”

  “So the official line goes,” said Aiul. “I think the truth is simpler.”

  The attendant stared at the floor, and repeated, “I am told the residents prefer it this way.”

  “Of course,” Aiul said with a wry smile.

  Aiul inserted his key into the lock and turned it as quietly as possible. So far, he had been lucky, and Lara had no idea how late his excursions often ran, and for her peace of mind, he wanted it to remain that way. He opened the door to find darkness, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  There was some light filtering through the curtained windows from outside, enough to navigate by. He removed his shoes, robe, and mace, leaving them at the front door, and padded softly across the carpet to the living room. He knew he should put them away, especially the mace, so as not to provoke any questions from Lara, but his mind was in an uproar, and he needed something to calm his nerves. They could wait a few minutes, until his hands stopped shaking, he told himself.

  He took a bottle of fine whiskey from his bar, unstoppered it, and hesitated, considering simply drinking from the bottle, but his manners were not so easily dismissed. He settled for four fingers in a large tumbler, neat, the first finger gulped with all the expected fire and grimacing, the remaining three to be sipped while the first worked at his nerves.

  Aiul opened the heavy curtains to reveal a huge picture window that looked out on the city below. He nursed the whiskey, his eyes roaming over the spires of the city. Everything was orange at night, tinted by the ever-present, luminous cloud cover. Nihlos knew no rain or snow, nor did she ever grow too cold or too warm, all due to those clouds. Another miracle we will not be able to repair once it fails.

  He watched over the sleeping city for a while, seeking solace that would come only with a higher blood alcohol level. At last, the muscles in his neck began to relax, the pounding in his chest and temples subsided, and he told himself that he would, perhaps, be able to sleep.

  He was jarred from his peace by the sound of movement behind him. He sighed. Luck can only hold out so long, I suppose.

  “Do you love the bitch, or is she just a fuck?” Lara’s voice was higher than usual, stressed, a mixture of a whisper and a sob. She stepped forward from the shadows where she had been hiding, her face twisted in grief, her brown eyes brimming with tears and accusations. The light from the window was not bright, but it was enough to illuminate the sheer fabric of her sleeping gown, turning it into little more than a nimbus, a mild blur over her flesh beneath. She took her place in front of him and folded her long, pale arms over her swollen belly, waiting for him to answer.

  She is so different from Kariana. Thicker, taller, stronger. Even their features were at odds: Lara’s were solid and broad, where Kariana was pointed and delicate. Lara’s hips alone made her the better choice in a wife, but she was superior in every way. And we dare call ourselves nobles. We have it backward. The commoners are more fit.

  Aiul stared at her for long moments, his jaw locked in place, his mind struggling to maintain cohesion as it was pulled this way and that by conflicting emotions and irreconcilable duties. As a lover, his eyes caressed the curves of her body in erotic and devoted appreciation. As a father to be, he felt giddy with pride to see the swelling of her belly, to know that his child would soon draw its first breath. As a doctor, he unconsciously scanned her for abnormalities, and noted with satisfaction that all appeared to be going well with the pregnancy. But as protector and defender of his wife and unborn child, he felt bile rising in his throat. He could lie, and likely she would even believe him, but it would fester. Lies always did. They created barriers, ever widening gaps that should not exist between two people trying to live as one.

  As a doctor, he knew that a surgical scar was preferable to death, but as a husband, he could not bear to watch as he made the incision. He turned back to the window and looked out over the city as he spoke.

  “It is neither. But there are things I have kept from you. It is difficult, so please, just listen until I am done. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, almost choking on the word.

  He told it mechanically, a recitation of facts rather than a confession, history rather than drama. He imagined it would be easier for her, but in the end, it seemed to have simply made things worse.

  She waited long in silence, weeping softly, until she was certain he was done. “What is it you expect of me? What am I supposed to do? Just bear the humiliation in silence, paint on a smile and pretend my husband hasn’t betrayed me? Like a good noblewoman?”

  Aiul turned to her, frowning. “It is not betrayal to go along with a tradition hundreds of years old.”

  Her face was red, her eyes bloodshot from sobbing. “Then why did you hide it from me?” she cried.

  “To spare you this. I knew you would not understand.”

  Lara buried her face in her hands and said nothing for long moments, simply shook with sobs she was trying to silence. At last, she looked up again, fury in her eyes.

  “I spoke to my mother about it, when I first noticed. She took your side. ‘He’s a man, Lara,’ she said. ‘Men have weaknesses we have to accommodate in return for their strengths.’” She spat at the floor. “I thought you were different, Aiul, but you’re just like my father, my brothers, like every man I ever knew!”

  Aiul ground his teeth and bit back a retort. She could not understand, and did not deserve his wrath. It was not her way, and it was unfair of him to expect her to cast aside her own traditions in favor of his without time to adjust and accept. He had chosen this. He would find a way to bridge the gap. “Go to bed, Lara,” he told her. “We’re both exhausted. Things always seem harder to cope with when you’re tired.”

  She nodded and dried her tears with the sleeve of her gown. “And you? Will you sleep? With me?”

  Aiul shook his head. “I doubt I will sleep at all this night.” He drained his glass, then reached for the bottle of whiskey again and turned back toward the window.

  Lara snorted. “Feeling too guilty?”

  He looked at her again, feeling haggard. “Not in the way you imagine. If only I could be guilty of something so small as cheating on my wife.” He refilled the glass and sipped at the liquor. “I am much worse,” he said. He turned back to the view of the city and stared out once again. “I am a murderer now.”

  Caelwen stood outside the prison, armed and armored, watching the great iron doors that sealed the entrance. The empress preferred to believe she was alone, but what she didn’t know in this case would not only not hurt her, but likely keep her alive. The undercity streets were dangerous, and it was his duty to protect her.

  The whole area was an embarrassment for most of those who lived on the hills, something they ignored as much as possible. Some had likely even forgotten it existed. While it was technically the very heart of Nihlos, it was now the domain of the commoners, and with commoners came crime and violence. Once, when Nihlos was younger, the Nobles had walked freely here, unafraid. Of course half of them were Meites at the time. Caelwen was uncertain which was a worse plague, commoners or sorcerers. Both were sources of chaos that made life more difficult for anyone charged with maintaining order.

  In the end it
hardly mattered. This was his reality, and it was best simply to deal with that, rather than waste mental energy imagining ‘what if’. The reality was that Nihlos was permanently divided between those on the ground and those in the sky. Most of the lower entrances to the great towers had been sealed long ago, leaving access only by the bridges above. There were entire networks of roads in the spans between buildings, and the roads below lay forgotten and in disrepair. It was only natural that the prison entrance was here; this was where the criminals were.

  Caelwen knew what they were up to in there, and counted it despicable, but he had no power to change it. He could only watch, and wait.

  At last, the iron doors swung open, and a tall, hooded figure departed, moving quickly. What is his hurry, I wonder?

  It was another half hour before a second, smaller hooded figure exited the prison. She was addled, weaving in a drunken stupor as she made her way along the darkened, littered street. With a sigh, he fell in behind her at a discreet distance.

  She could have ascended to safer levels simply by climbing within the walls of the prison, avoiding trouble altogether, but she had taken it into her head that this must all be played like some cloak and dagger farce, which led to her wandering these dangerous streets alone. You are damned fortunate I take my duty seriously, Empress. It was the better part of a mile to the nearest public access to upper levels. Guards would be posted there to keep the rabble out, but between here and there, he was her only defender.

  As he expected, she quickly drew unsavory attention. A dirty, grinning fool stroked his beard, then drew his weapon and set in behind her. Caelwen dispatched the man quietly with a single thrust of his blade, pleased with himself that he drew no attention whatsoever. Not that even an explosion would have necessarily gotten through to Kariana, but the man might have had companions who would come running had he cried out.