“And do we tell Makesh of our other concerns?” asked En Balamon.
“I would wait,” Cael advised. “He is more friendly with Vassant than I’m comfortable with. He might be ingratiating himself, but we can’t be too wary. If Erkas gets wind of our thinking, he’ll simply execute us all as traitors. He’ll have his murder and his army.”
“Maybe that’s what he intended all along?” Hitaal mused.
“No, he wants the glory of a war with Vuthron,” Jorrell said. “Ekvit has always been a hero of his.”
“All the more reason to clip his wings, then,” En Balamon said as he rose. “I don’t know about you, gentleman, but I’m going to go and drink a little of the ox piss that they call wine in this country and dream warm dreams of home.”
“That’s not you dreaming of home,” Cael laughed as the others stood, too. “That’s you pissing yourself in your sleep. That ox piss rots your bladder.”
“Careful, pup.” En Balamon laughed. “Gryphons like their meat young and tender if they have a choice.”
“They won’t find that in this army,” Jorrell said.
“No, they won’t. And that’s all the more power to your arm.” Hitaal gave Jorrell a pointed look.
Jorrell wasn’t sure he wanted to be in a position where he needed that power, but he was glad to have it all the same.
Chapter Twenty
Serwren hurried through the corridors of the palace. She was so incensed by what she had just been told that she hadn’t realised it was possibly the first time in twenty years that she had actively sought her brother out. The lingering heat of the season of Taan, now in its final moon, as well as her haste and her panic, caused a light sweat to sheen her skin. Serwren ignored the way the wind of her rushed passing caused gooseflesh to raise on her arms. She had to find Erkas. She had to know if it was true. She had to know if it was too late.
Her brother had taken over the suite of rooms that had once been their father’s. That he could sleep in the bed where he’d committed patricide was beyond Serwren’s comprehension, but it did not surprise her that her brother could be so cold-hearted. But even so, what she’d been told today was a new low, even for Erkas.
When she reached the great, carved door, she didn’t bother to knock. She twisted the handle and pushed, relieved that it opened before her. She would have hammered until her fists bled to gain admittance, if it had been necessary.
She didn’t pause to examine the changes to the furniture and decoration that her brother had made, although they registered in the periphery of her mind as being more ornate than their father had favoured. She continued her search until she found her brother at the dining table; he was attending to a visitor. Whatever business was being conducted, it necessitated a great number of parchment scrolls laid out across the dark wood. There seemed to be a great many maps, but Serwren wasn’t interested in the minutia of his political business at this moment
“Erkas, how could you?” she blurted out breathlessly.
Erkas looked up at her from under his eyebrows, without lifting his head. “Why, sister, what a pleasure it is to see you. As always, your very presence hails a wave of peace.”
“Erkas...” Serwren let the threat in her tone speak for her.
Erkas waved his fingers negligently at the man he was speaking to. Serwren was so angry that she didn’t take the time to look and see if it was someone she recognised, or to see if it was someone she should acknowledge. Her focus was solely for her brother. Whoever it was gathered up the papers of whatever it was they had been discussing, and left with his armfuls of parchment, without a word to Serwren.
Erkas reclined in his seat, stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “What is so urgently pressing on your mind, sister?”
He was the very picture of insouciance. Serwren knew immediately that he’d been expecting her, that he’d prepared for her tirade. She took a deep breath. She would not gift him with any more histrionics.
“Elthrinn.”
“Ahh, yes.” Erkas nodded; a small smile was twisting his lips and his eyes were flashing with triumph. He didn’t even have the grace to even pretend to be embarrassed at being caught in his devious endeavours.
“You sent her to Dorvek,” Serwren continued. “Consul Daleith tells me that she’s to be married to Prince Gorren.”
“Did she now? Well, yes, King Dorll had been struggling to find a suitable wife for his second son. I was happy to be able to assist him.”
“But Elthrinn’s nineteen. She’s of age, she's independent. You can’t just marry her off,” Serwren insisted.
“She was Father’s ward, that means she’s now my responsibility.”
“But she’s not anyone’s responsibility any longer,” Serwren said belligerently.
Serwren was missing something, she knew she was, but her frantic mind wouldn’t pause to consider the angles of the situation. Consul Daleith had found Serwren as she was handing out food parcels in a remote corner of the city, where the homeless children hid when they weren’t begging or pickpocketing. Serwren had been working on persuading the consuls that she was friendly with to propose and vote for some sort of communal home for the children, which Serwren planned to oversee so that it did not become a institution to feed the depraved habits of people like her husband. Consul Daleith had pulled her gently, but insistently, to one side and had revealed that Elthrinn had been escorted from the temple of Doohr by armed guards. From that moment, all Serwren’s common sense had evaporated, and her only thought had been to seek clarification of that which could not possibly be true.
Erkas’ tone was that of a teacher explaining a concept to a particularly uncooperative child. “She is, however, terribly aware of her own responsibilities, both to herself, her family - which includes us, as well as her blood - and to her country. She’s terribly dedicated to that damn palace of prayer. She seems genuinely fond of everyone in it.”
Serwren’s heart stopped at the implication behind Erkas’ words. “You went to her. You threatened the priestesses if she didn’t do as you wished,” Serwren whispered. “The gods will strike you down for that, Erkas.”
“I made a suggestion, nothing more. The gods won’t mind, they’re hardly merciful themselves.”
“I want to see her,” Serwren insisted. Elthrinn was so young and vulnerable, despite her age. she wasn’t exactly naive, but she was innocent. If the marriage could not be prevented, then Serwren had much valuable advice to pass onto Elthrinn.
“You can’t,” Erkas said simply. “She’s well on her way by now, probably almost at the edges of the Heranuc range.”
“She’s still likely in Felthiss?” Serwren spoke almost absently. She was calculating how long the ride to the foothills of the Heranuc mountains would take her, if she set off immediately.
Erkas rose from his seat. By the time Serwren returned to the present moment and comprehended what he was doing, he was standing in front of her. Too close.
“What would you give to get her back, dear sister? What would you do?” Erkas’ voice was as smooth as oil. The fragrance of the smoky frankincense balm that he used on his skin, and the woody cedar oil that he smoothed over his hair, surrounded her and made it hard to breathe.
“Anything,” Serwren said sincerely. Erkas raised his hand to cup her cheek, but she grabbed his wrist, halting him a hair’s breadth before his palm made contact with her skin. “But I do not think for even a moment that you would stick to any bargain we would strike.”
Erkas laughed and dropped his hand. Serwren released his wrist, but he did not step away. “You’re right. But the deal is struck. I need an alliance with the wolves, if I’m to win against Kavrazel.”
“I thought your war was about murdering Jorrell?”
“It is, but I must make a good showing of it, or people will talk.”
“So you’ll send the wolves to their deaths, too?”
“Those animals are not really one of my highest priorities, or the
y won’t be, once the marriage has been consummated,” Erkas replied with a nonchalant shrug.
“You think of no one but yourself.”
“Not true, sister. I think of you... often.”
It was only then that Serwren realised how foolish she’d been to confront Erkas somewhere so private. She stepped back, and back, and back. She was almost at the door. She was very aware that Erkas was watching her retreat, that he was allowing her to escape him. If he had wanted to, he could have stopped her. In terms of physical strength, she was no match for him.
“You have nothing more to say on the matter, sister?” Erkas called after her as she escaped into the relative freedom of the corridor.
Serwren ignored her brother's jibe. She was devastated at the futility of the situation, for both herself and for Elthrinn. She would never be able to catch up with Elthrinn’s party. Serwren was certain that she would be prevented from doing so, should she try. And if she were to leave Thrissia, she would have to leave Ulli behind. There would be absolutely no way she would be able to travel fast enough to catch Elthrinn if she tried to drag Ulli along with her.
Serwren was too afraid of what would happen to her boy if she were not close by to leave him. She reluctantly admitted, to a certain extent, that she welcomed a part of Erkas’ logic. With the wolves on their flanks, the Felthissian army would have a better chance of success than without their allies. Although she would not have sacrificed Elthrinn to gain the alliance, under any circumstances, Serwren was glad the alliance had been made.
Serwren knew that Ulli was currently in the library, safely under the tutelage of Consul Remmah. To the surprise of many people, Serwren had been extremely selective about which people she would let tutor her son. She had deliberately excluded anyone who exuded any kind of bias, who would not give her son a rounded education, and anyone who was too closely allied with Erkas, for much the same reasons. The list of people she did trust around her son was a short one.
In need of a quiet place in which to think and to plan her next strategy, Serwren headed to the Forum, knowing that there was no business due to be conducted there that day. She needed peace to order her thoughts. Erkas’ cunning kept redefining the parameters of her survival.
Serwren wasn’t looking where she was going as she entered the Forum; she had her head down, her mind was absorbed in her tangled thoughts. She had her arms wrapped around herself, an unconscious gesture, and was barely focussed on the floor beneath her feet. Consequently, she did not see Seddrill until she had walked straight into him.
“Oh.” Serwren stumbled. Seddrill caught her with his hands around her shoulders. “Excuse me, I didn’t see...”
“Don’t worry, Lady Serwren, there’s no harm done.”
Serwren was curious as to his business in the empty room, but another question rose to her lips. “Why have you started calling me that?”
“What?”
“Lady Serwren. It was always simply Serwren before.”
“I give you a title that befits you.”
Not quite sure that she was understanding his meaning, or the motivation behind it, at least not completely, Serwren decided to ask her original question to change the subject of their conversation, but an exclamation from the doorway caused her to spin. It was only as she did so, and found her movement restricted, that she realised Seddrill was still holding onto her.
“So, this is what, or rather who, my wife has been doing.”
Bornsig stalked into the room. Truth be told, his gait was more of a waddle. He was moving as fast as his increased girth would allow.
“You eschew my bed, for his! A gore-supping bastard of Vuthron? How dare you, you damnable whore.”
The ridiculousness of Bornsig’s accusations, and the assumption behind them, that sharing a bed with him again was even a remote possibility, overwhelmed Serwren’s ability to respond. Bornsig was charging for her now, for them. He was moving with impressive speed for his size, despite the obvious effort that the exertion was costing him. Serwren could see that he intended violence; his face was flushed an ugly shade of purple with his rage. He almost barrelled straight into them, but Seddrill, who had been standing his ground along with her, pulled her to the side at the last moment. Bornsig’s momentum carried him straight past them.
With a strangled squawk, as he tried to both stop himself and to turn to come at them again, Bornsig tripped over his own feet. He crashed backwards, into the steps at the bottom of the dais which was dominated by the seat of the First Father. There was a stomach -turning crack. An even more sickening sound, that ended with a gurgle, issued from Bornsig as his head collided with the sharp edge of the stones.
When Serwren moved to go to her husband, Seddrill released her. She didn’t care whether he followed her or not. She hated Bornsig, almost, but not quite, as much as she hated her brother. But it was not in her nature to walk out of the room and leave him injured. When she reached him, she saw the pool of scarlet blood that was spreading thickly from under the prone man’s head, and she knew that, even if she wished to, there was nothing that she would be able to do to help him.
She knelt by his side, taking care to keep her skirts from the spreading pool. Bornsig raised one arm, a feeble attempt to grab her, his fingers weakly grasping, but he did not have the strength to complete the motion, and the limb fell back to the stone with a painful thud. Serwren was looking directly into his eyes when the orbs ceased to perform their duties and rolled back into his head. Bornsig's last breath rattled from between his lips.
Serwren waited a moment or two longer over the still form, until she was certain that no spark of life might flare. She felt a quiet triumph. Bornsig had not died by her hand; even if she had run immediately for help, his injury had been too severe to survive, but she felt his death on her conscience, and she relished the weight of it there.
“Good riddance,” she breathed as she pushed to her feet.
Seddrill was standing close by, and Serwren went to his side. Strangely, she was unsurprised when he caught her wrist in the now familiar gesture.
“May I?”
His fingers were wrapped around the cold metal of one of the intricately wrought filigree silver cuffs that she had taken to wearing. They covered the lower half of her forearms. Seddrill had not been very demanding during the course of the two moons that had passed since they had struck their agreement, but the scabs from the few wounds that he had made were noticeable on her pale skin, so Serwren had formed a habit of wearing the jewellery constantly before anyone could notice the reason for its appearance.
“Yes. I suppose the end of that purgatory is a cause for celebration.”
Seddrill flicked the catch on the cuff that adorned the wrist he was holding and removed it from her arm, as Serwren found her small blade. Nothing about her life at the palace had left her inclined to walk around, or even to sleep, unarmed. They swapped items, Serwren handing Seddrill the knife as he passed her the jewellery, then he took her wrist again and made the quick slice, which was so fast it felt more like a mere scratch than the opening of her skin.
Seddrill lifted her arm to his lips, but spoke before he drank. His breath whispered over her pulse. “Will you join me?”
Serwren had often wondered at the appeal, but now was not the time for experimentation. For the moment, they were still alone in the great room, save for Bornsig’s corpse, but there was no guarantee that such would be the case indefinitely.
“I’d rather have the customary glass of wine later.”
“A shame,” Seddrill murmured, and then closed his mouth around the cut that was just starting to drip.
Serwren had begun to experience a disconcerting mix of emotions during these particular moments that were at once business-like and yet affectionate. Seddrill’s mouth was warm and moist, and his tongue laved over her delicate skin with quick, rasping movements. It was soothing and just shy of painful when he caught the actual cut itself. Serwren found her body arching instinctively
. In response, without breaking his attention to her blood, Seddrill slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her firmly against him.
The dress she was wearing was made from layers of gauze the colour of a ripe plum and embroidered with tiny crystals that caught the light in strange ways to distract from the insubstantial nature of the fabric. It was fashioned by catching the material at her shoulders with jewelled pins, and by cinching the waist with a thin chain of silver. The layers of material that swathed her, normally without any cause for self-consciousness, felt as flimsy as gossamer. Serwren felt peculiarly naked, and a corresponding flush rose over her chest.
After the horrific violations that she’d experienced, and because of her enduring love for Jorrell, Serwren had never been tempted to seek out any sexual touch from another. For almost twelve years, since she’d extricated herself from any physical relationship with her husband, she had remained as one apart. And yet now she was finding a deeper connection, and arousal, in the ritual of the blood toast than she ever had with any other physical contact, save perhaps those brief, soul-wrenching moments with Jorrell in the Moon Cave. Serwren suspected that it was because there were clear boundaries about what would happen and how each of them would benefit from the transaction. But now, pulled close against Seddrill’s warm body, bent pliantly against his frame, Serwren’s confusion was becoming acute.
Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1) Page 23
