Leaving the broken cobbles and rotting foundations behind, Maren and his guards and the prisoners they towed along swept through the Vine, a narrow lane sandwiched between the dregs and the mercantile district. Here, Maren’s rambunctiousness would reach the ears of half the populace in Valios and the early-morning doers: unloaders, deliverers, tidiers—the backbone of the mercantile district.
This time, Maren ramped up the audaciousness of his words. He put some spit behind them, lit ’em on fire. “Your Council lied to you! They betrayed you.”
Doors opened, heads poked out. The few busybodies roaming the streets stopped and listened. They inched closer as Maren passed, trading glances with each other. Some whispered, some stood silent. All eventually allowed themselves to be swallowed by the morbidly curious crowd from the dregs.
And Maren O’Keefe’s audience grew.
“Lavery Opsillian, hear, hear!” crowed a voice that sounded as if it could travel for miles.
Criers, Maren thought. A smile touched his lips, but he licked it right off. Now wasn’t the time to bask in glory; that time would come soon enough, when he would sit upon the throne.
“Lavery Opsillian’s abductors have been found!” the crier announced. “We’re going to war. To war!”
As the fingertips of a pink sun stretched across the sky above Valios and melted the thin ceiling of fog, the kingdom’s streets made noise. A whirling, whirring sort of noise, and a thumping, thudding sound, too: a confluence of voices and scuttling feet. Some spoke from mouths of rotting teeth and walked on soles bare as the skin they were born with. Others wore clean-shaven faces and had their feet wrapped in sheepskin and leather. A gathering of the poor and the wealthy, of the blessed and cursed.
Maren O’Keefe arrived at the Fountain of Kings at the forefront of the city proper at precisely the same time a crotchety old man in an open robe—a sight that would leave your eyes burning and your soul a little darker—came jogging across the bridge. A part of him flapped up and down as he ran, because apparently he did not wear skivvies to bed.
“Maren O’Keefe!” he spat. “War? Do I hear cries of war? What are you doing?”
“Calm down, Lord Fairing.” Maren raised his brows as his eyes traveled downward to five inches—no, four—of apparent excitement. “You’re far too passionate right now.”
Lord Fairing—who in Maren’s mind had greatly overstayed his welcome on this world—furled his lip. He went right up to Maren’s prisoner and fussed with his uniform.
“Wings of the Raven,” Lord Fairing muttered, his bushy white brows twitching. “Maren, what have you done?”
“Preserving our kingdom,” Maren answered. He nodded at the other prisoners. “Bring them here, and fetch me the king’s executioner block.”
Lord Fairing put himself close to Maren, got right up in his face. “Are you mad? Bastion Rook will—”
“Lord O’Keefe,” said an out-of-breath man coming to attention beside Maren.
“Captain Hravt. You smell like rum. It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
“The night… it—”
“Treated you well, I hope?”
The strong-jawed captain stiffened his lip. “One could say that.”
Maren gave his friend a jovial pat on the shoulder. “Your services will be needed soon. We’re waiting on—ah, there they are.”
From the keep emerged an orderly line of robes, soft slippers and angry bunched-up faces. Lady Aylee headed the early-morning march toward the fountain. She paused, eyes searching uneasily as she blinked this way, blinked that way and observed half of Valios awake and piled into the square. More were arriving by the second.
She put on a face resembling that of a disapproving pursed-lipped, squashed-nosed grandmother, and strode across the bridge. She would’ve likely stomped across the bridge had she been wearing something more durable than silk slippers.
All six Council members followed her.
Lady Aylee took one look at the prisoners and scoffed. “I hope,” she said, letting that one-syllable word thump off her tongue, “you have a shocking and incredible indictment, Maren. Otherwise, you’ve just caused a crisis.”
Maren dipped two fingers into the front pocket of his tunic and plucked out a parchment folded into a square. He unfolded each edge as if he would later turn it in and receive a prize, but only if it remained smudge-free and wholly intact.
“To my lover and luster,” Maren began, reading the letter.
Lady Aylee made a move toward Maren. “What is that?”
“I will see you soon,” Maren resumed. He looked up at the gathering crowd. “Continuing… it reads, See that? You only need confidence, my dear. The reason Bastion wants you to stay is because your tongue is silver and he knows when one barters with you, the Rooks always come away the victors.
“I know you are busy negotiating with the Torbinens, but what’s a week under the sheets together, away from all this nonsense? Bastion must have favors he desires, no? Tell him I’ll fulfill them, if he lets you off your leash to visit your playmate…
“Kisses, my love.
“Tsk, tsk,” Maren said, flicking the letter. “You showed smarts forgoing a signature and withholding names, but I wonder—” He rubbed his chin. “I wonder, Lord Mauvery, is this Lady Aylee’s handwriting?”
Maren held the letter up to the old, chubby man’s face. His cheeks turned red. Well, redder, rather. They always looked like ripe tomatoes; some say it was the alcohol, others say he ate too much sauce on his pasta.
Lord Mauvery wetted his lips. “One should confer with—”
“Another member of the Council?” Maren suggested. “Fantastic idea, I agree. Lady Belluay, is this Lady Aylee’s handwriting?”
The widow of thirty years read only the first word before her eyes swiveled condemningly over to Lady Aylee. She blinked, returned her attention to Maren. “Yes.”
“I see,” Maren said. “And Lord Mauvery, you would agree?”
With cheeks now the color of plums, the fat lord nodded. “I would, Lord O’Keefe.”
Maren gauged the crowd. There were murmurs. Hands cupped over mouths, dulling the sound of whispers and did-you-hear-thats. Feet shifted as a tide of uneasiness stirred the mob. Had they been sold out? Had they been betrayed by the very Council who swore to protect their sovereignty? More importantly and of more immediacy, would they, the people, suffer from this news?
The people were the heart of Valios. They were, in a greater sense, the heart of the world. They were the ones who aren’t in power, who’d never and probably wouldn’t ever so much as sniff it. Call them servants, serfs, peasants, farmhands, laborers, bumpkins, rubes, peons—call them whatever you want, the point is they were the spokes that kept the wheels turning. And they suffered most when power changes hands.
Maren understood this. He’d studied countless revolts, revolutions and coups. To bring the citizens to your side, you must not only convince them they have reason to join you, but that their lives are safer in your hands than your enemy’s.
Maren’s Impetus of Disguise strategy had been deployed. That was Phase One. Now came Phase Two: Reassurance and Preservation.
“A letter like this,” Maren said, pacing beyond the fountain, addressing the people, “could very well suggest treason. You may start wondering, like I had, what favors might Lady Aylee do for Bastion Rook just to have the comfort of her lover’s touch beside her at night?”
“This is madness!” Lady Aylee cried. “If you are suggesting I had any part to play in Lavery—excuse me, King Lavery Opsillian’s disappearance, you—”
“Favors,” Maren said, “come quickly and they spiral out of control even faster. I have more letters, if you would like to read them.” He took out a bunch of balled-up, half-soggy letters from his pockets. “Valiosian spies procured them for me. Here, hold these.”
He transferred the letters to a nearby guard and picked one out at a time, reading it.
“Ah, here you are outing a
spy under Bastion’s orders. That’s treason if I’ve ever seen it.” He chucked the letter behind his shoulder, read another one. “An extortion of jute traders so that—” Maren peered up over the letter and added, “This is verbatim, mind you. An extortion of jute traders so that Valios’s excessively favorable terms and thereby controlling interest in the jute trade will be disrupted. Is that why there has been a severe shortage recently?”
Lady Aylee allowed her frizzy, clumpy, recently-slept-on hair to fall into her eyes without brushing it away. Dumbfounded, that’s what she was. Mind-limped. Floored, bamboozled and partially aghast. There were truths about her that did not see her in a flattering light. She’d spent many sleepless nights preparing for those truths to leak and search out the worst possible person they could, for that’s what closely kept secrets do.
But she hadn’t prepared for this, because this—all of it, except the first letter—was a lie.
Maren O’Keefe had learned that you can lie as often and grotesquely as you wish, so long as you hit them with the truth first. Establish a foundation of legitimacy and veracity and you can build the house out of exaggerations, misrepresentations and downright fabrications.
The letters looked real enough. They were, of course, all forgeries, and if you studied the curves of each letter, the way a tiny curl presented itself at the leg of each A, the small details, you’d see it wasn’t Lady Aylee’s handwriting. But Maren didn’t allow the thought to so much as breed in the minds of the Council or the people.
“Two weeks ago,” Maren said, “Lady Aylee sent a letter to the Roost. I blame myself for not intercepting it. It has weighed on my mind every minute since, because three days after, your king, Lavery Opsillian was kidnapped.”
The sun shaved away the shadows on Maren O’Keefe’s face as he paused, collected himself. He blinked away the wetness on his eyes and continued.
“Fearing the worst, I mobilized Valiosian spies. I collected information. There were rumors of Bastion Rook’s elite guard trampling through the Graw Woods.” He made a pass over the vastness of the crowd with a snarl on his lips. In a bitter voice, he said, “I hunted those bastards down.” He yanked the arm of a prisoner into the air. “And I found them! And this! This is what they had on them.”
He withdrew a sword from his scabbard. It wasn’t impressive as far as swords go. A thin, straight blade, not particularly blemished or polished. But embedded into the hilt was a ruby, the gem of Valios. The sword had been Lavery’s to own, but Maren had told him it needed to be reforged to better fit the young king.
“The King’s Blade,” Maren said. “The sword Lavery Opsillian was given after his inauguration. I was too late. The transfer had already happened. Your king is in the hands of Bastion Rook, or will be soon. Through an exchange of favors and secret deals, Lady Aylee conspired with Bastion Rook to unseat King Lavery so she herself could assume the throne. If I had not abstained from the Council vote for a temporary steward eight days ago, she would already have the crown.”
“That’s not true!” Lord Urvis asserted.
“Covering your asses now, are you?” Maren said. “It’s too late. You knew of Lady Aylee’s involvement with her lover. You knew the dangers it presented. And you did nothing. Your lot is as much to blame for this hostile takeover by Bastion Rook as Lady Aylee. Captain Hravt, arrest the Council.”
There were screams then, professions of treason from the Council. There were dreadful gasps and fearful clutching of hearts from the people.
“They,” Maren boomed, a forceful punch of his finger toward the Council, “tried selling our proud kingdom, selling you, to Bastion Rook. They would make you slaves under his rule. Your children would know not freedom, but instead hunger and pain and torture. I will not allow it! I will stand up for you, for us! And I will fight for our sovereignty, I will fight against evil, I will deliver Lavery Opsillian back to his rightful throne—I will do all of these things if it kills me. I do not fear death.”
Captain Hravt gathered the guardsmen and guardswomen under his watch, and he wrangled up the Council members. It could be argued that Maren O’Keefe had no right to invoke their imprisonment, but the benefits of commanding the force which upholds the law are many.
“Sir,” a guardswoman said, holding a block of wood. “The king’s executioner.”
Maren nodded at the ground. She dropped the block onto the cobbles. It clanked and rolled over. Maren righted it with his foot, withdrew his sword and grabbed the scruff of a prisoner.
“Take your place.”
Four measured swings. That was all it took, as he had promised them. He walked away from their paled faces that looked up from the cobbles and the blood spitting and fountaining from their headless corpses. He went across the bridge, into the keep. He could still hear the howling of the falsely accused Council members bouncing around in his skull, echoing between his ears.
Tough luck, he thought.
He passed through the throne room, took it all in for a moment, then proceeded up the stairs, through several hallways and into his quarters.
The door was unlocked and candles burned on his desk, illuminating a gruff face.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” Maren said, smiling.
Aven Klouth put his hands behind his head and belched. “Good wine you’ve got here. A bit expensive for my taste, though. I’m assuming since you’re here that everything went according to plan?”
“Better than I’d hoped. When did you arrive?”
“A few hours ago. Well, almost a day ago, but per your request, I waited till night fell and the Council was sleeping. Your guards and stewards are quite faithful to you.”
Maren poured himself a cupful of wine. “Faithful, yes. Much like I hope the West will be to Valios.”
Aven smoothed out his flowing blond mane. “Lord Ayres of the Ryze and Lady Haven of the Bend have proclaimed their support. More will follow, I promise.”
“Since when is Wendel Ayres a lord?”
“Since I promised to make him one if he offered his assistance.”
Maren peered suspiciously over the top of his mug.
Aven leaned into one side of the chair. “How do you want me to unite the West if I cannot make such promises? I require some authority if you wish to designate me your facilitator.”
Maren sipped. “No, no—you did good. I’ll announce you as Chancellor; all the combined power of the Council will be condensed into that position. Keep the kingdom intact until I return, if you’ll be so kind.”
“Where are you going? You never mentioned in your letter your destination, only that your departure was urgent.”
Maren swirled the wine around in his mug. “I’ve got a date with the Gravendeers.”
Chapter Sixteen
Horace Dewn did not swear fealty to Valios or to its king or to its Council. He swore fealty to Avestas. World peace, he’d long argued, was achievable, and his shadowy hand had guided Valios to the forefront of such peace for almost three decades.
But he was not an idealistic man. Peace does not sprout up like weeds. Bad men exist; they always will. Sometimes you must spill blood today to make for a pristine world tomorrow.
Maren O’Keefe had created problems. Now Horace needed to solve them. Four days ago he had left Valios, unsure of when or if he’d return. And now, on a stiff saddle being carried by a horse with stiffer legs, he prepared for a long trek northward.
Behind him flew several flags. Each featured a copper backdrop on which stood a horned horse. If his estimations were correct, the next flag he’d see would arrive before his eyes in four weeks, and it would be one of a black raven.
Chapter Seventeen
The Spigatoon Mountains behind him looked like a wave suspended in a starry ocean. The many purple variants of twilight flowed above, celestial rivulets that would soon turn black, polluted by the night.
Gynoth trampled over brown-dry vines as he delved deeper into the Sanctum Woods. He sniffed the air. Smelled the sweet
ness of sap and the comfort of pine. There was no scent of illusion in the air, not even a nearly imperceptible lingering of the curse he’d left here those centuries ago. And nothing had replaced the fleeting spell.
The witches had grown lazy. Or incapable.
He stopped at a clearing, glanced in every direction. It’d been a long time, and while the trees hadn’t uprooted and rearranged themselves, things had died. Other things had been born. Weeds choked once-well-traveled trails, and new paths had opened.
But there, over a ways, the haunting silhouettes of brambles and branches did not appear. He walked in that direction, toward a blackness so overwhelming it concealed everything within it.
The trick to finding the witches of the Sanctum Woods—a trick which is not advisable to attempt unless you’re a necromancer—is to go toward the darkness. There’s a tree there, somewhere deep in the forest’s womb, that you cannot see because it’s bathed in the night itself. But you can sense it. You can feel it. It’s a cold, sweaty feeling. A chill that permeates your spine, bores so deeply into you that you can’t shake it. You feel it and you want to run far, far away.
Gynoth was in the thick of it now. The darkness there—unavoidable and all-consuming. It wasn’t just an absence of light, but a real, living thing. Gynoth felt it on his face, a thin film of paste that seemed to crawl into his nostrils and reach into his lungs, robbing him of his breath.
He didn’t care. He pressed on. In fact, he was rather annoyed. The soul of an indentured and tortured god had some audacity shooting its corrupt tendrils into him like this.
It took a while. How long, he couldn’t say. Time always felt strangely warped this deep in the Woods, like traveling through a dream. But he finally stood before the tree, its godly presence towering above him like a shadow that absorbs you.
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