“Only you, Merrick, only you can insult a lady and flatter her at the same time.”
“So what brings you here, except of course my irresistible charm?”
“Emelasuntha needs a little job done quickly and discreetly.”
The Tektiranga whistled.
“The Lioness of Torantall, the Shield of Astonema, the Maiden upon the Walls herself needs my inadequate services? Well, well. Ha, I still can see her upon the wall walks, going from sentinel to sentinel, in her long white robes, a sword at her side and her golden hair loose in the wind. An encouraging word for all she had, and she inspected every weapon herself. I swear, the whole male population, and at least half the females of the city were in love with her.”
Sobrathi remembered all too well. Some twenty years ago Zyntrea had been the helpless prey of the Warring Barons who disputed the royal authority. Emelasuntha's father had been forced at last to take the field against them, and while he was far away with his army a rebel force had threatened the capital. The city prefect, with scant troops at his disposal, had wanted to surrender Torantall to the advancing insurgents. Emelasuntha, all of sixteen years at the time, had somehow got wind of his intentions and her fury had been indomitable. Followed by the Royal Guard and with little Kurtigaill, her brother, in tow she had burst into the council room where the prefect, a few officers and some city council members were discussing the terms they would offer.
“You miserable worm,” she had thundered, “you stinking rat, how dare you plot the surrender of my city to the enemy in my own palace?”
“Your royal highness, this is no place for girls,” the city prefect had replied haughtily. “You don't understand these things.”
“I understand that you are a coward and a traitor.”
She had turned to the Royal Guard.
“Men, arrest that sorry lot, and kill everyone of them who tries to resist.”
The prefect had protested. In vain. Held in check by the soldiers of the Royal Guard, there was nothing he or the others could do.
“Strip that pathetic excuse for a man.”
“Your highness...” the city prefect had protested in horror as the first smirking soldiers began to tear his clothes from his body.
“Shut your treasonous trap before I cut your balls off with my own hands,” the princess had hissed, most unladylike.
Minutes later, as naked as the day he was born, the city prefect, encouraged by slaps with the broad side of a soldier's sword on his buttocks, was marched out of the room, out of the palace, into the streets and unto the Great Market. Emelasuntha had climbed the stairs of the council house with her soldiers, her little brother and her hapless prisoner. On the highest point, clearly visible, she had started addressing the mass of people who had gathered in the meantime. She had vilified the traitors and especially the city prefect, who she had grabbed by the hair, yanking his head down which forced him in an undignified posture with his rear end in the air, to add to his already humiliating condition. She had exhorted the people by giving them the choice between seeing their homes burned to cinders, seeing their daughters and sons raped and gutted by the barbarian mercenaries of the Warring Barons, or resisting with every drop of energy that was in them and every implement they could find that could serve to hack, stab or beat an enemy. Howling they had chosen the latter. With a kick in his butt she had made the prefect stumble down the stairs and told the people to do with him as they saw fit for a traitor who had tried to sell them as slaves. Late in the afternoon his unrecognizable, bloody remains had been found and thrown over the walls in the river. By that time the rest of the traitors hung by their necks from the city gates.
She had organized the defense of the city, had rallied every citizen, male and female, of fifteen year and older and made them man the walls. She had ordered that all children from ten and upwards were to help and assist as much as they could. She had given the example herself, and not a day went by or she was seen patrolling the walls herself. She had forced young Kurtigaill, the crown prince, to haul water and food to the sentinels for hours on end each day.
When the rebel army had arrived before Torantall and found the gates firmly closed they had laid siege to the city. After three months the food in the city was almost depleted, but a contagious disease broke out in the camp of the besiegers. After a week of this they had to abandon the siege and marched off. The citizens of Torantall thanked the Goddess Astonema and her representative Emelasuntha.
Sobrathi, already a close friend of the princess, had witnessed most of this first hand. She had also experienced her first crush, made more romantic and intense by the constant threat of destruction and death, and nights spent together on the walls with the campfires of the besiegers as background. This first love had died as soon as the immediate danger had passed, by the enormous difference in social standing and the physical distance that was caused by her friendship with a restless, traveling princess.
With a deep sigh Sobrathi returned to the present, and when her eyes focused she saw Merrick looking amused at her.
“I see that, like me, you retain fond memories of those days,” the Tektiranga smiled.
“Yes, a pity they are gone forever, but gone they are,” Sobrathi said, suddenly all businesslike again.
“So, what is it the queen wants to have done?” Merrick asked, picking in on her mood change.
“Emelasuntha wants a certain doctor to be discreetly brought to her new residence.”
“I take it that this person would have to be, eh, encouraged.”
“Not only that. Nobody must ever know that he was transported or where to.”
“In other words, he must simply vanish from the earth. Well, that is perfectly feasible. Has the queen... how shall I put this?”
“As usual the queen would be very grateful. You have a choice. She is willing to pay you in coin or in royal pardons. Three for immediate release in case of accusations that don't carry the death penalty. Plus one royal pardon for accusations that do carry the death penalty. Immediate release and immunity in said case. All to use at your own discretion. I'm sure you can see how that last one could come in handy for your own use. Sooner or later your scrawny neck is bound to be on the line.”
“Hm. May I ask why the Maiden on the Wall wants this person to disappear?”
Sobrathi thought for a moment.
“I don't see why not,” she said eventually. “He was an accomplice in an attempt to poison her son.”
The Tektiranga whistled again.
“Woe the man that touches the Lioness's Cub.”
Late in the afternoon Ehandar had ordered his horse saddled and driven out of Lorseth Castle. Once out of the camp he spurred his horse into a gallop, standing in his stirrups. He stopped at the ruins of the watchtower and dismounted panting. He felt a strange relationship with the dilapidated building that stood abandoned and lonely on its hill, surveying the surrounding landscape. He wished Gorth was there. He seemed to be better at making decisions when his friend was around. Just talking to him cleared and ordered his mind. But he didn't expect Gorth to be back before next week and by then it would be too late. Anaxantis would have moved out.
“How can I convince him to stay? His main concern seems to be that our relationship could impede his effectiveness as lord governor. And he seems set on standing his ground till the last possible moment. Eventually he will come to see what I know already. That it is of no use. That it never was of any use. That we were dealt a rotten deal. As long as he doesn't see that his pride will prevent him from calling it quits. As long as he wants to stay in the game, he will see our relationship as a threat to his chances of winning. I obviously can't remove him out of the game, but maybe I could remove myself. What if I were to resign as lord governor? Leave it all to him? Surely, that would satisfy him. He gets complete control over the ship, sinking though it may be, and I cease to be a threat to his authority. There would be no reason anymore for him to move out. I'll keep myself in the ba
ckground. I'll be like a private citizen, in no way connected to his official functions. He'll have his hands free to organize the defense and I mine to prepare for our inevitable retreat. It will be like he once said. A division of tasks. Then, when disaster strikes and flight is the only remaining option, all will be ready. I'll send Gorth back to Soranza to buy an estate and to prepare everything for our arrival. He'll probably be in shock by defeat and failure, but I will be ready to look after him.”
When he arrived back at Lorseth Castle Ehandar felt a lot better. His mind was made up, his path was clear. He mounted the stairs with a light step.
Anaxantis was sitting in the big chair by the hearth.
“Make some place for me. I think I have a solution so that you won't have to move out.”
He smiled confidently at the surprised reaction of his brother.
“Ehandar... That would be wonderful, but I don't see how.”
Ehandar sat down and dragged him half on his lap.
“Then let me explain. What if I were to tell you I will resign as lord governor? That would leave you in complete control. Let's face it, I'm no good at this governorship thing anyway. Our private life here and your obligations as Lord Governor would be completely separate. Since I wouldn't be involved anymore in official business, there is no risk of, eh, awkward situations or embarrassing questions.”
His heart sank when he saw Anaxantis look at him with a mixture of sadness and disappointment.
“That's very good of you, that you want to do this, and don't think that I am ungrateful... but it's simply not enough.” Anaxantis looked thoroughly unhappy at him. “You can see that, can't you? You would still be a prince of Ximerion. At any moment a group of officers could challenge my position and demand to reinstate you. They could even use you as a weapon against me. So, it would solve a private problem, sort of anyway, and immediately create a much more dangerous one on another level. Sorry, but thank you nevertheless for proposing it.”
“Come, the next step is self evident,” he thought.
“No, as much as I hate to do it, by the end of the week I move out,” Anaxantis added sadly.
Ehandar saw the deep furrows on his brow and felt Anaxantis's hand pressing his, as if to hold on to him against all hope. He himself felt as if the world had again begun to spin around him. He had been prepared to fade into the background and now it appeared that even that would not suffice. But what else was there?
“What do you want from me?” he thought becoming more and more desperate. “Don't you see I am prepared to do anything to keep you with me? I love you. I am yours and there is nothing I can do about that. And I owe you, by the Gods, I owe you.”
As if he felt Ehandar's despair, Anaxantis laid his arm around his neck and drew closer to him. Ehandar shivered at the sudden intimacy and the all too real possibility of losing it forever. When Anaxantis kissed him softly on the cheek, it came to him. Feverishly he thought it over, tried to estimate all consequences, but gave up and decided, on the spur of the moment and under pressure of the unbearable prospect of being abandoned by what was undoubtedly the love of his life, to take the plunge.
“Listen, my love,” he whispered, “I can't bear to be separated from you and I'll do anything to prevent that from happening. As it happens I read grandfather's Traitor's Law. I suppose you want to use it against the duchess-regent of Landemere. Very clever of you. But we can also use it. I will not only resign my commission as lord governor, but I will also renounce my lineage—”
“Ehandar, no. I can't let you do that. You'll lose everything.”
“Oh, brother, how easy it turned out to be,” Anaxantis thought sadly. “It took almost nothing to goad you to this point, and now you will talk yourself deeper and deeper into your own downfall. And to think that I don't even know whether I could have gone through with it.”
Ehandar kissed him on the lips.
“Shush, I know you love me, and I myself have often enough said that I love you too. But words are cheap, so let me prove it to you. The law allows me to commend myself to your protection, and that is exactly what I'll do.”
He smiled encouragingly at his brother who looked doubtfully at him.
“You see, you can move to wherever you want. You'll have to take me with you. So, why not stay here?”
“No, definitely no. I don't want the responsibility.”
“Anaxantis, you already own my heart, so you might as well have all the rest too. How could I be safer and more secure than in the hands of the one who loves me? It will be all right, I know.”
“And in a few months it won't make any difference anyway,” Ehandar thought. “Once we're in Soranza neither our titles nor our lineage won't matter one bit.”
“Just promise me you'll stay here. With me,” he added softly.
“Ehandar, I don't know what to say. But if you're sure, I'm certain we can make it work.”
“That's settled then.”
“Think again, Ehandar. Think carefully, what you're getting into. It is a monumental decision.”
Ehandar shrugged.
“I don't have to think. I love you and I have an outstanding debt to you. If this is what you want, this is what you get.”
The gray-blue eyes looked inquisitively at him.
Later, when they were in bed, Ehandar was more than ever sure that he had made the right decision. Anaxantis's love making was so hungry, so needy that he knew that his little brother had dreaded the separation at least as much as he had, probably even more. It felt like handling an over enthusiastic puppy. To Ehandar it was intense and unconditional love, unabashed, shameless. It was almost being in Soranza.
Afterwards, Ehandar, his mind at ease and his body satisfied, fell almost immediately asleep. Anaxantis, on the other hand, lay awake for hours, staring in the near dark, once in a while looking at the vague shape of the body sleeping so peacefully beside him.
“Once this is done, I own you.”
Chapter 12:
Fall of the Eagle
Birnac Maelar had become a doctor, not out of false sentiments like an urge to help people or to alleviate their suffering, but because his father was also a physician. One with rich patients. That didn't mean he didn't take good care of the people who entrusted their health to him. On the contrary, as dead people tended not to pay, he tried to keep them alive and happy as long as possible. He was good at what he did because he had a genuine interest in the workings of the human body.
A few years ago a powerful organization had made him a very attractive offer. The money was nice, but in the mean time he had inherited both his father's fortune and his rich patients, so he felt himself to be in a position to negotiate some extra benefits. Soon after they had come to a mutually satisfying agreement, he began to see a dramatic increase in his noble patients. They all seemed to be urged on by their spouses to consult him. In fact, nowadays he had so many titled patients with who he was on familiar terms that he had begun to think of himself as a noble. He had the money, the upbringing, the culture, the lifestyle and even the lands. He just lacked the title itself.
He was in his late thirties and had always taken good care of himself, but was still unmarried. Of late it had become an obsession of his to acquire a title and marry a noble woman. He didn't very much care how she would look. Essentially he wanted her for breeding purposes, to start his own noble house. He knew enough impoverished nobles with more daughters than common sense. But even they would refuse him their daughters without those all important letters patent that would ennoble him and give him a coat of arms.
Recently one of his noble patients, in whom he had confided, had agreed to help him in return for some much needed financial assistance. No wonder that it was with pleasant thoughts that this particular evening he stood upon the balcony of the master bedroom of his country estate. As a matter of fact, in his mind he was designing his crest when a blow on the head knocked him out and a figure, completely clad in black, caught him in his arms.
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br /> His arms and legs were bound tightly, and then he was wrapped in a piece of dark cloth. The men lowered him on a rope over the balcony. Two other men, equally clad in black, seized the package and disappeared with it in the night. Except for the dull whack on the head, none of them had made a sound. None of them had spoken a word.
The moment Marak Theroghall had arrived at the family estate, some twenty miles from Dermolhea, he went to his private apartments. When he entered the hall he unclasped his mantle and let it fall. Before it reached the ground a servant had hastily scrambled by and intercepted it. Without looking at what happened behind him, he ordered the servant to call the barber. It was late in the afternoon, and although he had shaved that morning, already black stubbles began showing on his cheeks and chin. He hated it with a passion, just like he hated his dry, wiry, black hair. The girls didn't seem to mind though, especially once they realized he was a Theroghall, an heir of one of the Forty.
Cleanly shaven, he felt refreshed when he went to the study of his father, Marak senior. While opening the door he absentmindedly knocked on it.
“The purpose of knocking is announcing yourself. It is quite useless when you are already entering,” Marak senior said matter-of-factly, without looking up from the parchment upon which he had been writing.
He sat at a vast wooden desk. Behind him hung an enormous painting that depicted the claim on fame of the Theroghalls. On the left the city of Dermolhea could be seen, with sturdy, high stone walls, surrounded by a moat. The center of the painting was dominated by a swarthy man, who stood on the bridge over the trench, sword drawn, calmly waiting for the army that could be seen on the right side. Legend had it that the first Marak Theroghall who came to fame had single handedly defended the bridge against the army of a coalition of barons who wanted to erase Dermolhea from the face of the earth. Wounded in more than twenty five places he had held on until reinforcements came.
The Invisible Chains - Part 1: Bonds of Hate Page 17
