Shouting in the palace distracted him. He motioned to a guard to check the cause before he turned his gaze north to where the city stretched along the coast and into low foothills, the green roof tiles contrasting sharply with the dry yellow grasses and khaki bush. Two airbirds—one yellow, and a rainbow-coloured one belonging to his second son—drifted along the coastal cliffs. His second son, named Shadow because he was born to follow in the shadow of his elder brother, loved riding in the airbirds. Shadow had better attributes than Inheritor to be a strong king because he was a ruthless conspirator who had strong associations with the Seers. Prince Shadow was so clever at manipulation, and so precise in his following of the Jarudhan faith, that Hawkeye sometimes wondered if he could trust his second son with his own life. He suspected Shadow might even attempt to assassinate Inheritor so that he could ascend to the throne in his older brother’s place.
He smiled at the thought. It had happened in the family’s history. His great-grandfather, Watcher Ironfist, a third-born son, became king because the second-eldest died of illness and he slew the firstborn, Warhammer, in a mock duel. Official oral tradition reported Warhammer’s death as the result of a terrible tragedy when Watcher’s blunted protective sword tip slipped off as the pair sparred for their father’s entertainment. Popular ballads recorded foul play. Hawkeye believed the popular view.
Commotion in the stairwell broke the peace and Hawkeye drew a breath as a ragged figure burst from the opening onto the tower. The young man caught his right foot on the lip of the stairs and sprawled across the stonework as guards scrambled after him, and before he could rise he was smothered in a crush of hands and knees. A soldier approached Hawkeye and bowed, pressing his clenched fist against his forehead to show servility in the Kerwyn manner. ‘Explain,’ Hawkeye ordered, watching the desperate young man struggle with his restrainers.
‘Begging your most royal pardon for this rude intrusion, Your Majesty,’ the dark-eyed soldier began.
‘Get to the point,’ Hawkeye barked. ‘What is this? Another assassination attempt?’
‘No, Your Majesty,’ the soldier replied.
‘Then what?’
‘He was discovered in the royal kitchen, stealing food.’
Hawkeye raised an eyebrow and scowled. ‘If he was discovered in the kitchen, how did he get all the way up here?’
The soldier hesitated, afraid of becoming the focus of the king’s anger. He’d heard stories of it. A soldier, so it was told to him, had spat to the side, unaware that the king was entering the stable and the spittle landed squarely on the king’s boot. King Hawkeye looked down at his boot, looked at the offender, and ordered the man garrotted on the spot as he walked on to continue his inspection of the palace grounds.
‘He—well he seemed to know his way around—Your Majesty,’ he stammered.
Hawkeye stared at the young man being held face down by six guards while metal restrainers were locked onto his wrists and ankles. ‘Stand him up,’ the king ordered. As the guards hauled the wiry, mousey-haired prisoner upright, Hawkeye estimated him to be about seventeen. Sassy and confident, but no different to the urchins and thieves that breed like rats in the Foundry Quarter, he assessed. He caught a whiff of the prisoner and wrinkled his nose at the sewerage stench. The prisoner met his assessing gaze with an expression bordering on defiance and yet Hawkeye didn’t find it threatening. ‘What’s your name?’ the king asked in the common Shessian tongue.
The prisoner’s brown eyes blinked. ‘Chase.’
A guard tweaked his ear viciously. ‘It’s Your Majesty to you, filth.’
Chase winced, but didn’t add the respectful title. ‘What were you doing in my kitchen?’ Hawkeye asked.
‘Getting food,’ Chase replied.
‘Your Majesty,’ the guard said again and punched Chase in the ribs. Chase grunted with pain, but again did not add the title.
‘How come you know your way around my palace?’ the king inquired.
Chase shrugged. ‘Lucky guesses.’ He yelped as the guard slapped his face, and said, ‘I know, I know, all right?’ glaring at the guard.
A smile twitched along Hawkeye’s mouth. I would have been like that if the barbarians had invaded my land, he mused. He looked the prisoner over, seeing the signs of a hard life and partial starvation in the thin arms, and said, ‘The usual punishment for a thief.’
‘But, Your Majesty?’ protested the guard with the eager desire to punish Chase at every opportunity. ‘He’s broken into the palace. Surely he must be beheaded?’
Hawkeye glared at the guard, who, realising the foolishness of his question, shrank from the prisoner’s side. ‘If he survives the loss of his hand, and if he survives the requisite imprisonment in the Bog Pit, that should serve to discourage others from doing the same. Take him away.’
The guards handed the hapless prisoner to the soldiers who had pursued him to the tower and Hawkeye watched them drag the youth down the stairs. To a guard Hawkeye said, ‘Find out where he got in and have the palace security improved immediately. I don’t think he was as lucky as he would have us believe.’
He waited for the guard to depart before he gazed across the battlements at the western ocean, letting the briny sea breeze tug at his hair and beard. The deep blue water was different out there than in the harbour, a restless animal breathing in rolling waves—unpredictable, malicious.
He had travelled aboard ships only three times in his earlier life as a Kerwyn prince, and each journey was such a torment of nausea and disorientation that he vowed when he came to the throne that he would never again step aboard an ocean-going vessel. The sailors who plied the trading routes to the west and south were creatures of a very different disposition and, while he respected their courage, he had no desire to be a part of their world. The ocean was at its best viewed from the tower and from the beach, but as far as he was concerned it belonged to the fish.
‘I am honoured Your Majesty has agreed to see me,’ said the grey-haired Seer, bowing respectfully before the king.
‘Would I be consigned to the seven hells if I didn’t see you?’ Hawkeye asked.
Seer Law raised his head and smiled. ‘Possibly.’
The king grinned and put his arm across the Seer’s shoulder. ‘Enough charade,’ he said, guiding the Seer towards a large dark door guarded by two soldiers. ‘We need to talk about the important issues.’ The guards opened the door and stood aside as the king and the Seer entered the king’s private chambers.
Seer Law had been in Hawkeye’s chambers many times, but the worldly opulence of the Kerwyn kings always aggravated his spiritual sensibility. The massive gilded mirrors on every wall, richly brocaded furnishings, red and gold fabrics, commissioned paintings and imported inventions filled the rooms to excess. ‘Porter?’ Hawkeye offered, lifting an emerald-encrusted silver decanter.
‘No alcohol,’ Law answered.
Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you all right?’
The Seer smiled wanly. ‘His Eminence has decreed that we are to enter a phase of abstinence. No alcohol, no sex—none of the worldly pleasures that might distract us from our duty to Jarudha.’ The king started sniggering while he poured himself a measure of porter. ‘What’s so amusing?’ asked Law.
Hawkeye sipped his drink before he answered. ‘After all the bastards your order has sired in the city, His Eminence decides that’s enough? How is he going to stop you from wenching?’
‘We’ve sworn an oath to Jarudha.’
Hawkeye laughed as he made his way towards a plush chair, indicating for Law to do the same. ‘An oath. Words aren’t going to stop men’s urges.’
‘An oath to Jarudha is not words,’ Law replied indignantly.
‘Neither is the urge of the loins,’ Hawkeye rejoined, sitting. ‘His Eminence has set a hard goal and he’ll learn the hard way that his Seers are merely men.’
‘I would not expect you to understand,’ Law said tartly as he sank into the red chair.
Hawk
eye grinned. ‘No. I don’t understand. And I don’t want to.’ He laughed to himself, shaking his head. ‘So, to business. Why the urgent need to see me?’
Law met the king’s inquiring gaze as he said, ‘Two matters. One is purely business. The other pertains personally to you.’
‘Business first,’ Hawkeye decided.
Law cleared his throat. ‘His Eminence asks for exclusive ownership of the Fallen Star islands.’
Hawkeye blinked. ‘Why?’
‘It is a wish from Jarudha that his disciples should have a place to be consecrated as holy.’
‘Yes, but why the islands?’
‘They are untainted with humanity’s sins. They are far enough away from the mainland to discourage the curious from visiting them. There is good ground on the second-largest island for the building of a monastery.’
Hawkeye leaned forward in his chair, enveloping the porter glass in his broad left hand. ‘I thought the Fallen Star islands were used for agricultural production?’
Law nodded. ‘The Merchant family has a lease on the islands. We would honour the existing leasing arrangements.’
‘The Merchant family has been peddling illicit substances for a long time,’ Hawkeye noted. ‘You would be taking responsibility for drug production. Are you certain His Eminence would really honour the lease?’
‘His Eminence is aware of the arrangement. The affairs of the worldly have no interest for us. Besides, the lease has only two years to run before it is up for renegotiation.’
Hawkeye smiled. ‘You leave no stones unturned, do you?’
‘It is written that, “He who bargains without understanding the consequences from all sides of the table, bargains with nothing.” His Eminence has carefully considered this matter,’ said Law calmly.
Hawkeye leaned back into the soft folds of his armchair and sipped at his porter. ‘Tell His Eminence that the king will also carefully consider this matter. The production of euphoria has long been an enigmatic issue, one neither encouraged nor discouraged, for many reasons, and I would hate to have its access to the masses terminated outside of my control.’
Law allowed himself to smile knowingly as he replied, ‘His Eminence fully understands both the fiscal and legal ramifications for Your Highness and he would expect there to be productive dialogue in relation to these matters.’
Hawkeye nodded. ‘And the personal matter?’
This time Law leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fingertips, and lowered his voice. ‘This matter is—we should say—very delicate, and His Eminence has instructed me to tell Your Highness that what I say after this point is both circumspect in intent and a conversation that never actually happened.’
Hawkeye mimicked the Seer, leaning forward in like fashion, almost in mockery. ‘I’m intrigued. Be circumspect then.’
Law’s expression flashed indignation at the king’s mockery, but he let the emotion pass and said, ‘The Seers have little interest in the worldly affairs of men, but His Eminence believes that when the time of succession comes, the title of King Ironfist the Third would best suit your second son. Prince Shadow is a man of Jarudhan virtue, a worldly prince whose spiritual integrity greatly pleases Jarudha. This I haven’t said,’ he concluded and sat back as if expecting his message to need no response from the king.
Hawkeye did not move for several moments, as if ruminating on the statement’s worth, but then stood. ‘I’m sorry to hear that you’re no longer able to share my excellent wines, Law. Shame really. I’ve received some wonderful varieties from the latest Ranu shipments.’ He waited for Law to also stand and continued speaking as he ushered the Seer from his chamber. ‘I hear the younger Seers are spreading the Word among a wider number of the population. It’s good to see someone actively encouraging the poor Shessian wretches to embrace the civilised world. I’m glad to hear also that the prayer sessions are being conducted in the official language. Someone has to guide these lost souls towards enlightenment. Please give my warm regards to His Eminence and your colleagues, and assure them that I’ve heard their requests and will deal with them in due course according to their merit. May Jarudha bless your days.’
He left the Seer in the company of his guards in the main hall and retreated to his chamber where he poured another measure of porter and sat again in his chair, staring at the painting of the old Kerwyn capital, Storm, pondering the Seer’s latest political manoeuvres. ‘No interest in the worldly affairs of men,’ he muttered and snorted before downing the porter in a single swallow.
CHAPTER NINE
Spotting the ragged beggars sitting against the rough stone wall of the cooper’s store, Seer Prayer crossed the road, but when he reached the other side and realised his acolytes had stopped to talk to the beggars he shook his head and watched the sorry scene unfold. The beggars, three Shessian orphans in their early teens, always sat outside the coopery, and since Prayer walked this street in the Southern Quarter once every ten days on his way to supervise the local temple, he was accustomed to the regulars. He knew these boys only ever wanted pennies to buy or beg for euphoria. He had tried to coax them to the temple, but they were truly lost souls, wallowing daily in drug-induced stupors, like all of the sad, godless descendants of the barbarians who had inhabited the city before it was liberated by King Ironfist the Elder.
He watched the three acolytes offer Jarudha’s guidance to the beggars whose hands were fervently extended for copper coins, and smiled grimly as the acolytes retreated from the outburst of threatening vitriol that erupted from the frustrated boys. ‘Seer, we tried to lead them to the light, but they refused,’ the eldest acolyte said apologetically as they gathered around Prayer.
‘You did as you needed, Waterwell,’ Prayer offered in compensation, ‘but this city is as full of the walking dead as it is of the willing souls.’
‘Surely we should be finding ways to save these souls as well, Seer?’ Waterwell asked.
‘The walking dead are beyond redemption, Waterwell. Remember that it is written, “The damned have no souls for they have sacrificed them to gain worldly pleasures.”’ The young acolyte nodded, but Prayer made a point of remembering Waterwell’s indiscretion in questioning Jarudhan law. His Eminence, Seer Scripture, a strict taskmaster on heretical matters, was unforgiving of Seers or acolytes who strayed from the exact lessons of The Word, and he insisted that the senior Seers watched their brethren for signs of heresy. So that the teachings of Jarudha remained pure in the Final Days before the coming of the Demon Horsemen to herald Paradise, those impure in thought or deed were to be ruthlessly rooted out of the ranks of the faithful.
‘His Eminence asked me to see how the experiments are progressing,’ said Seer Word, addressing his colleague, Creator, as he entered the Invention Chamber beneath the temple.
Creator smiled and made the sacred sign of the Jarudhan circle in greeting. ‘Exceedingly well,’ he announced. ‘Why hasn’t His Eminence come in person?’
‘He is unwell again,’ Word explained. ‘It seems the surgeon supplied by the king is not as good at curing ailments as the king would have us believe. His Eminence will rest for another few days until the temperature has gone.’
‘Why hasn’t His Eminence used euphoria and self-cured?’
Word’s expression became dour. ‘His Eminence believes that sometimes it is better to leave one’s health in the hands of Jarudha than to tempt His wrath.’
‘I will pay him a visit,’ Creator offered.
‘It’s better that he remain undisturbed,’ Word advised. ‘He is in constant prayer.’
‘I understand,’ Creator said, nodding. ‘But let me show you what has transpired.’ He led Word past the rows of acolytes scribing books, through an archway and down steps into a larger chamber dominated by a central, circular dais. Nine acolytes were working at benches along the perimeter of the chamber and a host of wire-lightning bulbs lit the space. ‘We have been extrapolating on the work originated by my predeces
sor, Seer Reason. You know that euphoria expands our minds and allows us to perform Blessings. Let me demonstrate something new.’ He clapped his hands to get the attention of the acolytes. ‘Mirrorblade—show Seer Word your Blessing.’
A lithe acolyte, head shaved and wearing the yellow robe according to Jarudhan custom, reached for a phial of amber liquid, rose from his stool and mounted the dais. He bowed to the Seers, then opened the phial and drank the contents. ‘You’ll notice that the euphoria we’ve developed works with greater rapidity,’ Creator explained as Mirrorblade stretched his arms and opened his hands, palms upward. Flames appeared on his palms. ‘Mirrorblade?’ Creator called. The acolyte, flames still burning, looked up. ‘See?’ Creator asked of Word. ‘The Blessing is no longer affected by interruptions. Mirrorblade is able to interact with the world as if he was not using his Blessing.’
‘Impressive,’ Word replied.
‘Wait,’ Creator said. ‘This is just a part of what we have done.’ He called to the remaining acolytes. ‘Form a circle on the dais!’ The eight acolytes left their work stations, each drinking from a phial, and joined Mirrorblade on the dais. They formed a circle, an arm span from each neighbour, and raised their arms as Mirrorblade had done before. In the circle’s centre, a huge flame leapt to life. ‘See?’ Creator cried excitedly. ‘See the miracle Jarudha has granted us? We can amplify a Blessing with multiple minds. What was thought impossible is now possible. Reason’s research was limited by the dosage of euphoria taken by any single person, but now the limit of the Blessing’s potency is only the number of people involved. More people, greater potency.’
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