Elysse. The plan.
He almost said to the Hells with the plan, but he knew that was not what Delisar would have wanted. Neither would he if their roles were reversed. He dropped the Curate. “Get out of my sight.” Without turning his back on Thar, the wiseman scurried away.
Thar covered Delisar and then sat behind him. He cradled his brother’s head and stroked his hair. When the tears came, he let them flow.
A S tolen P rize
K ing Cardiff paced back and forth, still smelling of Count Hagarath’s and Fiorenta’s blood. Six Blades waited inside his chambers. Outside would be more. Another similar squad guarded the queen. He had placed Kasandar under martial law. Any person caught on the streets was subject to execution on the spot. Only the Elder Ten and their retinue had been allowed to leave the city. Detaining them would have sparked a battle he couldn’t afford.
The first signs that something was amiss arrived in the form of a message delivered from the Ten Hills. Leroi Shenen had killed Count Shaz. Ainslen was shouting for a coach to take him to the Hills when another message arrived. Someone, other than the soldiers loyal to Counts Hagarath and Fiorenta, had infiltrated the Golden Spires. All else forgotten, he’d commandeered the closest horse and raced for the castle. Slaughter greeted him when he reached the dungeons beneath the Desitrin Wing.
Delisar Giorin, or what was left of him, was gone. Curate Selentus was also missing. He’d left the Curate to take care of Delisar, keep his heart pumping until after the wedding. The source of my greatest power snatched from me before I could complete the infusion. I knew I should have taken all of him. Why did I stop? Ainslen grimaced.
He had expected a Consortium attempt to free Delisar, but it should have come at the execution. That had been the most likely location. The man killed by the headsman had been the former Count Melinden, made to look like Delisar through Ainslen’s Alchemical abilities. How had they known the Consortium leader was still in the dungeon? Treachery was the best explanation, but that meant either one of his trusted Blades or Selentus. Those Blades were all dead, making him regret the current Farlander absence. Following the blood trail beneath the cells had led to a dead end, one his melders were working to clear.
A knock sounded on the door, four raps followed by a bell that tinkled within the apartments. Sabella entered with Count Shenen close behind. The count’s eyes narrowed when he gazed upon the king, his fingers gave a slight twitch, and then as if nothing happened, his features smoothed.
“All of you,” the king said indicating the Blades, “take positions in the rearmost rooms and on the balcony.” When they did as ordered, Ainslen took a seat in his favorite armchair. He pointed toward a chair.
“I’ll remain standing, sire.” Leroi’s eyes shifted left to right as he took in his surroundings, perhaps calculating his chances, or so Ainslen hoped.
“Fine, suit yourself,” the king said.
Silence lengthened between them. Ainslen took in the set of Leroi’s shoulders and the apparent calmness. The tightness in those eyes gave him away. Any wounds the count sustained against Shaz had already healed. Leroi kept his soul under control but Ainslen detected the random flare.
“It seems the anger from whatever caused you to kill Shaz has not quite abated,” Ainslen said. A time existed when he’d wanted to be rid of the Marishman, but the man had proved himself time and again.
“Some of it is still there, yes.”
“Why did you attack Jarina Hill?”
“I did not attack the Hill. Shaz was overheard making comments concerning my grandson’s parentage.” Leroi met the king’s gaze, his normally fair face dark with anger, eyes smoldering pits. “I challenged him to a duel as you advised me to do.”
Truth. Shaz had been more of a fool than Ainslen thought possible. “And what were these rumored comments? How did you come by them?”
“Not rumors, facts.”
The king waited for Leroi to state the exact facts, but the blank expression on the count’s face said he would do no such thing. “Your source must be highly reliable.”
“I would say that a Curate is as reliable a source as any, both for the crown and the Order.”
Selentus. Ainslen almost hissed the name. What other information had the wiseman provided? “Fair enough. I wonder what the man could have said that was so bad as to warrant his death.”
“That shall remain with me until the time comes for a hearing before the Judgment Council.”
The king almost smiled. Almost. He dipped his head instead. “As per our law.”
Ainslen could see the barely suppressed hatred in the man, the slight tick in his jaw, the fire in his eyes, and yet the man clung to his seemingly calm demeanor. The right words, and I might turn that spark into a blaze, goad you into an attack. He dismissed the idea almost immediately.
As an astute observer, Leroi would not fall for the ploy. Besides, such an act would serve no purpose now. Losing three powerful counts he could deal with. A fourth might be too much. No, the best course was to let things be for now unless Leroi forced the issue. He could kill the count when matters in the west were resolved. Still, he was curious as to how much Selentus had revealed.
“You must have heard by now … Hagarath and Fiorenta are dead. They tried to kill me, take the crown,” Ainslen said.
Leroi shrugged. “Far’an Senjin is a brutal business. I guess you were more powerful than they thought.”
“Indeed. A good thing you mentioned the Game of Souls,” Ainslen said, nodding. “No longer will it decide the Empire’s ruler. Lineage determines the crown now.”
“I heard that too. No surprise that you would make such a decision now, but I doubt it will change much.”
“How so?”
“I once said to you that we were like your horses that run the meadow. We are stuck in a cycle, doomed to play out our hands in struggles and politics from one generation to the next, never truly able to step away from what we worked for lest we lose it all.” The count paused, gaze becoming distant. “This is just another form of the game, another rendition of the cycle. You know as well as I do that Far’an Senjin is really a game of life, of lives. Whether yours, mine, or someone else’s, death is what we wager against when we play.”
“A bit morbid don’t you think?”
“But no less true.”
“Well, in light of the change, I might as well inform you that I’d sent Shaz on a mission into the Treskelin to locate Winslow,” Ainslen said. Leroi’s eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, you killed him before he reported his findings to me. He was the expedition’s only survivor.
“The loss made me realize finding Winslow might take more than I anticipated. Therefore, until such time as my son is located, I will publicly acknowledge Jaelen as his seed and heir.” At least until Terestere bears me a child. “I hope it will appease what misgiving you had in the past and allow for your unfailing support.”
“Thank you, sire,” Leroi said, bowing smoothly. “I will let Elaina know of it, and celebrate this joyous occasion as soon as it is written in as law at the next Judgment Council meeting.”
Before the king responded, the four knocks and bell chime resounded. Sorinya strode in. The Ebon Blade paused, frowning at Leroi and the king.
“I will take my leave now, sire, if you will.” Leroi bowed again. “I have matters to attend to, men to account for after today’s chaotic events. I’m sure you do also.”
Ainslen gestured with one hand toward the door. Leroi turned on his heels and strode out. The king waved Sorinya over. “What is it?”
“Curate Selentus was captured trying to escape through the Antelen Gate. He’s currently being held in the Desitrin Wing’s main chamber.”
The king leaped to his feet. Finally, some good news. He gathered his Blades and made his way through the Golden Spires. At the Desitrin Wing’s main chamber he told his men to join the others already standing guard. Sorinya and Sabella protested, but he dismissed them and entered the roo
m.
Statues of Hells’ Angels alternated with braziers along a carpeted walkway. The flames cast eerie shadows across the snarling faces of the man-sized effigies, made them seem bigger, more foreboding, gave life to the leathery wings that spread from their backs. Hair disheveled, woolens dirty, Selentus huddled on the floor across from the statue of Larom. It was odd seeing a wiseman in anything but the blue and red.
“Why did you betray me?” Ainslen’s voice echoed through the room.
Selentus started, wide eyes glinting. He scrambled backward until his back came to rest against Angel Larom. One look over his shoulder and the wiseman burst into sobs and frantic prayers.
“You forsook the Dominion.” Ainslen advanced slowly. “They have no use for you now. Unless … unless you confess to one of their chosen.” He gestured to himself. He had considered torture, but it was obvious the Curate was already broken. What Selentus needed was salvation. Ainslen squatted next to the Curate and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me.”
“It-it-it wasn’t my fault,” Selentus said, wiping tears from his face. “Someone bent my mind.”
Truth.
“Who was responsible?”
“Jarod.”
Truth.
A cold well settled in the pit of the king’s stomach. “Why?”
And so Selentus relayed a tale of the Order and their motivations to spread the Word. This, the king already knew. But then there came the story of Jarod’s own need to rise within the Order. What followed was an account of the High Priest’s machinations that included Marjorie’s beating, a beating at Shaz’s hands. The same Shaz that had worked his way into Ainslen’s graces, not only to help see Ainslen rise, which then benefitted Jarod as the hand behind it all, but to ensure the king never discovered the truth.
By the time he finished with Selentus, Ainslen had learned a few things. At Jarod’s behest, the Curate informed Leroi that Shaz had been sullying Elaina’s reputation among the members of his household, particularly those who were once Consortium members. Ainslen deduced that such an act was to kill off one of the last men who knew of the High Priest’s ploys, and yet have Jarod’s hands remain clean.
Hours later, after he dispatched a search for Jarod, the king stood over the Curate’s corpse, contemplating his next move. He could not war with the Order, for he needed them. But they needed him and his Farlanders also. However, as part of the price for him to do their bidding he would have Jarod’s head.
Footsteps announced Sorinya’s entry into the chamber. “Sire, the High Priest left with the Elders.”
“Then we have a trip to make, an appointment to keep with the Patriarch and Matriarch.” The king folded his hands into a fist.
G rand C hantry R evisited
A month after the attempt on Ainslen’s life, Queen Terestere once again found herself in the Grand Chantry, this time as a part of her husband’s retinue. Even before she had settled in she received word that the Patriarch and Matriarch had accepted her request for an audience.
“Hamada, Merisse,” she said to the two Elders who stood before the Benediction Chamber’s entrance, “I’m ready.” They bowed as one, pushed open the door, and let her in.
The room was as she recalled: the dais with its statues, the two throne-like, gem-encrusted chairs set in front of them, and the scent of jasmine. Corgansetti and Janania occupied the seats, dressed in shimmering robes, each with the Star of the Dominion hanging from a gold chain around their necks. The Patriarch watched her coldly, the lines around his eyes pulling even tighter. Janania appeared almost devoid of emotion, and considering her age, she was beautiful, silver hair falling in waves, her skin unblemished.
Behind them, the looming statues gave the impression that Terestere was about to be judged by the Dominion themselves. A nice touch, the queen had to admit. She strode to within a dozen feet of the dais. Before her was a table with a game of Dragon Gates.
“I guess I can now rightfully refer to you as Queen Terestere once more,” Corgansetti said, offering a wry smile.
“Congratulations on your new wedding and the work you’ve done in bringing the Empire together once more,” Janania added. “May the Dominion be praised.”
Amused by their lack of understanding or awareness, the queen couldn’t help her smirk. “Last time I was here I meant to tell you that I had never stopped being queen.” She gave Corgansetti a frosty stare.
His mouth opened and then snapped closed. An expression of puzzlement followed. He seemed to gather his faculties as he said, “Why did you ask to see us?”
“Why did you come,” she countered.
“Because we were told you asked for an audience?” Janania replied, frowning.
Tired of having to look up at them, Terestere manifested her own dais and throne to match theirs. She strode up the four short steps, smiled at the surprised gasps behind her, faced the Order’s leaders, and sat. Corgansetti’s face was purple, as if he was choking. Janania’s had grown pasty. The Matriarch licked her lips.
“What is the meaning of this,” Corgansetti demanded. “By all accounts you cannot meld.”
Terestere glanced down at her manifestation, then back at the Patriarch. “I can’t? Oh, dear.” Corgansetti’s knuckles tightened on the armrests as he made to stand. “Stay seated,” she urged, one hand patting the air as if she spoke to a pet. Corgansetti complied without hesitation.
“How’s this possible?” Janania’s face was regaining a bit of her complexion. “Did some fool induce you?”
The queen sighed. “No, my dearest, I’ve always had this ability.”
“Impossible,” Corgansetti said. “I had you tested several times. A few of the examiners even claimed they saw little to no soul around you.”
“Quite possible. Tell me, why do you think Jemare chose me for a wife and then Ainslen? My beauty? My skills in bed? My intelligence? Luck?” She chuckled. “It would take more than raw attraction to snag those two.”
“What do you mean?” Janania asked.
“Again, I ask, why did you come here? Better yet, why is there a game of Dragon Gates on that table?”
“Because we were told that is what you required,” they answered as one.
“Exactly. Isn’t it strange that you would bow to the whim of a queen you barely recognize?”
Janania was the first to catch on, her eyes growing wide with the recognition. The Patriarch’s reaction came a heartbeat later.
“Mesmer,” he hissed.
“You do me an injustice, Corgansetti. I’m much more than that, but for the sole purpose of what has happened to you, then you’re correct.”
Soul flared around the Patriarch. Terestere watched curiously as he produced a small bell from beneath his robes. He shook it furiously, but it did not ring. He continued to shake, face contorted, arm flapping. At last he let it fall from limp fingers.
“Come now, Patriarch, I expected better. I know men can be driven to desperation, but that?” Terestere shook her head. “You did not think I would allow you to call in your guard, did you?” She snaked a hand into her cloak’s folds and pulled out the real bell, holding it by the tongue. With a snap of her fingers, she broke the metal.
“What do you want?” Janania asked, her voice somewhat steady.
“Your deaths … and more.”
“Why?” Sullen-faced, Corgansetti slumped in his chair.
“I often dreamed of what I would do on this day,” Terestere admitted. “Would my hate for the Order override my other emotions and see me tearing you two apart? Would I be able to control my need for vengeance? Would I decide to show you the mercy you did not show mine? I even considered if I would do as so many of yours have done, feeding off the soul of those you killed.”
“Vengeance for what?” the Patriarch blurted.
“For what you and yours did to the Dracodar, to the remnants of my people, for what you and Jemare and the armies he led did to my children.” She had pondered how to go about this, doubting
her ability to remain calm, to restrain herself. A man deserved to know why he died, even if he did not provide the courtesy to others.
“The Dracodar brought about their own downfall when they betrayed the Gods, treachery that saw them banished to the Ten Hells.” Spittle flew from Corgansetti’s lips. “They were the chosen, relied on to keep the world safe as the Dominion slept. Instead, they usurped their position, killed Hazline and Rendorta. Now, the Thirty-two Winds run rampant, changing men’s fates on a whim, and the world was set back thousands of years, losing much of the knowledge it once had. Do you wish to blame us for the Dracodar who tossed their own into the Dragon Gates also? Or is such a form of appeasement accepted? If so, what blasphemy was committed for such a heinous act to be seen as redemption?”
Quivering at the man’s words, Terestere had to close her eyes to quell the tide rising in her chest. It was a storm, a flood to drown all others. A prickling sensation eased across her face. When she gazed at Corgansetti and Janania their mouths were agape.
“You really are Dracodar,” Corgansetti said.
Her scales receded. “The oldest living member of my kind, at least that I know of. As for the so-called betrayal you mentioned, there’s good and bad in every race. It still does not excuse the act of one of your founders, the death brought to the Dracodar by Cortens Kasandar.”
Janania peered at Terestere through narrowed eyes. “You are she, aren’t you? You’re Elysse the Temptress. All this time hunting you and there you were, next to Jemare.”
“The best place to hide from your enemy is beside him,” Terestere said.
“Impossible. Elysse is dead,” Corgansetti said. “Jemare killed her.”
“So he and Ainslen thought, and in ways they were right. Elysse, as you knew her, died with one of her husbands and an army of her children during the Red Swamps. To this day the faces of my loved ones haunt me. My precious children. Such innocent fools my progeny were, believing Jemare and Ainslen would follow the Kheridisian fighting code. I warned those two that they would pay, and they’ve felt my pain and wrath since.” She grimaced, as images of dead Dracodar in human form tumbled through her head. “Such slaughter is but a small part of the suffering for which your Order is responsible.”
The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series Page 57
