Emethius had almost forgotten about High Lord Valerius. The high lord’s safety was what truly mattered. “I did my duty,” said Emethius, more as a reassurance to himself than anything else. “I didn’t mean to kill Meriatis, but what other option did I have?”
Malrich gave an indifferent shrug. “No man can draw a sword against another without recourse. I don’t judge your deeds foul, but be aware, in the days to come others will.”
Gong, tolled the bell.
Emethius turned aside the thought. “What happened to the main host that attacked the gate?”
“From what I heard it was a corpse-riddled disaster,” said Malrich as he retrieved a flask from his breast pocket. He took a swig before sharing the tale. “Lord Fennir and his men broke through the gate with a battering ram, and they killed a great many rebels in the process. But the enemy rebounded just as they were gaining a footing. And wouldn’t you know it, there was Prince Meriatis leading the charge. Of course that completely baffled the men, seeing as the Prince of Merridia was supposed to be a prisoner, not fighting alongside the rebels.”
Malrich snorted. “Lord Fennir challenged the prince to single combat. I heard Lord Fennir had the upper hand, and even managed to stab Meriatis in the throat. But when the rebels saw Prince Meriatis stagger from the blow, they made a pincushion out of Lord Fennir with crossbow bolts. No honor in that, but such is war.”
Malrich took another draw from his flask, then offered Emethius a drink. Emethius waved him off. “Naturally, the men panicked,” continued Malrich, placing the stopper back in the flask. “Some fool sounded the horn to retreat. The causeway was choked with fire, so a lot of the men attempted to flee across the ice. Last I heard they were still plucking corpses from Lake Libith.”
That was far worse news than Emethius had predicted. “I believe Praetor Maxentius knew Meriatis was the true leader of the rebellion,” said Emethius. “Meriatis said so at least.”
Malrich tapped at his head. “I dare not assume to understand the minds of lords, but I think Preator Maxentius sent you in there with a purpose. Given your history with the prince, Maxentius probably hoped you would convince Meriatis to surrender.”
“Perhaps, but why hide the truth?” said Emethius. “Why didn’t he tell us that Meriatis was the leader of the rebellion?”
“Is that question so hard to answer? How many more would have joined sides with the prince? Would you? Would I? Praetor Maxentius worked awfully hard to keep the truth hidden, but now the truth is out, and all matters are being thrown into question.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Blackheart, Emethius. Meriatis rebelled because of the Blackheart.”
Emethius had heard rumors during the first few days of the war that this was the cause of the rebellion, but he had never given the idea much credence. The Blackheart was a disease for which there was no cure. There wasn’t a family in Merridia untouched by the evil affliction. But it made no sense for the Blackheart to be the cause of the rebellion. How do you rebel against a disease?
“Why can’t people just accept that Meriatis was trying to steal the throne from his father?” asked Emethius.
“Does that sound like the Meriatis you knew?”
Emethius had to admit it did not. He remembered Meriatis muttering something about killing the gods just before their duel atop the pinnacle of Imel Katan, but that made even less sense.
Malrich leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Just before the outbreak of the rebellion, pamphlets started showing up all over Mayal — nailed to temple doors, left on tavern tables, abandoned in piles in the middle of markets. I saw one once. The pamphlet claimed the gods were withholding a cure for the Blackheart.”
“You need to watch what you say, Mal. Such inflammatory claims could get a man in a lot of trouble.” He looked to the doorway and into the hallway beyond, making sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “War has a way of perverting the truth. You’re too smart to be giving this nonsense much credence.”
“You’re likely right,” said Malrich. “But something is going on. People are being asked to sign loyalty oaths. The war might be over, but the ideas of the rebellion are alive and well. I fear the real butcher’s work is about to begin. There will likely be a purge.”
Emethius waved off the thought. It did him no good to question the decisions of his high lord or his gods. “Can we turn aside from such treacherous speech?” said Emethius. “I am tired and need to rest.”
“That he does,” said Sister Beli as she stepped into the room. Emethius had not heard her returning down the hallway, and could only pray that she hadn’t overheard any of the conversation. She crossed her arms and scowled at Malrich. “I think you’ve provided Master Emethius with more than enough excitement for one day.”
Malrich hastily tucked his flask into his breast pocket and grinned. “The high lord has declared tomorrow a day of mourning. There’s going to be a ceremony to commemorate the dead. Praetor Maxentius has ordered all of his officers be in attendance.”
“I’ll have the final say on that matter,” said Sister Beli as she showed Malrich out the door.
As Malrich departed, he leaned a long thin object wrapped in cloth against the wall. “For when you have found your strength,” said Malrich, patting the bundle.
Sister Beli escorted Malrich down the hall, scolding him along the way for bringing liquor into her house of healing. Malrich responded by downing the rest of his flask right in front of her.
Emethius chuckled softly to himself and turned his attention to the bundle Malrich had deposited beside the door, staring at it until he finally succumbed to an uneasy slumber.
In his dreams he was back atop Imel Katan. His hands were dripping with blood. Meriatis lay dead at his feet, pierced through the heart. Emethius tried not to look at the body. The high lord is all that matters now, he tried to reassure himself, as he pried off the lid of the coffin with the tip of his sword. To his great surprise, High Lord Valerius was not trapped within. Instead it was a shadow, inky black and reeking of brimstone. It came boiling out of the coffin, rising higher and higher, until finally it coalesced and took form. It had hoofed feet, wings like the sails of a ship, and the body and head of a bear. It trod over Meriatis’s corpse and pressed Emethius to the lip of the tower.
“I wish to make mortals out of the gods,” hissed the Shadow. “I wish to make the Calabanesi pay for their sins.” Glowing cinders poured from the demon’s mouth as it swallowed Emethius whole.
CHAPTER
VI
THE HIGH LORD
Emethius awoke with a start and involuntarily rose upright in bed. A shooting pain screamed up his spine. It felt as if every muscle in his back was spasming. His clothes were sodden with sweat. He raised his palm to his brow, finding it cool and clammy.
He had slept so long it was almost sunrise. Everything outside his window was a shade of gray, even the Court of Bariil’s pink dome. In the distance a bird was singing to welcome the dawn. Sometime in the middle of the night the bell had stopped its incessant toll. Emethius wondered what the finally tally was.
He scooted to the edge of his bed. The pain was nearly blinding, but he grit his teeth and stood. His duties would not wait until he was fully mended. He collected the bundle Malrich had left beside the door.
He unfolded the cloth cover and held his sword aloft. For the first time in his life, Emethius’s weapon bore the scars of battle. He ran his finger over the leather grip and found it stiff from dried blood; Meriatis’s blood. Unable to look at the blade any longer, he hid it back within its sheath. It felt unusually heavy in his hands.
I’m half a skeleton, realized Emethius as he undressed and stood in front of a mirror. His elbows and knees stood out prominently, his ribs looked like the grooves of a washboard. His jawline was gaunt. The only thing that truly resembled his old self were his eyes. Still brown, still piercing.
Someone had left his uniform in a footl
ocker at the end of his bed. The slacks and jacket were gray save for the red rose embroidered upon the chest. He gingerly put on each article of clothing, cringing with every bend and turn. The uniform no longer fit him — it was much too large — and he felt like a child trying on his father’s clothes. Emethius had to cinch his belt several holes tighter to keep the tip of his scabbard from dragging on the ground.
We Lunen are resilient, he reminded himself as he took his first wobbly steps toward the door.
He set out into the city just as the sun was cresting the horizon. The streets were already packed.
Mayal was not only the capital of Merridia, it was considered by many to be the center of the world. The city consisted of a series of islands situated in the Bay of Lares, a brackish body of water that formed where the Estmer River emptied into the Sea of Ro. Trading galleys from all over the world made call to Mayal’s ports. No matter where one went in the city, it was always possible to spy the masts of ships.
Every major religious order had its headquarters in Mayal, and sworn brothers and sisters were everywhere. Emethius walked by half a dozen street preachers on the way to his destination, each one extolling a different brand of doom and gloom. “The gods of Calaban despise you,” cried one, from atop a raised platform. “The Shadow’s creep is ever expanding,” expounded another. “Look not to Calaban for salvation!”
One preacher Emethius passed was burning the entrails of a freshly killed pig. The man’s face was curled in a sour grimace as he prodded the smoldering entrails with a stick; he appeared unhappy with whatever he saw.
The streets became congested as Emethius neared the center of the city. A surging throng was moving westward along the narrow cobblestone lanes and stone bridges that spanned the canals. All were headed toward the Grand Plaza, the location for the ceremony in remembrance of the dead. Emethius followed the flow of traffic until he neared the plaza. Then he turned aside and entered a columned walkway that led to the walled palace compound.
The royal palace was closed to the public and the front gate was under heavy guard. Soldiers of the Faith were redirecting everyone toward the plaza. Emethius dodged the searching eyes of the watchmen and ducked behind a fountain. He pulled aside a metallic grate set into the fountain’s base and squeezed through a narrow service shaft. He descended a rickety ladder and found himself in the palace catacombs.
The palace compound was built upon a slab of limestone that rose out of the sea like a balled fist. Over the eons, natural springs had hollowed out tunnels in the limestone isle, much like a termite mound.
The tunnel Emethius entered was as black as night, the air rank from mildew and stagnant water. Emethius ignored his senses and relied on muscle memory to navigate the labyrinthine network of tunnels. As children, he and Meriatis used to traipse around in the tunnels without the slightest care in the world, playing hide and seek or King versus Cul. He found it funny how a child could be fearless while an adult was daunted by the simplest unknowns. Perhaps that’s because I now know what lurks in the shadows.
After a few minutes of walking blindly, he was greeted by the sun’s rays. He slid aside an unlocked portcullis and found himself standing within the inner bailey of the palace complex. The courtyard was empty.
Before him rose the marble facade of the Court of Bariil, the holiest temple in all of Merridia. It was a massive edifice, built ages ago when Mayal was new and the gods wished for it to prosper. He passed through the entrance portal and entered the temple.
The main hall was a cavernous and dark space. There were hardly any windows in the ancient building, and those that existed were narrow and opaque. The base of the temple was fashioned in a hexagon, studded on each side by a deep alcove. One alcove housed the temple’s main entrance; within each of the others was a shrine dedicated to one of the five god-saints.
As Emethius crossed the chamber and drew near the dais upon which stood the Throne of Roses, a veil of shadow filled the hall. It was as if the sun had fallen behind a cloud. Everything dimmed, and a booming voice called from the gloom. “Who are you to boldly enter this holy temple unbidden?”
“It is I, Emethius Lunen, Soldier of the Faith.” He dropped to one knee and bowed, knowing what was expected of him. “I am on an errand to see the high lord.”
“And who is he to enter the Court of Bariil, he who has killed the heir?” answered the voice. “Go now, and seek no audience. The high lord holds you in contempt. You are unwelcome.”
“I seek the high lord’s ear, and I will not stop short of my purpose,” said Emethius, raising his voice in challenge. “It is true — I did kill the high lord’s son. And now High Lord Valerius has a father’s right to pass judgment. I have come to lay my life in his hands.”
The shadow suddenly lifted as rays of sunlight poured down through the rotunda windows and illuminated the dais. There stood a grand throne crafted from a single piece of hammered copper. A fissure ran through the center of the throne, and it looked half-finished, pockmarked with dents and gouges from the seemingly careless hammer strokes of the artisan who sculpted it. The throne was one of a matching pair. Its twin was the Throne of Tiberius, which was situated far away high upon the pinnacle of Calaban. The twin thrones served as a conduit, through which the high lord could directly commune with the king of the gods. It was said that only the most pious and powerful minds could survive the touch of the perilous Throne of Roses.
At the base of the dais, perched upon a simple wooden stool was an ancient figure robed in crimson. He sat bow-backed, as if weighed down by a lifetime of toil and grief. Upon his head of short cropped hair he wore a circlet of gold. The crown was set with gemstones of jade, opal, amethyst, ruby, and onyx. Each precious stone represented one of the five holy orders over which the High Lord of Merridia reigned supreme.
Emethius approached High Lord Valerius and unsheathed his sword. He fell to his knees and set his face against the stone, presenting his blade to the high lord. “I have come before you seeking judgment,” said Emethius. “If you ask me to, I will lay this blade to my own flesh, for it is noble to do as one’s lord commands. Is this the justice you seek?”
“Judgment has already been passed,” said High Lord Valerius. He placed his trembling hand under Emethius’s chin and lifted him upright. “What you did was not a sin. You may rise and sheath your sword. So the High Lord of Merridia has declared.”
Emethius stood. “Your judgment is just, high lord,” began Emethius. “But for a moment, I ask you to set aside your lordship. Please, face me as a father of a lost son.”
“Is that truly what you seek?”
“Yes,” said Emethius, blinking back the tears welling in his eyes.
Valerius rose with a sudden fury and unsheathed his own sword, a three-foot blade of rippling black steel. Moving with a speed that was stunning for a man of his age, Valerius pressed the tip of his sword into Emethius’s throat. “As a father of a lost son I would avenge Meriatis’s death,” roared Valerius. His hazel eyes raged with fire, and for a second Emethius was certain the high lord was going to ram the blade through his taut neck; Valerius’s posture slackened, and his voice fell to a whisper. “But sorrow and loss should not undo the love that binds us, and I love you, too, Emethius.”
Emethius wasn’t sure how to respond to such compassion. Shouldn’t there be a consequence for killing the prince? Shouldn’t he be punished? “I can only beg for your forgiveness,” said Emethius finally.
“I will pray day and night that the gods grant me the grace to give you what you want,” said Valerius. He sheathed his blade and motioned for Emethius to follow. “Walk with me, Emethius. My eyes are not as strong as they once were, and I wish to see things that have grown dim to me over the years.”
Emethius offered the high lord his arm, and the two walked to the central colonnade that ran in a circle beneath the base of the dome. The spiral columns reached into the gloom, each one depicting a different era of Merridian history. Emethius ran his
finger along the carvings that were etched into the face of the nearest stone pillar. The scene depicted King Ordin, who led his people across the sea only to die at the hands of the Cul.
Emethius thought it odd, how the passage of time had a tendency to compress a person's entire life into a moment. Few alive could say a single word about what King Ordin believed, or who he loved, or how he lived. Yet the people of Merridia worshiped him as a martyr all the same.
Emethius wondered how he would be remembered, if he was remembered at all. The slayer of Prince Meriatis, perhaps. The man who ended the line of Benisor. No, thought Emethius, I will not be forgotten. But what was remembered would not be who he truly was. He felt cursed that this would be his legacy.
High Lord Valerius patted Emethius’s hand, perhaps seeing the turmoil in his eyes. “Whenever I saw you as a child you made me smile,” said the high lord. “Do you know why? It’s because you made Meriatis smile. He enjoyed life when you were around and loved you dearly. You were the brother he always wanted.”
An overpowering sense of shame gnawed at Emethius’s heart. By the end, he had grown to hate Meriatis as much as he loved him.
“I treated Meriatis poorly more often than not,” said Emethius.
Valerius shook his head. “No, you treated him better than he deserved. He was a dark boy, yet you made him bright at times. I never had great hope in the child. His heart was blackened long before his time. But after he met you things changed, at least for a while. It was not until these last few years that it returned, darker than before, and more maddening.” Emethius noted a tremor in the high lord’s hand. “You cannot blame a man for his actions once the Blackheart has ravaged his mind.”
Emethius raised an eyebrow at this. Was this how the high lord tried to save face? Meriatis’s actions were almost excusable if one believed he was afflicted by the Blackheart. But Emethius had his doubts. Uncontrollable violence, mania, a seething hatred — these were the symptoms of the afflicted. Meriatis was troubled, maybe even delusional, but he still seemed to have his faculties about him in the end.
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