“From what I saw, I would not have concluded Meriatis was afflicted by the Blackheart,” said Emethius.
“You only saw the last guttering spasm of the flame. I saw the madness when it was a raging fire.” Valerius shook his head bitterly. “No, Emethius, the man you killed was not my son. Meriatis died years ago. What you killed was a husk.” He walked Emethius toward the exit.
“When I was a young prince, not much older than you are now, I was approached by a soothsayer as I walked the streets of Mayal. She warned me that I would be the last of my line to rule Merridia. At the time, I took her for a madwoman, but if I were to meet her again, I would ask her what other prophesies she has. Every true heir to the Throne of Roses has fallen before their time. Meriatis and my nephew Fennir both died at Imel Katan. My brother, Isir, passed on years ago. I am the last, and when I die my line shall fail.” Valerius’s eyes were filled with sadness, and Emethius found himself pitying the high lord. He was no longer the powerful high lord Emethius had looked up to as a child, but a broken old man whose life’s work had gone to ruin.
“We should mourn for both Meriatis and Fennir,” said Emethius. “But we cannot fall into despair. Hope is not yet lost. There is still one who can maintain the Benisor line.”
Valerius took no solace in this remark. Emethius was referring to Leta, Valerius’s daughter. Only two years Emethius’s senior, she was still of childbearing age. There should have been considerable hope that Leta would produce an heir, but her life had been cursed by tragedy. Her husband was killed in a heretic uprising shortly after they wed. From their union she bore a son, but he fell ill and died while only a young child.
“My daughter has long been a widow in mourning,” said Valerius. “She spends her days in service to the goddess Vacia and will not take another husband; her grief is too great.”
They reached the twin copper doors that led out to the courtyard. “Merridia has always been surrounded by shadow, but the total dark has been kept at bay,” said the aged lord. “Have you the slightest clue why, Emethius?”
Emethius remained silent, realizing that Valerius had not meant for him to answer the question.
“It is because we have relied on our faith to guide us,” explained Valerius. “I rule by the grace of the gods and in compliance to their will. Throughout history it has always been so. That is why the high lord has never taken on the title of king. A king is accountable only to himself and his desires, but I am accountable to the gods.”
Valerius sighted. “I will die soon. Who will rule then? There are men of faith who would prove wise rulers, but they are not rightful heirs. And there are rightful heirs, but they would serve more as a king than a high lord. It is an unsettling choice, and one I will soon have to make.” He opened the temple door. “I have a ceremony to lead, and it is your time to depart.”
“Of course,” said Emethius. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. “May I escort you to the ceremony? The rebellion may be crushed, but that does not mean there are not still men roaming the streets that would like to do you harm.”
Valerius shook his head. “I will not be guarded in my own city, even if the times have grown truly vile. After what has transpired, the people of Mayal need me to appear steadfast.” He looked to Emethius with sincere eyes. “You are wise, Emethius, and such is a virtue. Go now and prosper, until the Fates overcome us.”
“Until the Fates overcome us,” repeated Emethius. He bowed low and parted from the presence of his lord.
• • •
Emethius left the palace complex the same way he had entered. Once outside the palace walls, he joined the confluence of people heading toward the Grand Plaza. By the time he arrived, the plaza was nearly full. A temporary platform had been raised near the western edge of the plaza, and the delta of the Estmer River served as a shimmering backdrop.
As Emethius worked his way toward the front of the crowd, a drummer tolled a few solemn taps to announce the arrival of the high lord’s procession. Soldiers of the Faith led the way, parting the crowd with lengthy spears. High Lord Valerius came next. Emethius could see him easily. The high lord was a head taller than most of the common folk, and he passed down the narrow lane with his chin uplifted and his gaze set straight ahead. The sight of the high lord enlivened the crowd, and people rushed forward, hoping to run their hands along his crimson robe. Others fell prostrate, and pawed at the high lord’s feet as he passed.
Next came a great many people of high birth, lords and ladies who had remained loyal to the throne throughout the rebellion. Praetor Maxentius was there, as was his son-in-law, General Saterius. Saterius still wore his wolf skin cloak, but he had traded in his armor for a fine silk uniform. Ferrus Leair, Lord Admiral of the Elyim Fleet, came next. It was his ships that sailed up the Estmer River and broke the rebel siege of Burrowick.
Behind the admiral walked Lady Miren, Lordess of Chansel. She was the high lord’s sister-in-law and wife of the late Lord Isir. From head to foot she wore black. She was still mourning the death of her only son, Fennir, who was killed while trying to take the gatehouse of Imel Katan. In her arms she carried the Dragon Helm, a token of her son’s valor.
Beside Lady Miren walked the Priestess of Vacia. Emethius smiled upon spying her; it had been many months since he had the pleasure of seeing Leta Benisor, the daughter of the high lord.
There were heavy wrinkles around Leta’s eyes and cheeks, sure marks of the many hardships she had endured losing a husband, a son, and now her brother. The wrinkles did not mar her beauty. In fact, they made her seem more distinguished and serene. Her eyes were hazel, as it was for all of the descendants of Benisor. They shined like polished opal when they caught the light of the morning sun. Her hair was as black as obsidian; braids ran over her shoulders and down her back. Since the death of her mother, which was now over a decade past, Leta had served as the matriarch of House Benisor. She certainly looked the part, dressed in a regal gown made of silver cloth and white lace, over which she wore a spotted ermine cloak.
Seeing Leta now, Emethius couldn’t help but remember his childhood. During his youth, Emethius spent most of his summers with Meriatis and Leta at the royal estate in the foothills of Mount Calaban. Back then, Leta had loved to laugh, sometimes at Emethius, sometimes with him; he never really cared which it was, he simply enjoyed seeing her happy. Emethius spent countless summer nights trying to steal a kiss from the girl. It was an ignorant infatuation that ignored the caste into which each of them was born. But such was the way of a child’s innocent mind. As an adult, Emethius still adored Leta, although it was not as it was before. He now understood his limitations. Still, he wondered what her laughter sounded like now.
Herald Cenna, the newly appointed master of the Tiber Order, commenced the ceremony with an oration about the nature of sin and redemption. The soft weeping of Lady Miren could be heard over the droning voice of the herald. Leta reached out and gripped her aunt’s hand warmly. In doing so, she revealed the pale white skin of her left hand. From fingertips to forearm, the skin of her left arm was covered in porcelain scars that resembled bolts of lightning. In public she almost always kept the pale flesh hidden beneath an elbow length glove, but today she brazenly displayed the scar to the crowd. Throughout the audience, people were nudging one another and gesturing toward Leta.
This was Leta’s subtle way of reminding the people of Mayal that her father wasn’t the only person in the family to be touched by the gods. She received the scars as a child when she accidentally touched the Throne of Roses. Many saw them as a sign that the gods deemed her worthy. Emethius grinned. High Lord Valerius might not see Leta as a possible heir, but Leta clearly had different intentions — why else display the scars for all to see?
Herald Cenna shuffled back to his chair, having finished his sermon. A murmur hummed through the crowd. Most in attendance had come to the plaza hoping to hear the high lord speak, but no one was certain whether he would do so.
To everyo
ne’s delight, High Lord Valerius rose from his chair and walked to the edge of the platform. He held out his hands with his palms facing toward the crowd and blessed the gathering in a slow sweeping arc. The audience fell silent.
“We are a society of sinners,” began Valerius, his sonorous voice rising until it filled the entire plaza. “We have ignored the teachings of our gods, and so, we have found ourselves plighted by plague. Throughout Merridia mothers kneel at night. Not for food, water, or a plentiful harvest. They pray that their children are not plucked from their breast and driven to madness by the ravages of the Blackheart. All too often these prayers go unanswered. The Blackheart creeps as it ever has, and those that we love fall to torment.”
“Repent!” cried dozens of people within the crowd. Countless others fell to their knees and began to perform the ritualistic gestures of the faithful, crossing their hands across their necks and faces.
Valerius nodded with approval and continued his sermon. “To those of you who have not yet felt the wrath of Calaban, do not assume you go unseen. There is no hiding your true nature — the gods see all. They will embrace the remorseful sinner with one hand, while drowning the arrogant saint with the other. Salvation is guaranteed to no one.
“There are some amongst us who have sought an easy path to salvation. They believe that the words I preach are a deception and that the gods of Calaban are false.” He squinted into the crowd, singling out individuals with his eyes. “I say to thee, beware, ye who looks to Calaban with disdain, for Calaban is unblinking, and sees your inner light!” His face twisted with sorrow and he looked down at his own feet. “My warning has come too late for many. My own son could not withstand the temptation, and thus he succumbed to the allure of the Shadow.”
A noticeable gasp hummed through the crowd. Prince Meriatis's betrayal was a common topic within people’s private homes, but no one dared to discuss the matter in public; to do so was a treacherous offense. A few began to openly weep upon hearing this news, others nodded in stark agreement. High Lord Valerius’s face hardened as he looked back over the crowd.
“So how do we as a people move forward?” asked Valerius. “Each of us must play our part. We must not seek vengeance against the sword bearer of the rebel cause, nor wish doom upon their kin, for those too are sins, and thus our fall will only be greater. We cannot ignore the widow or the child of those who betrayed us, for they are the first amongst us, knowing best the true consequences of our collective failings. We cannot forswear those afflicted with the Blackheart, for they are but agents of Calaban’s divine plan, sent amongst us to expose our darkest sins. Now, go forth and become the embodiment of our faith. With a strong heart, accept the fate that the gods have bestowed upon you. Be grateful for this day of peace, and for everyday hereafter with which we are blessed.” He held his hands out toward the crowd. “Until the fates overcome us, and we depart from this land!”
“Until the fates overcome us!” called the gathering in unison.
Valerius then turned and fell to one knee. He kissed the ground, bowing toward the invisible monolith of Calaban that stood far beyond the horizon in the west. All across the Grand Plaza, the faithful citizens of Merridia copied their high lord. But even as they did, a disquieting murmur rose from the crowd. Here and there amongst the audience, a few refused to bow.
At first, Emethius mistook them for the elderly, slow to take on the posture of the pious. No, these men are young and hale, Emethius realized. He couldn’t help but gasp in shock — this was a purposeful act of protest.
All told, a few hundred remained standing in defiance. They held one hand across their mouths and another across their eyes. Collectively, they turned their back on the monolith of Calaban.
This sent the crowd into an uproar. Soldiers of the Faith, overzealous and not willing to see their gods dishonored, rose to their feet, and rushed toward the protesters. Herald Cenna’s tiny voice called for calm from atop the dais. This had the opposite effect. Soon, all of the gathering had risen. Everyone seemed to be pointing an accusative finger at someone else. Neighbors called each other out. Husbands and wives looked at one another in disbelief. Soldiers shoved their way forward, trying to seize the protesters before they disappeared into the crowd. Given the ensuing chaos, Emethius would have been surprised if a single protester was arrested.
Apparently the ideals of the rebellion were alive and well. Emethius shook his head as he waded his way through the unruly mass of people. Malrich was right — the true butcher’s work was only beginning.
CHAPTER
VII
THE PRIESTESS OF VACIA
The chattering voices drew to a halt when Leta entered the Vacian Monastery. Although she always conducted herself with absolute grace, the sisters of the Vacian Order were convinced it was an act. They were unable to comprehend how someone cursed by such an unfair life could press forward. Mother of a dead child, widow of a dead husband, mourner of a dead brother. The Vacian Sisters always looked at Leta with pity in their eyes.
They should pity the afflicted instead, thought Leta.
The monastery was part of the greater palace complex. Designated as a house of healing, the sisterhood had long battled the Blackheart within these walls. The interior was purposefully austere, designed to soothe the minds and spirits of the sick. The walls were painted white, and the floor was cream-colored marble. The outside world was hidden by nearly opaque windows that glowed dimly with morning light. The only ostentatious object within the entire hall was a fountain capped by a porcelain statue of Vacia, the patron goddess of caregivers and the sick.
Leta walked across the empty expanse, the heels of her sandals clacking against the polished stone. The monastery had been designed to house scores of sick, but in recent years, the number of patients had dwindled. The Blackheart seemed to be progressing quicker than anyone could remember. Many patients were degrading to full psychosis within a year of first showing symptoms. By the time most families brought their afflicted kin to the monastery, they were already gripped by madness. If the patient was deemed a danger to others, the court quickly condemned them to death. In truth, there was very little actual healing going on in the monastery; it had become little more than a way-station to the afterlife.
Twelve sisters were waiting for Leta near a windowless wall. Each sister stood beside the bed of one of the condemned. The poor afflicted wretches shifted listlessly against their leather bindings. All sense of reality had left their dilated eyes, and they stared about themselves in unblinking wonder.
The babble of the fountain’s cascading water echoed in the hall. Sadly, it was not enough to drown out the long slick stroke of a whetstone being drawn against a blade. Sir Rupert awaited in the adjacent courtyard, and he would soon use his ax to send these afflicted bodies into oblivion.
Leta peeked through a window that overlooked the monastery’s central courtyard to check on Sir Rupert’s preparations. The chopping block was already in place, as were the burial shrouds in which the deceased would be transported. She could vaguely make out Sir Rupert’s stocky silhouette as he took a few practice swings with his ax. Sir Rupert was a dwarf, a characteristic that was of particular importance in this matter.
It was considered a supreme sin for one talsani to kill another. In the case of the Blackheart victims, the Court of Bariil utilized dwarven executioners to work around this commandment. Leta felt awful putting such a burden on Sir Rupert’s shoulders, but someone had to do it. In centuries past, a mass execution such as this would only occur once or twice a year. But now the Blackheart was so prevalent that executions were occurring nearly every week.
Leta scowled at the thought of her own role in the process. Granting the afflicted their final sacrament used to be the job of the high lord, but her father refused to perform the sacrament since Meriatis’s passing. Leta had grudgingly accepted the task, knowing that if she ever hoped to sit upon the Throne of Roses, she would have to demonstrate her ability to fulfill the duti
es of the high lordship.
Sister Beli, her lady-in-waiting, circulated the room like a mother hen. The folds of her white dress spun this way and that as she sped from cot to cot checking restraints and evaluating patients. One sister was sent running from the room to collect fresh holy water, while another was commanded to pluck the petals of a living rose.
Sister Beli finally turned to Leta and curtsied. “All is secure and arranged to your liking, priestess.”
Leta collected a basin of chilled water from one of the sisters. The water was infused with crushed rose petals and took on a pink hue. When she was young, the smell of rosewater reminded her of summer, laughter, and joy. Lately, the cloying scent caused her stomach to turn; she was forced to swallow down her bile.
She cupped her hand, collecting some of the fragrant water, and spilled it across the brow of the first patient. The man’s body should have been strong and robust, as he was in the prime of his life. Instead, he was bone-thin and covered with open sores, most of them self-inflicted. He licked his chapped lips as his eyes shifted lustfully over her body. Leta ignored the obscene leer and pricked his forehead with a thorn. Blood pooled in droplets.
“Fly spirit, and be free of all pain.” She waited the allotted time, then pressed a rose petal to the wound with the palm of her pale left hand. The patient stirred, resisting the restraints that held him in place. “Blessed be the gods of Calaban,” said Leta.
“Until the fates overcome us,” said the man, reciting the obligatory reply. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of his tormented mind a memory of the past remained. This is good, thought Leta. His soul might still be saved.
She shifted to the next patient, a young man who had yet to lose all his vigor to the ravages of the Blackheart.
“He’s been condemned by the court,” reported Sister Beli as she looked over her ledger. “He stabbed his father-in-law and the constable who came to arrest him.”
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