Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “I need proof, Cenna. Hard proof that Lady Miren is sending people to my monastery,” said Leta. “For those afflicted with the Blackheart, the headsman is an act of compassion. But for the heretic or rebel, the headsman is an act of murder. There is a special place in hell for murderers, and I will not be complicit. Before I grant another final sacrament you are going to accompany me to the monastery and look into the face of every man, woman, and child under my care, and confirm that none of them came from your tribunal.”

  “I walk the halls of your inner ward everyday,” snapped Cenna, showing a sudden flash of anger. “I am old, but I am neither daft nor blind. I would remember their faces. No, if your are receiving rebels, Leta, I fear to say this is more dire than you think. Lady Miren is bypassing the tribunal and sending some men straight to your monastery without a trial.”

  Leta nearly jumped out of her chair. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s just the musings of an old man, and probably nothing more.” Cenna stood and brushed the crumbs from his robe. “Thank you for the quick bite to eat, but I must be getting back to my students.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you truly wish to find out the truth, you will need to follow the wolf while he is on the prowl.” He patted Leta’s hand and walked from the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  • • •

  “Follow the wolf while he is on the prowl?” mouthed Leta, as she mulled over the herald’s cryptic words. Herald Cenna was trying to help her, she could read that plainly on his face. But there were things he was not at liberty to say. There was something that even he, the Herald of the Tiber Order, feared.

  There came a light knock at the door of Herald Cenna’s study. Sister Beli peered inside without waiting for a reply. “I think we are good. I did exactly as you told me, and even took the children down into the crypts. I pretended to get lost to buy more time, and I think it worked out in our favor. I just passed Herald Cenna in the hall.”

  “And the girl, were you able to hold her back without rousing suspicion?”

  Sister Beli laughed. “There was an, ah, accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “I dumped an entire vase of rosewater on the poor child just as I was dismissing the class. She is changing into something dry as we speak.”

  “Then there isn’t a moment to spare.” Leta jumped to her feet and kissed Beli on either cheek. “You would have made a splendid sneak-thief. Thank the gods you’re on my side.” She rushed off to the Vacian Monastery at once. The only reason she didn’t run was to keep from rousing suspicion.

  Leta’s meeting with Herald Cenna had more than one purpose. Leta had done a bit of research on the three girls Lady Miren was keeping as hostages. She found Ionni Caird to be of special interest.

  The girl’s father, Lord Domnic Caird, had never openly declared for Meriatis’s heresy, but more than one captured rebel had fingered Lord Domnic as a man sympathetic to the rebel cause. Supposedly, Lord Domnic provided the rebels with provisions just before the loyalists put Estri under siege. If the tales were true, he was largely responsible for the rebels being able to hold out for as long as they did.

  Leta caught up with Ionni Caird just as the girl was about to exit the Vacian dormitory. The poor girl’s hair was wet, and she was clothed in the habit of a Vacian Sister. The attire was much too large for the girl and she looked a bit comical. Her drenched pupil’s robe was clasped in a knot in her hands.

  “Priestess Leta,” said Ionni, blinking with surprise. She curtsied awkwardly, showing little improvement from when Lady Miren scolded her at breakfast. “I borrowed a robe from one of the sister’s lockers. I hope you don’t mind.” Her cheeks noticeably flushed as she picked at the ill-fitting robe.

  Leta parted her mouth, feigning shock over the girl’s disheveled state. “You poor thing,” she cooed, drawing on her maternal side. “What happened?”

  “Sister Beli was showing the class how to grant a sacrament with rosewater when she tripped.” She held out her sodden robe which stunk of roses. “I took the brunt of it.”

  “That’s unfortunate, but the gods work in mysterious ways. The robe of a Vacian Sister looks good on you, child,” said Leta, lying through her teeth. “Have you considered taking the vows?”

  “Ha, of a sister?” The girl gave an audible snort. “I’m the daughter of a nobleman. I could never do something so rash without my father’s blessing. I’m sure my father has already vetted a half-dozen men to be my husband.”

  “Oh, I doubt Lord Domnic would be that hard to convince,” said Leta. “I would gladly write him, if you would like. The life of an acolyte is not all bad. A bit regimented for sure. And of course, it goes without saying, you couldn’t venture north with Lady Miren when she departs for Chansel. Those studying to take the vows of a sister are required to stay here in Mayal.”

  Ionni’s eyelids lifted a bit at this last part.

  Leta smiled. “And, if in a couple of years you decide the Vacian Sisterhood is not for you, well that is your choice, as well. One can rescind their vows up until the day she becomes a full-fledged sister.”

  Ionni eyed Leta with suspicion, perhaps sensing that Leta’s offer was a trap. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to make Lady Miren angry.”

  The girl has a healthy degree of distrust, thought Leta. Good. That was preferable to a child who was eager to please. Of Lady Miren’s three wards, Ionni was the oldest, fourteen and nearly a lady. Leta had purposefully selected the girl, hoping she was old enough to recognize the benefits of Leta’s offer.

  Leta motioned toward the nearest pew. “Why don’t you have a seat and talk with me a moment.” Ionni sat down and crossed her arms and legs — a guarded posture that spoke volumes about her willingness to trust a stranger. Trust is woven as delicately as the Weaver’s web, thought Leta. She took a knee before the girl so that their eyes were at the same level.

  “I know the court can be a confusing place, and Mayal is so big. How are you enjoying your visit to the midlands?”

  “Life under Lady Miren’s care is pleasant,” answered the girl. Her voice contained the slightest of wavers. “Bree and Awen both have older sisters back home and they have taken to following my lead. It’s a big responsibility — they are such innocent girls; I hope I serve as a good role model. And, of course, Lady Miren has been so generous to see to our boarding and schooling. She says we will all be proper ladies by the time we go home.” The girl painted a sweet picture, but she couldn’t say Lady Miren’s name without clenching her jaw.

  There is hatred in those eyes, realized Leta. Now I need to stoke the flame. Leta smiled innocently. “Your father’s estate is outside of Estri?”

  “The ruins of Estri, yes,” Ionni was quick to correct.

  “Oh, I remember now. You watched the city burn, didn’t you? I recall your tale from our breakfast a while back. War is a terrible thing. I am sorry you had to see that. Perhaps you can settle a debate Lady Miren and I were having the other day; did Estri burn before or after the arrival of the Chanselese fleet?”

  “It is difficult for me to remember.”

  “I understand,” said Leta, her face sagging with false sympathy. “The passage of time makes all things more difficult to recall. But if you had to say it was one way or the other...”

  Ionni bit her lip and frowned. “After, priestess, the fires started after the loyalist ships arrived. There were so many masts in the bay it was like a forest had crept up on the city in the middle of the night. I remember hearing my father say, I hope the fire spreads to the ships and burns the whole damn fleet to the ground.”

  So the rumors were true — loyalists burned the city, not the rebels. How many died in the ensuing firestorm? Leta struggled to keep her anger from showing on her face. “The rebels must have been truly desperate to burn their own stronghold to the ground.”

  “Aye, priestess, they were truly desperate.” Ionni blinked, and Leta spied the first hint of a tear in the girl’s
eye.

  Leta took Ionni’s hands within her own. She was surprised to find herself genuinely moved by the girl’s pain. Nysen would have been nearly the same age as this girl, had he survived.

  Ionni looked at the glove covering Leta’s left hand. “Did the gods speak to you when you touched the Throne of Roses?”

  “No,” Leta admitted. “I was only in contact for an instant.”

  “I accompanied Lady Miren to the throne room the other day,” said Ionni, not taking her eyes off Leta’s gloved hand. “The throne was empty, and I was half-tempted to throw myself on the seat.”

  “Did you intend to kill yourself?”

  “No, nothing so rash,” said Ionni, shaking her head. “I wanted to ask the gods for justice. Justice for my family. Justice for the people of Estri.”

  There it was, the handle of the knife Leta needed to twist. “I am sorry about what happened at Estri. Although I had no part in the massacre, it was done in my family’s name, and that brings me great shame. I wish I could change the past, but I can’t. What I can do, is provide you with the justice you seek. But in order to do that, I need your help. I am looking for something specific. You are at Lady Miren’s side most of the day; does she ever meet with other high officials or make mention of a tribunal?”

  The girl glanced over her shoulder and surveyed the room, making sure they were truly alone. When she answered, her voice was hardly a whisper. “Lady Miren is often in council with Herald Cenna, but most of their talk concerns the building of a new temple in Chansel. She meets with your father, I mean, the high lord, once a week for lunch. And she dines quite often with General Saterius and Lady Gwenn. But a meeting with many high officials at once? That I could not say. The only time I am not in Lady Miren’s company is during my classes and on the sabbath, when she usually takes her leave around dusk to visit the Court of Bariil. She seldom returns before midnight.”

  Leta raised an eyebrow. She had never seen Lady Miren in attendance at the Court of Bariil. “There are many temples in Mayal. Are you sure she attends the service at the Court of Bariil and not somewhere else?”

  “I’m quite certain. Where else would she go?” Ionni smiled the slightest of smiles.

  This was Ionni’s quiet revenge, Leta realized. The girl just provided her with the date and time of Lady Miren’s secret tribunal. Now all Leta had to do was follow Lady Miren’s carriage and see whom she met.

  “Ahem.” Ionni loudly cleared her throat and nodded toward the door. Orso was standing in the doorway.

  “It’s about time I found you,” said the boy in a huff.

  “I was just talking to the priestess about the five Virtues of Vacia,” said Ionni, not hesitating for a second to conjure up a lie. She stood and straightened her over-sized robe. “The first virtue is humility, which I certainly need more of. The second is studiousness, which is something you should practice, Orso. The third virtue is honesty...”

  “I know the five virtues,” said Orso. “Humility, studiousness, honesty, compassion, and piety.” He waved his hand dismissively and came stomping down the length of the hall. “Food is the only virtue I care about right now. We don’t get to eat until Herald Cenna finishes his lecture, and he won’t start until you’re present. Let’s go!”

  “Hopefully we can speak again soon, Priestess Leta,” said Ionni. “I find the Vacian Sisterhood very intriguing.” She curtsied, and this time her form was absolutely perfect.

  Orso grabbed Ionni by the hand before she could say another word and pulled her toward the door. Ionni hopped along on her good leg, struggling to keep pace.

  He’s a cruel boy, thought Leta, as she watched the children depart from the monastery. May the gods protect Merridia if he ever becomes high lord.

  CHAPTER

  XV

  EMONIA

  Malrich eyed the watchtower that stood on the far side of the bridge. The only sign that the lookout was manned was the green and white checkered flag that fluttered above the watchtower’s turret. He half expected a troop of Emoni soldiers to come running out of the gate at any moment and bar the path with drawn swords. To his surprise, no one materialized from the tower.

  “They’re likely still drunk from last night’s revelry,” said Emethius as he spurred his horse across the bridge.

  Malrich followed close behind, keeping one eye on the arrow slits that wreathed the tower. He always imagined the border between Merridia and Emonia would be guarded. Then again, why waste the money? There had not been open hostilities between the two realms in over a decade. One had to go even farther back in history, over a hundred years, to find a time when there was actually all out war between the lands.

  The Emoni watchtower looked like a toy when compared to the monolithic Cul tower that stood nearby. The Cul tower leaned out over the river, threatening to fall. Crumbling buttresses wreathed its base. It seemed to Malrich that they were the only thing keeping the tower upright.

  Emethius nodded toward the Cul tower. “According to legend, so many soldiers died taking this tower from the Cul, one could climb the mound of bodies and enter through the third story window.”

  Malrich laughed. “There isn’t a third story window.”

  “Nor is there a fourth or a fifth.”

  The closest thing the tower had to windows were narrow embrasures hardly wider than a fist. Malrich shook his head. Most stories concerning the Cul were much like this tower, apocryphal tales that crumbled upon further examination.

  “Still, the foundation is solid,” muttered Malrich as he eyed the bedrock upon which the Cul tower was built. He snapped his reins, driving his horse to catch up with Emethius.

  “Remind me again of our little farce,” said Malrich once the watchtower had fallen out of view, and he was certain their conversation would not be overheard.

  “We are traveling west searching for home remedies for the Blackheart. We’re following the orders of Herald Cenna, no less.” Emethius was wearing the fox tail cloak of a master healer. Where he had come upon the garment, Malrich could not say, but it looked genuine. Emethius even had all of the trinkets one might expect a healer to possess. His young age was the only thing that might draw suspicion. That, and the fact that Emethius couldn’t actually perform a transfusion. Hopefully no one asks, thought Malrich.

  “We hail from Henna Lu,” continued Emethius. “There’s no use in lying about our origins. Anyone with a decent ear for accents will pin us as southlanders in a second. You, sir, are my leech boy.”

  Malrich snorted. “My mum always thought I’d make a good Tiber Brother.”

  “Fitting,” said Emethius, laughing at the irony. “Never have I known a more godless man.”

  “Oh, I believe in the gods,” said Malirch. “Only a fool wouldn’t. I fear the gods. I loathe the gods. But isn’t that how the gods like it? Just watch, I might be the most devout Tiber Brother you’ve ever seen.” He took a lengthy draw from his canteen and smirked.

  “Hopefully we don’t come across anyone who needs me to leech them a new liver.” Emethius pretended to shudder, causing his fur cloak to become a rippling wave of orange, black, and white. “Your vitality, I fear, would be a bit lacking.”

  Not wanting to draw attention to themselves, they continued on at a leisurely pace through the morning. There were few other travelers on the road — namely traders bound for Merridia — and Malrich and Emethius mostly had the road to themselves. They rode side by side, while Baylilly trotted faithfully behind them, free of any lead.

  Malrich came into possession of his current horse by claiming it off a dead rebel. He named the stallion Etso, which simply meant horse in the old tongue. Malrich had to admit it wasn’t the most original name, but by that point in the rebellion he wasn’t feeling especially creative. He had already lost three horses in battle. One broke its leg during a charge. The second and third were shot out from beneath him. With that record, Malrich didn’t see much use in granting his new mount a proper name, seeing as it likely wa
sn’t long for this world. Miraculously, Etso managed to survive the remainder of the war. As stallions went, Etso was a true asshole. He was prone to kick or bite anyone he didn’t trust, a trait that saved Malrich’s life on more than one occasion. If any horse was going to see Malrich through the harrowing journey that lay ahead, it would be Etso.

  By mid-afternoon they had climbed out of the undulating hills that surrounded the Osspherus Vale, and found themselves within the treeless country known as Veren Lo. This swath of land, which fell between the Osspherus and Ulma Rivers, was under the control of the Citilian family, who were the faithful marchwardens of the Emoni king.

  The hills acted as a subtle barrier between Merridia and Emonia, helping to preserve the illusion that all things were equal upon either side of the river. But once they journeyed through the hills the differences were undeniable. Serfs labored ceaselessly in the fields that lined either side of the road. The serfs were tied to the land and to the fief lord for whom they served. They tilled the soil without love, going through the motions like prisoners. Ramshackle homes made of sod brick and thatched roofs dotted the countryside. Overseers on horseback rode amongst the wretched classes, prodding with rods when coarse words did not suffice.

  Malrich had never seen such a downtrodden people in his life. He had heard stories, of course, but it was worse than he imagined. “They are not quite slaves, but they are very near to it,” said Malrich, as he watched an overseer crack a whip at the heels of an elderly man. His stomach grumbled with disgust, and he took a long swig from his canteen.

  “Their way is the old way, a vile custom the Emoni brought from across the sea,” said Emethius, noting the shock in Malrich’s eyes. “Merridia would look the same were it not for the schism. The gods never intended for Eremel to be divided into multiple realms. They brought two kings from across the sea to lord over two kingdoms and two peoples. Eremel and Tremel. One kingdom for the dwarves and one kingdom for the talsani.”