“The sail was all white, and it shone like a gleed.
Upon its pointed prow, stood a mermaid of gold
barnacle encrusted, she was battered and old...”
“No, no, no,” muttered Leta, feeling the despair rising in her chest.
“It’s just a song, priestess,” said Sister Beli, not understanding the implication.
Leta scowled. “It’s not from the Requiem of Cataclysms.”
“That means nothing. He’s ill, just like every other patient who is brought through those doors. Just because he doesn’t repeat that dreadful poem doesn’t mean...”
Leta waved her hand for silence. She had heard enough dissenting opinions in the last month. She had to decide on her own. She bent over and smelled the man’s breath. It had a strong musky odor.
The man continued to sing.
“Within the ship’s hull I built three chairs,
A throne for I, and a seat for each of my loves,
But the fair maiden I wed just paces the deck
And wonders aloud who I awaited for instead.
I wait for the sea, she’s my lover of old
she’ll take me one day, and swallow me whole... hrrr...”
Leta stuck a finger in his mouth, causing him to spit and gurgle. She pulled his lips from side to side, trying to get a better look at his gums. They were stained green. Engroot. The drug was outlawed in Merridia, but that didn’t stop sailors from sucking on it while their ships were at port, and it was a favorite of the Dwarves of Tremel. It was a mild sedative when consumed in a responsible manner, but when taken in high doses it could cause agitation, madness, even hallucinations.
This is how they are slipping people into my monastery, realized Leta. Engroot was being used to cloud the minds of these men. She pulled her finger free of the man’s mouth and wiped her hand on her dress.
The man continued with his song undeterred.
“One morning I will sail west, and never come home
The water will run gray as it swallows my bones.
Don’t mourn me, my dear, please don’t shed a tear
I’ve returned to the sea, from whence I was reared.”
Leta pulled the swollen flesh of the man’s face this way and that trying to see if she could discern any semblance of the man she had followed to Admiral Ferrus’s ship. Leta hiked up the man’s gown, checking his legs, knees, and ankles. The man she had followed had a noticeable bow to his left leg. All seemed sound. Still, he might walk with a halt. She ran her fingertips over his arm, checking the fresh wounds about his wrists. If the patient had lived the last several months of his life bound by shackles he should have scar tissue on his wrists. All of his wounds seemed fresh and superficial. She turned over the palm of his left hand, checked his fingertips, and then shifted to his right side. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.
Leta looked up at Sister Beli, who was eyeing her queerly. “Priestess, maybe I should grant this poor soul his final sacrament. You’re obviously tired. You should go home.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Leta. “Sister Beli, lock the door to the monastery’s inner courtyard.”
“But Sir Rupert’s out there,” objected Sister Beli.
“I’m fully aware of that fact,” said Leta. “We won’t be needing his services today.” Sister Beli huffed with disapproval, but complied with the order. “Ionni, please lock the front door as well.”
Leta’s voice was such that Ionni followed her instruction without question. The girl hustled over to the door and turned the lock. There was a racket outside in response. Several sisters pressed their faces against the stained glass windows hoping to see what was happening inside. Leta looked at the dozen or so silhouettes trying to peer through the opaque glass. Which one of you betrayed me? Which one of you poisoned this man?
“I was mistaken,” said Ionni, as she and Sister Beli returned to Leta’s side. “The patient isn’t a farmer, he’s a sailor. What’s more, he’s not sick, he’s been drugged. Engroot, I’d wager.”
“Engroot,” Leta agreed.
Sister Beli puffed out her cheeks in annoyance. “Would the priestess be so kind as to tell me what is going on?”
Leta held up the man’s hand, revealing a web of red welts. This meant nothing to Sister Beli and Ionni, but it meant everything to Leta. “Jellyfish stings. This man was stung by a jellyfish. See, look at the pattern.” She followed the swirling red lines with her finger.
“A jellyfish? I don’t understand.”
There wasn’t time to explain. Half of the silhouettes had already vanished from the window pane. Doubtlessly several of the sisters had run off to report Leta’s odd behavior.
“Help me get him standing.”
Ionni didn’t hesitate. She hooked an arm around the man’s waist while Leta supported his other side. Sister Beli hovered on the periphery for a moment, but finally her sense of duty got the better of her, and she rushed forward to provide a helping hand.
They stood the man upright, and while his knees buckled a few times, he eventually woke up enough to support himself. He blinked, and stared about the temple in utter confusion.
Someone banged on the door. “Priestess Leta, open up this instant!” It was Herald Cenna. Almost simultaneously there was a knock on the door leading to the monastery’s inner courtyard. “Priestess, is everything all right?” called Sir Rupert.
I need to get this man out of here, Leta realized. She grabbed the patient’s hand. The sensation of being touched seemed to rouse the man a bit. His eyes flashed with sudden recognition, and he lifted his swollen brow in surprise. “Priestess Leta,” he muttered drunkenly. “I had a dream you were on my ship. We were drinking and feasting and having a merry time.”
“It is a splendid ship, and I would love to visit it with you,” said Leta, taking pity on the man. “But we need to hurry. Your admiral’s waiting, and he’s a very impatient man.”
The mention of Admiral Ferrus caused the patient to stiffen. “Yes, I must return before the bell chimes three times. The ship is supposed to set out at dawn.”
That bell has already rung, thought Leta ruefully. Ferrus’s fleet had set sail for Elyim days ago. For now she needed to find a safe house, a place where this man could sleep off the drugging effects of the Engroot. She could send him south on a trading vessel once he felt better.
Proof, reminded a nagging voice in Leta’s head. I need proof that innocent people are being sent to the headsman. If she sent him away on a ship, she would be casting aside the evidence of Lady Miren’s maleficence. I have to sober him up and bring him to my father.
“Sister Beli, I need you to stall Herald Cenna. I’ve got to sneak him out of here. Ionni, you’re coming with me.” Together, Leta and Ionni dragged the man down a nearby nave. Leta threw open a steel portcullis in the floor, revealing a stairwell that plunged into the earth. Hot air wafted up to greet them.
Beli huffed after them. “What do you mean by sneak him out of here? Where do you intend to go?”
“It’s best you don’t know. Stall anyone who tries to come through that door. Understand?”
“Of course, priestess,” said Beli, although the disapproving look never left her face. She rushed off toward the door, hollering as she went. “One minute Herald Cenna. Priestess Leta needs her privacy.”
“Open the door, you daft woman!” commanded Herald Cenna.
Sir Rupert was tapping on one of the windows, perhaps considering whether he should break the glass.
Leta grabbed a pair of incense burners. The light they put off was meager, but it would be better than nothing in the depths of the catacombs. She shoved a burner into Ionni’s free hand. “You take his left side, I’ll take his right. We need to hurry.” They guided the poisoned sailor down the stairs. His legs threatened to buckle with each successive step, yet somehow they managed to keep him upright.
“What’s your name?” asked Leta, deciding that the court paperwork was a forgery.
/> “Hern?” The statement was more a question than a declaration.
Leta nodded. She recalled hearing his name when the other sailors were congratulating him for drawing the gold coins from the washing basin.
“Do you remember how you got here, Hern?”
The man thumbed at his chin as he struggled to draw the information out of his clouded mind. “We went ashore to have... er... some fun, if you reckon my meaning. I was at a brothel — forgive me, priestess, but it’s the truth — and, well, I don’t quite remember what happened. Someone grabbed me. I know that for certain. Some woman they called Lady Gray was asking me all these funny questions about the rebellion, and Herald Carrick, and if I knew of Prince Meriatis’s whereabouts, and all the while they were shoving more Engroot into my jaw. Eventually it all became a haze.”
Leta’s ears perked at the mention of the inquisitor’s title. “You say the person asking questions was named Lady Gray?”
“Yeah, funny name. Ain’t never heard of no House Gray.”
Neither had Leta. But she had heard of the Gray Prophet. Suddenly Admiral Ferrus didn’t sound so paranoid. “What did this woman look like?” asked Leta, envisioning Lady Miren in her head.
“Tall woman. I think. Plain features. Something about the hair. It was missing. Or maybe it was there, and then it wasn’t. I’m sorry. Its all rather cloudy, to be honest.” He rubbed his hand over his missing ear and scowled. “Maybe it’s better that I don’t remember everything.”
Leta let the matter rest for now. She would have more time for questions once they got Hern somewhere safe and his mind was a bit less cloudy.
She hurriedly led Ionni and Hern into the depths of the catacombs. The glowing red lights of the two incense burners did little to ward off the gloom. By the gods, we could easily get lost down here.
As a child, Leta played in these catacombs all the time, using the network of tunnels to sneak from one part of the palace compound to another. How no one ever disappeared down here was a wonder. The network of tunnels had a hundred different branches, some with pitfalls that dropped into pools of boiling water.
“Which way, priestess?” Ionni lifted her incense burner, revealing a fork in the path.
The tunnel to the right led to the family crypt. It housed over a hundred dead members of House Benisor, most of whom had long since turned to dust within their cold sarcophagi. The tombs scared her as a child, and it was the one place she would not venture when they played hide and seek. Meriatis would sometimes choose it as his hiding spot, guaranteeing she could not win the game. “Unfair,” she remembered complaining. “Guile is not a sin,” retorted Meriatis. “There is nothing unfair about exploiting your opponent’s weakness.”
At the time, Leta hated her brother’s smugness, but in hindsight she realized he was probably right. I’ve been playing by other people’s rules, not my own, thought Leta. But what was Lady Miren’s weakness?
Leta pulled the sailor in the opposite direction from the family crypt. Each time she came to a branch, she took the leftmost path. She walked with a short shuffling gait, lest she stumble upon some pit in the earth and not see it until it was too late. Finally she heard the telltale gallop of boiling water running parallel to her path.
“What’s that sound?” asked Ionni.
“Water from the hot spring,” said Leta. She felt around on the ground with her foot until she found a clay pipe with the edge of her toe. She could feel its scalding heat through the leather of her shoe.
“The pipe will guide us to the exit,” said Leta.
She led the way, making sure to always keep her toe pressed against the sweltering pipe. Hern didn’t complain in the slightest, although every step had to be a chore for the man. Finally, they came upon a thin square of light emitting from the tunnel’s ceiling.
“That’s a trapdoor that opens outside the palace walls,” explained Leta. “There’s a ladder somewhere around here.” She felt around in the dark until she found the iron rungs. “Ionni lead the way. Hern, can you make it to the top?”
“Yeah, I think so,” said the sailor.
Ionni went first, with Hern ascending just behind her on wobbly legs. Leta pushed on the man’s rump, assisting his climb. There was a sharp creak as Ionni pushed open the trapdoor. The tunnel was filled with blinding light. Ionni clambered through the trapdoor and girded herself topside. She reached back down to help Hern manage the final rungs.
Leta’s mind raced as she tried to figure out where they would go from here. The trapdoor led to a fountain located just outside the palace grounds. They would be exposed and would have to move fast to get Hern out of sight. She wondered if she could sneak him into her own private quarters without being seen.
Hern reached for Ionni’s outstretched hand, but as he did a surprised groan burst from his lips. Ionni issued a blood-curdling scream and fell from view. A black shadow cast across the exit, there was a wet smack, like meat being struck with a cleaver, and a wedge of metal suddenly grew from the small of Hern’s back.
Hern tumbled backward. Leta reached out, trying to break Hern’s fall, but she wasn’t strong enough. His feet came down right on top of her head, and they both tumbled to the base of the ladder.
Hern’s head smacked into the ground like a ripe melon thrown against a wall. An impulsive wave of nausea curdled Leta’s stomach. Hern’s mouth opened, as if he was trying to mutter some desperate plea, but all that came out was a gush of blood. With eyes wide in terror, Leta took his shaking hands in her own. A spurt of blood cascaded across her chest, and a second weaker spurt splattered across her feet. Then the spurts of blood stopped altogether, replaced by a slow steady leak that pooled across the floor.
Overhead, Leta could hear Ionni sobbing uncontrollably. Her cries almost drowned out the clack of steel-toed boots hammering against the rungs of the ladder. Leta didn’t look up to see who it was. She didn’t have to.
Strong hands hooked around Leta’s waist and hoisted her upright. The empty eye sockets of a wolf bobbed before her in the darkness, the figure regarded her from head to foot. “No, none of the blood is yours. That’s good. Your father would not have been pleased.”
“Why, Saterius?” managed Leta in a voice so weak she hardly recognized it as her own. “Why are you doing this?”
He smirked, causing his canines to jut out; for a moment he looked more like a wolf than a man. “I was told this blackhearted fool dragged you into the catacombs. What else was I to do except save your life?” Saterius spit on Hern’s corpse, and then gave Leta a mocking bow. “I live only to serve the line of Benisor, priestess. Past, present, and future.” He laughed, but his laugh sounded more like a howl.
CHAPTER
VII
THE LONG WALK
Emethius sat stooped over with his back turned to Malrich. The lower edge of the morning sun had just breached the horizon, and the air was still crisp and chill.
“Seven, eight, nine, ten...,” counted Emethius. The arrows the Dunie had given them were collected on the ground at Emethius’s feet. He assigned each one a number.
“This is a bad idea,” said Malrich, pacing a rut into the earth. He did so partly out of fear and partly to drive away the stiffness in his joints; he had spent the entire night curled in a ball so his legs didn’t go bursting through the makeshift wall of their hideout. “You’re going to awaken the wrath of every Cul between Hardthorn and Bi Ache.”
“You don’t think I know that?”
“How about a few other superlatives?” said Malrich with a deep frown. “This is a stinking awful stupid foolhardy bugger-headed idea.
“When I was younger, I would often hunt deer in the forest on my family estate — it gave me an excuse to get away from my drunken sot of a father,” said Emethius, not looking up from his work. “On a good day, I could hit a target from forty paces. By my estimate, I’ll be a great deal closer today.”
“That’s only if you’re willing to walk right up to the base of the towe
r.”
Emethius’s eyes winked up at Malrich for just a moment; they were cold and aloof.
He’s already distancing himself from what he’s about to do, realized Malrich. There would be no talking Emethius out of this plan. Malrich cursed under his breath and watched as Emethius began to sight the length of each arrow, checking their trueness. He laid aside the ones he was dissatisfied with.
A little voice in the back of Malrich’s head told him a stiff drink would make all of his worries go away. He crushed the shameful thought and began to collect his things. He would need to be ready for anything.
The coming of dawn had sent the Cul slinking back into whatever hell hole they called home. The sun had not arrived a moment too soon. Malrich had never known a more terrifying night in his life. It was difficult to track the passage of time inside their hidden shelter, and the night seemed to wear on forever. Neither dared to speak. The heat of the day was replaced by a biting cold, and Malrich was shivering not long after dusk. He had to fight to keep his teeth from chattering, fearful that the slightest sound would betray their location.
The cackling call of the Cul droned on throughout the night, rising and falling like the howl of the wind. At times it seemed the enemy was right outside. They heard snorts, like a wild beast rooting for a faint scent, and once, the brush they had piled before the mouth of the crevice began to shake; Malrich never did figure out if it was caused by the wind or the searching hands of the Cul.
“I have to do something for those captive Dunie soldiers hanging from the tower,” explained Emethius. He picked up a bundle of arrows, having selected the best from the lot. “You should not follow me.”
“You know that’s not an option.” Malrich reached out and grabbed Emethius’s shoulder before he could turn away. “Those men are already gone, or near enough to it. Returning to that tower will do nothing save alert the enemy to our location. Think of the mission. If you die now, you doom Meriatis.”
“Meriatis may be doomed no matter what,” said Emethius, shrugging off Malrich’s hold. “You know as well as I, the success of this journey has never been guaranteed.” He tested the draw of the yew bow — the string issued a sharp twang upon its release. “I can’t leave them like that, Mal. You say we are on the side of the righteous? Then we must stand up to that lofty expectation. This is but the first test of many; I will not falter. Will you?”
Fractured Throne Box Set 1 Page 31
