by Liam Reese
Pretty.
“Grandfather?” a deep voice asked from his shoulder.
Besmir looked up, his movements feeling almost infinitely slow, to see Merdon leaning down. His eyes sparkled, whirling spirals of pink lights that looked to spin in their sockets. He felt a laugh bubble up from his chest, saw the colors dancing as they left his mouth.
“Merdon, my boy,” Besmir said. Fanfares sounded as he spoke, and another mad grin crossed his face.
“Where have you been?” Merdon asked, his voice still slow and deep.
“Here,” the king explained.
“It’s been hours since you left!” Merdon cried.
“Has it?” Besmir asked, unconcerned. “I didn’t realize.”
“We should get you back to camp,” Merdon said. “Get some sleep.”
Besmir struggled to his feet, his balance a difficult thing to find, and looked at Merdon. His grandson’s face seemed to melt, becoming liquid and morphing into the face of another.
Eloren, the Waravalian Earl whom the God Gratallach had possessed during the horrific battle at Ursley mine, now stood before him. Fright, abrupt and savage, clamped bands of ice-cold steel around his heart, and Besmir felt the organ beating hard and fast, as if trying to escape from his chest.
“Grandfather?” Eloren asked, puzzlement in his voice..
“No!” Besmir screamed. “No, it can’t be!”
Pressure started inside Besmir’s skull, incessant and dull. Pain brought flashes of light to life before his eyes, and the world seemed to tilt as he crashed to the floor at the feet of his enemy.
5
Queen Arteera sat in her husband’s stateroom, tapping the end of a quill pen against her cheek as she thought. Before her sat three large bottles filled with the rancid-smelling stuff Besmir had taken to drinking recently. Her thoughts were pulled from the bottles by a gentle knock at the door and the entrance of Branisi, their housecarl.
Age had been kind to the woman, who was only slightly younger than the queen herself, though life itself had not. Many of her family had been wiped out at the battle for Ursley, while her lover, the royal cook, had passed away just over a year ago, her heart failing catastrophically as she lay in Branisi’s arms. Now, in her late fifties, the woman had changed, becoming quiet and pensive where once she had been fiery and loud.
Arteera stood, greeting the woman she had known for decades warmly, and asking her to sit. They took a pair of comfortable chairs facing the great hearth, even though no fire burned there, and the queen sighed.
“How are you?” Arteera asked.
“I am as always,” Branisi murmured. “And you, majesty?”
“I’m concerned,” the queen said. “For my husband. He’s taken to drink since these nightmares began,” she added, glancing at Branisi.
“But I don’t know what this stuff is, or where he got it from. Is there any way to trace the source of it?” She handed over one of the bottles.
Arteera watched her housecarl open the bottle, sniffing it and wrinkling her nose as soon as the noxious fumes hit her. “Why would anyone drink this?” she asked, corking the bottle quickly.
“I think it takes the nightmares away,” Arteera said. “But it takes him away, too … makes him … not Besmir.”
Branisi held the queen’s hand, gently rubbing her thumb over the backs of Arteera’s fingers while the other woman fought back her tears. “Let me look into this,” she said. “It’s quite a distinctive bottle, so someone should know where it came from. Can I take this?”
Arteera nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Branisi, and please send for Joranas. I must speak with him as soon as possible.”
Branisi bowed her head and sauntered across the room, her black cloak trailing behind her as she went. The queen climbed wearily to her feet and crossed to her husband’s large desk again, seating herself behind it and opening one of the drawers there. Her hand shook as she took out the sheet of beaten vellum, laying it on the desk before her as she had when she first found it.
Some insane but optimistic part of her mind had hoped the letter would have disappeared, vanished into the ether, never to be seen again. Yet here it sat before her, penned in Besmir’s unmistakable handwriting.
His abdication letter.
And Joranas had signed it.
Why would he not tell me?
Arteera stood, pacing back and forth in exactly the same way as Besmir had done thousands of times before, worrying about her husband’s state of mind.
Had I found this beforehand, I’d never have let him go alone. I hope you can keep him safe, Merdon.
Joranas reached his mother a little time later, smiling widely as he entered. She watched her eldest child walk across to greet her, gauging his mood. He didn’t appear to be wary or upset in any way, making the queen wonder what his involvement might be.
“Greetings, son,” she said frostily. “Come, have a seat.”
Joranas looked puzzled at her tone, but pulled one of the chairs out by his father’s desk.
“I’ve done something,” Joranas said lightly. “What is it?”
“Have you had much to do with your father recently?” Arteera asked, folding her hands atop the letter and raising her eyebrows.
“By recently, you mean..?” Joranas asked, becoming a little more serious.
“The last month or so?”
Arteera watched her son lean back in the chair, his expression thoughtful. “Just the normal things, as far as I recall,” Joranas said. “Meetings with dignitaries and members of the army regarding funding. I attended the dinner with the new Waravalian ambassador, but you were there too. Apart from that, I’ve only seen him in passing. Why?”
As an answer, the queen slid the sheet of vellum across for her son to read for himself, watching his expression change as he did so. Almost immediately his face paled, becoming a sickly color. Hisbrows knitted, and he bit his bottom lip in the same way he had done when concentrating as a child.
In the few seconds it took him to read the missive, his demeanor had completely changed, becoming nervous and on edge. “But this...” he searched her face for some sign of a clue.
“Is his abdication letter,” she confirmed. “Signed by you.”
“But I didn’t … I mean, I’ve never seen this before. I’d never have signed it without talking it over with you both first. When did he write this?”
“I’ve no idea, son,” Arteera said wearily. “He hasn’t said anything to me about this. How did he get you to sign it?”
Joranas examined the letter, his hands shaking as he read it again before examining his signature.
“Maybe it’s a forgery,” Arteera suggested hopefully.
Joranas shook his head, frowning deeply as he studied the writing. “I don’t think it is,” he said pensively. “I think he somehow got me to sign it without reading it first.”
“Why would you do that?” Arteera demanded, slapping her hand on the desk. Disappointment and anger welled up inside her chest as she stared at her son. How careless and stupid can he be, to put his name to something without knowing what it is?
“I have to sign my name and seal documents hundreds of times a day, Mother,” Joranas explained. “And I always make sure I know what every piece involves...”
“Then how—?” Arteera interrupted.
“If,” Joranas said, holding his hand up. “If Father asked for my signature, especially on a number of letters, I’d assume he’d have checked them first. I’ve had no reason not to trust him,” Joranas added, spreading his hands before clasping them before him.
Arteera considered his words, seeing the truth in them. Yet it would be he who would ascend the throne, becoming the next King of Gazluth, should Besmir go through with his abdication.
He’s never had any aspirations to the throne, though. “What do you think we should do?” she asked her son.
“Burn it,” he said without hesitation.
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Relief flooded Arteera’s chest as soon as she heard the words. Now she knew Joranas had had nothing to do with this letter.
“When he comes back from Ninse, we’ll sit and talk with him, see what’s going on inside his ancient brain.” Joranas smiled, his usual sarcastic side returning. “I can take on some more of his duties if the work is getting to him, but I don’t think abdication is the way forward here.”
“Don’t you want to be king?” Arteera asked.
“Gods, no!” Joranas said, aghast. “I’m blissfully happy as I am. I’ve got a gorgeous wife, three incredible children and, when it comes down to it, very few responsibilities.
“Why would I want to throw all that away to take on the burden of a whole country?” The prince shivered. “No, Father can keep that as long as he lives.”
Emmerlin woke with a start. Warmth surrounded her whole body from the six-foot guard who engulfed her in his arms. Her eyes widened for a second when she recalled what they had done.
The rush of excitement and passion that had gripped her had been overwhelming, robbing her of all willpower. Now she felt embarrassed to have let Senechul see her like that, let alone…
Slowly and carefully, she unwound his arms from her body and slipped from her bed, naked. Gods, why do I ache so much? People do this for fun?
Yet despite the dull ache in her back and the initial stab of pain she had felt, Emmerlin turned to look at Senechul, realizing she wanted to feel the same way again.
I suppose he’s nice enough to look at. In sleep, the guard’s expression was relaxed, a few strands of his black hair falling across his face, while his long eyelashes fanned out over his upper cheeks, making odd things happen in her lower belly.
Quickly, Emmerlin dressed, slipping into her customary leathers, feeling protected by their snug embrace. Senechul stirred in her bed, mumbling something and breathing deeply in his sleep. The princess froze, not ready for him to wake yet.
What am I going to say to him? What if he hated it? Without a second glance at her guard, Emmerlin bolted from the tent.
Outside, Gazluthian and Ninse alike glanced at her as she passed, some giving her sly looks that said they knew exactly what had happened, while others just gazed at her in disapproval, looking away when she met their eyes.
“Chancellor Khendor Marall took his own life yesterday, highness,” one of the Gazluthian teamsters told her as she made her way through the camp.
“Well, that’s a selfish thing to do when his people are in need,” she replied, thinking back to when he had cut his way into her tent.
The teamster looked as if he was about to say something more, but just worried at the hat he held and stayed silent as Emmerlin wandered aimlessly among the tents her people had erected. Ninse children frolicked between the ropes and sheets of canvas, hiding from each other and jumping out to frighten their playmates while their watchful parents kept them in eyeshot.
All similarly diminutive in stature, the Ninse race favored dark-hued velvet as a material. Many women wore dark green dresses, with the men favoring black or dark blue. The occasional flash of maroon caught her eye as she wandered to the edge of the camp and looked over at Ashorn once more.
Ninse workers had cut a tunnel into the mud, shoring the roof and sides up with planks and posts that made it look as if the base of the mountain were about to swallow them whole.
I could collapse that while they venture inside.
Her thoughts were dragged from the edge of murder when a loud cheer rose from the tents behind her. The princess turned, staring east and shielding her eyes from the morning sun, her stomach sinking when she saw the reason for their excitement.
Despite the distance and the sun in her eyes, the distinctive form of her father’s daasnu, Teghime, was clearly visible, as was the shape of her father atop the great cat’s back.
I didn’t think he’d come here!
Emmerlin made her way back through the sea of tents and milling people to watch her father’s slow, deliberate ride down into the valley. She felt Senechul's presence before she heard his voice in her ear, knowing he had been woken by the cheering voices.
“What’s he doing here?” her guard asked.
“Playing the crowds,” Emmerlin said sarcastically. “He’s making sure as many people see him as possible, so they all know he came to free them from my harsh rule.”
The princess turned and shoved her way through the throng of Ninsians and Gazluthians who had gathered to see the king arrive. Senechul followed her as she made her way back through to her tent, pausing to stare at the bed as she entered.
“Emmerlin...” Senechul began.
The princess held her hand up to silence him, turning to stare up into his eyes. His normally blank expression had concern carved into it, making her wonder what he was thinking.
“What happened last night was a mistake,” she said seeing the flash of anguish in his face. “You took my maidenhood.”
Senechul gaped, his skin paling as he stared at her. “But … Gerthion’s parties,” Senechul muttered. “You said...”
“I lied, Senechul,” Emmerlin said. “I do that. Quite often. It amuses me to see your reaction.”
“But I wasn’t gentle,” he moaned. “I thought...”
“No, you were my first.”
Emmerlin felt something warm grow inside her when she saw a ridiculous smile wriggle across his face. “Well, I was fantastic,” Senechul said, flexing his muscles. “A God-like performance.”
Emmerlin chuckled at his antics despite herself. “You’re a fool,” she said.
“For you,” Senechul replied, darting his head forward and pulling a kiss from her lips.
“Stop!” Emmerlin barked. “If my father finds out what happened, he’ll probably exile us both.”
“I doubt it,” her guard said. “He’ll forgive you anything.”
Will he, Senechul? I doubt that.
“Where is my daughter?”
The king’s voice boomed through the camp, but Emmerlin felt no fear. Whether it was due to her experiences last night, or some other factor, the princess felt no concern whatsoever that her father was after her. A smirk curled her lips as she seated herself in a chair, grabbing a book and beginning to read.
Merdon had galloped along behind his grandfather as they pounded through Ninse, staring at his back as the old man rode. The king had seemed perfectly normal in the couple of days since he had collapsed in the woods. Merdon had half-carried, half-dragged the king back to the camp, laying him beside the fire.
He had hidden the king’s condition from the guards, not wanting word to spread that the king was ill. The prince had taken the opportunity to search his grandfather as he covered him in his blankets, finding the flask tucked beside his heart.
Is this what grandmother spoke of?
The acrid, noxious stench from the flask bit at the inside of his nose and back of his throat as soon as he had removed the lid.
“Gods!” he spat, closing the flask and putting it back inside his grandfather’s clothing.
He toyed with the idea of pouring the stuff away, ridding the king of it, but reasoned Besmir probably had a larger amount of the drink, and would just replace it. Yet he would then know Merdon knew about it, and might become even more secretive.
The following morning, Besmir had said nothing about mistaking Merdon for someone long dead, and carried on as if nothing had happened. Merdon wondered if the vile brew took his memories, robbing his grandfather of the ability to recall the things that happened in his stupor. The prince vowed to monitor the situation, including his grandfather’s use of the drink
Now he watched as people bowed to Besmir, Gazluthian and Ninse alike, greeting the king fondly as he jumped lithely from Teghime’s back. Merdon dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting Gazluthian before following his grandfather.
“Greetings, your majesty,” a Ninsian woman said, approaching him. “I am Chancellor Xaurin of the Ninse High Co
uncil.” She offered her hand.
“Well met,” Besmir said, taking her hand gently. “Might I ask where Khendor Motcall is?”
Merdon saw the look of despair that crossed the small woman’s face at his grandfather’s question. Xaurin clasped her hands before her bosom, squeezing her fingers until the knuckles turned white.
“Unfortunately my brother … took his own life late last night,” she said in a broken, pain-filled voice. Merdon saw a single tear roll down her cheek.
“You have my condolences and my sympathy,” his grandfather said. “If there’s anything I or Gazluth can do to ease your pain, you need only ask.”
The prince caught the look of gratitude that crossed her face then, and knew his grandfather’s reputation for diplomacy and tact was in play here. “It was his hope that your people would aid in the digging,” Xaurin said, pointing at the gaping hole at the base of Ashorn.
Merdon stared at the devastated city, comparing it to the memories he had of the place from a few years back when he’d visited. The upper sections of the mountain had washed down, filling the city with wet mud and fallen trees. Boulders had smashed into some of the buildings that had existed outside of the actual mountain, shearing them off and letting the mud wash in.
Here and there, the prince’s eyes picked out a recognizable shape, the outline of a broken wall or section of brickwork jutting from the mud. Sections of supporting beams as thick as his torso had been snapped in two like twigs, and he thought of the terror the small Ninse must have been in as the world swallowed them whole.
“Of course,” his grandfather said. “Organize our people,” he said to Herdin. “Get them to the dig site as fast as possible.”
Xaurin looked at the king with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion, her eyes narrowing as she spoke again. “I was under the impression your majesty was averse to risking Gazluthian lives to aid us in the excavation,” she said, with an edge to her voice.
Besmir’s face darkened as he turned to her, standing up straight and raising his voice to be heard by the gathered people. “It was never my order to withhold support or aid in any way. That was a grave mistake on the part of my daughter, and as soon as your ambassador informed me of the situation here, I came to make sure Gazluth did all we could for our allies.”
