by Liam Reese
“Emmerlin,” Arteera whispered.
“Quite,” Cathantor agreed. “Without our intervention, Joranas would be your only child, Emmerlin would not have existed, and Besmir would be here with me.” The God waved a hoof around to indicate the afterlife.
“She’s … a mistake?” Arteera asked in shock. “You made a mistake?”
“Worrying, is it not?” Cathantor asked sarcastically. “Yes, even we are fallible. And in this matter, we have failed on numerous occasions.”
He held his hoof out, and Arteera took it without hesitation.
The world tilted beneath her feet and she felt as if she were falling, colors swirling before her eyes, morphing, changing, until she stood in a tent. Besmir sat with his head in his hands, a silver flask before him, the cork removed and a cup tipped over beside it.
“Besmir!” Arteera cried, running to him.
Her hand passed through her husband as she tried to take him in her arms. She tried again, watching as her hand disappeared inside his head, and a chill crept through her chest.
“My first mistake was favoring him,” Cathantor said. “Then we broke our own vow of non-interference to restore him, and now this.”
The scene shifted again, men and women walking backwards before her eyes. Besmir rose and dashed from the tent as everything became a blur. Cathantor led her across to where Emmerlin was in the middle of burning Merdon alive.
Arteera covered her mouth to keep from screaming as she watched the post fly at her grandson, narrowly missing him, but hammering into the chest of a royal guard who stood behind him. Besmir knelt at the man’s side, comforting him as her daughter rode away.
“My daughter did this?” she asked as Herdin died again.
“What she has become,” Cathantor said. “Besmir tried to force her to change, his reason flawed by the drugs he is taking.”
The God took her hand, and she stood by the lake once more. “What can I do?” she begged. “How can I save my family?”
“You may have to choose,” he said. “Between Besmir and Emmerlin.”
“I want both!” she cried. “My husband and my little girl. If this is your mistake, then fix it!”
Arteera raged at the impassive God as he stood there, looking at her with sympathy. “I cannot risk any further interference,” he said. “We have already brought a chaotic element into the world in Emmerlin.”
Arteera stared at the God in disbelief. Besmir had always told her these creatures were fickle and prone to trickery, as fallible and flawed as humans, but she had never fully believed him. Now, however, standing in Cathantor’s presence as he admitted his mistake and refused to aid her, she realized Besmir had been right all along.
“Can you tell me anything?” she asked angrily.
Cathantor turned his great head, fixing her with a single, dark eye for a few seconds. “The root of Besmir’s problem lies with mercenaries,” he said.
“Mercenaries?” she asked in disbelief. “We have never used them.”
Cathantor reached into the lake, pulling a bright orange shell from the water. He turned, pressing the object into her hand as he laid her on the soft shore.
“Sleep now, my child,” the God said, as Arteera’s sight dimmed.
“Why didn’t her magic burn me to a crisp?” Merdon asked Besmir, as the pair stood outside the tent the king had claimed for them.
His grandfather scratched at his beard, not entirely sure himself. Although his mind seemed to be playing tricks on him, showing him things that were not there, his memories remained intact, and he searched them for anything he had heard or read of similar to this.
“Honestly, I don’t know, lad,” the king muttered as he watched a line of Ninse workers head for the mountain. “When I … looked inside her mind…” Besmir felt a flash of guilt smash into him then.
Shouldn’t have done it. Worse than if I were to rape her. Nausea flooded his mouth with saliva, making him swallow.
“I saw what she’s become,” Besmir continued. “Dangerous and volatile, and with more power than anyone I know.”
“What did you see?” Merdon asked, intrigue written on his face.
Besmir shook his head, unwilling to share. Yet the images would not leave him; the murders, the torture of animals, and the sick joy it brought her.
A dull ache in his lower abdomen told Besmir he would need some of his special drink before long and he turned to enter the tent, Merdon following.
Inside were a pair of simple cots, the exact model the army used, and their saddlebags, which held a few personal items and clothing. Besmir had not wanted to bathe himself in luxury as Emmerlin had, alienating the Ninse further. He had to try and repair the damage she’d done, at the same time as finding her before she did any more.
“What did you feel when she burned you?” Besmir asked his grandson as he sat wearily on the edge of his bed.
Without thinking about it, he reached in and took out his flask as Merdon spoke haltingly of his experience. “I could feel...warmth,” he said. “No heat or pain, just warmth. It was quite pleasant, actually.”
“Did it feel like anything came from within you? Any pressure inside, that felt as if it burst out?”
“No, nothing like that,” Merdon said. “What’s that, grandfather?”
“Hmm?” Besmir sucked some of the disgusting, bitter, treacle-thick brew into his mouth, almost gagging on the stuff.
Why do I do this?
“Just a little pick-me-up,” he lied.
“Can I try it?” Merdon asked.
“What?” Besmir’s eyes snapped open. “No!”
“Why not? I could do with a boost after this morning.”
Something inside Besmir screamed that it was a bad idea, that he should never let Merdon anywhere near the stuff, but the colors had appeared and he smiled.
“Just a little, then,” he said, slumping back on the bed.
His eyes traced the path of the creature as it approached him. Six feet of hatred and rage boiled across the tent towards the king, making him flinch and squirm. Flames licked from its mouth, and midnight eyes bored into his very soul. Besmir tried to scream, but couldn’t. No sound came from his fear-locked throat.
The monster reached down, lifting something before it turned, and left the king soiled in his own bodily fluids.
“Are we being followed?” Emmerlin asked.
She felt Senechul’s thick muscles shift against her back, and a flush of heat pulsed through her. Another feeling clawed its way past her lust, and she examined it.
Gratitude? Am I thankful for him?
The princess assumed she must be. After all, he had remained loyal to her when her own father and nephew hadn’t.
What a pair they make!
Emmerlin felt a boiling rage rise in her chest at the memory of what her father had tried to do; the feeling of his disjointed and chaotic mind inside her own made her feel sick, violated and used. Father or not, king or not, he had no right to try and force her to be something different, changing her fundamentally.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Senechul rumbled. “Strange,” he added.
“Why strange?” she asked.
“You attacked another member of the royal family,” he said without judgment. “I’d have thought they’d be hunting us down like animals.”
“There’s something wrong with my father,” Emmerlin told him. “Something in his mind is … off.”
“Helps us,” Senechul said brutally. “What’s the plan?”
“I haven’t really got one,” she admitted. “His appearance was a surprise I hadn’t bargained on.”
“What’s the first thing that springs to mind?” he asked, guiding their horse expertly.
“He’s not fit to lead anymore,” Emmerlin said.
“So how do you get a king off the throne?” the guard asked.
“Assassination, war,” Emmerlin mused.
“So what’s the plan?” Senechul asked again.
&n
bsp; “Head south,” Emmerlin replied. “To Port Vartula.” A smirk crossed her face. “My troops are garrisoned there. But first…”
She squeezed his solid thigh. Senechul chuckled. “There’ll be time for that later; we need to put some distance behind us.”
Emmerlin sighed, wriggling into his firm body and relishing the feel of him against her back.
“Prince Merdon,” her guard began.
“Yes, that was strange,” Emmerlin mused. “I thought I’d missed him the first time, but the second...”
“No, I saw him covered in fire,” Senechul growled. “Pity he didn’t burn,” he added.
“Aww, did he bruise your pride?” Emmerlin teased.
“No, my face!” Senechul snapped angrily.
Emmerlin laughed. “’Corbondrasi kiss,’” she said, giggling. “That was good.”
Behind her Senechul growled and sniffed. “I’m glad you find it amusing,” he said darkly.
“Me too,” Emmerlin cried with another laugh. “What did you expect? Merdon’s been trained by the Corbondrasi royal guards. He’s fast and deadly. If it comes down to it, let me handle him.”
Senechul snorted. “Like you did back there?” he asked sarcastically. “No, highness, it would be better if you leave him to me. He’ll not get the drop on me again.”
Emmerlin turned in the saddle, looking up into Senechul’s bruised and bloodied face, his nose swelling, his lip split. His expression was one of hurt anger, and she bit her lips to hold in the laugh that threatened.
“There’s a farm up ahead.” She pointed. “Let’s see what they can donate to the cause.”
8
Arteera’s eyes flickered open and she looked around her bedchamber, groggy and disoriented. A few deep breaths and stretches brought her fully awake, and she realized she still wore the clothes she'd had on the previous day.
Must have been tired. Explains the dream.
The queen stepped to the floor, preparing to disrobe and wash, when she opened the hand she had clamped shut.
Nestled in her palm was a small, orange shell.
She dropped the thing, trying to get away from it, a sliver of cold panic welling up inside her chest.
Was that real? It can’t have been.
Hands shaking, Arteera began rifling through Besmir’s possessions, pulling items out of chests and tipping drawers out on the floor. A lifetime of accumulated trinkets and gifts started to pile about her ankles, but still she searched. Eventually she found what she was looking for, but it took all her willpower to reach for the thing.
Cushioned on a pillow of satin, and protected by a rosewood box he had bought for it, the red shell had lain here untouched for thirty years. Besmir had been pulled into the afterlife to speak to the Gods, and this had been in their bed the following day. No creature in the world had ever made a shell like this; Cathantor had brought it into existence for his own needs.
It was cool and smooth to the touch as her fingers gripped the red shell. Arteera looked at it for a second before seeking the orange one she had been given.
“It can’t be!” she cried,
She brought the two shells together, watching as they fit perfectly against each other. A marriage or union created by the Gods themselves. With a soft click, the two halves locked together, creating a complete shell with one red side and one orange.
“Majesty!” her handmaiden cried, when she saw the mess Arteera had made.
The queen looked at the girl without much interest. “Send for General Khaleen,” she said, as Petrena started fussing over the mess.
“I should clear up first, Mum,” the woman said, still using her odd form of address after years of service.
“Now, girl!” Arteera screamed.
Petrena stared at the queen with a shocked expression as she backed from the room.
Arteera ignored her and donned a simple green dress, tied at the waist. Padding through to her sitting room, she considered what her next move might be.
I need to get people into the mercenary camps.
Halfway through writing further letters to various people, she heard a knock, and General Khaleen entered.
Head of the Gazluthian army since the Battle of Ursley mine twenty years past, Khaleen leaned heavily on the thick cane that supported her. An arrow had taken her high in the thigh during the battle, and she had walked with a pronounced limp ever since. Thin to the point of emaciation and with sharp, hawkish features, she had proved invaluable on a number of occasions.
Her uniform was immaculate; not a crease marred the crimson material, and every button and medal was polished until it shone, black, mirror-polished boots graced her feet, and her long hair had been twisted up atop her head.
The general crossed to Arteera’s table and bowed low before standing at attention. “You can sit, Khaleen,” the queen said. Khaleen lowered herself into the chair opposite, perching on the edge with her back as straight as the cane she held.
How do I keep Besmir’s secret?
“It’s come to my attention that narcotics are being brought into Gazluth, general,” Arteera started, rising and pressing her hands together before her. “I want the source destroyed before any more damage is done.”
“Where is the source?” Khaleen asked.
“Mercenary camps,” Arteera said, not meeting the general’s eye.
“May I see your intelligence documents?”
“I don’t actually have any of those,” Arteera admitted.
“No spy reports? No scouts?”
The queen shook her head, and Khaleen sighed. “That presents a great difficulty, majesty,” the thin woman said. “Without evidence of illegalities, it is difficult to justify invading another country.”
“I know, but...” Arteera felt the tears welling in her eyes as her failure stretched out before her.
“What’s really going on?” Khaleen asked, with a tone far more gentle than her appearance suggested.
Arteera searched her face through the shimmer of her tears, seeking reassurance that she could trust her. She’s been loyal to Besmir and Gazluth for more than twenty years. “Will you keep my secrets?” she asked.
“Of course, majesty,” Khaleen said. “Always.”
“The king has taken to using these drugs,” she finally admitted.
Arteera felt the weight of her sentence press down on her. Now that it was in the open, now that she had said it aloud, it felt more real to her.
“Unfortunate,” Khaleen said unfazed by the information. “And who told you it was something to do with the mercenaries?”
Oh, just one of the Gods.
“It was...” Arteera met Khaleen’s eyes. “Cathantor,” she added, waiting for the ridicule.
Khaleen nodded thoughtfully, again not surprised by her words. “Waraval, then,” she said, almost as if thinking aloud. “King Vetrulian will have to be in complete agreement.”
“I have forwarded letters to both him and Queen Collise,” Arteera said quietly. “Does this mean you believe me?”
Khaleen blinked at her several times before tilting her head to one side. “Why wouldn’t I believe you, majesty?” she asked.
“It sounds like madness even to me,” Arteera admitted. “A God told me where to attack.”
Khaleen slid back in her chair and actually relaxed for the first time since entering. “I watched your husband die,” she said quietly. “And then watched the Gods resurrect him with my own eyes, restoring his body. This family has some connection to the Gods I can never hope to understand, but if you tell me Cathantor told you something, I know it to be true.”
Gratitude sealed Arteera’s throat for a few seconds. “Thank you,” she finally managed, coughing.
“Maybe Waraval can lend some troops to this venture too,” Khaleen mused.
“Ru Tarn thinks the plants actually grow in Boranash,” Arteera said. “They had a similar problem, and destroyed the crops and land.”
“So a three-pronged attack, the
n,” Khaleen said. “Waravalian mercenaries are taking narcotics from Boranash and selling them in Gazluth. It only seems right that all three countries intervene in this matter. I shall contact my counterparts in those countries and see what I can uncover.”
“Don’t tell them about Besmir!” Arteera begged almost automatically.
“I promise,” Khaleen said, pain passing over her face. “Is he well?”
“I don’t know,” Arteera admitted. “I don’t think so.”
“Maybe he should be home with his family,” Khaleen suggested in a gentle voice.
“He’s dealing with Emmerlin at the moment.”
“Ah,” Khaleen said in a knowing tone of voice.
Does everyone but me know there’s some problem with her?
“With your permission, majesty,” Khaleen asked.
“Yes.” Arteera said flatly. “Go. And thank you again, General.”
The queen watched the other woman as she hobbled across the room to the door, disappearing through it without a backward glance.
Merdon left the tent he shared with his grandfather, nodding to the guards who stood outside as he went.
“The king is sleeping,” he lied. “Let him rest.”
They saluted, and the prince stalked through the tents towards a distant stream that cut through the valley. Afternoon warmth kissed his skin, the weather deceptively pleasant while the storm that raged within him threatened to explode. His thoughts turned to his grandfather, who now lay in his own urine.
How did he become so pathetic?
It’s that muck he drinks.
His thoughts were colored by sympathy rather than disdain. The king had been subjected to torments during his lifetime that would have driven a lesser man insane. The memory of his grandfather’s utter fear as he’d approached his cot had been burned into Merdon’s mind.
The king’s mouth stretched wide, eyes bulging as if they were about to burst, had cut Merdon deeply. His grandfather had always seemed immortal to his younger eyes, but now he seemed to be falling into a state of complete weakness.
