The Tainted Shrine, page 10
“Armand! Seven hells, don't do that to me!” Ophi said, equally reprimanding and relieved.
“Sorry.” Armand grinned and offered her his arm. “Did you bring me dinner? I told you, you don't have to do that. You cut it so close to curfew sometimes.”
“Ah, but my mistress gives me a pass, so you're worrying for nothing,” Ophi chirped back. “And you need the energy to stay awake on watch, or you'll be flogged, so no arguments.”
Armand suppressed a groan. For someone as delicate as his sister, she had very little fear of danger. He could have retorted that they might find her mistress' pass on her corpse after riddling her with arrows, but he knew it would do no good, nor would any of the dozen other perfectly good reasons for her to stay indoors after dark. It felt good to be so loved by his sister that she would risk attention from the patrols to ensure he ate well.
They reached the guardhouse and Armand rested his club back by the door. Ophi took a seat on the floor in front of his stool and pulled things out of her basket. A covered clay pot, a wooden jug with a wooden cover, some packages wrapped in raw linen and some rough wooden crockery and cutlery, all arranged just so on a chequered cloth over the stool.
“So what is it tonight, then?” Armand sank down by the door and positioned himself so that he could still keep an eye on the warehouses.
“Table scraps. Venison in sweet wine sauce with fresh greens from the kitchen garden and bread only made this morning. And some spiced wine to keep you alert.”
He grinned widely. Table scraps they might be, but the way the family she nannied for ate, it was a feast. Armand leaned his head against the doorframe and grinned at his sister.
“Ophi, you are amazing.”
She smiled back at him and served the food. He accepted a bowl and spoon, savouring the incredible array of flavours that washed over his mouth.
“So how fares Kanika with our friends?”
Ophi gave him a quizzical look, then realisation dawned. She shrugged.
“I have barely seen her. Atham draws her ever closer, and even my mistress cannot arrange a pass for the palace.” She paused. “She did mention that they're training her Sight, among other things. Have you thought they might... you know...”
Armand's mood soured instantly. He spooned venison into his mouth to cover his silence, then replied once he knew he could be civil.
“For them to train Sight it must already be present. It is simply not present in me.” He looked out the door.
“But have you asked them? I just worry about you. If something bad is coming, you won't know, will you? And you must have the blood, if I have it then so must you. Right?”
Armand said nothing, focusing instead on sipping his sweet wine and watching out for intruders. The matter of his Sight – or rather, his lack of Sight despite being Ilasean – was a common topic between them. He knew that her persistence was due to her continuing hope that he, too, would have the gift. His hope of that had died long ago.
When their parents had engaged a tutor for them and he could find no trace of magic in him, he had still hoped. When Ophi had her first vision and helped their parents escape the city to avoid torture and execution purely for their titles and status, he had still hoped. But when he failed to foresee Atham coming across them in the street and the subsequent terror the prince would inflict on Kanika, that hope had died. Not only died, but gone quietly to some gutter of his mind whilst he had ignored its dying gasps, too ensnared by the rage and pain of losing Kanika.
Now all that these conversations with Ophi did was remind him of his failures.
He opened his mouth to reply, but movement along the wall caught his eye, some hundred paces away, as though someone had been sloppy about staying out of the lights reflecting off the slick mud roads.
He set aside his food and reached for his club again.
“Stay here. I'll be back in a minute.”
◆◆◆
Armand crept along the wall to where he'd seen the movement, club at the ready. The heavy rains of late left the unpaved streets a constant quagmire. His rough leather boots sank a few inches with each step, only releasing his foot after a gurgling squelch. As he walked, a thin sheet of rain fell, the soft pattering muting the squish and squelch of his footfalls. He reached the stretch of wall just in time to see the silhouette of a foot disappear over the top. He sighed and spared a longing glance at the guardhouse and the sweet, savoury venison within, then tucked his club into his trousers and took a leap at the wall.
He pulled himself up easily and took a moment to survey the yard below him. Low cost crates covered by tarps sat in clusters under tarred canvas out in the open, the rain running in thick droplets over the waterproofed fabric and pooling at the bottom. The moons reflected eerily off the disturbed surfaces of the water, coming and going in erratic patterns as the clouds above shifted and churned. Beyond the stacked crates, the more valuable shipments sat locked inside the warehouses proper. The guidelines for valuable varied, mostly dependent on how much the owners were willing to pay. Armand knew for a fact that security also depended on how dangerous the contents of a shipment were. Several extremely dangerous shipments were in the warehouses at the moment.
He scanned the yard, rain slicking his hair across his face and running into his eyes off the bridge of his nose. Nothing moved. He scanned again, hoping that he'd been mistaken, almost convinced that the foot had been a trick of the light.
He heard something shift, a barrel knocked by a boot. He groaned and pulled himself over the wall, dropping down on the other side and landing heavily in the mud below. He headed towards the noise, pulling the club from his belt.
“Oi! I know you're in here. Now go on, clear out. I won't say it again.”
He doubted his call would yield results. Even if it was just a young couple taking a romantic interlude between pints, they always thought he'd go away if they stayed quiet. This happened too many times to count.
Armand paced towards the warehouse, knocking his club against crates and barrels as he passed. He came to one of the warehouse doors, one large reaching almost up to the roof, then one the size of a tavern door. A flash of movement made him notice the door standing slightly ajar. He pressed through it, fingers groping for a tinderbox and lantern by the door.
Finally he found and lit the lantern. Inside the warehouse, rows upon rows of crates, barrels and boxes stretched before him, some stacked and towering, others clustered in shorter stacks. They were all arranged in sections, with enough space between rows to bring winches and pulleys. Armand sighed as noises from the intruders echoed off the high ceiling. He called out again, though he hardly expected a reply. A thin voice rose from the shadows to his right, and he almost jumped out of his skin.
“Weren’t you expecting us?”
Armand spun to find Catla giving him a smug smile. He scowled in response. Thieves was bad enough, but the Resistance would expect him to cover for them, he had no doubt.
“Chin ye sarrow, Drenger, nam akin so freyam, by the way,” she said. Armand smirked and took one hand off the club handle.
“Trynen offim skalt Dregner.” He finished the pass phrase. “You should probably open with that, unless you want to be brained next time. But as I told you, my orders for tonight are as usual.”
Catla frowned, ignoring the jab. Despite their best efforts, the Resistance had many flaws, including lack of organisation and communication between members. And despite the rumours circulating, the Resistance only boasted a few dozen active members. The scores of Ilaseans nailed up and gutted in the square were too effective a deterrent to potential rebels.
“So what are you after?” Armand asked.
“The Vraithii are not so strong as they appear,” Catla replied. “They only maintain they grip on our city by virtue of the weapons and soldiers their empress allows them. The weapons they deny us. How many Vraithii guards are allowed only a club and a lantern to guard an entire warehouse? But denying us will be their ultimate downfall. We will take their weapons and then take back our city.”
Armand nodded, though the monologue hardly impressed him. He had heard it all before. On his darkest days, he skirted the edge of fanaticism, but Ophi's gentle grounding had thus far brought him back.
“And in the process I lose my job, and must rely even more heavily on my little sister to survive.”
The woman frowned and glanced away.
“Well, we had expected you to be fully briefed, but since you are not, we shall have to improvise.”
Armand didn't like the sound of that.
“Be sure to visit Cecie before the next dual moon.”
Far too late, Armand heard the telltale swish of fabric, then a sharp crack on the side of his head sent him careening into the crates. Everything went dark. He felt like he was struggling through honey, consciousness and the inky black of nothing swirling and mingling in his eyes.
In truth he was only passed out a few seconds, but the overwhelming nausea on his waking kept him motionless on the floor. Feet shuffled past him, at least six pairs of various sizes, then everything was quiet. He let his head spin on the ground for what seemed like an age, the lantern still flickering by the door. He knew he would be angry and frustrated at the inefficiency of the only people looking to free the Ilas from their shackles, but for now he only felt sick and exasperated.
“Armand? Seven hells, Armand!”
Ophi’s light footfalls pounded as they rushed over and to him. Her fingers stung his scalp as they brushed over his hair, came away far too red and wet, her eyes wide. Armand tried to mumble that he was fine, but his mouth disobeyed him. Ophi pulled off her scarf with trembling hands and pressed it to his head, her eyes filling with tears, then brought his hand up to put pressure on the fabric.
“Stay here, I'll fetch the watch.”
Armand uttered a refute, but the words were lost in the air as she vanished out of the warehouse and into the pouring rain.
◆◆◆
It felt strange to be at their parents' old house after so many years, but Armand couldn't deny it was a far better place to convalesce than the patchwork assortment of his regular living arrangements. The house had been abandoned since their parents fled to join the Seer Queen in the wilderness, five years ago. Since Ophi found him, Armand had been given two days off work. The leave was hardly long enough to fully recover, yet somehow more generous than he expected. He suspected Ophi had a hand in it. Few could deny her when she set her mind to a task. She had insisted he stay in bed–his own bed from when their parents still lived in the city–and he found himself willing to comply.
“How are you feeling?” Ophi was getting ready for work, dawn not yet broken over the horizon. Only a few songbirds welcomed in the day. Usually she slept in a small room behind the kitchens of the home where she worked, but her mistress had allowed her to tend to Armand, so long as she turned up to mind the children. Armand had tried to convince her he would be fine, but she was determined and he was weakened from the ordeal. She had stitched his head herself, then nurtured him aggressively through the night and the following day. Perhaps due to her care he was indeed feeling much better.
“Just a headache,” he assured her. “I've felt worse after a night in the tavern.”
“Good.” Ophi’s delicate features sank into a frown. Armand knew what she was holding back. Where he was merely tired and wanted to rest, she was as close to livid as someone of her disposition could be. The Resistance gained few friends by assaulting their members. Why had they hit him at all?
She kissed him gently on the forehead, then wrapped her shawl around her head and shoulders, making her way out the door. Armand lay still in the bed for several minutes, the silence of the big house washing over him, then pushed the covers off and got dressed. He pulled on a clean tunic, wincing as the thick cloth passed over his head wound despite the care he took with it. He went into the kitchen in search of water both to bathe the stitches and to try to ease the headache. Ophi had left him a jug of cool water along with some bread and cut fruit under a cloth. He knew it before he had even reached the table, as Cecie had removed the cloth and seemed to be debating whether or not to partake of it.
“That's my breakfast.” He leaned on the doorframe.
She glanced at him and moved away from the table, her eyes traveling to the wound on his head and the remnants of blood only a proper bath would wash away. He ignored her gaze and beelined for the food and drink, wiping sweet juice from his chin with his sleeve as he sank his teeth into an orange segment. A rare delight for someone of his standing.
“I wanted to extend my apologies in person about the misunderstanding the other night.” Her smooth voice inflected with just the right amount of sympathy for him to realise didn’t care. “Our runner was caught out after the curfew with no pass. She is still in the cells.”
“How unfortunate for her,” Armand replied between mouthfuls. “I still don't understand why they knocked me out so hard. It seems excessive.”
“So as not to out you as one of us, of course,” Cecie replied.
Armand snorted.
“They could've killed me. Or left me drooling down my chin for the rest of my life.” He took a drink of water straight from the jug. “You can see yourself out.”
She was not happy about it, but Cecie turned to leave without a fuss. She paused before reaching the door and turned back to him, drawing a small pouch out of her tunic.
“For your trouble.” She tossed him the pouch. He let it fall to the floor with a soft clank and made no move to retrieve it. He heard her scoff, then she vanished out the door and into the early morning light.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
KANIKA
Spring ripened with relentless vigor, as it always did in Argorien. Kanika was slowly getting used to the palace. She figured out which private gardens and courtyards were rarely used, and spent much of her time there. Much as she missed Ophi and the temple, she knew felt she couldn’t go back. She was virtually Vraithan now, and it didn't go over well when a Vraithii knelt at the feet of Ilas All-Seer. Though most of the front of the palace was opulent and well cared for, the deeper she got, the more that changed. Vraithan decadence gave way to Ilasean disrepair, the style of each and every tapestry, statue and ornament changing into something that tugged on the edge of her mind like a memory of a dream long since dreamt. Her favourite courtyard was almost entirely free of Vraithan influence, both in terms of architecture and oversight. It was tucked into a nook only reached by traveling through the back kitchens.
The courtyard was colonnaded on three sides. The fourth opened up into an expanse of moderately accessible pathways and gardens. If she found the wall closing it off from the rest of the city, she guessed it would be unsupervised and in dire need of repair. At times she wondered if the Vraithans were even aware of their secret gardens. She passed the day without seeing a single person.
Occasionally, she saw Aldert, the protector Cassia had assigned her, skulking about the garden and the courtyard. At first she had been unnerved, but after some time she found his presence comforting. He was following orders, in a very literal and simple way. It was almost endearing. She left discreet pouches of payment and food whenever she saw him. So far it seemed to be enough.
His hulking frame, looming out of the shadows in a colonnade in her garden, startled her. The garden was expensively decorated but the shrubs and vines were long overdue for tending, the doors and gates in the walls almost rusted shut.
She glared at him as he seemed about to move towards her. He was covered by the colonnade, but there were numerous windows overlooking the garden. If he stepped out, any casual observer from above would see him. He looked confused, seemed about to whisper something to her, when the gate on the far side of the courtyard creaked open.
She spun around to see who approached. A maid in a red tunic entered, her eyes downcast, her hair neatly coiled. She had a bucket in hand. Kanika felt her head spin. She was sure she had seen that maid, and that bucket, before. She looked back towards Aldert, but he was gone.
“Kanika! Or, should I say, Your future Highness?”
The sudden call, accompanied by a chuckle, nearly made her jump out of her skin. She looked around, then up to one of the small windows dotting the sheer wall of the palace above her. Meto had sought her out. She gathered up her shawl a little closer around her, then smiled as warmly as she could muster.
“Kanika is fine, as long as I may call you Meto. I struggle to recall how to refer to everyone in this illustrious building,” she lied with a smile. “How may I help you?”
Meto smiled back, an easy, charismatic grin that sat on his face far more beauteously than his customary stern frown. In another life, she might even have found him attractive. If only she weren’t bedded by his horrible brother.
“How did you get down there? I can't even find my bearings in half this old rubble,” he called back. She smiled nervously and told him of the path through the kitchens, then waited as his head disappeared back inside. She teetered on the edge of running inside and finding another place to spend the day long enough that he reached her before she made the choice. When he appeared through the rusted door, she was relieved to see he was in informal boots and clothing, and that he had not brought a troop of boisterous Vraithii nobles with him, as he so often did.
“Walk with me a while?” He smiled as he reached her. “It occurs to me that we are soon to be family, and yet I know next to nothing of my future sister-in-law, not to mention my future queen.”
Though it was the last thing in the world she wanted, she accepted with a gracious smile. She was glad of Aldert's ghost-like presence somewhere beyond their range of vision. If nothing else, he might save her if Meto turned vicious for any reason. She might afterwards need to run, though, since the death or maiming of Ithrien's favourite child was likely to land her in jail and be swiftly followed by torture and execution.
