The Tainted Shrine, page 12
She had not seen Atham all day, and yet the hour he might be called to serve Argorien and uphold the family's honour loomed ever closer. He was not ready. It was not even a question in her mind. He was a child in every way, and yet too old in body for a regent to speak for him.
If he took the reins of the fraught city, they were doomed. Meto's claim was tenuous at best. Ithrien was old enough that she might soon follow Eoghan into the grave. It was up to her, Elsephere, to save them from destruction. She balked at the idea, but then drew closer to it, curious. What might a kingdom under her look like? Surely a sight better than one under Atham.
Ithrien would never see sense. She doted on Meto as though he were still a swaddling babe. Even if Elsephere removed Atham from the line of inheritance, she would have to contend with Ithrien promoting Meto's interests at court.
Perhaps a government under Meto would not be so bad, she considered. Ithrien would take care of most things, as she already did, and Meto was unlikely to go soft on the Ilaseans.
But Ithrien might fail in the same way as Eoghan, and at any rate, she would not outlive her son, nor would Meto take well to the rigours of court.
It could only be her.
She acknowledged with grim acceptance that she had known it for some time, and weak sentimentality at her father's degradation prevented her from seeing it clearly.
◆◆◆
Several days later, Eoghan showed no signs of improvement. Elsephere supervised his servants as they dribbled broth into his mouth. They got as much on his collar as into his stomach. Elsephere could ill afford word getting out that the king had slept for three days without waking and lay in a bed of his own filth, unable to even feed himself. She had Morgaine arrange a selection of Elsephere's own attendants, men and women who did nothing but Elsephere's bidding, and had her own guards posted on the king's door. If asked, they were to inform people the king was busy drafting legislation of the utmost importance and he was not to be disturbed. Only Elsephere, Morgaine and the hand-selected servants were to be admitted.
She knew it would not go unnoticed for long. Even if only for appearances, as Elsephere couldn't ever remember her parents sharing bedchambers, Ithrien visited Eoghan's chambers several times a week. The High Queen approached Elsephere as she exercised in the yard, running through drills in full armour with sword and shield to keep her strength up. Ithrien never begged for attention, but when she arrived in any locale all eyes were on her in an instant. Even Elsephere struggled to avoid the pull of her mother's orbit, despite being focused on her training. She lowered her shield and put up the visor on her helmet as Ithrien stepped on planks laid seamlessly in the mud by spry young slaves to save her shoes and hem from befoulment.
“Hello, Mother,” Elsephere bowed her head in deference. “I've not seen you training for some time. I think you'll find it easier without the finery.”
Ithrien gave a tight smile and stepped closer, her grey eyes sharp as she surveyed her muddy daughter. Elsephere unbuckled her sword's sheath and handed both blade and scabbard to Morgaine before passing the shield to another slave.
“Might we walk a while, Elsephere?” Despite the phrasing, it was not a question. Elsephere nodded and followed Ithrien as she led her away from the quagmire of the yard. A dozen servants, both Elsephere's and Ithrien's, trailed them at a discreet distance.
“I've had a visit from your father's confidante, Uledi,” Ithrien began. “It seems there are guards posted on the High King's door refusing him entry. Such a thing has never happened in all the years he's shared your father's burdens.”
Much as Elsephere knew Uledi would not betray Eoghan, she had not overlooked him by accident. In the hours after previous fits, Uledi had sat silently by her father's bed with a strange intensity in his eyes. Elsephere knew the two men were close, but the ferocity in Uledi's gaze disconcerted her. She could not predict where that intensity might lead, and so thought it best to keep him away.
Elsephere shrugged.“The High King is drafting important legislature, and instructed that he not be disturbed. I am not in the habit of questioning my liege's orders. If he barred Uledi, then perhaps it is because he has no burdens to share at this time.”
Ithrien's smile curled in a way that niggled at Elsephere, though she knew better than to react. Her mother had beaten that into her as a child – never let them see they're getting to you. Elsephere kept her mouth shut and waited.
“Your father shares more than just his burdens with Uledi, though,” the High Queen replied. “And there's nothing better after a day bent over papers than a loved one's touch. It just seems odd to me that Uledi would not be welcome, no matter how important the documents.”
Do not react, do not react, do not react.
“I don't know what you're suggesting, but as I said, I cannot speak for the king,” Elsephere replied. “And perhaps it would not seem so strange to you if you spent more than breakfast with him. He is overworked of late. Have we not all simply wanted some time to ourselves at one point or another?” She smiled sweetly at her mother, her heart pounding hard. Her mother had never gone easy on her as a child. Elsephere fully intended to return the favour.
“Hardly overworked, my dear,” Ithrien shot back. “I've been dealing with the lion's share of almost everything for some time now, so he can focus on Vraith. I don't suppose he's shared his progress on that with you?”
“I'm sure he's got the situation well in hand.” Elsephere let her eyes wander back to the training ground with pointed intent. “Once he's finished with whatever he's drafting, I'm sure he'll see you and you can direct your questions to him personally rather than seeking secondhand information from me.”
Ithrien fixed her with a cold stare for several moments, then nodded and swept away without dismissing her. Elsephere watched the High Queen part their two retinues like a ship over waves. As the larger group followed their mistress, Morgaine approached Elsephere with thinly veiled concern.
“We cannot continue like this much longer, Your Highness,” she murmured, offering Elsephere her sword and shield back. Elsephere sensed the addendum to her words, too. What if he dies?
Elsephere waved her weapons away, beckoning to the rest of her entourage and beginning to unlace her armour. The slaves took over the job and within minutes she was standing in just her gambeson and boots, her mind turning over different options.
“We shall have to see if the apothecary can increase the strength of the teas,” Elsephere said. “See to it. I must draft a suitable document to show off if this lasts much longer.”
As she and Morgaine parted ways, the thought occurred to her that Ithrien should have been able to overrule the guards on Eoghan's door. She ruled on equal footing with Eoghan, so bullying his guards might be awkward, inadvisable even, but hardly overstepping her bounds. Unless she and the king were even more distant and frosty in private than they were in public.
She's off balance, Elsephere realised with a smile. She had never, in her twenty-three years of life, seen her mother anything but cool, poised, and utterly ruthless. She wavered towards panic. If neither the High King nor the High Queen were fully themselves then who was at the helm? Her resolve solidified.
She reached the bath house and sluiced off mud from the training yard with a light in her eyes unlike any she'd felt since childhood.
◆◆◆
Refreshed and clothed in a fine blue silk tunic, her hair neatly braided and a fresh pipe smouldering gently on her desk, Elsephere still had need of a shawl as she worked. The day had been bright and sunny but somehow the warmth never quite touched the ground in Argorien. While the sun still set at night, the day never seemed able to throw off the frigid nip in the air. As compensation, during the summer they would have no rest from the blasted burning orb in the sky for nigh on three months.
Eoghan had often told her about Vraith, and how clement the climes could be when the gods were rightly appeased. Summers so hot you could fry an egg on a stone, winters mild enough that the crops barely slumbered, and nary a crystal of ice on the tides that rolled in. He had always promised to take her back there. When the Caerphian winters seemed endless, she often enjoyed dreams of bathing in dancing beams of golden sunlight, allowing her skin to brown and her hair to blow free in a breeze that didn't have her clutching for furs and cloaks.
She brushed the sand off the final draft of her forgery. She had watched her father at work often enough, helped him sign his name as his hands began to shake more and more over time. She assessed her work and judged it passable, her eyes tracing over the stark mulberry ink detailing minor restrictions to be imposed on Ilaseans seeking to invest in Ilasean-owned businesses. In the document, she included mandatory lineage checks and required waiting periods of no less than three months. Boring items, the likes of which the king and the witan implemented often enough to pass unnoticed. Justifying the importance of the document might be hard, but she dared not press her luck and make waves.
Elsephere barely thought twice about signing the papers in her father's name. It wasn't ideal, but it would do. Luckily the witan wasn't in the habit of questioning the High King over his idiosyncrasies. Banished from the empire Eoghan may be, but the honours he had achieved in order to warrant that banishing still commanded respect among those who served him.
Commotion at her door drew her attention. She frowned and hid the papers in a drawer, then stood and sought out the source of the disturbance. She found Uledi in the antechamber, red-eyed and frantic, arguing with one of her guards. She could smell the desperation rolling off him. She considered leaving the guard to it, but she had never been one to shy away from conflict.
“Let him through.” She stepped into the room. Uledi turned wild eyes on her, a variety of emotions darting across his face. “What brings you here, and in such a state?”
“Eoghan – the king – the guards won't let me see him,” the dark man stammered. “They said he's drafting documents, but then – why would that exclude me from his chambers? He was ill, but now he is working again? I just don't understand.” His face contorted once more. “And then I understood all too well. He's dead, isn't he?”
Elsephere watched Uledi's face dissolve into something like grief but more feral. Tears leaked from his eyes even as his brow furrowed and he bared his teeth in impotent frustration. Seeing him like this, she almost believed her mother's insinuation that the two men were lovers. She put the thought from her mind and turned to the task at hand.
“He's not dead,” Elsephere assured him. His dark eyes bore into hers with an intensity that told her she'd need to do better than that, though she could come up with nothing on the spot. “He's fine. Really. Just busy. I'm sure he'll see you again once he's finished whatever he's working on.”
Uledi's jaw clenched and unclenched several times. Finally, he twisted his lips and spat on the floor before her. She glanced at the guard, who stood taut and awaiting her command. She shook her head fractionally.
“Very well,” Uledi snarled. “If that is how you wish for it to go, then I shall follow your lead.”
Elsephere expected him to rage at her more, or even become violent, but instead he turned on his heel and stalked off. Worry consumed her. Uledi did present a threat, a bigger threat than she anticipated.
“Should I follow him, Your Highness?” the guard asked.
“See to it that he does not reach his quarters,” she told the guard, almost unable to believe she was ordering the squalid murder of her father's oldest friend. “And have a slave clean that off the floor.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KANIKA
Kanika was tight-lipped on the back of a strident buckskin gelding when Atham stormed into the courtyard, Willan and two of Meto's retinue close on his heels. Meto sauntered over to him, blocking his path to Kanika. She gripped her reins harder as the pair talked in heated tones, her heart sinking when Atham backed down. Fucking weakling.
She was about to shout something scathing and frantic at him when he spoke to Willan, who scurried off to do his master's bidding. She bit her tongue and breathed a little easier when Willan returned leading two horses. Atham could not summon the fortitude to completely overrule his little brother, but he at least recognised her peril.
Meto pulled himself astride a powerful black cold blood, laughed with his retinue, and kicked his mount into a trot before Atham properly settled on his own horse. Kanika's gelding was fenced in among the half dozen of Meto's retinue accompanying him, completely cut off from Atham and Willan. Kanika allowed her horse to follow along.
The streets of Argorien passed in a blur. Before long they crossed the bridge out of the city and into the slums that ringed the walls ever since the Vraithii set foot inside the gates.
“Shall we then?” Meto called to the group. His cold blood tossed its head, full of pent up energy eager to be expended. The streets were a slow zone, but in the open fields only the mount could limit the pace.
Meto took off at a rolling canter before anyone answered. His entourage followed with barely contained whoops of excitement. Kanika tried to spot Atham or Willan, but the cantering horses and their boisterous riders bobbed unevenly around her. Atham had schooled her in riding when she first moved into the palace, but she was still unsure and couldn't hope to compete with the wild nobles, most of whom could ride before they could walk.
The time passed quickly and unpleasantly. Before Kanika was ready, they dismounted in Commander Greys' flagstone yard. Meto didn't tether his horse, he simply slipped off and let the cold blood go where it may. Atham dismounted more carefully than his brother, handed his reins to Willan and hurried over to Meto.
“Brother, are you sure you know what you're doing?” His face slipped into its usual petulance.
Despite their high spirits, Meto's entourage felt on edge when faced with the bleak reality of the fort. Thin tendrils of heavy marsh mist filtered eerily under the gate. An unearthly hush descended over the yard, sucking the sound and colour out of the surrounds. Kanika observed their wariness with detachment, a sensation she found more comfort in since her chat with Aldert in the gardens.
The horses seemed surprisingly calm, and Willan looked as untouched by the cold reach of the Sunless Marshes as she felt, if a little unnerved by Meto's antics. Only Meto was unfazed among the Vraithii. He grinned widely and clapped Atham on the shoulder.
“Of course, brother dearest,” he shouted back with a grin. “Commander Greys must just be still asleep!”
Kanika watched Meto and his friends scatter into the fort, then went to find the stables and bring her horse to recuperate with water and feed. Atham paced in the yard. Kanika sighed and went to him.
He jumped as she slipped her hand over his arm. He smiled and patted her hand gently, though it seemed more to comfort himself than anything else. Willan hovered discreetly a few paces back. Somewhere underneath the layer dense mist, another less palatable smell found the top. Kanika sniffed and recognised it, though she hoped she was wrong. She glanced at Willan, and could tell he smelled it too. She moved away from Atham, her brow furrowed. Her stomach lurched as she approached a covered cart with something solid beneath the tarp.
“Oh.” She pulled back the cover. “Atham, you should come see this.”
He peered into the cart and went pale in an instant. He stumbled back a pace or two. Kanika stayed where she was, her hand still on the tarp, a look of distaste creeping across her face.
A pair of battlewolves, giant nationless warriors who stalked forest and field beyond the border wall, lay dead on the cart. Under normal circumstances they would have been burned after death. Their skin stretched across their bones and took on a strange waxy appearance, more grey and blue than the colour of dead flesh. The tautness of their skin made it impossible for their eyes to close – indeed, the browning globes looked about to pop right out of their sockets. The battlewolves' lips parted in an unending snarl.
The sight twisted her gut, but instead of looking away as she usually would, Kanika glared back at them defiantly, and her stomach settled. But she could still feel their rage. Their spirits must be somewhere nearby, easy targets for darker things that stalked the edge of settlements.
She recalled tales her father had told her as a small child of the smokes and herbs that battlewolves ingested daily to preserve their flesh beyond mortal means into the afterlife, so that they could continue to prey upon the weak and cowardly even after death. Only fire could cleanse them and grant them a chance at rebirth, into an actual wolf if they had died well, into a bear if they had slain the one who slew them. Into a maggot if they had died by anything but the blade. Judging by the entrails spilling out of them, there would be two new wolves in a pack somewhere if their bodies could find a pyre.
“They're only corpses, Atham,” she chided him. “You needn't be so squeamish.”
“I've seen corpses before.” Willan walked over to the cart and took a better look. “But surely these are not normal. Why are their faces so...”
“Terrifying?” Kanika supplied. “They should have been cremated days ago, maybe weeks. They're saying they're ready to move on. You can see their frustration at being trapped in this half-existence, look--”
“No, thank you,” Atham interjected. Kanika moved to point to the permanently opened eyes of one of the bodies, about to insist, but he continued hastily. “We can cremate them, of course. Probably for the best, in fact.”
Kanika pursed her lips and nodded, satisfied. Atham instructed Willan to fetch something to give the corpses the proper send off. Kanika stood quietly over the bodies, waiting for Willan to return. The cart would burn, perhaps, and provide most of the fuel, but the air was damp. She wondered if the oil lamps still held fuel. Meto resurfaced looking pale, disturbing the unnatural silence around them with the clack of his boots. He sauntered over to Kanika and made a face at the rotting corpses.
