The Tainted Shrine, page 18
Kanika felt the situation spiralling. Armand struggled to keep up with the conversation.
“He is not necessarily a criminal,” she tried. “He has been accused, but that doesn't mean he is guilty – and he thinks he's being framed. Surely that, more than what he is accused of, is worth investigating–”
Eoghan's eyebrows had sunk so low they threatened to completely obscure his eyes. Kanika grasped around for someone, anyone, to help. Elsephere often enjoyed defending her just to frustrate her mother, but today she sat silently and watched everything unfold. Meto was more likely to stab Kanika directly in the eye over breakfast than assist her. Atham should, by all rights, be stepping in – his word carried the weight of the heir, no small thing – and he wore a compassionate expression. But were he going to speak up, Kanika knew he would have done already.
“Will you vouch for this Seer, then, err... Kendi... Kan-Kanri...” Eoghan's eyes focused on Kanika's left shoulder as he struggled to recall her name.
“Kanika, Your Majesty.” She stared for several long moments as the High King's gaze danced around the room, his mouth slightly agape. Just when she was about to say something, he spoke again.
“Throw the brigand in the dungeons, I'll deal with him later,” Eoghan decreed, though he slurred over the words. Before Kanika could do or say anything more, the guards lifted Armand’s body from the floor and dragged him away. Eoghan and Meto turned back to their food. Atham seemed poised to say something, though the longer he waited, the less hope Kanika had that he would.
She hid the tears in her eyes by bending her head over her empty place setting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
METO
Meto didn’t stop seething the entire night. His mother had informed him, white-faced and furious, that Eoghan was prosecuting her for reckless copulation.
He spent a fitful night on his divan alternately pouring over scrolls and trying to sleep. It seemed grim, though he would be the first to admit that law was not his strength. The more he read, the more it seemed like there was nothing to be done about a guilty verdict. Meto's colouring gave significant doubt as to who had fathered him, regardless of Ithrien's genealogists and their assurance he had Vallariath blood.
He had never been angry at his mother for having him, nor his dark skin for setting him apart. Such arrangements were far from uncommon. Eoghan himself was the son of the late Empress but not the late Emperor, and it was widely known and accepted as truth.
Resentment burned fiercely inside of him, every ounce directed towards Eoghan and his spiteful crusade to make Meto's life miserable. Elwin had often insisted that Eoghan did not hate him, or surely he would hate Ithrien just as much, and if he did then they would not have conceived Elsephere. Meto always scoffed at that. Elsephere's birth could just as easily be the product of duty as affection.
He awoke groggy and irate far earlier than needed, the stiffness in his neck testament to his poor treatment of himself. He sent for food and wine and bathed himself in his private tub. Scented oils and waters added to the water helped soothe his aching limbs as he ruminated on the previous day.
His brother was marrying a witch, his little sister was in line to inherit before him, and his mother seemed powerless to do anything about it.
He had never seen the heathen witchcraft of the Seers performed, but he always felt he would know it when he saw it, and he was sure he had seen it at the border fort. He felt the burning shame of needing to be saved from the battlewolf by Kanika, of all people. Atham had insisted that Kanika had merely told the warrior to leave in Caerphian, but Meto wasn't sure. There had been no visible change to her, but something in Kanika's voice sent chills down his spine.
He thought back on the training his war master, Elwin's father, had given him about the usefulness of thinking about absolutely nothing. He closed his eyes and tried to just exist in the steaming, scented water. The gentle current swept over his legs and midriff. He felt tension melting into the heat of the pool.
As he lay back, he realised he had not yet taken into account his deal with Saffron. She promised him whatever his heart desired, and he still had the contract as proof. He wondered how the most recent turn of events factored into Saffron's estimation of him ascending to the throne after Eoghan's death. He would summon her and demand answers once he was done with his bath.
He wrapped in a towel and made his way back to his chamber, the smell of fresh bread coaxing his stomach into rolling growls.
He abruptly stopped in the doorway, nearly dropping the towel. He pursed his lips. Saffron sat on his divan, eating his food and drinking his wine as she flicked through his law tome.
“You're holding that upside down, you know.” He grinned at her. “Not so many tutors in assassin-land, I suppose.”
Saffron smiled at him, her head on one side.
“Your language is barbaric and stupid, and I have no desire to learn it.”
He rolled his eyes and stepped behind a screen to get dressed, not bothering with formal modesty. She could kill him at any moment, he had little concern of what she may see behind his screen. Though part of him knew he should be questioning his own sudden comfort with her, that part was sounding progressively fainter and less reasonable.
“I was actually just thinking about you.”
“In the bath?” she replied. “Tsk, tsk... I would never have guessed you felt that way, what with me being a 'dirty barbarian' and all.”
Meto bit back a chuckle as he threw on a long tunic and wide satin belt. His hair dripped onto the dry fabric. As the weather warmed, he grew more and more envious of the poorer classes, who in the summertime walked around in little but loincloths to keep cool. As a noble, he was expected to wear the same clothes he always did, though thankfully of lighter cloth and weave.
“Have you heard of the development?” he asked, sidestepping her ribald comment altogether. “My father has passed me and Atham over and all but made Elsephere heir instead.”
He stepped out from the privacy of the screen and found her examining his bed, her strong fingers tracing the carved wood and bronze headboard. He sat on his divan to keep an eye on her. She sat herself on the edge of the bed.
“I am aware.” She popped a morsel of bread into her mouth. “When I heard the line of succession had changed, I assumed you would want a chat. Is this not your heart's dearest desire? The Seer will never be queen.”
“No. Elsephere on the throne does nothing for my dreams. I wish to make my mother proud and shower myself in glory in her name.”
Saffron raised an eyebrow, a small smile forming on her lips.
“I hope you were more specific in your contract, Vraithii. Or who knows where you will end up, to sate your mother's thirst for glory?”
“I had no hand in wording the contract,” he retorted. “You brought it to me all but signed. Surely poor wording of it falls on you, not me.”
“I cannot tell if you are very brave or very, very foolish.” Saffron smiled. “But I find myself hoping that you will succeed, if for nothing else than the trade routes. Have you made any progress on opening them for us?”
Meto grimaced and shook his head.
“Remember your deal is not without responsibilities. Perhaps progress would be quicker if you put in some effort rather than signing away your soul and trusting it will all work out on its own.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” He stood, miffed. “My brother is set to marry that temple slave in less than a month, putting even more distance between myself and the throne. If they are wed and if Elsephere dies childless, they may still inherit before me, or their children might. And as for your bloody trade route, what makes you think Eoghan would listen now, when he's about to see his bloodline joined with that of a filthy Seer? It hardly puts him in a mood to welcome foreigners.”
Saffron's grin grew slowly wider as he spoke. She nodded slowly, her eyes unblinking and bright.
“Very good, princeling,” she mused. “At least you know some of the obstacles before you. The Seer, your sister, and Eoghan. So how do you plan to overcome them? How will you get the Seer out of your way, to mollify Eoghan and persuade him first to open the trade routes for us? You have killed before, have you not?”
He sat back, hands behind his head. She met his cold stare with one of her own, then stood up to leave.
“Hey, wait!” Meto called after her. “I doubt Kanika needs to be killed. Atham would know it was murder, no matter how it came about. He might grow a spine just to spite me. I just need to find a way to prevent the wedding, right? So I'll... do that.”
He waited for the inevitable mockery, but her dark eyes were solemn.
“Perhaps you're right,” she replied. He almost betrayed his surprise at her lack of condescension. “No doubt you'll find some elegant solution to this problem, as is your custom. You do have such a reputation as a great thinker.”
Ah, there it was.
“And in the meantime, I will be achieving the impossible, convincing the court that you are not the violent thug many still think you are.”
Meto rolled his eyes.
“I am a prince,” he said. “How hard can it be..?”
He looked around, and found himself speaking to an empty room.
◆◆◆
Spring blended so seamlessly into summer Meto barely noticed its arrival. Though he was chagrined by Saffron's blasé attitude towards Elsephere being named heir, he had never been one to back down from a challenge. He may not be renowned as a great thinker, but his skills as a strategist were sharp. Each situation required playing to his strengths. He knew very little of the Ilas, but he knew more than he'd ever thought he'd need of his own culture. He took to sitting in the peristyle outside his quarters and pondering over it almost every spare moment.
Summer was stifling, though he knew it was not yet at its peak. Argorien was so far from the centre of the world the sun didn't bother to rise in the winter, then relented and allowed enough light for the pathetic natives to grow food in the summer – and in doing so shut the moon out completely for almost three months.
This stark contrast frequently drove to madness both foreigners and natives. A disease of the mind called sunsickness hit its peak in tandem with the sun's domination of the sky. Many vulnerable took their own lives in the longest days of the year, struck by mania. Such a contrast to Vraith, where suicide was reserved for those needing to redeem their family honour after the ultimate disgrace. Though he had been only a child when they left, he could still recall the nighttime summer festivals, Arch Day and Harvest's Promise and the shortest night. But night came to Vraith all year.The sky darkened as the ovates danced around bonfires to honour Accorius and Archillio, the twin gods of the hunt, glory and victory. In Vraith he could close his eyes after a long day and be assured sleep would soothe away his troubles, even if only for a few hours.
Sitting in his peristyle, his thoughts wandered to his deal, the terms of failure more severe than he anticipated. Saffron was still the only person he knew capable of coming and going from the palace without detection.
He had a tiny replica of the Arch Day altar among his possessions. He lit charcoals from a taper and let them sit in the bonfire's place, then sprinkled granules of resin over them to invoke their aid.
Saffron didn't think he had the mind of a great thinker. He'd show her. He'd have her overawed at how badly she'd misjudged him when he sat on the throne, doubly so when he swept through her pitiful Acolyte village and added it to his list of conquests. He didn't imagine the barbarians putting up much resistance, nor did he imagine Saffron would have choice but to submit to him once her village was burned.
A sharp rap on his door brought him out of his daydream. He shook it off and straightened up in his chair, adjusting his tunic quickly.
“Come in.” He smiled broadly when Ithrien entered. “Mother!”
“No, darling, don't get up.” She swept towards him, kissing him on the top of the head. Elwin brought out a chair for her, setting it quickly in place.
“Taking the air, are we? Or just brooding?”
“Brooding,” Meto admitted. “Mother, it's not fair. Passing over Atham makes sense, he is a fool and he is marrying a slave-”
Ithrien's lips tightened fractionally at the reminder.
“-but surely he can see that I am different. I could rule.”
“Of course you could,” Ithrien replied. “No doubt the first thing you'd do is have that horrid little slave executed. Honestly, I can't think why your father is allowing it.”
“There must be a way to bring Atham's folly to an end, with this Seer at least. He does us a grave insult by marrying her.”
Ithrien nodded contentedly at Meto' assertion. Meto did his best not to preen at the validation. There were times he could not understand the insane world he lived in, where slaves could marry princes, but his mother was a constant source of stability.
“He is old, though he may not always seem it. At times I almost think he's forgotten he's a king.”
“I have been thinking over it,” Meto began. “Mightn't there be a way to prevent them marrying? Atham will not be dissuaded, but still-”
“How? The High King allows it, whatever his reasons. Neither you nor I can overrule it.”
“But even he is not omnipotent,” Meto said, almost without thinking, his eyes resting on the smouldering incense on the Arch Day altar replica. The potential of his comment only struck him in the silence after he had spoken it. He looked up at his mother, the light growing in his eyes. He found Ithrien's eyes mirroring his own.
“So simple,” she breathed. “The gods. Of course.” Her lips widened into a delighted grin. “Brilliant boy. You will redeem us all yet.”
◆◆◆
Once the idea occurred to him, the plan formed tightly in his mind. Elsephere employed the services of vagrants and criminals to further her own agenda. He took another leaf out of her book and began spending more and more time in the streets, buying drinks for any and all who would take him up on it, keeping his identity secret. It was not difficult, with his colouring and a little grime and grit carefully applied by Elwin, he passed easily enough for a trader or a native from inland of Argorien. He had to dodge guards occasionally, but the Ilas accepted him.
At first only the occasional lush drank with him. He suffered through their slurred tales and seedy propositions. On more than one occasion he was tempted to give up and find another way. However, as the weeks went by and the taverns he frequented grew to know him better, he found his company sought after by a higher calibre of drunkard.
One night, dressed in his plainest tunic and sipping mediocre wine under a lantern, he came across an interesting character.
“How long have you been buying?” the stranger asked. He was Ilas through and through by the looks of him, his hands softer than might be expected of a poor man in a tavern. “Surely your pockets are not so deep. You will not be able to afford your rent soon.”
“My rent is already taken care of, friend,” Meto slurred back. “And I have reason enough to drink. You know that Vraithii prince who's marrying the Seer soon?”
The stranger paused a long while over his drink. Meto doubted he was the first to buy him a round that night. Finally, the stranger nodded.
“It is an affront to the gods,” Meto went on. He had long since learned to approach the topic from the Ilas point of view, much as it disgusted him. “She is surely not consenting to the prince, but how could she refuse him? Especially now, with the day approaching so fast...”
The stranger nodded, his head continuing under its own momentum.
“Well said, brother,” he intoned. “Well said. Poor lass, she must be dreading the day.”
“It could be stopped, you know,” Meto confided. “The royals, they stand so much on ceremony. All it would take would be one interruption, one sufficiently large protest as the ceremony goes down, and surely they would insist he cast her off. Their gods would not allow anything less. She would be free, finally, and with no blame or stain on herself.” He took another sip of the rancid ale the Ilas favoured, spilling some down his front purely to avoid having to drink. “But none of these gutless malcontents would do it, much as they know it's not right leaving her in his clutches. Poor lass.”
“Poor lass,” the stranger echoed sadly. Meto was shocked to see an actual tear in the man's eye. He stared glumly into his cup for so long Meto wondered if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. He was about to slip away and try the next haunt when the man spoke.
“I knew her mother, you know,” he said softly. “Karinya. Brilliant woman. Kanika was never supposed to be as she is now. My husband was her god's guard, before...” He made a face and gestured vaguely. Meto assumed he meant the invasion.
“We summered with her family every year. Karinya was the finest merchant sailor I've ever seen. 'Twas a dark day indeed, the day we had to send her off on the pyre.” The man let a tear trickle freely down his face.
Meto couldn't believe his luck. He slowed his drinking. The man mustn't realise who he really was, a task infinitely easier with a clearer head. He had not emptied his pockets for so many weeks in vain.
He drew closer and filled his new friend's cup.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
KANIKA
“Kanika! There you are.”
Kanika looked up, her face draining of blood. Her secret garden seemed less secret by the day. Relaxing in the tall grasses, passing the day in idle chatter with Aldert had seemed such a blessing. She should have known it would not last. She knew better than to look around. Aldert would have vanished into a shadow before anyone had so much as drawn breath in their vicinity. Kanika stood from where she reclined in the grass, still hoping she had not properly recognised the voice calling to her.
