The Tainted Shrine, page 25
Saffron waited a few long minutes for the shimmering Void layers to fade again, settling in the end for partial recovery. She felt blood running down her back and sides underneath her shift. Shadow-walking her way back to the Skytowers was out of the question, so she crept towards the waste grate. It was partially overgrown with mould and slime when she reached it. A few minutes of agonising digging had it sliding loudly out of its hole. She slipped in and pulled the grate as she dangled from it. Her skin stretching across the embers of her cicatrix seared through her like a blade.
Five feet below her a stream of inky water flowed. The sewer was six feet wide. Saffron couldn't tell how deep the water below her was, but she knew there was little option but to drop.
With a deep breath, she let go.
The water was glacial despite the season, swallowing her whole until she found her toes on the bottom. Standing up tall, the water still lapped around her chin. She oriented herself towards the outlet. Her back stung from the icy waters. Her feet rose and she floated slowly along the gentle current. It was pitch black, only thin rays of light finding their way in through other grates further along. The drain left the palace and found its way to the sea and would carry her quickly at a later point on the current.
She was glad that she had witnessed Rune purging Kanika of the suppressants. It meant that they need not send Cassia into the dungeons to complete the task Saffron had failed and rid Kanika of the toxins. Another purge might easily kill the weakened Seer.
The icy current sped up suddenly, shaking Saffron from her dazed thoughts. She had reached the sea. She took a deep breath and let the drain spit her into the ocean, the tumbling rush of water swirling around her until she found the surface.
She dragged herself onto the shore and stumbled off to find Cassia, her back burning and her vision blurring.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
METO
Meto bounced in full armour. Sweat ran down his back. He hated the heat, but he kept training. A handful of foot soldiers passed to and fro, changing posts and heading to muck out horses. Elwin hung back, scrawling his boredom away on slips of parchment. His dark mop of hair hung in strings against his tawny brow. Meto noted Elwin regularly checking the hourglass by his side. As the last grains of sand trickled into the base, he stopped his writing and stood up to stretch, stifling a yawn. The sun barely peeked above the horizon, the odd half-night stretching interminably before them.
Meto stopped bouncing as Elwin paced over to him and offered him a flask of water. He drank it down gratefully and handed it back. There was a peculiar look in Elwin's eye.
“What is it?” he asked. Elwin suppressed a sigh, his eyes dark and heavy in their sockets.
“Highness, it is approaching midnight,” he said. “I must remind you that sunsickness can be fatal.”
“I know that,” Meto scoffed, shoving the flask back to him. “I'm not some blathering foreigner.”
Elwin accepted the flask with barely a batted eyelash. Meto frowned, his mind muddling through why he did not wish to go to bed yet.
“The conversation with Elsephere has left me elated. Traders and representatives from who knows how many different places will be arriving any day, perhaps even within the hour. I am close to accomplishing goals I thought far beyond anyone's reach,” Meto said. “But I understand if you are not so thrilled as I am. Rather be in your bed with the windows shuttered and a blindfold while history is made.”
“Highness, if I have offended, I am sorry,” Elwin replied. “We all must rest, no matter how--”
“Enough,” Meto snapped. “You are dismissed. Send for the slave Nagi, and do not return to me until you've slept away your disrespect.”
Elwin bowed and hurried off, stumbling slightly over the uneven ground where the training yard met the path.
Meto paused to readjust his armour and noticed a small huddle of dark-skinned people gathered at the edge of the yard. They were covered with gold chains and gems and wore rich clothes of silk and cloudcloth. Meto smoothed his hair back from his forehead and tried to calm his laboured breathing. He strode over to the group with a debonair smile.
Six women and five men of varying ages stood before him, talking amongst themselves. The vast array of styles and features had him pausing briefly in awe. Kanika's assertion that the land of Caerphy was far bigger than the Vraithii knew proved to be true. Less like a phrase designed to dissuade him from routing the final stragglers from her shattered kingdom to their deaths, but an accurate assessment.
A tall, broad man with streaks of grey through his curly dark hair smiled and stepped towards him. He was dressed in swathes of red and white cloudcloth, layered to preserve his modesty. An intricate wrapping of white cloth--interspersed with golden charms and coils of thick white thread--concealed most of his head, the few strands Meto could see adorned with more charms of gold and shell. Meto returned the smile curiously.
“Greetings.” He broadened his smile as he approached. “Can I help you?”
The man in red and white stepped forward and offered a hearty handshake, gripping firmly on Meto' forearm. When he stepped back, he produced the missive Meto had sent out to the outlanders known to be neutral to the Vraithii.
“We are in search of the Crown Prince, ser,” the man told him. “He has extended to us an invite we were eager to accept.”
The man's accent was far thicker than any of the Ilaseans, lilting on the consonants and extending the vowels in a way he found entrancing. He sorted out where to begin. Atham had not sent the invitation, nor was he in any state to receive visitors.
“I believe you are in search of me,” he replied after a pause. “I am not the Crown Prince, but I am he who extended an invitation. Prince Meto Vallariath, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Ah! Excellent! The pleasure is ours, Your Highness,” the man replied. “I am Ambassador Ojun Ndangru of the Northern Indric clan. My leader Fata Nakhati, Slayer of the Great Wyrm, Conqueror of the Dark Shrines of Ersmoor, Guardian of the Desert Roses, is eager to extend the hand of friendship to our southern neighbours.”
Meto nodded happily. Everything was going so well, he felt like his chest was too small for his heart.
“As we are glad to accept it, Ambassador,” Meto replied. “My apologies that you found me in this state. Please, follow me, we will find your party some suitable rooms for your stay.”
Meto led them through the most gilded and extravagantly decorated hallways to the reception hall reserved for visiting Vraithii nobles. Tall ceilings with latticed windows at the top and smooth tiled floors offered welcome relief from the heat in the yard. Large divans and strategically situated tables sat in a semi-circle by a natural spring following of a golden fountain. A shallow basin strewn with rose petals and scented with perfumes caught the sparkling water. Meto made a mental note to praise Elwin for having the slaves keep the reception hall ready. He pressed a concealed button on the floor with his foot.
“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” he told the traders. “Slaves will be along to attend to your needs. I will be with you shortly.”
The trade group settled as Meto left to find fresh clothes. He passed the slaves he'd summoned to attend on the traders. He stopped one and whispered instructions to make sure they were always in sight, fetch some guards to keep watch as well, and let Elsephere know the delegates had arrived.
He changed and freshened up as best he could in short time. Wearing a loose tunic with his hair braided back, he looked far too casual, but there was little to be done about it now. He spotted Elsephere from across the courtyard making her way towards the reception hall. Meto matched her pace. He saw her core retinue ensuring she was presentable for the meeting, though she had been asleep before being summoned. Meto was about to turn back towards the reception hall as he walked when he saw Elsephere's steward run up to her and whisper something frantically in her ear. Elsephere's pace increased so rapidly Meto almost didn't register what had happened. He sprinted towards the reception hall with a pit growing in his stomach.
“...they welcomed her in, you know? Said she was family, even gave their blessings, in a round-about sort of way--”
Meto burst into the room, Atham's voice slurring out loudly to the trade delegates. Every head spun to face him as the echo from the doors rang out around them. Atham's eyes fixed on Meto in red-eyed bitterness. Meto swallowed nervously.
“Ah! Atham,” he began. “So good to see you up and about. How are you feel--”
“That's him,” Atham hissed. “Usurper.” He stood unsteadily and pointed at Meto. “How long were you plotting against me?”
“Atham, please,” Meto tried. “You're not well, you need to rest.”
Meto glanced around frantically. Where the bloody hell was Elsephere? Atham was sniffing pitifully. Meto wasn't familiar with outlanders, but the way Ojun stared at him gave him the distinct impression they were losing ground on the trade negotiations, and fast.
“You'll never be able to trust them,” Atham slurred. “They could treat you like a brother for more than twenty years, then turn and stab you in the back without a moment's thought.”
Ojun's companions muttered amongst themselves. Meto couldn't tell if it was angry or worried.
“Friends,” he tried. “Ambassadors. My brother is, as you can tell, extremely unwell. Sunsickness, as you know, can strike even the stoutest heart.”
“He’s not sunsick. He’s drunk,” one of the delegates retorted.
Meto ignored the delegate and stepped closer to Atham, willing the drunken fool to either be silent or pass out. Atham glared at him, full of truculence.
“This young man is your brother, the Crown Prince?” Ojun asked. “He says you plan to execute his wife without fair trial and under false accusations.”
“She's not his wife,” Meto explained. “The ovates ruled the marriage invalid--”
“I love her!” Atham all but shrieked. “And you pushed her off a cliff, and called it witchcraft when she saved herself! And now you want to make a spectacle of her execution!”
Meto felt the room spiralling as though he was water circling a drain. He was about to fall back when Elsephere made it to the hall. The doors behind them burst open. Atham dissolved into tears.
“Ambassadors, welcome,” she purred. “Please forgive my brother's confusion. Sunsickness can strike anyone, as I'm sure you've heard. He is suffering quite badly from it.”
Ojun and his compatriots did not look convinced, but Elsephere's retinue was already surreptitiously removing Atham from the hall.
“No, no, I must... I must tell my people of the atrocities you intend to commit against them!” Atham cried as he was led away. “The Ilas must know of your plans for their princess! I must--”
His voice cut out abruptly as Elsephere's retinue hurried him towards his quarters. Meto turned his attention to the party.
“We are glad to have you here in our fair city, Ambassadors,” Elsephere said with a smile. The friendly warmth they had greeted Meto with left with Atham.
“We must speak with the High King,” Ojun replied. “In our lands, such deals must be struck with authority and order. Your brother's 'sunsickness' bodes ill for the faith of our negotiations, and we must be assured that the terms we set here today will be honoured and upheld in full.”
“Of course,” Meto replied, catching too late Elsephere's dark glare. He struggled to readjust. “In the morning, though, as our father is resting throughout the twilight. Please, let us show you to your quarters. We hope you will find them satisfactory.”
“No doubt we will,” Ojun replied. “We will find suitable accommodations in your mercantile quarters. We will reconvene here in the sixth hour, and we thank you for your kind offer of hospitality.”
The Caerphian traders left, the hall seeming gaudy and hollow with their departure.
Meto tasted his dreams melting away. Far from the kindly, generous face Ojun had shown him when they had first met, the outlander now seemed cold and unlikely to agree to any terms. Traders from beyond Argorien had already begun convening in and around the docks and marketplaces, eager to be the first to sample the long-awaited wares the Caerphian traders brought once a deal was struck. A dark emptiness grew in his belly as he imagined the outrage if they were thwarted in their desire for new wealth and wares.
From the look on her face, Elsephere saw it too. Meto paused for a long moment to collect his thoughts, a feat he found increasingly elusive.
“That stupid little shite,” Elsephere’s rheum still collected in her lashes. “The palace guards are your responsibility, are they not? Where were they this night?”
Meto stared blankly at her, then tried to cobble together an answer of some sort with his limited wits. She widened her eyes at him as he stuttered, a look he knew all too well.
“You fool... you are sunsick,” she breathed sharply. “One brother a naïve drunkard, the other such a swaddling babe as to let himself grow addled by the endless sun. I am surrounded by fools.”
“Elsephere, I am not, I-I am simply charged with the passion of our endeavour, I...” Meto swallowed, his throat thick and dry. “If you would allow me to seek Mother's advice, even for a short while--”
“The Queen is unavailable, as you well know,” Elsephere cut him off. “Get some sleep. Do not return to your duties until the circles are gone from your eyes, or face the penalty for disobeying me.”
Before Meto could find his way to a retort, she was gone, stalking off towards her chambers. As she vanished into the darkened corridors, the edges of his vision blurred and swayed. From the shadows he could almost make out a familiar face, dark hair and dark eyes, dry mirth playing on pale lips...
“Saffron?” he mumbled, squinting at the figure though it was barely three paces from him. He took a step, willing his eyes to focus, though the harder he tried to see the figure clearly, the more fuzzy its outline became.
“My lord?”
Meto blinked, the figure gone the instant he closed his eyes. He turned to face the voice addressing him as though underwater.
“Nagi?” he mumbled. “What do you want?”
“M'lord, I was told to find you by your steward, Elwin,” she replied. “Are you well? It is no hour to be wandering.”
“I...I am well,” Meto replied. Her voice was soothing, mesmerising almost. He found a smile blossoming on his lips. “And all the better for seeing you again. Will you join me in my chambers? I have been sent to bed, but there was no mention of forbidding company.”
“I would be glad to, my lord.” Nagi struggled against a grin. “I found our last encounter most enjoyable.”
He offered her his arm without realising. An awkward pause hung between them as Meto realised he could not be seen treating a slave as a lady. He covered up his gaffe with a short cough, and they returned to his chambers in silence, with her walking a respectable distance behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
KANIKA
“Someone's coming.”
Kanika lolled towards Armand's cell as she, too, heard the approaching footsteps. Armand reached through the bars and gripped her arm, his eyes screaming that which neither of them had the heart to say. It was time. They took her to die. She let Armand hold her. With luck, the one who strung her up would not be Vraithii-born, and her next trip into the Void would be her last. The constant flux between life and death only grew more painful each time she crossed.
She cast her eyes around her cell for the last time, then got to her feet as the locks on her cell ground open. Her head swam as she straightened, but she was feeling remarkably lucid.
“Kanika...” Armand murmured, his voice almost breaking.
“Shush,” Kanika replied. “Don't draw attention to yourself, don't give them any reason to hurt you.”
She glanced over her shoulder and caught his eye. He glared at her with such grief she almost thawed and exposed her own fear. The door swung open, not to her cell but to his. A cloaked figure stepped into the cell.
“Armand?” the figure asked. He gave no response. The door to Kanika's cell swung open, another figure entering. This one, taller, more boxy in shape than the willowy first. Kanika guessed by the figure's hands as they gripped her under the arms that he was male, the other more feminine. Armand's cell door was left open as the feminine figure moved around and came to help support Kanika's weight.
“Come on, we've got you.” The feminine figure’s voice was low and familiar. Kanika tried to take a step, but found her legs unwilling to support her. She felt the longing sadness of the darkness as the cloaked figures lured her towards life.
Armand did not deserve to die in prison, nor be crushed under a slab of granite, or nailed to a pole and left to suffocate on his own weight, or any other of the ways the Vraithii enjoyed snuffing the life out of their Ilasean subjects. He still hadn't moved from his cell.
“Come on, Armand.” Her voice echoed distantly around her head as the darkness left her to life's devices. “We can fetch Ophi and leave now. The city is done with us.”
Kanika couldn't tell where the words had come from, but he followed as the two cloaked figures hurried her along the dungeon corridors. Kanika didn't know who the pair was, but as they crept from shadow to shadow, she realised the darkness crept along with them. It stalked in her footsteps and swept down the hall until she felt as though her nerves were on fire, then all of a sudden, it was gone. They slowed, crouching over a grate in the floor. Fear crept into her heart. Inside, the darkness grew further and further away. She knew, with the sort of certainty reserved for madmen and gods, that something or somebody would die that night.
The grate slid out smoothly, and the male stranger dropped into the hole. Kanika peered in after him.The hole was big enough for a medium sized person to fit through, made of cast iron and sitting slightly loose in the stone floor. A soft rushing and occasional twinkling somewhere below the opening proved it was a sewer. The cloaked figure maneuvered Kanika over the grate, her limbs all but useless; it had been a month since she had last used them.
