The Soothsayer, page 6
“True, Sire. Speaking of problems at hand, I have our latest storehouse report.” The Vizier said as he touched the king’s arm, and Braeden sheathed the sword again. “I’m sorry to say things have not improved.” He held out his report.
Braeden took the advisor’s scroll of figures and walked away without a word. The accounting needed no explanation. Nine years of famine had left his storehouses empty, his fishing boats rotting on the shore, and his reserves depleted. His people cried out for food, yet Braeden had nothing to give. When riding through Gilead, he’d see families begging for bread and children scrounging after rats.
The following morning, King Braeden sat alone in the Great Hall of Judah—the Hall of the Lion—and looked to the empty throne on his right. Sorcha, his wife, would’ve been succor; her soft voice would’ve brought some insight. But with the birth of Alexandra, she’d lost her strength and, within hours, died.
The sound of clumsy footsteps and heavy breathing echoed into the hall.
“Sire.” The Vizier’s voice brought Braeden’s attention back. “The envoy to Cormorant has returned.”
“What word? Will our neighbors offer us aid? Can we barter lumber for grain?” Braeden leaned forward. At best, the proposition was weak, but Gilead had no other allies.
The Vizier studied his expression before speaking. “They no longer wish to support us. Our timber has little value to them, and our treasury is empty. They say the Maker has cursed us, and they don’t want to bring the same trouble to their households.”
Braeden leaned back on his throne. That damn prophecy. Must this old curse still besiege the kingdom?
“Are we not past the days when we huddled round fires and feared every shadow?” Braeden asked. “One man was put to death, however unjustly, a century ago, and yet even now nobles whisper of a coming judgment.”
“I share your sentiment, my lord, yet I have other tidings. We do have an offer—an offer I think you should listen to. A nobleman and his retinue wait at the outer gates. He’s from beyond the western isles and seeks your audience.”
The king’s brow furrowed. Those living beyond Gilead’s western sea were nomads, hunters, and pirates. They worshiped dark gods and, in years past, had raided his outposts and colonies.
“He has brought a caravan of gifts. Sire, surely you could at least acknowledge his generosity?” The Vizier asked, already knowing how the King would respond.
“Call the guards to escort him. I’ll see this man, but he will not have free passage in the city,” King Braeden replied.
The grand doors to the throne room opened within an hour, and a man wearing a gilded cloak was escorted in. His skin was pale, sickly, and dark bags hung below his small eyes. His sweeping bow was overdone, and when he smiled, Braeden saw that his teeth had been filed to those of a wolf’s.
“Great and mighty King Braeden, I bring greetings from the thirteenth house of Talamar. I represent the Amorites. We have heard of your powerful reign and wise leadership, and we bring our . . . adulation.” The man bowed again. He turned towards the doorway and clapped briskly. Thirteen gilded palanquins laden with silver trunks and carried by women in veiled hijabs entered the room. Braeden’s mouth dropped as the servant girls lowered the litters and opened the chests. Each held piles of gold, diamonds, and precious jewels. “More will come, of course.” The stranger smiled as he gazed at the king.
“What is this thirteenth house that they bring the riches of Solomon to my door?” Braeden asked.
“Your servants, of course. Our ruler would only ask a small boon in return,” the man said. “A small measure to show that we are allies.” His eyes gleamed as his hand ran across the lid of one of the chests. “We ask that your fleet no longer attack our mariners and traders, and you allow us to live peacefully among your people.”
Braeden paused. He feared more was implied in the traveler’s words. “Your mariners have been called cutthroats; your traders, spies.”
“Ignorant terms thrown about by those who lack understanding of our ways. We’re no different from you. We simply wish for the same liberty that your citizens enjoy.” The traveler nodded toward the king with respect.
Braeden considered for a moment. He remembered hearing an excerpt from the Logos long ago, some warning of those who bring gifts uncalled for, but times had changed.
“We accept your gift and give you this promise. Our soldiers will not strike your people, as long as they follow our laws.”
“Yes, wonderful,” the stranger said. “I promise you, we will make your laws our own.” He smiled wide, his fangs disquieting Braeden.
“You never mentioned your king. Who rules over this thirteenth house?” Braeden asked. “To whom do we send our thanks for these gifts?”
“Our ruler is but a humble man, of no consequence but of great means,” the stranger said. “He also offers one more gift, a prize more valuable than all the treasures of Sheba . . . his daughter.”
The stranger clapped again, and a litter carried by four male servants was brought into the hall from beyond the great doors. A woman sat atop it. A hijab concealed her face, but her burka reflected rows of inset emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. The servants lowered the litter before the king, and she stood, stepped away from her seat, and walked forward. She unveiled her hijab and let her covering to slip off her shoulders to puddle around her feet. Her amber eyes locked onto the king’s, and her flawless sun-kissed skin gleamed in the torchlight of the hall. She wore a silk camisole and skirt, both laden with fine diamonds, and her flaxen hair shined as she moved her hips seductively.
“She is skilled in all the arts of nobility and medicine, and she will be an asset to your home,” the stranger said.
“I’m honored to serve you,” the woman said as she bowed low.
“What is your name, my lady?” King Braeden asked as he stood and lowered his hand to her, and for a moment, her gaze felt the same as his wife’s had—warm, inviting, and enticing.
“Mariselle,” she said as she took his hand. “You have kind eyes, Majesty.”
“I leave you in peace,” the stranger said and turned from the king. The man didn’t bother to bow before he left. All in the room noticed, except the king himself.
“Five years passed,” Alexandra said. “The gifts came in and our land thrived . . . for a while.”
“There was food though, right?” Colin asked. “And peace—I mean, they kept their word. What was the problem?”
“Yes, with our new wealth we were able to import the sustenance our people needed until the famine ended, but we became entranced by their gold and seduced by their lies,” Alexandra said. “The stranger never came again, but messengers brought more chests of treasure, and demands—always more demands.”
King Braeden came up behind his daughter and hugged her. “Why does my daughter grieve?” he asked as Alexandra stared from the castle’s balcony over the courtyard and toward Gilead’s marketplace. He released her and turned her around to face him.
“Do you know they’ve disrupted Helen’s wedding?” Alexandra said, her eyes red with tears. “They mobbed her and the priest as they entered the southern temple, tore her dress, and ripped his robe because he refuses to teach from their books. I don’t care what promises you made them, how can they do that? How is that right?”
“Helen? Your handmaiden?” Braeden asked.
“Yes,” she said. “These Amorites attack anyone who stands outside of their conviction. They’re zealots acting like martyrs.”
“They would no doubt say the same of our holy men,” he replied. “What is important now is understanding, more than anything. Who can say what teachings are right or wrong these days? We must let go of archaic words that keep us bound to small-minded thinking.”
“Did that, that woman convince you of that?” Alexandra replied, then turned and walked back into the king’s chambers.
Braeden followed her. “Your mother was my happiness in life, Alexandra. Losing her left me empty for so many years. Mariselle can never replace her, but she is my heart’s desire. She’s given me such joy since your mother passed.”
“I suppose she has. You’ve not been to Mother’s grave for nearly a year.”
“I mourned your mother for years now. She will always be a part of me. But it’s time I move on. Mariselle has been patient and asked for so little.”
“Do you think the mob will ambush your wedding tomorrow as well? Will they tear Mariselle’s dress?”
“The people will rejoice tomorrow. I’ve made concessions to ensure it,” Braeden said.
“Concessions?” Alexandra asked.
“Her dowry from her father was promised to be doubled if we married in the customs of her people.”
Alexandra’s mouth dropped. She looked around the room until her gaze fell on Braeden’s sword, still sheathed and cast on the floor. She walked to it and lifted it to his desk. Her eyes ran across the broken leather strapping of the sheath.
“Alexandra.” Braeden sighed. “You are royalty. You must control your emotions.”
Alexandra wiped tears from her eyes as she studied the blade and sheath.
“Teacht Riocht will be yours one day. When I’m sent on my final voyage, my name will be etched above the hilt next to those who came before, and you’ll carry it by your side.”
“You don’t carry it now. Why should I bother?”
Braeden shook his head. Her words stung. “Aye, it’s been a marker of our family for generations. I meant to have it cleaned and mounted in the great hall. It’s fitting I give it the respect due.”
Alexandra raised her gaze to meet his. “And the Logos?”
“The Logos scrolls are to be stricken from our temples until their teachings better reflect the will of all our people.” He cleared his throat. The words felt wrong in his mouth. “The treasures of our temple are to be stored until they can be reshaped into images that envision all gods.”
“So, our teachings will be cast down? Our songs unsung?” Alexandra whispered, “Our heritage erased?”
“Alex, you must understand these Amorites are our lifeblood. Their gifts keep our nation alive.” Braeden shook his head. “You’re almost an adult now! Near the age where you’ll be courted yourself. You know as well as I that the famine decimated our reserves; to this day, our crops continue to fail and barely sustain our people. We struggle to keep our borders free from raiders and the kingdoms to the east. Stop acting like a petulant child! They’re just proverbs and names that can be changed. Words can be redefined, teachings can be altered. All that matters are the concepts behind them.”
“And what of the gifts? I see them less and less with each passing season,” Alexandra replied. “Their coffers bring only a little of what they once did. How many came last month, Father? How grand was the gift this time?”
King Braeden looked down. “One chest, with thirty shekels of silver.”
“We’ve sold ourselves for a month’s worth of bread?” she asked, disgusted. “What a poor wage for our souls.”
“You don’t understand . . . you’re being stubborn . . .” Braeden could not look at her face.
“A lion once dwelt in the Great Hall of Judah.” She shoved his sword towards him. “I wonder if he will ever return?” She turned from him and left the room.
The king looked out over the city and feared deep in his heart that she was right.
chapter 10
A Thief in the Night
AFTER RECEIVING HIS PAY, ABSALOM silently climbed the great white steps of the Lion’s Maw. The privateer’s wiry frame cast the slimmest of shadows on the marble stairs, and his footsteps were as silent as a feather fall. Pausing to pull back his dark locks of hair that hung to his shoulders, he tied them into a ponytail with a bit of string, ensuring his line of sight was unobstructed. Quick hands were only as good as a sharp eye. Absalom studied his reflection in a puddle of water near his feet. He was average in height, and unremarkable in every way; he was an every-man who could blend into the crowd and vanish—ideal for his line of work. As he made his way up and around the terraces lying within the mouth of the great stone beast, he saw that the merchant kiosks were empty, covered in dust and disrepair. Whatever commerce existed here had left long ago. He shook his head and continued up the steps until he came to the great western gate at the top of the cliff, which opened wide and was guarded by two sentinels.
“Evening, sir. Where is your business tonight?” A guard approached him.
“In the market district, where else?” Absalom noticed the guard gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. “Does the queen track our every movement now?”
“There’s talk of invasion, spies within the walls, and the like.”
“You’d hardly know one by questioning one, would you? Tell your chief he needs better tactics if that’s his concern.” Absalom tossed the guard a coin. “Let this speak for me.”
The guard smiled as he caught the coin. “Have a pleasant evening.”
Absalom smirked. It was always the same with that bunch. Their morality could always be counted on to grovel when it came to the clink of an extra coin.
Absalom moved forward into the Ambassador’s Square. What could have easily been the center of any town in the land, this courtyard only made up the western edge of Gilead’s sprawling boundaries. The plaza stretched nearly two hundred thousand feet around its perimeter and was lined with mansions and shops on all sides. Absalom remembered in days past, dignitaries were met by the King here. A sprawling purple carpet runner would be laid across the humble cobblestone so their feet might never touch the filthy walkways the commoners used.
He had been just a boy then, unaware of what the pomp and circumstance actually meant, a regal circus signifying a station he could never achieve, a reminder of his humble place in the world. Only a guard’s swift kick to his stomach, when he drew too close to the runner, had impressed upon him the lesson. He was glad the King’s jewel of a city was crumbling—seeing it slowly wither gave a certain satisfaction. But the people he knew here, the little ones who struggled to get by, kept him from walking away entirely.
Absalom made his way across the plaza to the eastern side and the winding Market Street that curved and wound into the city’s heart. The houses here were less grand, tightly abutting each other, and felt more like home. Windows with their candlelight were welcoming eyes compared to the cold emptiness of the Square. His mother had promised them a home here one day, but he’d known her words were empty. Her gentlemen callers had rarely paid what they promised, and more often than not, she’d return to the hovel with a black eye or a bruised limb until one day she didn’t return at all.
As Absalom entered the market district, he saw the same old bustling activity from vendors breaking down their carts and kiosks for the night, though the night was now a constant in the land. A call here for more rope, a laugh between two others, and promises of drinks to come. This portion of the city hadn’t changed at all.
He had been only twelve when he found his mother’s broken body in a back alley nearby, with no sign of the aggressor in sight. He wandered in a stupor for days until his growling stomach woke him from his daze. It was then that he learned his meager frame was an asset. It was here in the streets that he had learned to survive. He could move unnoticed and pilfer any vendor’s stall with ease. Instead of a harsh and unforgiving corner, he found the district to be a banquet table open to any who braved to dine at it.
Alleyways broke out in all directions from the main bazaar here, and he’d explored each, save for the few that led southeast into the great cemetery. Every gutter snipe knew the field of tombs within the city walls was haunted, and most adults preferred to bypass it and brave the old sector of town instead. There, one could enjoy the fine delicacies of opium, liquor, and the company of whores before stumbling out of the crumbling eastern gate onto the moors.
Absalom wondered if his childhood hut in the old sector was still standing, but the impulse to visit it died quickly. Even if the landlord hadn’t let it burn to the ground, there were no fond memories to see. The quiet desperation in his mother’s soft sobbing at night would echo in his mind again if he saw those cracked walls and rotting doors.
Instead, he followed the market road as it ran northward out of the bazaar and into the temple district, a place he’d happily avoided as an urchin for fear of dying from boredom. The white marble columns and lavish finery on the Travertine walls and altars never spoke to him as they did to the religious types. His provider was the clink of an unguarded coin purse; his god was real.
As Absalom approached a brazier of burning coals, he saw his fence appear from the shadows. The grizzled face and hunched figure of the man in the dirty overcoat could have blended into any crowd, a fact Absalom knew this particular scoundrel took full advantage of.
“’Bout time, you sloth. Figured you was held up by that captain of the guard, or chief warrant officer or whatever it is they call him.” The fence laughed.
“The day that boy-captain bests me is the day I retire.” Absalom smiled. “So, what’s the mark?”
“Not really a mark per se—but I thought you might be interested. What with the curfew and all the talk of invasion going about, many in the palace are eyeing their retirement funds early. One, in particular, might be a real catch. Seems the King has a chest he keeps well locked in his bedroom.” The fence scratched at his chin. “Too heavy to run off with, of course, and too tough to break. A five-tumbler lock to boot. They say no one can crack it, but then I thought of you.”
“I’ve never tried the castle before.” Absalom eyed the road as it ran northward up a hill to the castle and its courtyard in the distance.
