The Axe and the Throne (62 page)

Decker wondered what his father might be doing now.
Have you found Mother's remedy yet, Father? Or are you enjoying the comforts of the South while we freeze? Or worse yet, are you busy making me more bastard sisters?
An image of his father and Keethro with blushing southern maidens entered Decker's mind, a pillar of disquiet that would not be moved no matter how he tried to be rid of it.

Could you have picked no better man to accompany you on a mission of mischief, Father?
Kilandra had done little but speak ill of Keethro, and it made Decker wonder why his father could even consider the man friend. But maybe Keethro and his father were more alike than Decker realized. It was a sickening thought.

How is it that you left us without so much as saying goodbye, and before even learning if we had been successful?
His father should have known how important it was for Decker and Titon to have finally proven their worth in his eyes, but especially so for Titon.
How could you show such contempt for your firstborn? Were you jealous of his intellect? Or was Titon's love for Red the source of your scorn, the potential incest a constant reminder of your infidelity?
His older brother would have been devastated by their father's departure had Decker not first cost him all memories. Decker knew, in spite of Titon's private grumblings, he loved their father more than he dare admit.
And more than he should have, in light of what I now know of the man.

The wind howled at him like an angry wolf and threw spears of frozen malice at his face. Beneath the noise of the wind, however, Decker heard a far more bothersome sound. The ceaseless trickle of the stream that never froze seemed to follow him wherever he went and became more noticeable always in his times of suffering. It strung a harp with his nerves and plucked a song of provocation.
If this stream that you love is truly formed from the tears of your mountain god, Father, then I will seek out its source and stab him in the eye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You will do this
, she ordered herself,
and your torment will soon be over
.

Her every muscle ached as she stood on her perch several feet off the floor, her whole body tensed. A vile moisture began to gather on her skin, threatening to turn to droplets of sweat.
You must not remain here another night.

The memories of her life spent at her uncle's estate were mostly shrouded in darkness. She had no misgivings about her feelings toward the man—she'd always known she hated him—but she had refused to remind herself of why. That Cassen had reawakened her burning abhorrence for all men of power only served to strengthen her need to be gone from this place.

You should have run long ago
, she scolded herself.
You should have taken Ethel far from this kingdom.
The thought of her daughter having to persist without her was sickening. There was pride to be had in the strong woman Ethel had become, in the face of her hardships, but the scorn her peers showed Ethel would not be shared by the kingdom's new ruler. How long would it be before Cassen tired of Crella and moved on to her daughter? Lyell seemed a saint now by comparison.

Crella squeezed her eyes closed, willing the memory of the night Cassen had spoken of to return with more clarity, no matter how painful.
Was Stephon truly the first miscreant of my creation?
she wondered.
Or am I to blame for Cassen as well?
She did not recall the night of her uncle's death quite the same as Cassen had recounted. She did not remember having escaped that night without torture, only that she had awoken to find Calder dead at the bottom of the steps in the morning.

Her legs wobbled, but she kept herself from toppling. There was no reason for it to be so difficult to remain standing where she was, upon this trunk she'd dragged toward the door. Crella breathed deeply and steadied herself. She would see this done, and properly. They had been so careful to clear the room of all the implements that could be used to end a life. There was no crystal, no silvered glass, no lacings or ribbon. How ironic it was that the thing she had found was the very item that almost killed her husband. Huge porcelain vases yet remained, and Crella had broken one to find it produced edges sharp as any glass. And with a piece of cloth wrapped around it to serve as a handle, she had fashioned a rather viable weapon.

Should it be a servant or Cassen, it does not matter. Whoever passes through this door next will die.
From upon her trunk she would have height and momentum to her advantage as she plunged her makeshift blade into the neck of that unlucky man.
Let it be Cassen
, she thought. Her chance of success attacking Cassen was far less than her latest weakly servant, but still she hoped for it to be her tormentor who next arrived. She shuddered thinking of his repulsive touch.
I will make him a eunuch in truth.

But revenge was not her only goal; it was escape. She'd forgone her bath to have enough water to wash the blood from the clothes of her victim—the clothes she would then don herself. The likelihood of walking past the guards unnoticed was not good, but there was a chance. Guards paid servants little notice, and they did their best to avoid eye contact with men of high station. They would not notice she'd escaped for hours, giving her enough time—she hoped—to find Ethel and flee north.

A droplet of sweat fell from her nose and splashed on her foot. It would be so easy to step down and bathe herself in the cool, inviting water, to wash the filth from her body. It would be easier still to use her porcelain blade to cut her thigh as she rest there, and drift peacefully to sleep.
I will do no such thing
, she resolved, readjusting her grip on her weapon.
They have not beaten me.

Crella caught her breath and cocked her head. She strained to hear. Her pulse quickened and her head began to throb as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It was no servant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyell was a fool not to have used this room more often
. The throne room had the musty smell of disuse, and it was a shame, considering its magnificence.
How long will it be before the smell is gone and replaced by the delicate scents of my Sacaran tallow?
Cassen mused, more so about whether he would choose to rule from Rivervale or Adeltia—a decision impossible to make, as he did not yet know what Rivervale had to offer. He made a point now to take in all he could see, nearly all of which was illustrious, but the horizontal drapes that tempered the dawnlight of the ceiling glass were a clear detraction and would need to be discarded. He had come to appreciate most other things of antiquity, but the clothing, the curtains, the linens—essentially all the fabric-based extravagance surrounding his false life—had required feigned interest.

He would light no tallow candles today, however. That duty apparently had been bestowed upon Sture, Stephon's newest friend and ally.

“And now, Your Grace, I will boil the wine inside the chalice.”

Sture gave an impressive performance if truth be told. Derudin had taught the little brat well in his class of magicianry—to call it magic would be an insult to children who believed in such things. Sture had wheeled a large platform just inside the doors of the room. Upon it sat many candles and a metal chalice. It was a good twenty paces from where the lad stood at the foot of the throne, and he had already pretended to light each candle using nothing but his mind or some such nonsense. Cassen did not have the patience to endure the entire farced explanation, choosing instead to envision Sacarat's men storming this very room while Stephon hoped in vain to be defended by this boy's incantations.

Cassen's lack of faith did not prevent the chalice from emitting some sort of gurgling noise, however, accompanied by an impressive amount of steam plumed above. Clearly there was some heat source beneath the platform, but he would not ruin Stephon's delight.
Better to have him bright eyed and gleeful. He will be less likely to destroy himself or the kingdom in what little time he has left to rule.
After witnessing Stephon's sacrifice of Alther firsthand, Cassen had been forced to consider the possibility that Stephon might actually be able to manage such a thing before the Satyr made landfall—which would be a terrible shame.

Sture had ingratiated himself with Stephon by recovering Derudin's diary. It was written in some archaic scribble that only Sture could decipher. Cassen's doubts as to whether he truly translated the contents were somewhat squelched when the words he'd read were things Sture would be unlikely to have concocted—Derudin had not written so positively about Sture himself.

“Impressive, I must say. I would prefer to see your talents demonstrated upon a less willing object, however. If you can boil wine could you not also boil the blood of a man?” Stephon motioned for one of his two guards at the far door to step forward, and he did…reluctantly.

A fine question. I should like to see how Sture navigates these troublesome waters.
Stephon's challenge was a clever one, though it probably could have been accomplished without besoiling the trust of his guard.
Ahh, the ignorance of youth.

Sture turned to face Stephon with a look of concern. “There are…limitations…when it comes to such things.”

Cassen could not help but chuckle from where he stood at the side of Stephon's throne.

His mockery did not go unnoticed by Sture whose disposition darkened in anger. “Living things have natural defenses against magic. Defenses that are in place regardless of training. Derudin had a word for it…”

“Yes, if only you could think of the word,” Cassen said, “that would explain it all away.” Cassen had already shown his hand with his laughter, he might as well let his thoughts be heard.

Sture ignored him and addressed the king. “There must be ways around them. Derudin mentions exceptions in his diary but does not specify. With time and subjects to test on… I am not without ideas.”

“Let's put your best theory to the test, then. Why not? What will it take? Bat wings? The blood of a virgin?” Stephon seemed to wish to join in the ridicule, a small hedge considering his unabashed interest in the subject.

Sture was not offended. “No, nothing like that. May I try on the guard? Or perhaps your advisor?”

It was not at all what Cassen had expected. Sture's eagerness to test his theories was unsettling, and being named gave him an embarrassing rush of nerves.

“Very well,” said Stephon. “You may try on the guard. But please, I wish to see this magic put to a proper use. I already have servants that can light candles and boil things.”

Sture was filled with honest delight as he bounded toward the guard who looked as though he were ready to relieve himself in his armor.

Should he kill this guard, even with some trickery, I may be forced to admire this impudent boy.

A knock on the great metal doors reverberated throughout the throne room, much to Cassen's displeasure.

“Enter.” Stephon sounded equally annoyed.

The doors parted and some very familiar young women were escorted inside. Annora was the first to catch Cassen's eye. She was accompanied by Ethel and some frazzled little girl. Ethel was dressed in servants' clothes, which meant she had either been enjoying a game of play-the-pauper or she had planned to flee the kingdom.
Not an unwise decision
. That Annora looked guilty enough to have been attempting to escape with her was another issue.

“Your Grace,” said the leader of the half-dozen-man escort. He was a humorless looking member of The Guard, the type Cassen despised. “These two were found with the girl you sent us after. I believe one of them is your sister.”

“
Half
-sister,” growled the young king. So far it seemed only Stephon's blood had come to boil.
Perhaps this guard is a mage as well
, thought Cassen bemusedly.

“I beg forgiveness, Your Grace. We believe this to be her servant, though they refused to speak. We thought it best to not mistreat them.”

“Leave us.”

“Yes, Your Grace, but I am duty bound to remind you that we have not yet searched them for weaponry. If you would like us to do so now or at least to remain—”

“If they manage to kill my two guards, mage, and eunuch, I'll simply slap whatever weapons they have from their dainty hands and beat them to obedience myself. Now,
leave us
.”

The doors opened and closed once more, allowing the six escorts to escape.

“You three, approach,” commanded Stephon.

The girls walked slowly toward the throne, the smaller one clinging tightly to Ethel's skirts. Ethel looked regal even in her peasant attire, which did little to hide her figure, and Annora was every bit as captivating as Cassen remembered, though she would not meet his gaze.
How can such dark eyes burn with such brilliant flame?

“King Stephon, Your Grace, I know this Spiceland servant. Under your—” Sture interrupted himself with a clearing of the throat. “Under the Rivervalian tyrant's rule, she thought it acceptable to lay hands upon me. The Spiceland cunt does not know her place. I beg you, let me test my powers upon her so that we do not waste a trained guard.”

Stephon looked disinterested in what Sture had to say and showed the boy his open palm to delay his untimely request. “Do you know what it is that previous kings lacked?”

Cassen had to remind himself that he was indeed more than a mere observer of the events unfolding before him when he realized that he was the one to whom the question had been posed. “No doubt a great many things, Your Grace.”

Stephon scowled with the annoyance of a child deprived of a toy. “If you intend to remain as my First, I would advise you to answer my questions precisely or not at all.” Cassen moved to respond but was cut off. “What they lacked,” continued Stephon, “was broadmindedness and creativity—things I happen to have in abundance.”

Just a few more days—a week at most
, Cassen reminded himself.
And all you will have in abundance will be ignominy.

“Sture, read again the passage from Derudin's book concerning Eaira.”

Stephon's command clearly irked the boy, but he obeyed and retrieved the book from the foot of the throne. After some page flipping he found the spot he had been searching for and frowned. “I still believe these words to be written in error—”

“Read them.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sture shot a look of contempt toward Eaira before he began—little good it did considering her face remained buried in Ethel's side. “Perhaps my most promising student is a young girl by the name of Eaira. Although her true capacity for conductance remains untested, her focus and continence is as impressive as any I have before witnessed. A drop of water boiled within a bucket and a pinpoint of melted glass have been all that she has been willing to share, yet I suspect her capable of far more in time.” Sture shook his head. “The girl has not so much as lit a candle in class. Derudin has written lies upon these pages knowing the book would be found.”

“Cassen, my First, what are your thoughts as to the benefits of magic to the kingdom?” Stephon asked as if he already knew the answer, and he did. Cassen had revealed to him his belief that Derudin was a fraud.

“Your Grace, everything I have seen of magic has been no more than parlor tricks.” Sture scoffed audibly at Cassen's reply. “I am yet to bear witness to anything that could not be explained by natural phenomena.”

“There is little wisdom in such conventional thinking, unless you think it wise to trust the old men that came before you. I have always wondered why it is that those in power did not simply demand more from the ones who call themselves mages. Tonight I shall do just that, however. Sture, I grant you your wish. You will prove to me and my eunuch that your powers are more than tricks. Please, demonstrate your worst upon this Spiceland woman who has wronged you.”

“You will do no such thing!” Ethel had found her voice. “You sit upon the throne you stole from Father, who loved you in spite of your lack of character. You killed the only good man in the entire kingdom. I had once thought our grandfather the least fit man imaginable to rule, but that was only because I never considered you a man. You are a foolish little boy. I only pray that you realize it before you die, when someone with enough courage finally kills you as they all wish to.”

Stephon sucked at his teeth and made a pained face as though he'd bitten into a lemon. “My dear half-sister, I am not the ‘little boy' you once knew.” His voice surprisingly had no anger in it. “While you were sipping tea and dancing with your fellow debutantes, I was trapped in a prison cell. I did not rot in that cell, however. I rebelled. I honed my mind with the whetstone of wisdom provided to me in the form of ancient writings. Any fool can read a book. We all know you have many girlish novels that serve in the place of friends. But a book is not a friend. A book is a tool. And all tools are useless in the hands of those who do not know how to use them.”

The young king stroked his narrow chin as if it had hair upon it. “A passage comes to mind—though I admit I cannot remember the name of the text. A king's greatest enemy wears no armor and carries no sword. She is the one that calls him son, the one that calls him brother, and the one that sleeps beside him. She undermines his every action with appeals for clemency and compassion, and she is the kiss that invites the collapse of his kingdom.”

That Stephon was able to quote so relevant a passage was markedly impressive to Cassen—compassion was, after all, a horrible weakness, the acknowledgment of which was astute.
Perhaps the boy did read a few words while confined.

“But there really is no need for you to fear, Ethel, if you allow me to explain my full intent. Derudin believes the little whelp clutching to you to be a powerful mage, and I mean to put that to trial as well. Guards, seize the servant and the little girl and bring them forward.”