She is dead, then.
Hazerial stood in the high place looking down upon the wreckage of the mad queen. Masked, black-clad priests buzzed about like flies over carrion. They arranged her limbs, so frail-looking and delicate in death. With strange tenderness, one priest leaned over her and brushed a gory tangle of wet black hair from where the blood stuck it to her face.
What had been her face, rather.
Beholding the damage, Hazerial found he couldn’t call her former state being to mind. She had been beautiful, he knew that, but no details came to him. Even when he tried to relive moments from their past, her face appeared as a red ruin, lines of blood oozing down her slender white throat to meet in the valley between her breasts and soak her ragged bodice. The words she’d said to him, raged at him, cackled at him somehow echoed from that massacre above her chin.
Izak might be squeamish, but no one could accuse Etianiel son of the same ailment. The Josean-blessed never settled for half-measures, and this one had done a thorough job of ending Jadarah, that much was certain.
This was no simple rebellion. Lie with a man’s wife and you near enough sat his throne. Kill her, and well…
How long had they carried on, Jadarah and Etianiel? How many wagging tongues knew? The boy had done him a favor killing off the queen’s Thorns, but how often had her Thorns spread the rumors while they had still drawn breath? How many of the crown prince’s Thorns knew, and who had they told?
Moreover, how much of that spreading gossip had been his son’s intent? If word of the near-incestuous affair leaked out, Hazerial would be viewed as weak and impotent, the prince as daring and powerful.
The people wanted a Josean-blessed king—it was a natural desire in a nation at war—but an Eketra-blessed king was the sovereign they needed. Left to his own devices, their beloved prince could never have brought them this far. The common folk sang their songs of the warrior and his battles, thinking nothing of the hand that laid the groundwork and directed the hero where to fight. They loved their Josean for his youth and his courage and, above all, his victories.
How best to bring Etianiel to heel? How to remind him who held the warhorse’s reins, without jeopardizing Hazerial’s own victory against the Helat?
The sun fell down a red western sky, and the shades of blue and purple climbed in the east. A bruised twilight rose on the last high place the mad queen had sacrificed upon. Overhead, hazy lines of the ghost city began to fade in, impatient for full dark.
Beneath the hastily constructed platform and around the body, the priests stacked firewood and bits of broken furniture from around the fort. They stuffed bundles of kindling into the gaps.
By the strong gods’ fire she had been anointed a queen, and by fire she would return to them.
Plucked on the cusp of womanhood from the fires of her village by raiders, within a twelvemonth the girl who would become queen had birthed and sacrificed the first of hundreds of infants. The strong gods had not called Jadarah—she had demanded of them until they could ignore her no longer. Rancor such as the sane could never know had brought down the wrath of the strong gods upon the raiders who’d thought to keep her for their own. Every man, woman, child, and animal in that encampment had died in agony, except for her. Jadarah had emerged bathed in red, their bastard children’s bloody fingerbones knotted into her hair like beads and the mad grin of a self-made priestess stretching her face.
He saw it again now, that fine-boned countenance, touched by smoke and lit by the fires of reprisal, her black eyes blazing with fervor, her lips as dark as heartblood. He saw her as he had when he’d ridden up on the blazing encampment. Led by Eketra and the scent of blood and death, flanked by his brother and a small squad of Royal Thorns. Hazerial had known instantly that the gorgeous and terrible young creature cackling her victory at the sky was his new bride.
Ahixandro had tried to deter him of course. Queen Isia had given Hazerial two strong, healthy sons, his brother had argued, she was faithful and obedient and of noble blood nearly as ancient as House Khinet. But Isia had been their father’s choice for queen. She had served Ikario’s purpose and enough of Hazerial’s. It was time for a new queen, a queen with zeal for the strong gods that matched his own.
Seventeen years Hazerial had suffered her insanities and mood swings and dalliances as the payment for her usefulness. She had birthed him a weapon against the Helat, seeded the girl for him, called down the strong gods’ words when he demanded them. The mad queen had been a tool that served him well.
A tool his son had stolen and destroyed.
How best to replace Jadarah with an asset of equal or greater value?
Beneath the silent ghost city, with the wind tearing at his robes and the priests flitting around the corpse like restless scavengers, Hazerial prayed to his patron strong goddess for guidance.
And Eketra answered.
***
When Etian arrived at her quarters, Seleketra was arrayed in an emerald gown that set off her ghostlit eyes. The dress left her delicate shoulders bare, hugged her breasts, and flared wide about her hips. The dusky, alluring scent she favored teased the air. She couldn’t have had more than ten minutes to prepare, but there was no hint of the sleep she must have been roused from. She looked every inch the demigoddess.
Her return appraisal of him was less favorable. Whatever she saw in his face, it made her frown.
She reached out and cupped his cheek. “Are you well?”
He had a sudden urge to apologize. To tell her everything.
But Hazerial would be warier than ever now. The slightest hint of his intentions, the smallest hesitation could destroy everything Etian held dear.
“I’m fine.” On impulse, he kissed her. She tasted as sweet and enticing as she smelled. He threaded his fingers through her silky hair and wished he had stayed with her yesterday instead of returning to his trap. “Or rather, I will be once this audience with the king is over.”
Trustingly, Seleketra slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and let him lead her out into the stone corridor.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
The last weak light of day cast their shadows on central stone column of the staircase as they passed the archer loops lining the spiraling stair. The narrow slots peered out onto the open ground around the redoubt, showing soil watered for centuries by blood.
Etian watched the battlefield until they descended around the next turn and left the view behind them.
“Why has His Majesty summoned us so early?” Seleketra wondered. “Is it urgent?”
He wants to bring the world back under his control as quickly as possible, Etian thought.
For an Eketra-blessed king, nothing could be more urgent than that.
***
Out the commander’s tower window, twilight turned to night. The ghost city glowed against an empty starless sky, shining on the battlements and halls and barracks the queen had turned into a butcher’s den of worship for the strong gods.
A Royal Thorn from the sitting room notified Hazerial that Etianiel had arrived with his courtesan. He dismissed the Thorn and left the Josean-blessed prince to stew.
A servant brought a lavish breakfast and, at Hazerial’s order, fetched an equally extravagant spread to the sitting chamber. Not long after, another Thorn brought a young serving boy up through the hidden stair at the back of the commander’s suite. Hazerial broke his fast on that, sending the uneaten food, coffee, and wine away through the same discreet passage.
A bit childish, perhaps, this sleight of hand, but necessary to maintaining the image of unassailable strength. In any case, Hazerial would be prepared if his youngest son’s delusions of power and cunning extended to attacking him.
When Etianiel must have finished or spurned the food uneaten, Hazerial finally deigned to join his son.
The fire in the sitting chamber crackled merrily away, but it did little to push back the harsh northern chill. On the border, frosts appeared as late as Summerlight, and this night would no doubt yield a healthy crop of hoary crystals on the piled bodies within the walls.
Never one for lounging, Etianiel was halfway across the floor, pacing. At the sound of Hazerial’s entry, the prince spun. His smoked lenses glinted in the firelight before turning transparent once more.
A trick of memory made him look like Ahix then. Proud, dark, severe; ever ready to die or be pronounced the victor.
Sword and blade had been taken from the crown prince before Hazerial’s Thorns had allowed him entry, and Etianiel had brought no guard of his own.
Yet he hadn’t come unarmed.
Close to the hearth, Seleketra perched on a backless stool, the fanciful sigils etched in her skin dancing in the firelight. The consort held herself with a regal pride suited to the demigoddess who had felled Josean.
A thrum of satisfaction pulsed in Hazerial’s veins at the clear hand of his beloved Eketra.
“Your Commander of Thorns could not attend you?” Hazerial asked, feigning surprise.
“The day’s events left Izak with a weak stomach.”
“An excellent summation of your brother’s fortitude.” Hazerial strode to the hearth. “This proceeding is grave indeed, Etianiel. You’ll no doubt agree that there can be no faintness of heart when passing judgment on such a heinous murder.”
Near the fire the courtesan’s glowing green eyes jumped from heir to sovereign. Had Etianiel failed to enlighten her as to the reason for this audience?
Sighing wearily, Hazerial stared into the flames. “I would ask how long you have been bedding my queen behind my back, but such pettiness yields little now that she’s dead. Jadarah was a priestess the likes of which the kingdom has not seen in centuries. Mad queen, you and your brother called her. Ardent worshipper, the strong gods named her. They spoke to her. When she cried out, they heard her voice.”
He turned to face his son. “How am I to proceed when my own successor dares destroy such a valuable creature? A gift handed to the kingdom by the strong gods. This is treason, blasphemy, and worse.”
No intimidation flickered in Etianiel’s dark eyes. He believed he had outwitted his sire.
Hazerial seated himself on the highbacked bloodstained chair and pretended to blunder directly into the ploy the Josean-blessed prince had laid by bringing the girl with him.
“I have no choice but to show you what you’ve cost the kingdom and stolen from me.” With a twitch calculated to look cross, Hazerial adjusted the robe of state over his legs. “You violated my queen and murdered her. Now you will choose which of your own women I shall likewise use—your wife or your consort.”
To the prince’s credit, he did not leap at the choice he must have expected.
“I refuse the terms,” he said. “Whichever woman I choose, Your Majesty will only carry out the sentence on the other.”
Hazerial scoffed. “If you believed it to be so simple, you would have chosen the opposite woman you wished to live. One of them will suffer as Jadarah did, Etianiel. Choose or I will choose for you.”
At the hearth, the haughty Seleketra clasped her hands in her lap, her back stiffened rail straight. Only the increased rise and fall of her exquisite breasts and the subtle tremor of her full bottom lip betrayed her fear. She might not have known her role in coming, but stretched out on the altar, not even a whore could miss that she was the sacrifice.
Stubbornness hardened Etianiel’s features. “Swear to the strong gods, upon their blood and blessing, that whichever woman I choose to live will not die by your hand, your magic, your influence, or your wish, and should the terms be broken, the Blood of the Strong Gods, the crown, and the realm pass immediately and irrevocably to me.”
Hazerial pretended to consider. “Both women are equally infamous thanks to their entanglements with the vaunted second coming of Josean. Whichever you choose, Etianiel, know that her usage will be announced throughout the kingdom. I would not stoop to touch my son’s discards, but the Castle Sangmere garrison and the men of the City of Blood will have no such compunctions. Every man among them who desires a turn will be able to say that he had the woman the crown prince once had. It is a humiliation that will echo through history.”
“Do you agree to my terms?” Etianiel demanded.
“I do.”
To seal the oath, Hazerial took a knife from his traveling desk and sliced open his palm, letting the Blood of the Strong Gods flow.
Rather than run down his arm and soak his sleeve, a globule of heartblood, dark and purple-red, lifted from the wound and rose into the air.
“By the Blood of the Strong Gods through which their triune blessing was bestowed upon me,” Hazerial vowed, “I swear that no harm shall come to the woman whom you choose to spare, either by my hand, my magic, my influence, or my wish. With this, I bind my word that the only woman upon whose head retribution for the violation and murder of Queen Jadarah shall be visited is the woman Crown Prince Etianiel names for condemnation.”
The girl’s survival instinct finally overcame her acting ability.
“Etian,” she pleaded, her voice tremulous with dread.
“I name Seleketra, Royal Consort, as the condemned.”
Hazerial nodded. “So be it. Give her hand into mine, and the debt of a stolen wife is sealed.”
She struggled, of course. Like the crown prince who had sold her into this, Seleketra thought her punishment would come immediately. But even strengthened by terror, she was nowhere near strong enough to claw her way out of Etianiel’s battle-hardened grasp.
When her hand touched Hazerial’s, the king clamped his fingers shut. The floating globule of heartblood gave off a flare of brilliant magenta, then sank into the back of her hand, disappearing into the pale tattoo-crossed flesh and sealing his oath not to harm his son’s wife.
Smiling, Hazerial locked the energies in the struggling Seleketra’s blood and had a Thorn carry her off to be confined under watch until they returned to Castle Sangmere.
Carefully. Hazerial wanted no harm to come to the royal bastard growing in her womb.
***
Izak felt the moment Etian’s game reached its conclusion. Until then, the order had choked him, like a bit bloodying the mouth of a plunging destrier. As soon as it ended, the magical restraints released.
A black weight dropped onto the pit of his stomach. He scrubbed his hands across his lowered face, then raised his head.
He didn’t know why he kept praying to a god who wasn’t listening. The Blasphemous One loved only the Helat—he knew that. He knew it. But instead of accepting the truth, some idiot shred of hope kept him laying his broken faith on the chopping block and watching ax after ax fall.
Izak rose from his seat on the gore-splattered clothing trunk slowly, like an old man.
Rake stopped him at the doorway. “Etian said—”
“The audience is over. Can’t you feel it?” Izak couldn’t even summon the energy to snap at Rake. He was tired to his bones, sick and empty and angry. “Get out of the way. I’ve got to go tell my sister that her mother is dead.”
