Chapter 58
58
M IKAEN STOOD BEFORE the storm of his father’s wrath. Shortly after midday, he had been summoned to the council chamber by the king’s chamberlain, a tall, skeletal man with a hooked nose, whose sepulchral nature had always unnerved Mikaen as a boy. And it still did, especially as the chamberlain had barged unbidden into his private bath. Mikaen, naked and unmasked, had felt unduly exposed.
Few saw the ruins of his face hidden under the silver plate. The scrabble of scars twisted a corner of his lips into a perpetual leer and knotted his cheek. Half his nose was gone, turned into a piggish hole. A jagged, cratered line stitched his face from brow to jaw.
He kept such horrors away from his beloved Myella, only letting her see him when he was masked, including when he bedded her. The only time he ever removed it was when he took her from behind, her face pushed into a pillow. Even then, he had been too conscious of his mutilation and could hardly perform.
Certainly, he never let his son or daughter see his true face.
Thus, his mood was already foul as he climbed the steps behind the throne room and entered the stone-walled council chamber. Overhead, huge beams held up the roof, while underfoot, centuries-old rugs covered the floor. A fire in the room’s hearth had burned to coals, smoldering as red as his father’s face.
King Toranth ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii, sat at the end of the long ironwood table. He had shed his cloak, exposing an embroidered velvet doublet with a ruffled silken collar. Fury had sharpened his features, softened only by a halo of blond-white curls that had been oiled flat across his brow. A scowl etched his lips. He remained silent, just glaring across the table.
Mikaen waited for his father to speak first. There was no need to goad him further. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Mikaen’s neck, but he dared not wipe it away.
Finally, his father shoved up, pushing his heavy chair back with a resounding scrape. The fire in the king’s eyes almost drove Mikaen back a step, but the captain of his Silvergard stood behind him, blocking any retreat. He and Thoryn both wore light armor, polished to a sheen for this audience with the king.
Toranth motioned to Liege General Reddak vy Lach, who was seated to his right. “Share with the crown’d prince what a gale of skrycrows carried to us. The dispatches from our southern coast.”
Mikaen stiffened his spine. He and Reddak had returned to Azantiia this morning, just as the dawn bells were ringing over the city, as if celebrating the victorious arrival of the Winged Vengeance. But word of all that had transgressed in the smoky Breath of the Urth had reached the castle of Highmount ahead of them. The warship’s decks had been scrubbed of royal blood, a body and head secured in a wood coffin.
Still, his rash act could not be so easily hidden.
Unlike the fete following his bombing of Ekau Watch, there was no cheering, or pounding of swords on shields, or flow of ale, or endless recitations in praise of his bold action. The atmosphere had been grim. All knew that the Southern Klashe must eventually react.
Last night, aware of this threat, Reddak had ordered the Vengeance home. Before leaving the Breath, the liege general had sent forth all the remaining ships to scour the smoky pall for the Falcon’s Wing, the other Klashean warship, which had escaped their ambush and vanished.
Reddak stood. He glanced around at the handful of the king’s council in attendance. They were his father’s inner circle, his most trusted advisers, which included the provost marshal of the crown, the grand treasurer of the territories, the mayor of Azantiia, and the high seat of Kepenhill’s Council of Eight. The only other attendee stood behind the king’s left shoulder: the dour-faced Chamberlain Mallock.
Reddak cleared his throat, but before he could speak, a latecomer rushed in, passing around Mikaen and Thoryn. With swift strides, Shrive Wryth swept to a bow before the king, then rose to take his position behind Toranth’s other shoulder.
“Apologies, sire,” Wryth whispered, breathless and flushed. “It’s a long climb from the depths of the Shrivenkeep.”
Mikaen’s father waved away this excuse and nodded to Reddak. “Go on.”
The liege general skipped any preamble. “The Shield Islands have been attacked,” Reddak declared flatly. “Brought to ruin.”
Treasurer Hesst, a crow of a man with graying black hair, shifted straighter. “The Shields?” He glanced to the king. “Those islands supply a majority of the rare minerals we need for procuring our ship’s lifting gasses.” He turned his pinched, dark eyes back on Reddak. “How many towns and refineries did they bomb?”
“They didn’t just bomb the Shields,” Reddak clarified. “They laid waste to them. The main island of Helios is a fiery cauldron, choked in smoke, flames still burning. All that is visible are the giant stones of the Southern Henge that crown the island’s highest hill. A half dozen smaller outer islands also burn.”
“How?” Provost Balyn struggled to stand, but his rotund belly dragged him down. “How is that possible?”
“Naphlaneum,” Reddak answered. “Reports describe the Klashean warship, the Falcon’s Wing, raining fire across the island in a continual flaming storm. A few islanders made it to the boats, but thousands died. The fires will burn for months, if not years. And even after that, Helios will be a dead burnt rock in those seas. Nothing will grow there for centuries.”
Mikaen had read of the horrors of naphlaneum. The Klashe rarely deployed such a devastating weapon, reserving it only for the direst circumstances. And even then, it was usually a tool employed for a more precise strike, not wholesale slaughter.
Torusk, the mayor of Azantiia, shook his head. “But why? Why such fury?”
Before Reddak could answer, King Toranth pointed an arm at his son. “There stands the reason.”
Mikaen clenched his molars, refusing to balk as all eyes turned his way.
“Word must have reached Kysalimri,” the king continued, “about the cold-blooded execution of Emperor Makar’s son by my son.”
Mayor Torusk’s mouth dropped. He clearly had not been informed about Prince Paktan’s death.
“And I wager both my bollocks,” Toranth said, “that such an attack is only the start. There will be no negotiation or recompense that will assuage Makar’s loss. Only blood and ruin.”
“What of the Falcon’s Wing now?” Wryth asked softly, plainly cautious not to draw the king’s ire his way. “Prince Mareesh’s warship?”
Reddak answered. “After dumping its vast hold of naphlaneum, it was last seen vanishing back into the Breath, likely returning to the Klashe to replenish its armaments.”
Wryth nodded. “Then perhaps we can anticipate a short reprieve before further attacks commence. We must be ready.”
Mikaen’s gaze narrowed on the Shrive. Wryth had shown no reaction to Reddak’s report. He had likely heard about it already from his network of eyes and ears throughout Highmount.
Still, Mikaen studied the man. Wryth stood with his arms folded into the wide sleeves of his gray robe. His eyes, banded in a black tattoo, shone darkly.
Those eyes…
They gave Wryth away. It wasn’t only the lack of surprise. Wryth was excited. But not about what had transpired at the Shield Islands. Something else, something that made him late, which even now sought to pull him away.
Wryth caught him staring.
Mikaen kept his face stoic. He had known Wryth since he was a boy. The Shrive had been as much Mikaen’s shadow as the king’s. Only of late, Mikaen had begun to rankle at the man’s presence, cringing at his whispers. It had grown to where he could hardly stand to look at him anymore. Mikaen also knew Wryth was dangerous, full of secrets and hidden ambitions—but for now, also useful.
“But how are we to get ready?” Marshal Balyn asked the table. “What manner of strike from the Southern Klashe can we anticipate next?”
The king answered, returning to his seat. “If the Klasheans ever catch Kanthe, there’s no doubt they’ll be sending me his head.”
Mikaen hid a sneer.
As if we’d be so lucky.
The mere mention of his brother’s name set his heart to pounding and rushed fire throughout his body, paining the scars under his mask, a permanent reminder of a traitorous attack.
“What is going on with your other son?” Treasurer Hesst asked. “Has he truly absconded with two of the emperor’s children? If so, why? And where has he gone?”
Toranth sighed, some of his storm abating. “Maybe he seeks to return to Hálendii, to use the ransom of Makar’s son and daughter to buy his way back into my good graces.”
Mikaen clenched both fists, frustrated and furious. His father forever sought ways to forgive Kanthe, to excuse his failings, to believe the best of him. It had been no different in the past. Kanthe was always failing in his studies, often found more drunk than sober. Yet, the king still held out hope.
Even now.
But for Mikaen, no fault could be overlooked, only punished. Mikaen was held out as the silver son, whose glorious shine must never be blemished. As a boy, he had been cast into the Legionary, to be hardened further, tempered to a strong steel. Still, every slip required castigation and humiliation.
Like now, with the death of an enemy prince.
Toranth continued, still holding out hope. “Kanthe was clever enough to abscond with his two imri captives. It was clearly an attack directed at the heart of the empire. Even Makar believes my son was in league with us. And maybe, in his own way, he was.”
Mikaen could stand it no longer. He took a furious step forward, driven by the fire inside him, by the pain hidden under silver.
“Feck that!” he blurted out.
All eyes turned on him, accompanied by a range of shocked expressions.
He ignored them all. “It’s been four days since the supposed abductions. Where is my brother? Why hasn’t he come on bended knee to us all? Either he plots with another realm, or the empire is lying and making fools of us all. There can be no other reason.”
Mikaen clenched his fists, drawing blood from his palms, trembling with frustration, impotent to get his father to face reality. He knew of only one way to make his point, to leave no doubt.
He grabbed his mask and ripped it away, exposing the ruin beneath.
Gasps rose all around.
“Does this look like the act of a peacemaker or a clever scoundrel?” he demanded, fury flecking his lips. “Or is it the mark of a traitor?”
Thoryn came up and placed a hand on his shoulder. Mikaen shook, tears welling. He turned toward the silver of his captain, both to hide his tears and fumble to fix his mask in place.
Thoryn helped him. “I’ve got it.”
Mikaen let him, a whisper spilling from his lips. “Why can’t he see me?”
Still, except for Thoryn, there was no sympathy to be found in this chamber.
His outburst only inflamed his father. King Toranth was back on his feet, ready to punish as always. He struck Mikaen where he knew it would hurt the worst.
“Maybe I made the wrong choice when I picked a firstborn,” Toranth growled, raising a specter that had haunted Mikaen all his life.
The room went dead quiet. Everyone here had heard the whispers, the rumors, the sleights, the innuendos. Mikaen and Kanthe had been born twins, which was not unusual. The royal families of Azantiia had a long history of twin births, some born with the same face, others with different appearances. And in the tumult of those births, sometimes the order got blurred, the bloody babes mixed.
Still, one would have to be declared the firstborn to firm a lineage.
Especially that of a king.
It was whispered that Toranth had purposefully disordered their births, to lift higher the son who looked more like him, with blond curls and a matching pale complexion. Whereas Kanthe took after their mother, with his coppery dark skin and coal-black hair.
Mikaen wondered if such rumors were the first wedge driven between the two brothers. Even now, deeper down than he would care to admit, a part of him believed this story. Such doubts seeded a measure of insecurity in him and an animosity toward Kanthe.
Still, when it came to the official lineage, none dared say otherwise. Even the midwives and healers had all died under strange circumstances—or so it was said, but those stories could be fabrications to embellish those rumors and prop up such gossip.
Not even their mother could attest to the truth.
After a hard pregnancy and harder birth, she waned, plagued by a ceaseless melancholia. She slowly wound down, refusing to eat and wasting away. Some said she took her own life, others that she expired on her own. But no one disputed how she doted on her two boys, cherishing them equally.
Such was not the same with their father.
He had loved their mother with all his heart, never taking another wife afterward, especially as there was no need to sire any more sons. He took what little relief he needed at his palacio of pleasure serfs. Perhaps it was why the king forever sought to cast Kanthe in a better light, seeing in his dark son the shadow of the woman he once loved.
Still, it had left little room for another son in his heart.
Toranth amply demonstrated it now, red-faced and seething. “You’re lucky you have children. Especially a boy. At least, one sword of yours hasn’t shamed me. We can only pray that your son proves to have a better temperament than his father.”
Mikaen withstood this beratement. The mention of his son, Othan, poured steel down his spine. He intended to be a far better father to his son than the king had ever been. He added this oath to the many he had made concerning his children’s welfare. Knowing this, he easily withstood the fury in Toranth’s face.
Still, Mikaen breathed heavily. Thoryn kept a steady hand on his shoulder, but there was no need for such support. Mikaen refused to debase himself any further after exposing himself so starkly. He reached up and shifted the mask more firmly into place.
Movement past the king’s shoulder drew his eye.
Wryth shifted and whispered in Toranth’s ear. His father leaned closer, ever bending to the Shrive’s counsel. Toranth gave a small nod, sagging away some of his anger, clearly appeased by his words.
All the while, the Shrive’s gaze never left Mikaen. Only now those eyes were shrouded, impossible to read. Wryth was hiding something.
But what?
Finally, his father straightened and waved Mikaen off. “Begone. Leave it to the rest of us to discuss how to amend your mistake. Before it brings down the kingdom.”
Mikaen gave a curt bow, though it strained the steel that had hardened his back. He turned on a heel and strode brusquely away with Thoryn in tow.
Behind him, he heard the king ask Reddak, “Is there any way of discerning Kanthe’s plot? If his actions were indeed in service to the kingdom—as Emperor Makar believes—is there some way we can support him?”
Mikaen took a deep breath and continued through the door. He would be goaded no longer. He didn’t care what Kanthe was plotting.
Only that I be the one that ends it.