Chapter 13
13
W HAT AM I doing?
Kanthe followed Frell down the winding stairs, passing one tier after another. Throughout most of the descent, he had tried to dissuade Frell from this course, from bringing his dark fears to the bright thronehall of Azantiia—and certainly from traipsing into the Shrivenkeep.
He finally gave up and went silent.
Every student of Kepenhill knew what lay beneath the roots of their school, the shadowy halls of the holy Shriven. It was said the Shrivenkeep delved as deep as Kepenhill climbed high.
Of course, rumors abounded of the place: of arcane rituals, of chained monsters, of witchcraft and warlockry. Kepenhill’s teachers sought to allay such stories. They insisted the keep beneath the school was merely a monastic hermitage of deep study and scholarly pursuits. The Shriven—those rarified few who achieved the Highcryst in both alchymy and religion—continued loftier arcane studies down there. They pursued dangerous inquiries, involving deep meditations and herbal-induced trances. They delved into cabalistic experiments and sought paths beyond all boundaries of horizon and history. To ensure secrecy, their labors had to be buried away from the common eye, even from the oversight of Kepenhill’s alchymists and hieromonks.
It also didn’t help with the gossip-mongering when the Shriven themselves were rarely seen. No one quite knew how they came and went from their keep. Whispers of secret passages and hidden doors kept students wary to be alone, lest they be whisked to some bloody sacrifice. Compounding this, students had disappeared, vanishing without a trace—though, Kanthe suspected those missing few were merely malcontents who sought the freedom beyond the school’s walls.
I certainly appreciate that desire.
Whether any of the stories of the Shrivenkeep were true, Kanthe did not have any particular desire to find out. Still, he continued after Frell down the steps.
The alchymist slowed as they reached the first tier of the school. The staircase spiraled even deeper. Frell paused before leading Kanthe down into the dark roots under the school. He glanced back over a shoulder.
“Prince Kanthe,” he warned, “perhaps you should return to your rooms. I will do my best to argue my way into the keep’s librarie. Though permission is rare, it’s not unheard of. In addition, I know several Shriven who will at least consider my plea.”
Kanthe waved for Frell to continue their descent. “When it comes to prying open the Shrivenkeep’s doors, you may need more help than a couple of friends on the inside. If you truly wish to gain entrance, a prince at your side is far better than a wind out your arse.”
Frell sighed and continued down. “Perhaps you’re correct.”
Kanthe followed. He was certainly not above using his station to help Frell in his cause—but such generosity was also self-serving. Hopefully his mentor would spend many days in the librarie, or at least long enough for Kanthe to devise another way to keep Frell from bringing portents of doom to the king.
With things settled, they passed under the first tier and descended even deeper. The stairs wound another five turns before they ended at an ebonwood door strapped and studded in iron. The sight of it sent a shiver down Kanthe’s back, especially the emblem carved into its lintel. It was a book yet again, bound not in chains or nettles, but in the grip of a fanged viper. Such a symbol warned of the poisonous knowledge found beyond this threshold.
Frell stepped forward, removed a key from his pocket, and undid the lock. As he pulled the door ajar, Kanthe stopped him with a palm against the ebonwood. Frell scowled in consternation, but Kanthe shook his head.
Don’t.
Voices reached them both—faint at first, then clearer with the door peeked open.
Kanthe had no trouble recognizing the gruff authority of his father. He also knew from long experience that it was best not to catch the king by surprise. He also feared Frell might use this sudden opportunity to blurt out his fears right here and now.
I can’t let that happen.
Keeping his palm on the door, Kanthe motioned Frell to the side so they could spy upon the proceedings in the next room. Four figures clustered in the center of a cavernous space that had been carved out of glassy black stone. The walls and roof had been cut into large facets, each mirroring the movement in the room. A score of ebonwood doors, identical to the one they hid behind, lined the walls, each with a different symbol carved into its lintel.
Where do all those lead to?
Kanthe remembered the rumors of the Shrivenkeep’s secret passages. Certainly, one must lead to Highmount, especially as the king was here without his usual retinue of guards.
He studied his father, who had come dressed in polished kneeboots, silk leggings, and an embroidered velvet doublet. A thick dark blue cloak draped from shoulder to ankle, as if any garment could truly hide the grandeur of Highking Toranth ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii, rightful ruler of all the kingdom and its territories.
His father’s pale and stony countenance was reflected a hundredfold in the polished facets of the walls. His features were all sharp-edged but softened by a halo of white-blond hair, the curls of which had been oiled nearly flat. A scowl of disappointment—an expression well familiar to Kanthe—currently marred his lips.
“You lost the bronze relic?” Toranth boomed. “An artifact that could assure our victory in the war to come. Is that why you flew all the way back here, to lay your failure at my feet?”
“A setback, I assure you, Your Majesty. One that will be duly corrected once we find the escaped prisoner who stole it. All of Anvil is being tossed and turned over. The thief cannot keep such strangeness out of sight for long.”
Kanthe knew the man down on one knee, recognizing the gray robe, the black tattoo banded across his eyes, and the silver hair braided around his neck. It was the Shrive who was always whispering darkly in his father’s ear. The man kept his head bowed, trying his best to soothe the fury before him with determined obeisance.
Frell hissed under his breath, “Wryth.”
The single word held enough disgust to fill a thousand-page tome.
So, I’m not the only one who knows this bastard.
“I will return on the morrow’s wyndship back to Guld’guhl,” the Shrive promised. “I will personally see to the artifact’s return. My entire life has been devoted to the search for ancient magicks born of lost alchymies. I will not let this godling in bronze slip our nets.”
“It must not,” the king ordered. “Liege General Haddan fears your thief may try to ransom this great weapon to the Klashe to buy his freedom. He believes it’s the cur’s only recourse.”
“Indeed. We have already taken such a possibility into our accounting. Klashe spies—those known to us—have been rounded up and questioned under torture. In addition, the docks of Anvil are watched through every bell. There is no escape. The godling will be ours again.”
The king’s shoulders shifted away from his ears. “Make it happen,” he finished with less fire. “In the meantime, I have another problem to address. A plea from a second cousin across the bay. Trouble out in Myr.”
Wryth’s eyes narrowed at this last.
But Kanthe’s father dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. “Attend to your search in Anvil. Haddan and I will address this other matter. If we’re successful, we might not even need ancient magicks and godlings to ensure our victory.”
The interest in Wryth’s face sharpened, but he simply stood and backed a step, offering a humble bow that from the Shrive came off as mocking.
The king missed this as he turned to the tall youth standing in light armor at his side, another figure all too familiar to Kanthe. “Mikaen, it seems in short order we’ll find a use for your younger brother yet.”
Kanthe stiffened.
What’s this?
The king turned to the fourth member of the group. The figure was as round as he was short, dressed in the white of the hieromonks, but he was no simple teacher. He was the speaker of the Council of Eight, the head of all of Kepenhill.
“Abbot Naff, summon my son and have him brought to my council chamber by the first bell of Eventoll.”
“It will be done,” the man said with a bow of his head.
Kanthe shifted back as the group began to disperse. Frell silently closed the door and keyed the lock. He then herded Kanthe up the steps.
Neither of them spoke until they’d reached the third tier of the school.
“What was that all about?” Kanthe stammered. “Ancient magicks? A great weapon? A godling in bronze?”
“I don’t know,” Frell admitted. “But if that damnable Wryth is involved, it can’t be good. Of late, the Iflelen have grown stronger in the darkness of Shrivenkeep. A turn not unexpected. Too often, words of wisdom are drowned out by the drumbeats of war. Fear stokes direr ambitions, sometimes even in the best of us. And in the worst of us…”
Frell’s words died off.
Kanthe pictured Shrive Wryth. “What are we going to do?”
Frell increased his pace. “First, we’re going to make sure I join you in that council chamber.”
Kanthe stopped. “You’re not planning to bring up—”
“No, we’ll leave the moon to the Son and Daughter for now. Something is amiss in the swamps of Myr. I don’t quite fathom how this all hangs together, but I put little stock on chance and happenstance. Something is stirring. Here, off in Guld’guhl, and now in Myr.”
Kanthe remembered the black missive on the alchymist’s table, wondering again what message had been sent to Frell. He rubbed his throat as he climbed the steps. Like Frell, he also sensed forces just out of sight.
Only for him, they felt like a noose tightening around his neck.
A S THE FIRST bell of Eventoll died away, Kanthe stood straight-backed before the long council table, as stiff as the finery he had dusted off and the formal boots he had donned after his lyeleaf bath. He’d even curried his dark velvet half-cloak until it shone.
Best play the prince while I can.
He kept his hands clasped behind him, his shoulders back. Before him, the table was sparsely seated. It was as if the gathering in the Shrivenkeep had simply shifted to this stone chamber behind the thronehall. Only Kanthe was relieved to discover that Shrive Wryth had been replaced by Liege General Haddan sy Marc.
The head of Hálendii’s legions sat to the right of the king. Even seated, he towered over Kanthe’s father. The man kept his head shaved, all the easier to don his helm, though Kanthe suspected it was more about baring his scars for all to see, especially the jagged line that cut from crown to jaw on his left side. He was likely prouder of those hard-earned wounds than any ribbon, badge, or medal. The man’s black eyes were always polished flints. It was doubtful his lips had ever formed a smile—at least, not that Kanthe had ever seen.
The only stranger here was a reed-thin man with straw-colored locks who sat a few seats down from the others, as if not allowed any closer to the king. The man’s gaze darted all about, when it was not directed at his lap. His brow shone damply. His raiment was neat and clean, but far from the regalia on display here and looked several years behind in fashion, like the silly ruffles of his shirt.
Kanthe’s father must have noted the direction of his attention. “Vice-Mayor Harlac hy Charmane, from Fiskur across the bay,” King Toranth introduced. “A second cousin to you and your brother.”
The man stiffened, near to leaping out of his seat. He looked from king to prince to yet another prince.
So, a poor relation, one clearly out of place here.
Kanthe noted a small smile of derision on Mikaen’s face. His twin lounged to their father’s left, leaning on the arm of his chair. He had trimmed his gold-blond hair to a skullcap of tight curls, again likely for ease of suiting into armor. He looked far harder than when last the two of them had faced one another. His sea-blue eyes had an ice to them now. He seemed far more a man than Kanthe, no longer the boon companion who chased his younger brother through these halls, shouting and laughing.
In even this way, they had grown apart.
Dressed in his best finery, Kanthe still felt like a coarse chunk of coal before a hard, polished diamond.
Their father spoke again. “Your cousin Harlac has come to us with a tale both strange and tragic. A difficulty that his brother, the highmayor of Fiskur, seeks our help to amend.”
Kanthe heard Frell stir behind his left shoulder. The alchymist had accompanied him here after the summons from Abbot Naff, offering his assistance. Naff had tried to discourage his attendance, but the abbot had no more luck than Kanthe in turning aside the stubborn alchymist.
“What tale did our cousin tell?” Kanthe asked, finally speaking up.
The king leaned forward. “The mayor’s son—who was in his seventhyear at the Cloistery—was slain most brutally. His head ripped from his shoulders by a monstrous Myr bat.”
Kanthe inwardly flinched, knowing any outward reaction would be judged.
“The mayor asks for a force to accompany his daughter back to school, and once there, to rid the swamps of such a savage monster.”
Kanthe frowned. He knew such beasts numbered in the thousands, hunting throughout the swamps and marshes. “How can we possibly know which beast slew our cousin’s son?” he asked, stymied how any just vengeance could be achieved.
“Ah.” The king motioned to the liege general. “I’ll let Haddan elaborate.”
The huge man cleared his throat of what sounded like a blockage of rocks. “We’ll proceed into the swamps with a full century of our forces.”
Kanthe choked back a gasp.
A hundred knights? For a hunt?
But Haddan wasn’t done. “And they’ll be led by a score of Vyrllian Guard.”
Now Kanthe did gasp, which earned a humorless smile from his older twin. The Vyrllian Guard contained the legion’s most elite fighters, battle-hardened with faces entirely tattooed in crimson, both to mark their blooded status and to strike fear into their enemies.
“We will not be hunting for a lone killer,” Haddan continued. “For too long, such monsters have plagued the swamps. We will commence a great hunt, to eliminate as many of the foul beasts as we can over the turn of a moon. If we can’t rid them all, we’ll at least knock them back and give them good caution to ever return to the haunts of men.”
Kanthe felt sick, trying to imagine such a slaughter. As a hunter, he had learned to take only what one needed from a forest or meadow. Wanton killing for no other reason than bloodshed struck him as cruel and heartless. He could not even stomach the steel traps he sometimes encountered. When he did, he would spring them with a branch or stick, lest those sharp teeth imprison and needlessly torture a beast.
Frell stepped forward into Kanthe’s stunned silence. “Excuse me, sire, but if I might make an inquiry, as I spent nine years in Myr.”
Toranth waved permission.
Frell bowed his thanks, then spoke. “If I’m not overstepping myself, I imagine that such a culling of these creatures goes beyond mere vengeance.”
The king lifted one brow. “It seems there is a reason you’re the youngest of Kepenhill’s Council of Eight.”
“I’m honored, sire.”
“But you are correct. There is another purpose behind this hunt. For the past year, Haddan and Abbot Naff have strategized ways to strengthen our weaponry. From novel designs of war machines to new chymistries of quicklime and pitch.”
Kanthe remembered the loud boom that had shaken through Kepenhill.
His father continued, “But the Shriven have suggested another way to add potency and malignancy to our arrows, blades, and spears.”
Frell nodded. “Poison.”
The king’s other brow rose to join the first. “Exactly. It is well known that the venom of these winged beasts is inordinately deadly. No man has survived it. The Shriven believe that if that poison could be properly distilled from the glands of those monsters that the lethality of our weaponry could be increased a hundredfold.”
Kanthe swallowed hard, both impressed and horrified.
“Which brings us to a last detail,” Toranth said. “I said no man has ever survived this venom—but a woman has. A blind girl who was involved in the attack atop the Cloistery. Not only did she survive the poison, but her sight was returned to her. Surely such a miracle is a sign from the gods.”
Frell’s shoulders tightened.
“I want her brought back to Highmount,” Toranth said. “Here where the Shriven and our physiks can properly study her in full. Blood, bile, flesh, whatever is necessary. Knowledge of her uniqueness might prove valuable. And whether it does or not, such a blessing from the gods should not languish in the swamps.”
The king’s gaze finally fixed upon his dark son. “And as these matters are of utmost importance to the realm, Prince Kanthe will join the hunt.”
Kanthe fell back a step, shocked.
The king continued, “Word has reached me of his considerable skill in such pursuits. It is high time for my second son to come out of the shadows and prove his worth.”
Kanthe tried to balk, imagining himself slogging through a bog. He sought words to argue against his involvement, but he found none. How could he refuse the king, deny his father?
Mikaen looked no happier. He sat straighter and leaned over to whisper in the king’s ear, but he was scolded away. All Mikaen could do was cast an aghast look at both king and liege general.
Heat built in Kanthe’s breast. Was his brother so enamored with himself that he couldn’t let his brother be polished a little brighter?
Frell stood taller. “My liege, if I may, I would like to accompany Prince Kanthe. If he’s to be gone a full moon, I can continue his studies, using lessons found in the swamp or at the Cloistery. And mayhap my knowledge of the winged denizens could prove useful in the distillation of the beasts’ poison.”
The king waved flippantly. “Whatever you think best.”
Frell bowed and backed to join Kanthe. The alchymist cast him a worried sidelong look. Kanthe remembered the black missive on his mentor’s table and felt the noose around his neck snug even tighter. But now was not the time to discuss such concerns, especially as all eyes were now upon the king’s dark son.
“Wh… When do we depart?” Kanthe stammered out.
“Your ship sets sail in two short days,” his father replied. “So you best ready yourself.”
Kanthe nodded. He understood the haste. The king wanted his youngest son—ever the embarrassment to the family—gone from the city before the coming marriage of Mikaen to Lady Myella.
So be it.
With everything settled, the king pushed his chair back with a loud squeak and stood.
Mikaen quickly followed suit. So did all the others. As Haddan shoved up, he stared over at Kanthe, his face stoic and cold. A hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed dagger as he sized up the younger of the two princes. From the deepening scowl before he turned away, the liege general did not like what he saw.
I can’t disagree with you, Kanthe thought. But maybe that could change.
And he knew the first step toward that goal.
K ANTHE IGNORED THE glances cast his way as he climbed the stone stairs that wound through the barracks of the Legionary. He had never set foot inside here before. He had expected to hear the clash of steel, the raucous calls of hard men, the ribaldry of comrades-in-arms.
Instead, the training halls of the king’s legions seemed as studious as any found at Kepenhill. The only exception was the bawling and barking from the kennels at the base of the barracks, where the legion’s war dogs were housed and trained alongside the boys and young men.
As Kanthe climbed, he was eyed by those he crossed on the stairs. Even if he wasn’t still dressed in his formal finery, everyone knew the Tallywag, the Sodden Prince of Highmount. Whispers and smatters of laughter followed in his wake, but he kept his back straight.
He reached the eighth tier of the barracks, searched for the proper door, and rapped his knuckles on it.
A muffled curse answered him, accompanied by a shuffling. The door was yanked open. “What do you want—”
Mikaen’s words died as he recognized the visitor standing at his threshold. The storm building atop his brother’s brow blew out and was replaced with a narrow-eyed wariness. “Kanthe, what’re you doing here? Did you get lost on your way back to Kepenhill?”
Kanthe ignored the jibe and shoved past his brother. As he entered Mikaen’s room, he was surprised to discover the domicile of the king’s bright son was even smaller than Kanthe’s place at Kepenhill. There was a mussed bed, a small scarred desk, and a large wardrobe, which stood open, revealing the silvery glint of armor. Mikaen had stripped out of his own finery and wore only a longshirt, exposing his bare legs. He looked far younger, less the polished knight-in-training.
Kanthe raised the small ebonwood box that he had carried here. “A gift. For your wedding. Since I won’t be attending your nuptials.”
Mikaen frowned. “You could’ve sent a courier.”
“I wanted to deliver it in person.”
Mikaen sighed and accepted the box. He undid the clasp and opened it. He stared inside for a long breath. When he lifted his face again, a small smile graced his handsome lips. The expression was both winsome and amused.
“You kept it,” he said.
Kanthe shrugged. “How could I not?”
Mikaen lifted out the small sculpture that was cradled inside the case. It was a rough bit of pottery, formed of molded clay, rolled and prodded into the crude shape of two boys. The figures faced each other, clasping arms. One had been glazed in crackles of white, the other in dark gray.
Kanthe nodded to it. “You made that for me when I was laid up in bed with a bout of Firepester, when no one was allowed in my sick room.”
Mikaen’s voice cracked a bit. “I remember… I wanted to be beside you, even when I couldn’t.” He glanced over. “Why do you return this to me now?”
“For the same reason you gave it to me long ago. I leave in two days. You will soon be married. I wanted you to know that as much as we’ve grown apart—” He pointed to the kiln-fused arms of the tiny figures. “I’ll always be with you in spirit.”
Still, there was another reason Kanthe had snuck back to their old rooms in Highmount and removed the box hidden under the floorboards. He had wanted to remind Mikaen of the boy he once was, someone kind to a feverish younger brother. While they had spent the past eight years growing apart, maybe now was a chance to reverse that, to find their way back to one another.
Mikaen gently lowered the piece of pottery into its case, returning both princes to their tiny cupboard. He placed the box on his desk and rested his palm atop the lid. “Thank you, brother.”
“Know this,” Kanthe said. “To the best of my abilities, I will always be at your side. This I swear.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.” Mikaen faced around; a boyish grin played about his lips. “That is, if you don’t get yourself killed in those swamps. I tried to dissuade Father from sending you, but his mind is set. You know how stubborn he can be.”
All too well.
Still, Kanthe inwardly cringed. He remembered Mikaen whispering in the king’s ear at the council table, only to be scolded away. Kanthe had thought that particular exchange had been motivated out of jealousy, not concern.
Kanthe stepped forward and hugged his twin brother. Mikaen stiffened for a breath, then relaxed, finally encircling Kanthe in a hard embrace. The years fell away between them.
“I can try again,” Mikaen offered in his ear. “To convince the king that you should remain here.”
Kanthe broke their hold. They were left grasping each other’s forearms, as if the brittle pottery had come to life.
“No, dear brother,” he said, “it’s high time for this prince to get out of the cupboard.”
Once and for all.