Chapter XXVIII #2
“I will admit I’m disappointed such a rite isn’t being held to settle the succession,” he said with a frown of displeasure. “It shames all of us, that Orden’s lain dead for days and no one has yet claimed the throne he left empty. None of you have the pride or power I’d expect from an Inver.”
Fia couldn’t help herself. She disliked the old man on principle, for backing the barbaric rite of conquest and castigating all of Inver court for failing to grasp at the throne when he wouldn’t try for it himself. And she needed to stall for time.
“If you’re so disappointed,” she called out, “then why not claim the throne yourself? I see two men bold enough to brave the rite of conquest for less, and one antiquated statesman with nothing to offer but idle chatter.”
A ripple of shocked and delighted laughter ran through the gathered crowd, and Hadrian’s aquiline face flushed darkly. Fia gave him no opportunity to respond—rather, she strode onto the dais herself, with Justus peering curiously out from his sling.
“If no Inver grown and titled and empowered will claim the throne,” she said in a voice that echoed back from the ceiling, “then I claim it on behalf of Orden’s son. Unless someone else can take it—which none of you seem inclined to—it belongs to Justus by legal right.”
“An infant can’t govern Honoria,” Hadrian shot back.
“No,” Fia said. “Not yet. So should the Priest survive his ordeal, let him serve as regent—he’s nearest to Justus by blood.
When the little king reaches his majority, it will be for the two of them to decide how the succession is dealt with once again—whether the Priest will step aside willingly, or, as is tradition, if Justus must kill him in order to claim the throne. ”
Murmurs ran through the assembled court. They could see the sense in Fia’s words. They needed a sovereign. And few of them were eager to take on the risk that came with Honoria’s crown.
“Who are you,” Hadrian asked, “to address this court, or to speak on Inver matters at all? Dolenza’s rabble have no claim and no voice here.”
Easily swayed, the mutterings of the court took on an edge. But Fia was equal to the accusation. She drew herself up to her full height and wrapped an arm protectively around Justus.
“I don’t speak for Dolenza,” she said. “Twice now, I’ve petitioned to become a soria and been refused.
I speak for myself, though I wear a postulant’s robe.
I speak for Honoria. What do any of you, perched on this mountain like carrion crows, know about how the citizenry of Honoria truly feel?
I am Honorian as they come, raised from dirt in the northern ranges.
I grew from nothing and was brought up in a world of trouble and cruelty rather than kindness.
I was there in the aftermath of Honoria and Caervallion’s battle summer.
I stitched dying men back together and severed rotting limbs.
I walked out of a life of privation and crossed the country in search of a place where my own child could prosper.
Then once I’d found it, I left her behind in order to tend the son of your king.
I have given Justus Inver life, and whatever strength I possess.
I say he will make a fine king, and not only one the people of Honoria will fear and obey, but one they will love.
He will belong to them in a way no other king ever has, and they will follow him into a glorious and bold future because of it—the sort of future none of you can so much as conjure up in dreams.”
There was a ring of prophecy in Fia’s voice.
Her words were no more than what she felt was needed in the moment—they hadn’t come to her in a bloodborne dream, and were only the result of desperation and anger, but unschooled in the ways of Raea’s daughters, the Invers could tell no difference.
All they could see was a woman with an infant king in her arms, speaking with authority on behalf of an entire nation.
And they were not so far removed from the ancient ways that the image of Raea as mother no longer lingered in their unconsciousness.
There was still a response in each of them akin to worship, as they gazed up at Fia burnished by golden light, offering them a public son.
She was something old and something new—an advocate not for Raea or for peace, but for Honoria and an era of prosperity.
She was both their former goddess, and their current fire.
“None of this matters,” Hadrian said, breaking the spell of silence Fia had wrought with her words. “Or at least, it doesn’t matter unless the Priest prevails in his rite. Any future for Honoria must be ushered in by blood, so let the rite begin.”
Fia scanned the crowd one last time, hope dying in her as she did so. There was no sign of Beneson and Nikolau, and Lucian was already stepping forward, the glint of a steel dagger shining in his hand.
Neither Lucian nor the Priest spoke as the Priest set his cane aside and moved forward, drawing his own knife from its sheath.
If either of them had last words, they’d carry them to the grave.
Perhaps it was only her own feelings taking hold, but Fia thought she could sense heavy reluctance radiating from them both, as they took ownership of the empty space at the center of the audience hall and slowly, cautiously, began to circle each other.
A feint from Lucian, and the Priest sidestepped it neatly.
The gathered Invers were dead silent, rather than raucous with good humor, and Fia sent up a breathless prayer of thanks to Raea for that.
If the crowd set to clamoring, the Priest’s fate would be sealed—he’d have no way of hearing the barely audible sounds that signaled Lucian’s movement.
Fia could see the strain in him—his shoulders were tense with the work of trying to track Lucian’s whereabouts, while the spymaster was light on his feet, relaxed in spite of the circumstances.
Another feint, this one with a vicious and perfectly timed sidestep halfway through, and Lucian had drawn first blood.
Crimson stained the Priest’s left sleeve, blossoming out from a shallow wound on his upper arm.
But Lucian was away already, retreating swiftly—the Priest had six inches on him, and if it came to grappling, Lucian would be finished.
His strength lay in taking advantage of the Priest’s sightlessness, and Lucian evidently intended to do so ruthlessly.
It would be a slow and merciless death, Fia realized with a sickening sensation of dread. Lucian would toy with the Priest, to ensure no one else ever dared to pit themselves against him.
A slight commotion rose from the audience hall’s doorway, tying her stomach into further knots. The crowd had to stay quiet.
And then, reprieve. Beneson appeared, flushed and sweating at her side. He gestured in the direction of the Priest and Lucian—Nikolau was already striding toward them, across the no-man’s-land of open space at the center of the audience hall.
“Priest,” Nikolau called, and then his hand was on the Priest’s shoulder, the two of them speaking in low, terse voices with their heads bowed together. Fia couldn’t catch their words, but after a moment, the Priest nodded and turned to the dais where she and Hadrian still stood.
“I name an adjutor,” the Priest said, and though no one else, perhaps, would be able to hear it, Fia recognized relief in the words.
Lucian let out a frustrated growl. “Very well. I can’t naysay you. Gaius of the guard will serve as my adjutor. And yours is?”
Nikolau offered Lucian a mocking bow. “Nikolau Raeana, Priest’s right hand.”
“You’re not one of our people,” Lucian scoffed. “I’ve never heard of you.”
“You have, only you didn’t know my name. I’d have preferred to keep it that way, so I’m a little out of temper,” Nikolau answered, and Fia knew a reproach aimed at her when she heard one. “Do you wish to stand here and hiss at each other like a pair of cats, or do you mean to fight?”
By way of reply, Lucian stepped back, spreading his hands wide in invitation.
Gaius stumped forward, heavy and thickset as a bear, and did not so much as hesitate.
He strode straight to the Priest, twisting his knife forward with a savage lunge.
The Priest dodged handily, and began a series of short and measured retreats—Gaius surging ahead, the Priest backing away in plenty of time.
At first, Fia found it frustrating—surely the Priest could take advantage of Gaius’s nearness, as the guard captain came within inches of him, often off-center as he did so.
But unlike with Lucian, the Priest would have no advantage if he was forced to grapple with Gaius.
And as the Priest and the guard captain circled past the dais, coming within feet of Fia, she realized what the Priest was doing.
By far the heavier man, Gaius was already growing breathless.
In staying defensive, the Priest was not just tiring a larger, heavier opponent, but chipping away at Gaius’s greatest advantage—the Priest’s own blindness.
With every minute that passed, Gaius’s labored breath grew louder and therefore easier to detect.
Content for the moment, Fia turned her attention to Nikolau and Lucian.
Unlike Gaius and the Priest, who were circling the audience hall’s outer perimeter, Nikolau and the spymaster were occupying the open space at its center.
They wove in tight, contained patterns, feinting and dodging, trying to take a measure of each other.
“You’re from the mountains, aren’t you?” Lucian asked, showing not the least sign of wearing out, like Gaius. “I can hear it in your voice. I’m willing to bet you know that bitch of Dolenza’s, and she’s how you ended up here. She’ll be the death of you and the Priest both.”
But if Lucian meant to rattle Nikolau via a slight to Fia, he’d misjudged. Nikolau only grinned.