Chapter 22
A CHOICE
ASTROPHEL
HYPERION LIED. HE lied to me.
The Arx Magnum is still droning on – something about supplies, but I scarcely register what he’s saying. It’s taking everything I have just to keep myself upright.
It’s as though the floor to this Sister-blooded fortress is collapsing beneath me.
Everything I’ve been told, the truths I’ve founded my life on, splintering like the tip of a lance finding its mark.
My father died a hero defending our people from the filthy sand-rats.
Not… not squashing some Northern rebellion.
Not massacring his own people. It can’t be true. It can’t. And yet…
The room is too small. Too small for so many of us. The animal scent emanating from the Arx Magnum’s trophies turns my stomach.
I take in my future bride – really take her in for perhaps the first time.
I study the careful jut of her narrow jaw, the soft, clear tone of her voice as she answers the Arx Magnum’s questions about our purpose in coming here.
At once commanding and conciliatory. Leilani’s handling this well, playing the Arx Magnum perfectly.
Her father would be proud.
My ribs tighten. This is worse than Hyperion’s obfuscation about the Gaspings, about the blight.
Those I could explain away. He was trying to spare us, to keep the burden of truth from our shoulders.
But if the King lied about the rebellion, about how my father died… What else has he lied to me about?
The veil of prejudice I’ve constructed around Leilani was carefully and deliberately woven, in large measure, by her own father.
I see that now. But what if it’s a web of lies?
True, she’s always considered me unworthy, but what member of the coterie doesn’t?
Is she really dangerous? A liability? She saved me from that hoarclaw…
It suited Hyperion to make me wary of her – to fan the flames of mistrust between us.
How else could he hope to convince me to wrest control away from the rightful heir? To become his flunky.
Throne, be damned. I’ve been a fool.
*
MERCIFULLY, IT’S ONLY a short walk along Galtair’s twisting maze of lanes before we pass through the great iron doors to Viklari: our home for the duration of our remaining stay in Galtair.
It’s near-identical to the Stone Keep, only on a more modest scale.
Made from the same cold, grey stone, furnished in a similarly archaic style – once lavish, now tired.
A large hearth dominates the hall. Logs crackle in the grate.
One of those veiled phantoms is offering us pies, the warm gamey scent thick as the woodsmoke lacing the air. My stomach growls. Blayze is already reaching for the platter, lifting one in each hand. Making some lewd joke about bedding down with Maris for the night.
I consider him. Really look at him for the first time too, probing beyond my lens of hate.
I glance over the straight sweep of his nose, the proud thrust of his chest, the battle-hardened planes of his body.
He’s a man. Weather-beaten and arrogant, but a man not a monster.
Can it really be that I’ve laid the blame at the wrong feet all this time?
He lied.
Over and over.
The veiled creature is back with a tray of crystal goblets. Mindlessly, I pick one up – a restorative is just what I need. I’m chilled to the bone. Blayze drains his, choking in his haste.
He’s laughing now, through his sputtering. ‘Strong. Warms you up a treat, though.’
A man, but still an oaf.
His kin might be innocent of my father’s death, but that doesn’t absolve the clans of all their sins. They’re still bloodthirsty and coarse, still responsible for the Sickening. Still our mortal enemies.
And yet… He’s here, isn’t he? It’s like Leilani said: he’s made sacrifices to be here, to help us.
He saved Leilani when her horse bolted, helped the pearlsprite too, when he didn’t have to.
The horses liked him, and they’re better judges of character than most. He’s proved himself a man of his word, a man of honour.
More of a man than the one I’ve served so faithfully all my life.
Mind swimming with thoughts I’d rather ignore, I toss back the amber liquid. Getting warm sounds good just about now. For that matter, so does getting drunk.
As it meets my lips, burning and bitter, a yell pierces the room. Leilani’s lips moving, eyes wide, fingers scrabbling at her neck. Her own goblet smashing on the floor.
‘Don’t drink it.’
But her warning comes too late. Choking fingers close around my throat. Dark spots mist over my eyes.
A fitting end. I’ve been blind my whole life.
*
‘ASTROPHEL.’
I lift my head from a musty pillow, dart glances left and right, trying to make sense of the disembodied whispers, the unfamiliar bedchamber. It’s small, sparsely appointed, with dark wooden furnishings. Windowless.
‘Astrophel,’ the voice comes again.
Orthriel’s voice. Only their voice. The cielsylph hasn’t materialised.
I sit up, and almost swoon. ‘What happened? Where am I? Where is… Where’s Leilani?
’ Panic spreads, cold as frost. A vision of her screaming, fumbling at her throat.
Had she already drunk from the poisoned cup before dashing it to the floor, or did her second-sight protect her?
I struggle to my feet, reach for my sword, realise it no longer hangs at my side.
I promised – I swore to defend her. I try the door to the cell, but it’s locked fast.
‘She’s safe,’ Orthriel whispers. ‘For now. She’s not awoken yet, but the Arx Magnum means to hold her hostage, use her to bait the King.’
My pulse slows.
‘I can’t say the same for the others. They’re chained in the hall, but they’re to be moved. I don’t know where. I think he plans to make use of the Guardians’ magic. As for the rest…’
‘Orthriel, you must flare, remind these rebels there’s a penalty for disloyalty to the Throne. Help me get out of here and I’ll send the message myself.’ I try the handle again.
‘I can’t.’
Two small words but they land heavy as sword-blows.
I stare at the flagstones, stomach knotting. ‘So, you’re a traitor too?’
Is everything and everyone a liar? I thought the cielsylph and I shared a bond. Shared a vow.
Orthriel laughs. A shallow, hollow thing.
‘I hope Leilani never thinks me so. Whatever may come, I hope she never believes that. Can’t.
Not won’t. My strength, my ability to channel Star-Aether…
it’s ebbing. I can’t flare. I can only materialise for short periods.
My heartcrystal is almost extinguished. I must refrain from all but essential magic. I must conserve what power remains.’
I narrow my eyes in the direction of their voice. ‘For what?’
‘I have a plan. Will you help me, Astrophel? Will you help me save them? Save her?’
I freeze. I made a solemn oath to protect the Princess, Orthriel knows this.
Does the cielsylph really think so little of me, believe me so low, that I would break my vow?
I may be a bastard, but I’m still one of The Nine.
And The Nine never go back on their word.
My father’s maxim echoes back to me. Along with the memory of his distinctive scent – pomade and steel, always drifting in his wake.
For moons after news of his death reached us, that smell lingered in our humble homestead.
Blayze’s taunts at the Thawtide celebrations shadow my recollection too. Taunts that cut too close to the bone.
‘My father may have preferred my brother, but he thought well enough of me to wed my mother before he sired me, bastard.’
My mother swore my father made her promises, that he intended to organise a binding, to legitimise me…
but duty called him away, and then he died.
There was even a ring to support her claims – a silver astronomical band she gifted me when I left for the palace, so I’d have something to remember her by.
For her sake, I always keep it close – stored safe in my pack, wherever the Arx Magnum’s taken that. But a ring is not a binding bangle.
Lies, all lies.
My father had sunrings to fulfil that promise. Where was his honour when it mattered?
It suddenly hits me. Both men I’ve called Father deceived me.
I made Hyperion a vow, but I swore that oath to a swindler. It’s empty, meaningless. There’s nothing holding me to it. I have a choice now.
Releasing the door handle, I consider my position. Weigh my options.
I’ve always believed Leilani’s quest to be futile. Even were Noelani’s prophecy sincere, our chances of success are slight. I could defect, save my own skin. If what the King said in the Orbium is true, and civil war looms on the horizon for Estelia, whose side do I want to be on when it comes?
Having seen the Gaspings, the extent of the blight, knowing now what manner of king I’ve served, mountain uprisings seem understandable.
Noble even. And am I not also of mountain blood?
I’ve spent so much of my life denying that side of myself, trying to pass as a member of the coterie.
But in the end, blood will out. Isn’t that what they always say?
All I’ve ever wanted was power. Legitimacy.
To belong. Hyperion elevated me, yes, but he never let me forget what I am, what I owed him.
The Arx Magnum might not keep me downtrodden.
I could go to him, spill court secrets, buy my place at his side.
I’m not called Silver Tongue for nothing.
I could barter my way into his affections, gain his trust.
At his side, my star might truly rise…
‘Astrophel?’ Orthriel’s urgent whisper reverberates around the room. ‘Will you help me?’
I consider their question. Will I risk my own neck to save Outrealmers? To save a woman who’s always scorned me, who chose to flee rather than share a life with me?
Well, will I?