Chapter 39
PLEAD AND PREPARE
THREE WEEKS.
Three weeks. Imogen heard Cinah’s words and saw Mender Alcuin nod in agreement, but she struggled to grasp the timeline. It was so soon. Too soon.
And yet it felt like a small eternity.
“I don’t know if he’ll be ready,” she heard herself say. “I haven’t told him.”
Cinah stared at her. He cut concerned eyes to Mender Alcuin. A withered hand with strong fingers touched her wrist. Imogen looked up to meet the elderly mender’s sage gaze.
“He must be ready, Elder,” he insisted. “You must tell him today.”
She nodded numbly. Imogen hadn’t been to visit Karrick since telling him about their daughter. That was days ago. She’d been spending her time visiting the other Fates, except, of course, for Railah. The less time she spent in the too-eager young woman’s company, the better.
“I am expecting a messenger from Meress,” Cinah said to Mender Alcuin. “I’ll have confirmation of our next steps and, with a bit of luck, the whereabouts of our Prima.”
Just how easy was it for these men to smuggle information—and people—in and out of the city? “Isn’t that an additional risk?” Imogen questioned. An unnecessary one? They already knew Felíne was being taken to Meress.
Cinah leveled with her. “Let me worry about the risk, Elder.”
Imogen bristled, but Alcuin’s patient voice averted her retort.
“Cinah is quite careful,” he assured, “and he is no novice to elusive maneuvering. It would be better to have assurance of Felíne’s location.
The Autumn Reaping is fast approaching. We haven’t the time to search aimlessly for her once we get the Primordial Male out. ”
The Reaping. Felíne’s servicing. The gods forsaken curse.
The reminder of Karrick’s responsibilities settled over her like donning a fur cloak during the height of summer. Suffocating.
Cinah and Mender Alcuin continued their discussion while Imogen reeled in her composure.
To imagine how different her life might have been if she’d never joined the Fates.
If her father had never died. If her mother had never required the only sacrifice Imogen could think to give.
She’d probably be working alongside Sashara at Madame’s.
Contemplating what might have been was like attempting to unspeak a harsh word. You couldn’t take it back. You could only choose the next articulation.
Though thinking of the Fates…
“Mender,” she began. “Three of the Fated Mothers are approaching their fertile cycles.” The notion caused a swell of nausea to roll through her. “Is there anything they can do to prevent it?”
Alcuin patted her hand. He and Cinah knew the implication. Imogen had told them Karrick was the only male left in the Stronghold. The only one Vulgren intended to use.
“Prevent? No,” Mender Alcuin said, and Imogen’s chest tightened. “But delay? That we can do.”
The mender wrote instructions for her on a scrap of parchment, which she tucked into the folds of her vestments. The ingredients were simple things she could find in Asteros’s markets and apothecaries without rousing suspicion.
“Combine the herbs in the ratios I wrote for you,” he advised. “The redicon root must be pressed to extract its pulp. Use the flat of a blade, like so.” Mender Alcuin demonstrated the motion with practiced hands. “It is sticky. It will help bind the herbs. Give each woman one pellet to swallow.”
Imogen was no healer, but she did her best to make mental notes.
“Can they not drink the mixture in a tea?” All the women at Madame’s drank a tea to prevent their menses from impeding their nightly activities.
She assumed a preventative for fertility would be similar.
It would certainly simplify Imogen’s administration of the herbs.
Mender Alcuin shook his head, white hair drifting in a fuzzy nimbus. “This method is more reliable. Teas take time to perfect and must be dosed specifically to ensure their efficacy. The pellet will safely postpone a fertile cycle for at least a month with minor side effects.”
“What kind of side effects?” Imogen asked.
“Mild nausea, stomach cramping, loose bowels, and fatigue are most common. They tend to resolve in a few days.”
Imogen nodded. A small price to pay. One that several of the women would willingly accept to delay their servicing. A particularly overzealous individual, however…
She cringed inwardly. Railah was too eager to ‘serve her Goddess and kingdom’. She would never consent to consuming the pellet. Imogen had hoped to slip a vial of infertility tonic into the young woman’s tea and have her drink it unwittingly. No matter. She’d devise another way.
“Thank you,” she said, and Mender Alcuin gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Cinah, who’d remained quietly attentive during the mender’s instructions, stepped forward. “Tell him, Imogen,” he urged. “Today, if you can. This may be our only opportunity to get you both out of the city. We cannot waste it.”
“I understand,” she assured them. “I won’t delay.”
Imogen’s feet followed the return path to the Stronghold from muscle memory.
Her mind was elsewhere. On Karrick. On Felíne.
On the Fates. On her mother. Alcuin had assured her that he’d find a way to ensure Miriam’s safety before smuggling them out of Asteros.
How, he hadn’t divulged, but Imogen had no choice other than to place her trust once again in the old mender’s hands. He’d proven true to his word thus far.
Lieutenant Gore followed along silently. He seemed to sense her preoccupation and was content to let her sort through the tangle of thoughts without interrupting.
The closer they got to the Stronghold’s entrance, however, the more convoluted Imogen’s contemplations became. The Prima’s presentation to the Primordial Male was meant to be the salvation of the shurii, but to Imogen it was a beacon of doom.
Not just the Prima, she chided. Felíne. My friend. A friend who, by every indication, had been just as reluctant to face her predestined future. Damn the duty that bound them all. Damn the ill-fated connections that tied them. And damn the gods who’d forced the burden.
The hushed clamor of a gathered crowd up ahead drew Imogen from her musings. Prestyn Gore pressed closer to her as they were caught up in the throng of people. They approached the temple. Imogen recognized the spire. Had something happened to the queen?
“Can you see, Lieutenant?” Imogen was a tall woman, but Prestyn’s gaze swept beyond hers. He strained, peering over the sea of caps, head scarves, and hair. His expression turned grave, mouth pressing into a grim line. “What is it?”
“We should go, Elder,” he urged, turning her away.
She peered up at him, instincts tingling. “No.” Imogen pulled away from Prestyn and shoved through the crowd.
She stopped before the temple steps. Ahead, a wooden pillar stood erected on the first landing. Two mirrored crossbeams had been hammered into the top third of the post at opposing angles so that the wooden planks resembled a six-pointed star.
Something else had been affixed to the beams.
Someone.
A man, maybe a decade or two older than Imogen, hung suspended from the pillar, arms and legs outstretched.
Bolts of iron as thick as Imogen’s thumbs protruded gruesomely from the man’s wrists and feet, securing him to the posts.
Blisters from the relentless sun spread across his shaved head, face, and shoulders.
The smell of dripping blood and bowels hung heavy in the cloying air.
Imogen took a step closer, beyond the edge of those gathered. A brand seared the flesh across the man’s chest, the oozing letters depicting one word.
Cozened.
The man shuddered and lifted his head, a rattled breath escaping his cracked, gray lips. Imogen covered her mouth with a shaking hand, horror-struck.
Divine, have mercy. He’s still alive.
Lieutenant Gore tensed beside her, the only other person who’d stepped beyond the safe obscurity of the crowd. “I know him.”
Imogen glanced up in surprise.
“He’s one of the army’s menders. Edmore.” Prestyn rubbed the inside of his gloved wrist absently. “He casted my arm last year after I broke it sparring.”
Gods above. What had a man dedicated to helping shurii done to deserve such a cruel punishment? They should help him. Do something.
Lieutenant Gore read the intention in Imogen’s face and took her firmly by the hand. “No, Elder. This man has been labeled a traitor to the Crown of Asteros. He’s been staked before the Goddess’s temple. No one may interfere with divine justice.”
“This isn’t justice,” she hissed as Prestyn dragged her away from the dying man. “This is torture.”
Lieutenant Gore’s brown eyes hardened. “This is our sovereign’s design. Anyone caught intervening on the traitor’s behalf will face the same punishment. Or worse.”
“So don’t get caught,” Imogen spat, wrenching her hand free.
It was a reckless thing to say. Prestyn Gore was a soldier in King Domitan’s army.
His first duty was to his liege. He could label Imogen a turncoat, give a full report on her recent outings, and have her arrested along with Cinah Creed and Mender Alcuin.
She imagined her two unlikely allies hammered to a wooden star on the temple steps. The notion made her stomach drop into her toes. If Gore turned her in, she’d never get out of Asteros. Karrick would remain a prisoner forever. How could she be so fucking stupid?
Imogen had an excuse half-formed on her tongue, but the rebuttal remained unspoken.
For Lieutenant Gore did not give her a look of condemnation. The eyes behind his helm shuttered with what might have been…regret? He did not speak as he led them back to the Stronghold. Imogen thought perhaps he didn’t trust himself to reply.
Karrick had just received his evening meal when Imogen entered his room. The scent of roasted potatoes and seared lamb steak unsettled her stomach after witnessing poor Mender Edmore’s sizzling flesh.
Karrick offered his plate. “Have you eaten?”
Imogen waved it away. “My afternoon has robbed me of an appetite.”