“The whole town was swept away. Only a handful of survivors have made it into the city thus far. We anticipate more will arrive in the next lusterling or two.”
Chancellor Houg’s voice drones relentlessly in my ear. It’s as though the more dire news she must deliver, the more monotone her delivery becomes. Perhaps it’s a good thing. After all, the word she bears is hard enough without added emotion.
I rub at my shoulder, trying not to obviously scratch the itchy bandage underneath my shirt. Madame Ar patched me up following the incident in the queen’s chambers, and her gluey healing salve is starting to peel away, leaving my skin raw with rash. As king, I cannot be seen to squirm and scratch. I must be the solemn figure head my people need in this time of uncertainty, even in the privacy of my own office. Stoic. Unmovable. Solid as bedrock.
Still, lusterling follows dimness, and dimness follows lusterling, and reports continue flowing in. One after another they pile up, each small concern adding to the weight of the mountain I must somehow bear upon my back. And who is there to come alongside me, to help me with this burden? Sul is gone. Hael is dismissed from her post. And my wife . . . my bride . . .
“Your Majesty?”
Houg’s voice breaks through the mental fog clouding my brain. I drag my head up, meet the three pairs of stern eyes staring down at me from across my desk. Lord Dagh, my household steward, stands on Houg’s right, with Umog Zu, the low priestess, on her left. Both look ready to launch at the throat of the other. I ignore them and focus my attention on Houg. “Yes, Chancellor. Do go on.”
“The river folk require refuge. They ought to be sent to the Temple of Orgoth, but—”
“But we are already overrun with orphans and refugees from our own city!” Though characteristically a living enigma of calm, Zu positively vibrates with ire in this moment. “My brothers and sisters of the Dark can scarcely enter into the va, so distracted are their minds and souls. How can we expect to keep the city healthy and thriving if the prayer vibrations so necessary to the wellbeing of all Mythanar are so rudely interrupted?”
I am no theologian, but I know enough to comprehend Zu’s frustration. The umogar take it in turns entering into various states of va, that is to say, oneness with the stone of our birth. In this state, they send their lifeforce vibrations down through the many layers of rock to the heart of our world, to soothe that which dwells in the heat and the darkness there. It is said these constant prayers are the only reason the Under Realm still exists.
I don’t know if this is true. In fact, I rather doubt it. But I’m not about to voice such blasphemy to my low priestess. I have far too many vivid memories of this woman boxing my ears when I was an impudent young prince. I doubt the crown on my head would stop her from boxing them now.
“Very well, Umog,” I say. “Send the river folk up to the palace. Lord Dagh,” I turn slightly to address my steward, “we can house any number of refugees in the East Hall, can we not? There’s ample room for some makeshift beds.”
Dagh pulls a face, contriving to look even more put-upon than usual. “The East Hall is currently in use by the household staff. If Your Majesty may be pleased to remember, a large section of the staff quarters was severely damaged in the stirring. As restoration efforts have concentrated on other parts of the palace—those occupied by members of your court—the staff have been obliged to manage as best they can.”
I frown. “East Hall is huge, Dagh. It’s positively massive. Surely there’s room for a dozen families or so.”
“East Hall was huge, Your Majesty. One end is shored up and in need of repairs before it may be safely used.”
With a sigh, I bend my head, momentarily unable to maintain the façade of kingly strength. I’m tired, so achingly tired. I’ve not slept in days. Last dimness, I managed to chase everyone from the room long enough to put my head down on this very table and catch a few uncomfortable but blissful hours of slumber . . . only to be rudely awakened by Houg’s pounding fist at the door. “Fine,” I say heavily. “Forget the East Hall. What about the guest wing? There are several spare apartments currently not in use. Lady Xag’s, for instance.”
Speaking my friend’s name sends a stab of pain to my gut. It’s not been long since Xag met her end. Poisoned. Along with the rest of her town. My engineer’s words echo hollowly in the back of my head: “Most folk never gonna see city fall. Most folk gonna die of poison long before.”
Shuddering, I drag my awareness back to the present and Dagh’s vehement protest of, “They’ll get muck on the tapestries! Their muddy brats will climb the pillars and moldings! These people are positively barbaric. Bargmen! Fishers! Shallow-scrapers!”
“Come, man,” my chancellor interrupts, shooting him a disapproving glare. “The palace just survived the largest stirring in the last hundred turns of the Cycle. Surely, it can survive a few dozen river-children. Besides—”
Before Houg can finish, sudden commotion erupts outside the door. Upraised voices, most of them muffled, punctuated by the high, determined voice of young Guardsman Yok: “You cannot go in there, Your Highness!”
There’s a deep, rolling growl, followed by a thunk. The next moment, the door opens, and a stern, terrible figure stands there. Gray skin, eyes like two white gems. Long white hair hanging across massive shoulders. Naked, save for a thin cloth across his loins, he moves as though clad in the richest royal raiment.
A shiver races down the back of my neck. I do not like this man. Targ, the so-called priest and self-proclaimed servant of the Deeper Dark. A cultist, if you ask me. He commands a loyal following of devotees who hang upon his every word and gesture. One of whom happens to be my stepmother.
Sure enough, no sooner does Targ enter the space than he steps to one side, making way for Queen Roh’s entrance. I glimpse Yok behind her, wide-eyed and desperate. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty!” he stammers from under his helmet. “I couldn’t—I wasn’t certain—I—”
“Peace, Yok.” I hold up one hand. The boy means well and is certainly determined to prove himself. But he has much to learn before he’ll be of any real use. “Back to your post. Do your best to see that no one else disturbs me, will you?”
Flushed with embarrassment, Yok ducks back outside, pulling the door shut behind him. Roh does not so much as acknowledge him. She stands there, clad in somber black glinting with flecks of broken gemstones. Her white hair, heavily streaked with strands of charcoal, is swept back from her high, proud forehead and falls to her waist in thick waves. She is a beautiful woman. But then, one would expect no less in the wife of a king. Far more impressive than her beauty, however, is her will. It shines in her eye, hard as diamonds, unyielding as the stone of ages.
She casts a cold gaze first at Chancellor Houg, then Lord Dagh. Only to Umog Zu does she offer a faint, polite nod. At last, she fixes me with the full force of her diamond stare. “May we have the room?”
I want to deny her. But I can see she has no intention of backing down, and at present, I haven’t the energy for a fight. “Go,” I say, waving an easy, dismissive hand. “Lord Dagh,” I add, as my steward skuttles from the room. “Find some place in this whole vast mausoleum of a palace where we can safely house a handful of river-town families. Understood?”
Dagh bows himself out, still muttering. Houg and the low priestess follow after. When the door is shut, I turn to Roh, ignoring Targ, who looms silent against the wall. Generally, I find it best for everyone if I pretend he doesn’t exist. “Well, stepmother?” I say pleasantly. “To what do I owe the delight of your company?”
“Where have you sent my son?”
She doesn’t beat around the basalt, does she? “To Hoknath,” I answer smoothly, and lace my fingers behind my head. “Will that be all? I do have such a lot to see to this lusterling.”
“No.” Her lip curls. It somehow only makes her more beautiful. “Why are you punishing him?”
“Punishing him? There’s a thought. Do you know of a reason why I should punish him?”
Her nostrils quiver. She takes a step closer to my desk. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was trying to menace me. “Sul has only ever been loyal to you. Even when there were those in your own court who urged him to take a stand against you. Sul could not be swayed. He could not be wooed, reasoned with, cajoled, bribed, or threatened. He is rock. He is jor. You know this.”
“I do.”
She presses her fists into the stone tabletop, leaning heavily, cold eyes flashing. “Then why have you sent him from you? Sent him out into gods-know what dangers, far from your side!”
I draw a slow breath, regarding her through half-closed eyelids. “Why should you care?” I ask at length and watch the way her cheek twitches, her jaw clenches. “Is it not your wish to see us all succumb to the inevitable Dark in any case? What does it matter if Sul faces a little danger? What does it even matter if he perishes? It makes no difference to you, does it?”
Her lips curl back. Her teeth are very white against the dark purple of her gums. “If that’s what you think, you grossly misunderstand the ways of the Deeper Dark.”
“Maybe so.” I tilt an eyebrow Targ’s way. “What then? Are you and your little pocket priest here to endarken me?”
“A mind such as yours cannot understand the hope of va-jor,” she snaps.
“A mind such as mine?”
“A human mind.”
It has been many turns of the cycle since I saw my stepmother’s face so raw with feeling. Since the death of my father, she’s thrown herself into her religious studies so completely, assuming the hard, impassive, emotionless mask of a priestess. In this moment, however, she is unmasked. I see again the woman I once knew, the passionate, even volatile creature my father took as his bride and offered me as replacement for my own lost mother. A woman I knew, from the first moment I set eyes on her, I could never love.
I rise, push back my chair, and face her straight on. I’m taller than she, but not by much. I am part human, after all, whereas Roh is purely troldish, as though she were carved from rock rather than birthed from a mother’s womb. But it doesn’t matter. “Trolde blood or human,” I say, my voice cold and hard as the founding stones of this very palace, “I am Gaur’s eldest son. It was I, not my brother, whom the gods determined should rule Mythanar.”
“The gods?” Roh spits. “Leave the gods to the elfkin. We trolde serve only the Dark and That Which Dwells Below. We—”
“Your Majesty! Your Majesty, I’m sorry to interrupt!”
Yok’s voice outside the door jars through my senses. I yank my gaze away from Roh’s face and scowl across the shadowed antechamber. “Not now, Yok!” I snarl.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty! It’s Hurk and Jot. They beg leave to speak with you at once.”
My blood runs cold. Roh, her quick gaze studying my face, lets out a little breath. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
I don’t bother to answer. I don’t bother to tell her these are the names of the two guards who accompanied Sul on his journey to Hoknath. “Send them in,” I say instead. My knees suddenly weak, I sink back into my chair, and assume an easy manner even as my heart gallops painfully in my chest.
“What are you doing?” Roh growls, as the door opens to admit the newcomers. “We’re not done, you and I!”
I silence her with a gesture as two figures—one male, one female—stagger into the room. The female holds her companion up, his arm across her shoulders, but they both look the worse for wear. His left leg hangs limp, the bone obviously, painfully broken. His skin is sickly gray, shiny with sweat.
I jump up at once, hasten around from behind my desk. “Jot! Hurk! What has happened? Are you all right?”
Hurk tries to offer me a smile through his pain. “I’ve been better, Your Majesty. I wanted to deliver this word in person, then I’m off to Madame Ar.”
“What news of . . .” I try to speak my brother’s name, but it freezes on my tongue and lies there, a cold, hard lump. “. . . of Hoknath?”
Jot shakes her half-shaved head, floppy white curls falling over her left ear. “We never made it that far, Your Majesty. We were taking the riverway, but the cavern was flooded from the stirring. Prince Sul thought we could make it, but then the ceiling began to give. Sul kept our craft from breaking against a boulder, but he ended up in the water. Hurk and I barely made it out alive. We had to shore the craft and crawl back. I was sure the whole thing would come down on top of us long before we made it out.”
“And my son?” Roh demands, drawing the two guards’ gazes her way. “What became of him?”
“We searched as long as we could.” Jot hangs her head dismally. “But then Hurk here . . . he wasn’t going to make it, not with his leg like this. I had to get him back, you see? There was no sign of the prince.”
Roh turns her head sharply, fixing her stare on me. As though I’d planned this, as though I’d somehow rigged the riverway to murder her son. I feel every accusation she silently hurls at me.
“We’ll find him, Roh,” I say. My voice carries all the kingly confidence I can muster in that moment. “I will go personally. I will bring him home.”
She holds my gaze hard. Her pupils are large black disks, like hollows in her pale face. “If you don’t,” she whispers, “may you never find your way again in the Dark.”
With that, she turns and sweeps from the room. Targ, who stood all this while silent and still as a boulder, reanimates, gathering his powerful limbs and rolling into motion behind her. He never so much as glances my way.
I wait until they are both clear of the room before turning to Jot and Hurk once more. “Jot, are you fit enough to accompany me?”
“I . . . I think so, Your Majesty,” she responds, but I hear the dreadful hesitation in her voice. She’s not what I need. Not now. Not when Sul’s life is on the line.
“No, never mind. Get him to the infirmary,” I say, waving them off. “Have Ar look you over as well. Yok!” The boy’s face appears in the doorway, his expression drawn, his eyes wide. “Yok, I need you to find your sister and send her to me. At once, do you hear?”
