“We’re bound for Lakesh-the keep of the Necromancer, Darestat. A Shaman’s curse made this journey mine, to bring the blood so the king might be raised from the dead to lead Erechania to victory.”
He told her of Braymon’s fall and his escape, of the escape through the tunnel, the fight in the meadow and his flight with Ghaul.
“Braymon has fallen?”
He nodded, wondering if she’d heard all he said. “Yes.”
She pushed through a shrub and slumped down on a log as though her legs refused to bear the weight of his news. Khirro moved toward her but stopped at the sight of tears gleaming on her cheek. A woman’s tears were foreign things to him; his mother never shed a tear where he could see, perhaps never did at all. Not until the day with Emeline had he seen, and been the cause of, a woman’s tears. Only once, on the day Emeline told what had happened that night.
“Why does a harlot care so much for a king?”
Ghaul’s tone held no tenderness or understanding. Khirro shook thoughts of Emeline from his mind and followed his companion to Elyea’s side. The woman didn’t answer at first, instead drawing a shuddering breath and wiping her eyes on her arm, composing herself. She looked up, green eyes rimmed red, gazing into the sun-dappled forest.
“I owe Braymon my life.” Her voice trembled. “I’d seen eight summers when he took the throne. His first act was to release those forced into servitude. His ascension meant I no longer had to serve as concubine to a tyrant.”
Khirro’s breath stopped half-drawn. “Eight years old?”
“I’d been there three years when Braymon rescued me. I owe him everything.” She bowed her head.
A child of five. Khirro saw the horrible memories on her face, could only imagine what she must have endured. How terrible it must have been for her.
“He rescued you from a life as concubine to the king so you could be courtesan to the common man?”
The lack of empathy in Ghaul’s voice turned Khirro’s head; Elyea’s reaction was similar, but more extreme. She stood abruptly, face to face with the soldier, her expression hard.
“He did terrible things to me,” she snarled. “Don’t you see the difference between being forced into something and choosing it? Are you a soldier because you chose it, or because you were told to be one?”
Ghaul stood straighter. “I was born a soldier.”
His words further enraged her. “And what of you?” she snapped at Khirro.
“I’m no warrior,” he responded quietly, not knowing how to calm her.
“Do you enjoy being forced to be one?”
“No. I’ve already seen things no man should have to see in his lifetime. I’d rather be home with Emeline, tending my farm. But it’s my duty to be here.”
“At six years I was fucked by the king and told it was my duty.”
Khirro stared. He had no answer to such atrocity. The inhumanity of it didn’t enervate Ghaul.
“And now?” the soldier asked.
For a moment Khirro thought she’d strike Ghaul, but the anger drained from her limbs. Perhaps the burden of her memories wore her down. How could they not?
“Now I make a living I enjoy with customers of my own choosing.”
Ghaul’s mouth curled into a smirk. “You didn’t choose so well last time.”
“That’s what I get for offering my services to wanderers.”
A look passed between them that Khirro didn’t understand and the last of her fury fell away. Ghaul opened his mouth to say something else, but this time it was Khirro’s turn to cut him short.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said, knowing it could never be enough. “But we must be going. There are men following us.”
Elyea’s eyes met his, thanked him for the sentiment.
“Of course. It does us no good to tarry. Let’s get to the village for supplies, take some rest, then we’ll make for the Vendarian border at first light.”
Ghaul caught her by the elbow as she went to leave. “What do you mean we? The only we is Khirro and I.”
“You’ll need my help.”
Ghaul snorted. “We need no help.”
“The journey will be dangerous,” Khirro added. “No place for a woman.”
He regretted his words the second they left his mouth.
“I’m no mere woman.” She scowled and pulled her arm from Ghaul’s grasp. “And I’m not giving you a choice. You’ll need all the help you can get. And I know someone else who would be interested in your journey.”
She looked at them defiantly, daring them to contradict her. Neither did. She picked her way nimbly through the brush as Ghaul shot Khirro a derisive look. They said nothing. Khirro purposely didn’t look at his companion as they followed the woman, knowing he should feel that telling her of their journey was a mistake, but he didn’t. Surprise, fear and exhilaration mixed into a muddle in his mind, but no regret. It felt right, but only time would tell. Amongst all the confusion, one question declared itself in his mind above all others:
Who did she intend to tell?
Chapter Eleven
Therrador rested his chin on his fist, elbows propped on the marble table; veins of red ran through the white surface of the table’s twenty foot length. In the centuries it had sat in the council room at the palace of Achtindel, much had been discussed and decided at this table: wars declared, lives forfeit and spared, plots plotted and taxes declared. Stroking his braided beard, Therrador wondered if the ancient marble had ever seen a conversation as was about to take place. Had it seen the kingdom betrayed? History suggested not.
Only hours earlier, a rider reached the capital bearing the tale of a dead Shaman, empty armor and a missing king. Concern bordering on panic had shown on the messenger’s face and in his words, so Therrador sent him to a cell rather than risk his knowledge spilled over too many pints of ale. The king’s discarded armor suggested Braymon’s fall. Bale’s body, along with Rudric and Gendred’s, found outside the fortress walls told him they collected the king’s blood, as Braymon planned. Such information made public would lead to panic, and panic would hinder everything.
But what of the Kanosee who was supposed to see to Braymon’s death? What became of him?
They’d found dead Kanosee soldiers with Rudric and the others, but he couldn’t know if any of them were the man-he didn’t know who he was. Those arrangements had been left to others.
Therrador sighed. He’d miss Rudric; they’d spent much time together over the years and Therrador found him a pleasing conversation. The world would be a better place without that bastard Gendred.
“What happened?” he whispered aloud. “Where is the vial?”
“Did you say somethin’ Da?”
Therrador looked up at the five-year-old boy peering from behind the tapestry hung to hide his private antechamber. His expression softened and a sad smile nearly won its way onto his lips.
He looks so much like his mother.
“Dada was talking to himself, Graymon.” He spread his arms and the boy ran into his embrace. “I thought I told you to wait in the other room for me.”
The boy waved his carved wooden dragon near his father’s head, acting as though he didn’t hear him, pretending the toy flew like a real dragon.
“Graymon?”
“I bored, Da.” The toy dragon attacked his father’s arm; a wooden tooth dug into Therrador’s skin. “Play with me.”
Therrador grasped the boy’s shoulders, held him at arm’s length and spoke gently. “Da is busy, we can play when I’m done. Can you go back into the other room for me?”
“Rrraaarrr.”
The toy dragon flew out of his hands in the direction of the tapestry. Therrador spun him around, sending him on his way with a tap on the bum.
“That’s my boy.”
As the boy disappeared behind the velvet arras, Therrador’s smile disappeared, too. All that had been put in motion brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat, but it must be done. Erechania would always remember Braymon the Brave and one day they would exult Graymon the Great; he only hoped they would eventually forgive or forget Therrador the Traitor. He lowered his eyes back to the marble table top shot with red, lost in his thoughts until a sound made him look up.