The princes protege the.., p.28
The Prince's Protege--The Five Kingdoms #3, page 28
Betha nurtured the hope that, should the need arise, she might now be able to find her own way back to Darshan.
Urien held his peace the entire journey, for much of which he appeared to be sleeping. When the carriage swung onto the semi-circular drive fronting the squat meeting house, his eyes snapped open, and Betha recoiled from the strange glint in their depths, reminiscent of the flash she’d seen from across the tournament arena.
Urien climbed out of the carriage first, displaying none of the stiffness she’d expected from someone who had fought a dozen bouts the day before. Was this the result of his medication too?
When they entered the antechamber, Betha noticed an absence of feminine cloaks hanging on the pegs; only the dark, heavy mantles worn by noblemen. It was no surprise then, to find the bordello dim and quiet, with small groups of men standing around the edges, sipping ruby wine. The stale smell of sweat, mixed with the fruity aroma, turned Betha’s stomach. Even so, she breathed faster, unable to quell her disquiet.
She’d prepared herself mentally for her meeting with Urien in the same manner as before, but where her surface personality portrayed a certain dullness, the real Betha beneath remarked details that fetched a cold sweat to her brow. Around her, the attendees conversed in quick, edgy voices, and their brisk gestures vibrated with energy. Up close, a powerful stink of masculine excitement mingled with the acrid scent of fear to override the lingering odour of wine and sex.
Approaching the hideous doors, a spike of anxiety stabbed Betha: a pair of armed guards stood one to either side. There would be no exit before whatever was to take place today was complete.
The guards swung the double doors open, and an unexpected wash of warmth and light spilled out. Urien led the way in.
Betha blinked, dazzled by the glare of a hundred candles grouped in banks around the perimeter, on stands staggered down the broad steps, and up high, set on tall, metal frames surrounding the stone altar. Light glinted off the metal rings set into each corner of the imposing block of stone, and Betha’s heart lurched when she saw the bare top exposed, the blood red cloth that had covered it last time no longer in place. Great gouges in the freshly visible surface made it appear as though a monstrous beast had dragged huge claws across it, before belching fire to leave smoky residue embedded in the depths of the grooves. Other scorch marks added to the impression, elevating Betha’s heart rate further.
Urien beckoned her to follow. He marched with self-assured strides down the broad stairs; so unlike his ungainly tumble the last time. Betha fancied she saw a small tremor in his knee one step before he reached ground level and indeed, he halted, plunged a hand into a deep pocket in his slate grey tunic, and extracted the very bottle Betha sought.
Urien took a small sip, stoppered the bottle again and re-stowed it in the depths of his clothing. Betha bit her lip: how was she ever going to get her hands on it?
The rustle of footsteps announced an influx of men into the hall. With a glance over her shoulder, Betha estimated fifty or sixty—enough to raise the temperature in the airless space significantly. She began to sweat, not all of it due to the heat.
Leaving her at the bottom of the stairs, Urien skirted the altar, and stepped up onto the dais. He faced his audience, allowing himself a long, slow inspection. The scowl on his features did not bode well.
Finally, his attention halted on a group of white-robed priests.
“Which of you was responsible for the riot in the Temple?” Urien’s tone was tight with anger.
A riot in the Temple? It was the first Betha had heard of it. She managed not to react visibly, but her mind swam. That such a thing might occur! She felt the firm foundations of her world tilting.
The accused priests shifted uncomfortably beneath Urien’s glare, sneaking glances at each other, but none admitted involvement. After a silence heavy with suspense, an older cleric dared speak.
“My lord, none of us here had any part in it. We were as surprised as you. That the renegades intended to steal one or more of the relics is clear, but what they intended to do with them afterwards, no one knows.”
“Then find out!” Urien thundered. “We have our own plans for those artefacts; I will not have anyone pre-empting us.”
“Yes, my lord,” murmured the priests, en masse.
Urien stalked across the dais, and halted before the carved wooden throne. An eager voice from deep in the crowd called out the same question as the last time Betha had been present.
“Will the Master be joining us?”
Betha’s fists tightened. The answer that time had been negative; would it be different today?
“He will,” confirmed Urien in a pitch markedly deeper than normal. Or perhaps it was the acoustics of the low-ceilinged room.
At last! Now she would glean the information Marten needed.
“About time,” muttered a familiar, loathsome voice behind her, and Betha flinched as Edlund pushed rudely past. He lingered a moment too long, one hand on the small of her back. As it slid lower, she moved aside.
“Don’t think you’re beyond me,” he whispered into her ear, his hot breath making her cringe. “You won’t have his protection forever.”
With a quick squeeze of her buttock, and a smug smile, Edlund continued on to join Urien on the dais.
Nor will you, Betha thought, fingering the small dagger in the hidden sheath sewn into her bodice. Taking advantage of being ignored for the moment, she worked her way back up through the crowd until she came to rest with her back to the wall, in the darkest spot she could find between candle stands. The rapt attention of all the men remained fixed on Urien, lending her the illusion that she was unobserved. As the only woman in the room, she doubted that was true, but it brought some small measure of comfort as the nervous anticipation in the room heightened.
Silence spread like a blanket drawn over the gathering. Expectant faces stared at Urien where he posed on the dais, before the ornate throne. His eyes gleamed, and a silver sheen spread over them like oil across water. Betha stifled a gasp. This time there was no mistaking the mark of the deity.
Urien’s compact body began to grow, lengthening and widening, until he towered over Edlund, who stood, unintimidated, beside him. The lustrous sheen crept outward from Urien’s eyes, sliding over his skin, coating his dark hair. His face vanished beneath a pearlescent glow, which continued to expand until it encased his entire body, leaving nothing visible of the man Betha knew.
A pristine face, beautiful beyond nature, emerged from the coruscating radiance. A physical body of divine proportions, emphasised by a figure-hugging white tunic, solidified, until a glowing creature, so exquisite it hurt the mind to look upon it for long, stood before the congregation.
He lowered Himself onto the throne, which creaked beneath His weight.
Betha’s heart pounded against her ribcage, fighting for space in her chest with the air frozen in her lungs. She cowered back against the wall, leaning on it for the support her legs no longer provided.
Charin! The benefactor was the god Himself!
He surveyed His followers with a slow sweep of His argent eyes, and Betha hid behind the tall man in front of her.
“My faithful servants.” Charin’s words rolled around the chamber like distant thunder caught between mountain ridges. Betha whimpered and covered her ears, but the cadence of His words resonated in her bones.
“I come today to endorse your undertaking, and to mete out just punishment for a presumptuous act contrary to my objectives.”
Raucous cheers beat against Betha’s covered ears, but that was preferable to feeling the god’s speech invade her body. She dropped her ineffectual hands.
Who was to be punished? Her gaze darted back and forth, seeking anyone in the crowd who looked guilty, but all she saw was a sea of fanatical supporters, their faces bright with fervour, tinged with an edge of fear as they beheld their god incarnate.
The terrible possibility that she might be the guilty party slammed into Betha like being run over by a herd of wild horses. Was this why Urien had brought her here today? Panic gripped her, and she tried to force strength into her limp legs, ready to run.
But even if the outer door had not been guarded, where could she run that might evade a god?
“Bring her in,” ordered Charin in His terrible voice.
Betha slid down the wall, her legs failing her utterly.
But when nobody made a move towards her, it registered gradually in her fear-frozen mind that the silent throng was regarding the doorway with avid attention.
She pushed herself upright on trembling limbs.
The loathsome doors swung open, and the two guards entered. Held firmly between them, a young woman stumbled dazedly, barely able to remain on her bare feet. The rags of a diaphanous cream gown did nothing to hide her buxom figure, or the slight swell of her belly. The remains of once-bright face paint streaked her cheeks, scored through by tear tracks beneath her large, doe-like brown eyes. Lank hair, probably blonde, hung in knotted clumps to her shoulders, where someone had hacked the rest away.
Betha’s hand lifted, then fell back down. She ached to hold the stranger in her arms, to lie to her, to tell her that all would soon be well, but she could only watch in mute horror as the girl was dragged down the steps and hoisted onto the altar.
Golden manacles cuffed around the prisoner’s wrists and ankles were secured to the rings at each corner until she lay, spread-eagled, on the gashed stone. She made a feeble attempt to raise her head and look at the shimmering figure on the throne, before subsiding into what Betha hoped was a drugged stupor.
Charin rose from His seat. “This woman,” He said, and Betha’s skin crawled beneath the contempt in that single word. “This common drab, has dared to permit the king’s seed to quicken in her belly. I will not tolerate this abomination!”
The god raised his hands, and power crackled around them. Betha watched in horror as the girl’s chest rose and fell in swift, shallow pants. Could it be the drug prevented her from reacting, while not dulling her understanding? To be trapped so inside your own body—a nightmare beyond imagining.
Firebolts shot from Charin’s open palms, slamming into the girl’s chest and belly. Her body jerked wildly, lit up with the brightness of a lightning strike. Incandescence played over her writhing form in jagged spikes, travelling along her limbs and sparking off the metal rings holding her in place. Smoke rose from her smouldering hair and clothes, and her mouth gaped wide in an agonized silent scream.
Betha clapped her hands over her eyes, unable to watch. Around her, she could sense the tense thrill gripping the crowd. What could make men cruel enough to enjoy such a sickening spectacle?
The stench of cooking meat was Betha’s undoing. She doubled over and heaved, spewing her last meal across her shoes. Slipping down to a crouch, she wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them tight as the awful illumination died away, and silence spread across the chamber. Betha could not bring herself to rise again, to see the mangled husk her imagination pictured atop the altar.
Charin’s last speech made her suspect the hapless victim had been the girl Marten had been seeing before her, and she wondered if the king knew he’d sired a child.
A child who had just been murdered, along with its mother, by the malicious half of the deity. What would Marten feel? Should she even tell him? What good would that do?
In that instant, Betha knew she intended to get out of this hellhole with her information intact. She forced herself to rise once more.
Sight of the blackened corpse, still with tendrils of smoke rising from it, made her retch again. She wiped sour-tasting bits from her tongue, desperately wishing for water to wash her mouth clean. The god’s voice thrummed in her veins, but she was no longer listening to the words. She began working her way towards the door, staying low, hiding behind the men on the highest tier. Perhaps the guards had stayed inside the chamber while Charin indulged his pique. Perhaps she might, yet, sneak out unnoticed.
The rear view of a familiar figure forced her to halt.
Ordell! Her rejected suitor stood amongst the ranks of the god’s devotees. If he spotted her, her life would be over. Of all the men here, he alone knew she was not the subservient, cowed lady she’d pretended to be. He’d experienced her wrath when she’d thrown him out of her rooms, and cut off their intended betrothal. Her counterfeit persona would never convince him. Either she’d been very fortunate he hadn’t attended the last meeting Urien had brought her to, or he was a recent recruit. Either way, she mustn’t let him see her.
Charin’s hateful voice destroyed her slender hope.
“And now I wish to view the vessel chosen to bear the means of Our ascendency. Bring her forth.”
Two guards appeared beside Betha. With a sinking feeling, she realised she’d never stood a chance; they must have been keeping track of her position the entire time.
Without touching her, they gestured for her to precede them down the steps, towards the ghastly altar. Defiance was all the armour she had left, so she squared her shoulders, drew herself erect, and descended with quiet dignity.
“But—”
Ordell’s honeyed tones rang out as he recognised the cult’s chosen child-bearer. She strode on, ignoring him. Perhaps Charin would ignore him too.
But Ordell was not content to remain unheeded.
“If this is the woman you’ve selected, you’ve made a grave mistake. I know of none less humble or submissive. If you believe that’s what you have in her, you’ve been gravely misled.”
Charin raked his eyes over Betha. Ice spread beneath her skin, and her legs ceased to work.
The god turned his terrible gaze on Ordell. “You dare dispute our servant’s choice?”
Betha could hear the tremor in Ordell’s answer, but he stuck to his opinion with more courage than she’d have given him credit for.
“Master, I must. This woman and I were to be married, but when I justifiably chastised one of her servants, she annulled the arrangement. She’s a foul-mouthed bitch with airs far above her station. Whatever she’s led you to believe, it’s all lies.”
Charin lowered Himself once more to His throne, placing one elbow on the carven armrest, and rubbing His chin with His fingers in a disturbingly human fashion. He regarded Betha with interest.
“Your deceit is well played, woman—I admire your audacity. So, I assume the king knows of our plans?”
Still frozen in place, Betha could not answer, but that didn’t seem to bother the god.
“No matter, his part in this charade is nearing its end. Already, you harbour the fruits of his seed.”
Held immobile as she was, Betha felt all her muscles go rigid. What was Charin saying? That she was pregnant? It had been only two days since she’d lain with Marten; it wasn’t possible for anyone to tell this soon.
But this isn’t anyone. This is the god.
“What should we do with her?” Edlund asked. If anything, the sensation of his lecherous stare was worse than Charin’s regard.
“Keep her here. This is a delicate time and I grow impatient; too many times my plans have been diverted from their course. Until this child is born, there is no certainty.”
Edlund’s face fell, and the tightness in Betha’s chest eased a little. At least, for the moment, she had the god’s protection.
The guards grabbed her arms, holding her upright when the feeling returned to her limbs in hot pin pricks. They supported her—not gently, but at least without excessive force—up the steps, with Edlund following behind. As she passed Ordell, he spat on her.
Such hate! Yes, she’d dashed his hopes for a comfortable and influential marriage, but she didn’t deserve such an extreme reaction. She had the horrible feeling that her actions had brought him here, to Charin’s embrace.
A clatter behind caught everybody’s attention. The guards paused, allowing her to glance back. Charin/Urien was on one knee before the throne, and it didn’t appear to be intentional. Urien’s true figure was readily visible within the silver sheath of the god, which stuttered and shrank in random places. Charin’s beautiful face twisted with rage before fading to an amorphous glow, which flickered a few times, and then blinked out.
Edlund swore, before dashing back down the steps to haul his unfortunate friend back to his feet.
“You didn’t take enough, did you?” he chided.
Urien’s hand dove into his pocket and withdrew the glass bottle, but even from half way up the steps, Betha could see it was empty. With a scowl, Urien threw it against the altar, where it smashed into myriad glittering shards.
“Today’s business is concluded,” he announced in a volume once more his own, and the gathered men bowed, no one questioning the god’s abrupt departure.
Edlund and Urien ascended the steps, Edlund sticking close enough by Urien’s side he could catch his friend should his knee fail again. Betha seized on the significance of what she’d witnessed.
Charin can’t use Urien as a channel when he’s in pain. That drug is the key!
Marten could use that against Charin: find a way to keep Urien from the drug, and he would be just a man, and a man with a crippling disability, not the fighting machine he’d become at the tournament, when he must have relied heavily on the potion.
But the knowledge was useless to Marten unless she could escape.
They entered the bordello. The guards guided her towards a small doorway at the rear of the building. Edlund sidled close.
