Master of restless shado.., p.5
Master of Restless Shadows, page 5
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“Father Timoteo wants to personally introduce you to the duke tomorrow evening,” Berto said. “After you’ve had time to rest and feel your best.”
“Should I dress and go speak to the father about it now?” The sooner he handed over his mother’s letter the less likely he was to do something stupid like break his promise and read it.
“No. He’s already retired to bed.”
“You’re certain that he isn’t ill?”
“Certain. He’s just had a very long day.” Berto must have read something in Narsi’s expression because he suddenly added, “He’s not avoiding you.”
Narsi sighed. Considering how tired he felt, it probably wasn’t a bad idea to save his reunion with Father Timoteo for tomorrow, particularly if it was to be followed by an interview with a duke who already hated him.
Chapter Five
On the previous occasions that Hierro had summoned him to the Shard of Heaven, Ariz hadn’t been allowed beyond the fountain garden. Now a round-faced young acolyte dressed in simple black robes held open a small side door for him. The interior of the ancient chapel was nothing like Ariz would have imagined. Instead of pews, the long nave was filled with exquisitely carved sculptures of men, women and monstrous creatures.
Normally depictions of the Savior’s holy battles against demonic hordes decorated the walls and altars of a chapel. But here, Ariz felt as though he had stepped onto one of those ancient battlefields. So many figures, tangled in combat, populated the space that Ariz had to walk a winding, confused path to make his way around them—though several times Ariz paused in amazement at the incredible detail of the carvings. In all his life he’d never seen so many perfectly lifelike statues. Some forgotten artisans seemed to have reproduced every hair of a giant wolf’s body, every bristle on the back of a huge boar. Old Gods cast in stone surrounded Ariz on all sides, as did the human champions who battled them. All of the hundreds and hundreds of statues appeared as carefully formed as living creatures. Among the human figures, details as minute as cracked fingernails and split knuckles astounded him.
The flickering light of the lamps hanging high above threw jittery shadows across the stone giants, making them seem almost to breathe. But the light also illuminated a particularly horrific detail. The head of every single statue—human and monster—had been chiseled off and stacked on the shining blue floor to form a magnificently grotesque altar.
On that stood a huge, gilded pulpit, which supported three towering crystal tanks filled with a murky green liquid. Something in one of the tanks moved. Ariz frowned and wondered why anyone would keep fish on a holy pulpit. Then he saw a pink tongue writhe out from the murk to lap against the tank’s glassy surface. Human teeth jutting from bare jawbones closed around the tongue and then sank back into the green murk and out of sight.
Ariz stared in horror.
Hierro glanced over his shoulder at Ariz and laughed.
“How like you not to recognize the highest and most holy when you see them,” Hierro chided him. “You should feel honored. Few men outside the attendant priests and the children of royal bloodlines are ever allowed into the presence of the Hallowed Kings.”
“Those are the kings . . .” Ariz hadn’t felt this sickened by a mere sight since the first time he’d butchered a girl on Hierro’s command. The few times that he had thought of the Hallowed Kings, he’d imagined the sorts of relics that so many chapels housed. Dead, dry bones or teeth, laid out on satin and enclosed by golden casks. Even Bishop Seferino’s sainted heart was just a dry husk housed in an ornate red and gold vase. He knew that the Three Hallowed Kings chose not to ascend into heaven immediately for the sake of the kingdom and the benefit of their heirs, but he’d somehow thought that their souls simply lingered, benign and invisible until the next king was allowed to pass and the eldest of his Hallowed ancestors was released to paradise.
This struck Ariz as more of a torture than an honored rest.
“Do they suffer?” Ariz asked.
“Of course not.” Hierro smiled and then struck Ariz’s cheek. “You need flesh to suffer.”
As if objecting, the tongue in the third tank again slapped at the crystal panes restraining it. It moved, Ariz thought, like an eel flailing in a bucket.
A young priest appeared from the shadows of two decapitated statues and rushed quickly up the blue stone stairs to the pulpit. He dropped to his knees and at once began to sing a low, soft lullaby. His voice reverberated through the vaulted apse, creating harmonies from its own echo. The liquid in the third tank stilled and once again the skull closed its gaping mouth around the flapping tongue and drifted from sight.
“Come,” Hierro commanded. “Before you disturb old King Gachello any further.”
He led Ariz around the altar of glowering stone heads and back to a staircase carved into the brilliant blue stone. They descended some fifteen feet, and then the stairs opened into a huge golden chamber. Lamplight reflected off countless golden inlayed prayers decorating the walls and filled the chamber with brilliance completely at odds with the darkness above them.
Ariz recognized both of the men lounging at the white marble table. Hierro’s father, the Duke of Gavado, pushed a dish of cherries to Remes Sagrada, who was both Prince Sevanyo’s second son and also the royal bishop’s heir. The slender, dark-haired woman at the table had never been formally introduced to Ariz, but he knew her from his boyhood visits to the Fueres holdings: Hierro’s thrice-wed sister, Clara Odalis. Currently, she held the title of countess, but Ariz had no doubt that if the opportunity arose her current husband could meet an untimely end to free her to build her father a more powerful alliance.
At the sight of Hierro, his sister leapt from her place at the table and hurried to his side. Hierro gazed at her with a smile that did not seem affectionate or brotherly.
“Is it done?” Clara asked.
“Captain Ciceron will never rob or murder another nun.” Hierro held the oilskin sack out to his sister. “He has seen the error of his ways.”
Clara took the sack and smiled quite beautifully at Hierro.
Of course, it was not hard for any of them to seem lovely; they were all well-made and dressed in the finest silks and velvets. The Fueres siblings, their silver-haired father and their royal cousin, all of them possessed beauty that Ariz felt reflected nothing of their true characters.
Clara opened the sack and peered into it, then laughed and took it to her father and Remes. The prince slid Captain Ciceron’s bloody head onto an empty gold platter, as if it were a centerpiece.
Clara glanced to Ariz and he averted his gaze to the floor.
“Hierro, let us have a look at your varlet!” Clara called to her brother.
“Go, bow for them,” Hierro ordered and Ariz obeyed, feeling relieved that his expression remained blank, so that none of them read his revulsion. He did not meet their smug gazes but simply sank to the floor in a deep bow.
Hierro joined his family at the table. They took their supper, gossiping and laughing, while Ariz remained, bent low, studying their feet beneath the table. Only Hierro’s boots betrayed the scuffs and dust of walking a public road.
Ariz listened as they picked up their conversation concerning the royal bishop’s growing concern over the Grunito family’s Labaran and Haldiim alliances.
“But he keeps getting distracted, by some nonsense about ancient wards. He’s become fanatical about reclaiming all the relics mentioned in the Battle of the Shard of Heaven Even having ancient texts dug up and sending our best agents out to try and locate some moldering old relics,” Remes said. “Who knows what for.”
“Perhaps he too believes that a second holy war is upon us. We might have need of those relics that once saved our kingdom. Though few remain with us in this corrupt age,” Clara said quietly, almost whispering to herself. “The demon Meztli raised his shield on Crown Hill, but it was shattered. Trueno’s wings are thought to have been lost during the first Mirogoth invasion. The horns of the Summer Doe were said to have been thrown into the sea along with Bhadia’s locket.”
“Well, that’s obviously a lost cause, and it’s a distraction to what we need him doing,” Remes said, then added, “I’ve encouraged him to openly move against the Grunitos, but he’s a sly old man.”
“He’ll come around soon enough. Once he does, we all know who will rush to Nestor Grunito’s rescue,” Hierro commented. “People already whisper of the rift between the Duke of Rauma and the royal bishop. When the time comes they’ll know who to blame.”
“I’d be happier if we had the Grunitos in a more vulnerable position and had secured better insurance against the Labarans. My uncle isn’t entirely wrong about the danger the two present. I don’t know why he won’t see the intelligence of taking Lady Hylanya hostage. But the doddering old fool insists on having her exiled or executed,” Remes replied.
“We need to find her before his men do.” Duke Gavado scowled at his plate.
“Or before that whoremonger Atreau Vediya manages to slip her out of the city and back to her brother,” Remes agreed.
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll turn up.” Hierro speared a carrot and ate it.
Ariz fixed his gaze on the floor tiles. He couldn’t afford to have Hierro realize how much he knew about the part Hierro had played in Lady Hylanya’s disappearance. Likely the only place anyone would find her now was deep in the ground. No doubt her ability to see his spells and implicate him as a witch had threatened him, though Ariz guessed that it had been her unbowed strength and pride that had driven Hierro to have her poisoned.
“A wastrel like Atreau makes no difference,” Hierro stated. “It’s his benefactor, Fedeles Quemanor, who represents our real challenge, particularly now. You wouldn’t think a half-mad inbred idiot would be so hard to ferry into the next world. If only he’d fall off one of his damn horses and break his neck—”
“Some other accident might befall him.” Remes sounded so smug that Ariz looked up at him. “Tonight, for example, he might find himself run through—”
“Tonight is too soon,” the Duke of Gavado objected. “He must survive long enough to take the blame for the others.”
“There will be no end of Hellion scapegoats available to us,” Remes answered. “And anyway, my father is far too fond of him. The old man is already jabbering about changing his choice of successor. I wouldn’t be surprised if he named Fedeles just to spite us all.”
“That’s exactly why we can’t afford to openly attack him. Prince Sevanyo will suspect us and—” the duke began, but Prince Remes cut him off.
“It will appear to be an accident. A sword stroke gone wide in the midst of a duel,” Remes replied. “I want him removed.”
“It is not so easily done as it may seem,” Clara said softly. “Every failed attack against Fedeles Quemanor only awakens more of the abomination within him. He’s recently taken to riding out to Crown Hill, and I fear that his mere shadow may corrupt the place.”
“Fear not, pretty, I will take the utmost care,” Remes replied, and he offered Clara an indulgent smirk.
Ariz suppressed all response to the thought of Fedeles Quemanor being murdered, though it tore at him. And it did not stop there, as the Duke of Gavado could not seem to resist going on to defame Oasia, his estranged eldest daughter, as well as the son she’d born Fedeles.
“There was a time when midwives had the good sense to smother children born crippled.”
At least Clara spoke up in in the boy’s defense, saying, “Papa, Sparanzo is only a child and your grandson. He cannot be blamed for the deeds of his parents. He should be spared. I would gladly take him as my own.”
Again, Ariz suppressed any reaction at the implications of her words, though his brand began to prickle.
“Does not the Book of Obedience teach us to guard against pity, for it is too easily made a devil’s weapon?” Remes chided Clara.
“Certainly, but I do not speak from mere pity,” Clara replied. “The boy is an innocent in all of this, and as Bishop Seferino wrote, ‘Those who sacrifice the innocent claiming it serves a greater good have already left the path of righteousness and stepped onto the cobbles of the Black Hell.’”
Clara did know her theology, and Remes acknowledged her with a nod of his head.
“Even so, I don’t like the thought of allowing Fedeles Quemanor’s whelp to survive his father,” Remes replied. “Not only would he inherit the duchy of Rauma, but he shares my royal blood through his great-grandmother and grandmother. He could contest my claim to the throne.”
“That’s quite correct.” Hierro looked to Remes, and something in his expression made Ariz feel certain that Hierro found Remes’s anxiety amusing. “Fedeles Quemanor too claims royal blood, as obviously does Oasia. There’s no doubt that, when the time comes, we must eradicate that entire bloodline. Otherwise your rule will never be secure.”
“Exactly.” Remes drained his wine and then poured himself another glass. “I won’t be safe so long as any of them draw breath.”
Sweat beaded the back of Ariz’s neck as the brand seared through him, and still he couldn’t stop his rising fury at the thought of anyone harming Fedeles or Sparanzo.
“Give the boy to me as a wedding gift and I promise you that I will ask for nothing else from you,” Clara said softly. “Please, Remes.”
Ariz rolled his gaze up at her. Could it be that some shred of kindness persisted in her? Might she harbor the same strain of rebellion that had led her sister, Oasia, to flee her brother’s control and wed Fedeles Quemanor?
Clara stared intently at Remes while Hierro and his father, Paulino, frowned at them. At last Remes shrugged.
“Very well. If he survives the purge, then the boy will be yours. But when you are my queen I will hold you to your promise. You must ask for nothing else.” Remes grinned as if he’d laid down a clever hand playing hearts and cups.
Ariz dropped his gaze quickly before any of them could catch his brief expression of shock. As a second son, Prince Remes was not his father’s heir but his uncle’s, and no royal bishop took a wife, much less made a queen of her. This was wildly dangerous ambition.
“There is no point in extracting promises from your future wife before she’s been made a widow,” Hierro said, then he raised his voice just a little. “Ariz, come and pour my wine, as you used to do in our academy days”
Ariz stood and served Hierro from a glass decanter etched with a motif of swans. He concentrated on the way the golden lamplight refracted through the glass and cast small pools of color across the white marble tabletop. Anything to distance himself from his distaste for Hierro’s proximity. It seemed almost impossible now to believe that once he’d imagined himself in love with the man.
“It seems that a fortune-teller has predicted that Count Zacarrio Odalis will meet with his end very soon,” Hierro told him.
“And will the fortune-teller be wanting the count’s head on a platter as well?” Ariz asked.
Surprisingly, Clara laughed. But Hierro shot Ariz a threatening glower.
“No,” Hierro stated. “But he will need to be dealt with before the masquerades begin. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Ariz replied.
“And you will do as I order, will you not?” Hierro added, and Ariz realized exactly why he’d been brought here. He was being shown off to Prince Remes like a particularly well-trained dog.
“I will,” Ariz replied, though having the words forced out of his mouth made him want to smash the wine decanter across Hierro’s face. That fantasy provoked a powerful flare of burning pain and Ariz had to exert all of his will to keep from crying out or dropping the decanter.
“He really must obey any order you give him?” Remes straightened in his chair, looking excited but not quite convinced.
“Yes. He can say nothing of what I want kept secret and must obey my every whim. Simply knowing that I wish something done, he must do it. Shall I demonstrate?” Hierro and his father exchanged an amused glance, but Clara dropped her gaze to her plate. Then Hierro drew his dagger.
“Hold out your arm for me, Ariz,” Hierro commanded.
Ariz set aside the decanter and held out his right arm. He knew what Hierro intended. He’d endured the razor edges of Hierro’s knives throughout his youth. Hundreds of fine scars lay across his arms and back like strands of cobweb. Once Ariz had feared that every inch of his skin would be slowly flayed away, but even Hierro had grown bored with Ariz’s silent obedience after six years. And when Hierro’s sister Oasia had requested Ariz as a retainer, Hierro had sent him away with so little remark that Ariz had briefly hoped he’d escaped the man forever. But now that he’d won a position so near the Duke of Rauma, Hierro had rediscovered his pleasure in using him.
He should have expected Hierro’s knives sooner and been better prepared not to respond.
As it was, Ariz struggled to suppress his rage. Immediately the brand engulfed his body as if he were in flames. He felt the blood draining from his lips and his hands shook from the pain. In comparison, he hardly noticed Hierro drag the dagger across the three wounds left by Captain Ciceron. Blood welled up and spilled across the marble tabletop.
“You see, Your Highness,” Hierro told Remes. “He cannot even draw his own hand back if I do not wish it. He is my creature completely. Of course, I would be honored to use him in your service.”
Desperately, Ariz tried to shift his awareness from Hierro. If only he could blot out the man’s gleeful expression as he sliced a second track across Ariz’s arm.
“It delights me to no end to accept your offer, Hierro.” Remes lifted his glass as if toasting the sight of them and drank.
Ariz stared past Hierro’s shoulder to the gold prayers covering the far wall. He’d not studied much of the old holy script but he recognized a few of the words.
