The kheld king, p.43
The Kheld King, page 43
“I hired Nikos Obar to teach you philosophy, not cookery.” Dorilian joined Levyathan on the rim of the Well. No one knew for certain how many thousands of years had polished the stone to its current smoothness. The Serat had been built around the Well and included numerous pre-Return structures.
“He is,” Levyathan explained. “We are examining the nature of truth, whether truth lies in practice or theory. Which is truer: what we know about food, or our experience of the food itself? The wisdom of our bodies in digesting the food, or of our minds for knowing from whence it came? I have asked him if we might move on to the nature of divinity, and how it is related to truth—and whether godhood lies in practice or belief.” To Palimia’s tilt of the head, Levyathan winked and added, “Also why must a god learn how to cook an egg.”
Dorilian met Palimia’s broad grin. “At least I am getting half my money’s worth.”
“He may surpass all your cooks—and your scholars too.”
Levyathan leaned forward, all elbows and knees. Now that he had gained a handspan in height over the last year, it mattered less that he talked more like an adult than a child. “I want to learn everything there is to know about what we are. About what I am and can be. I have experienced for myself the depth and pervasiveness of our connections to Leur. Cibulitus does not explain these very well, even in Aryati.”
“He is better for history,” Dorilian said. “I will send to Jharbala for a philosopher more suited to explore your questions.”
“Good, because I have a great many.”
How not? Levyathan’s mere existence begged questions philosophers could argue for years. “Cibulitans consider questions imperfect. Questions manipulate truth and are flawed by simply existing.”
“I should think you would want the answers anyway.”
Dorilian shook his head. “I don’t think answers matter, not to that question. What if we are gods? Or men? What does that change for us or the world? I will worry about the nature of godhood if I ever become one. For now—I am a man and have problems enough being that.”
“You are still doing it, aren’t you?” Levyathan’s voice wavered. “Pushing your body. Testing yourself.”
He was. Dorilian no longer shared the details of his explorations, however. Why feed the boy’s fears? It was his job to help Levyathan grow and learn, not turn him into a fretful accessory. Terrors had always lurked just under the skin of their relationship.
“Go,” Dorilian said. “Change your clothes. Meet your tutor for the morning.”
He watched the way Palimia’s gaze followed Levyathan’s dash from the courtyard, happy, young limbs in motion. More than physical pain dulled the shine of her eyes. Memory, too, tormented her.
Dorilian stood and walked behind her chair to grasp its handles. “Let me wheel you.”
“Thrice Royal—”
“I have a name. You are one of the five people who may use it.”
“But the staff will hear.”
Even now, she was scrupulous about appearances. A fine quality, and one Dorilian continued to find useful. “I do not care who hears,” he said. “However, I do care who might hear what else I wish to say to you, so let’s retire to somewhere more private.”
Palimia had always admired the way Dorilian’s private rooms combined his preference for open spaces with statements of precise and elevated elegance. Sun-filled. Open. Punctuated by striking artworks. His two rooms for study, in contrast, seemed given over entirely to clutter and books. It had been well over a year since she had been in these rooms and now found her gaze leaping from stack of tomes to stack of tomes, from open atlases to architectural models to easels with maps.
She pushed her hands against the frame of her chair to situate herself more comfortably as Dorilian positioned her beside his desk. The chair had been designed in Permephedon by physicians dedicated to assisting persons with afflictions like hers. As a result, it was light and maneuverable, crafted of amazing metal and beautiful polished woods. It more resembled a throne than a chair.
In the endless months that followed her injury, Palimia had recovered as much as was possible. Physicians both in Sordan and Permephedon agreed she would never regain use or even command of her lower body. For the remainder of her life, she would have need of servants to attend her most basic needs. The Hierarch had ensured she would always have that assistance. They might not be lovers in the same way they had been, but Dorilian made clear his continued interest.
She reached over to pick up a thick parchment.
“This is a very old map of Stauberg.”
“It shows the original contours of the Wall.” Dorilian glanced at another map on an easel opposite his worktable. “Quite a change over the years.”
“Why are you studying Stauberg? Please tell me you’re not going there.”
“Not while my promise stays in force.”
His refusal to say Stefan’s name had hardened of late. Palimia was one of the few people allowed to reference the man at all.
“He miscalculated terribly, attempting to seize the Malyrdeon Princes the way he did.” She put down the aged map, noting as she did so that it was one of several.
“He was fortunate he could return to friendlier lands by way of Serrain.”
True. Even so, Stefan had not escaped unscathed. Many weeks had passed since the incident, and the Royal North verged on open rebellion. The Bas of Rannul, Burelan Phaeros, had raised an army and marched to defend the Princes. Stefan had narrowly defeated Burelan near Simelon and driven him back, but now found himself chasing down Burelan to prevent him from reaching, and holing up in, his domain of Rannul. Merrydn had petitioned the Archhalia to broker a truce before more damage could be done. Only Palimia and a few close advisors knew Dorilian had told Hebron of Lacenedon and Estevan of Gweroyen that Sordan would not support an insurrection to place a Malyrdeon—any Malyrdeon—on Essera’s throne.
If you dethrone the Stauberg-Randolphs, you get neither them nor me.
Worse, a new player had emerged to complicate matters. Stefan’s alliance with Nammuor now included Mormantaloran naval support and contingents of troops in Stauberg and Aral. Palimia sighed.
“Are you feeling well? Strong?”
Dorilian’s question surprised her. He usually respected her wish not to dwell on, or talk about, her infirmity. She put aside thoughts of Essera and resumed her smile.
“Well enough. Surely Thuraya keeps you informed of my condition. What is this about? You did not bring me here to inquire about my health.”
“No.” Always when she was with him, she detected Dorilian’s regret at having been the cause of her injury. “I am inquiring if you are in good enough condition to… help me with something.”
How intriguing. That he knew her physical impediments—perhaps even better than she did—and had an offer to make was reason enough to listen. “I am willing to serve in whatever capacity you ask, within my limitations.”
“Your limitations are part of what make you so suitable. No one will question why you take up residence in Permephedon.”
“Permephedon?” She visited only to consult with the High Citadel’s physician Sages.
“I wish to undertake projects that would benefit from having you there. You would live in the Sordaneon Tower, of course, in my own residence, which is impregnable. Everyone knows you are my mistress. I have never renounced you as such.”
Maybe not, though people would hardly be fooled. She ducked her head. “So I sit in Permephedon and… what? Let people see me quietly set aside?”
“You are not being set aside.” He extended his hand and she placed hers within it. “You remain as dear to me as ever. And as fully trusted. What people see and think can be manipulated. What matters is that you will be near the physicians who most help you and you can manage your guardianship of the Stauberg-Randolph assets just as you now do, through your staff. Your nephew does a good job with your personal properties.”
As a reward for saving his life, Dorilian had raised her to the nobility. She now enjoyed the title of Basarchessa of Sandalya, which comprised a region rich in vineyards and groves, complete with several estates and many profitable businesses. Her nephew Lazaros, whom she had discovered years ago to be thoughtful and intelligent, she had brought to Sordan to manage her newly acquired estates.
“And these projects of yours?”
“I will put you in contact with people and they will put you in contact with other people.” Dorilian passed her a sheaf of documents. “You are to facilitate charitable endeavors.”
“Ah.” A quick perusal of the documents showed proposals for a school, a public garden, and a library.
“You shall enjoy as busy and full a life as you wish. Resume relationships in Essera at your discretion. You already know my ambassador to the Archhalia, who has a residence in the Tower. He and his lady spend most of his year there, as do Tiflan and Deleus while the Archhalia is in session. You should know, however, that you will be approached by people who wish access to me, through you.”
Palimia laughed. “Please. That happens already. And would you object if while I am in Essera I engage in projects of my own?”
“No, though I prefer you to present them to me first.”
“In case you should find them useful for your own purposes?”
Dorilian smiled. “You understand me too well.”
Yes, she did. Of the many gifts Marc Frederick had given her, this man had done the most to change her life. The loss she regretted above all was that she would never again know his lovemaking. The assassin’s attack had done too much damage to her organs and spine—such that intercourse would lead her to feel nothing of pleasure, and Dorilian would feel only her pain. Not to mention the sheer inconvenience. Despite this, they were in many ways more intimate than ever.
He sank back into his chair and studied her. “I notice you haven’t asked what I hope to accomplish.”
No, she had not. “If you wish me to know that, you will tell me.”
“I am not trying to ruin anyone in particular.”
A small part of her, a new and bitter part, was disappointed. “I suppose you did enough toward that end with Gignastha.”
“I made my point.” He narrowed his storm-silver gaze upon her. “I will look the other way if you choose to make points of your own.”
War could not be put behind a man, even one who was king. Stefan had learned from his grandfather that kings were never far from taking up arms. The stench of the battlefield assaulted his nostrils, voided bowels and opened viscera, men and horses alike, but he needed to be here, striding through the dead and maimed, stepping upon the fallen banners of his enemy. He dismounted and walked the red ground, needing to see for himself that fucking Burelan Phaeros was dead.
His Kheld mercenaries had done for him what Staubaun soldiers would not. They had ridden down the fleeing army and hacked their way through Burelan’s defenders. Some of Stefan’s Staubaun officers had pleaded for him to spare Burelan and those of Rannul’s nobles who fought with him, and had offered to broker a peace, but the Khelds had not cared about that. They had cloven Burelan’s neck and sent his head rolling down the hill. Someone had retrieved it and brought it back, to set it in its proper place, features muddied and distorted by agony and mortis, gold hair matted with blood.
“Good riddance, that one.” Goff gripped a blood-stained axe, though not the one that had finished the Bas.
Yes, very good riddance, and done in a way that removed Stefan himself from the deed. No one could lay blame on him for a man slain in the teeth of battle.
“Himself, and his brother too,” Goff noted. “No heirs to run down.”
Erenor stood with them. “Only the sister. You were right to think she would flee, sire. We captured her trying to make for Permephedon.”
Good. Permephedon might have provided sanctuary. Too many people would be invested in the woman’s fate for her to simply disappear, but Stefan might still turn an heiress to his advantage. One way or another, Rannul would cease to be a thorn in his side. If only to make sure the domain did not fall under the influence of Purists or the contentious and difficult Seven Houses, he would tie Rannul closer to home. Euella Phaeros would be wed to one of Stefan’s allies.
Stefan nudged Burelan’s dead head with his boot. “I’ve seen what I need to see. Keep his corpse. We can barter it for something useful.” A sound of hoof falls told him that one of the soldiers had brought his horse. A minute later Stefan was mounted again and glad to be above the muck. Goff and Erenor had their mounts brought and did the same. By leaving the field, they put death behind them.
That night, Stefan celebrated victory in his well-secured tent, surrounded by an army and the few hundred Kheld sell-swords now in his employ. He was as safe as it was possible to be in Rannul. Wine flowed freely for his captains, along with boastful presentations of loot. It was a pleasant thing to hear his name shouted by joyful voices. One of the loudest belonged to Peric Goffson, who had recruited and led the mercenaries. Peric wore ill-fitting armor and bore a new sword, both courtesy of Burelan, whose corpse he had stripped. Fair reward for the warrior who had swung the killing blow.
Stefan pointed to Peric’s right hand and held out his own. “Hand it over.”
By his expression, it was plain the young man didn’t know what Stefan asked. Goff jabbed his son with his elbow. “The ring. The one the Bas of Rannul wore.”
With a sullen growl, Peric twisted the big golden ring from his finger. “But I like this one. It’s damn heavy.”
The men around him laughed. Most of them. Stefan noticed his Staubaun captains had fallen silent. Even Erenor, though at least his frown faded once Peric had dropped the signet ring into Stefan’s palm, where it rested, warm and bright, blood black within its crevices.
“Full see, I do, why you want it.” Harc—the burly, full-bearded leader of the mercenaries—chuckled. “Melt it down and that thing would pay half my lads!”
Though not strictly true, the jibe landed a painful point. The Khelds had been told six wagonloads of Stefan’s gold waited for them back in Dazunor-Rannuli—except there weren’t any wagons or gold, and Stefan hadn’t found the right time to break to the lot that he couldn’t pay them just yet. His treasury in Stauberg was substantial, but it required a writ from Essera’s Halia to access. He had depleted the Crown’s usual funds on deposit with bankers in Dazunor. As for his personal fortune, he had spent most of that buying off votes for lordships.
For the hundredth time of late, Stefan missed having Cullen at his side. Cullen would have advised him not to try to seize the Malyrdeon boys, to be sure—though Stefan would have tried it anyway. More importantly, he was confident Cullen could have found the coin needed to pay the damn mercenaries.
“Seems to me I should get some recompense.”
Stefan snapped back to hear what Peric was saying. To judge by his flushed face and vapid grin, Peric was feeling the effects of victory ale, and wine too, of which he’d been drinking liberally. Dark hair matted by battle fell in front of his eyes as he pressed his case.
“The sister, I hear, needs a man—one what can keep the land and tax it for you.”
Not now! Stefan saw that jaws had tightened on every Staubaun who had overheard those words. The Kheld men laughed like the Motherless drunken idiots they were. Stefan glared at Goff, who was deep in the cups himself but recognized the signal. Goff got onto unsteady feet and wrapped Peric in an embrace.
“Mother forbid and protect us. No need to win the battle and lose to drink. Let’s get you to bed.”
“—could do with a high wench like that, Da.”
“Couldn’t we all.”
The tent flap closed behind them. Aureon Varney, one of the Staubaun captains, toasted the king again, to renewed and slightly forced cheers followed by more wine being poured. More food arrived on trenchers and one of the men produced a stringed instrument. Soon there was music, and conversation followed.
Erenor leaned in to claim Stefan’s ear. “You cannot wed her to one of your Khelds. Not after that.”
Not to Peric, for certain. Stefan shook his head. “I’ll wed Euella to one of my lord allies,” he confirmed. “I just have to think it through first.”
He could and should make a deal similar to the one he had made for Tahlwent. Marry the woman and the title that came with her to someone who would not strengthen Rannul by marriage but would give over Rannul’s treasury in exchange for elevation in rank. Lucien maybe… no. Lucien was betrothed. But he did have a brother in need of a title, and there was also Arton Metagoras. Cullen would approve of the latter and Euella could do worse than a man whose father was an Archon in Merrydn. The two domains were neighbors. For Stefan to elevate a Staubaun aristocrat, however, would sit ill with his Kheld chieftains, who expected bigger rewards than they’d been getting.
I can’t just hand a woman over to a man she would not want.
Khelds, even disgruntled chieftains, would understand that much. The woman was not the prize. Rannul was. All Stefan wanted from it was a vote he could count on and the gold in Terna’s coffers. The hard truth was, because of Neuberland and chasing down Burelan Phaeros, Stefan had spent too much coin of late on armies. He could not afford his own wars.
Dorilian, at least, was safe. Stefan didn’t have the money to invade Sordan.
Upon reaching Simelon two weeks later, Stefan shared a cordial with his grandfather’s old friend Phellan Illarion, Bas of Serrain. Stefan had chosen Simelon to be his stronghold for putting down the restive nobles of the Eleutheron. With Burelan’s defeat, he’d put only one rebellion to ground. To her credit, Princess Palaistea had cooperated by declaring her situation to be secure and unthreatened, that the king had promised she would remain regent for her sons. Stefan had done so in large part on Phellan’s urging.
“There are many kinds of power.” Phellan studied the ruby nectar in his glass. “The best power is that which allows people to happily embrace you because you do not threaten them. Indeed, you make their lives easier, and so they cannot imagine embracing anyone else.”
