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The fragrance of baking cakes permeated the long, narrow archery courtyard, and Matteo’s stomach growled its longing for a taste of that aroma—toasted grain mingled with sweet fruit. Lessons hadn’t even begun and he was already distracted. Footsteps sounded from the keep and Anji clattered down the steps, with Lord Aristo following and carrying a broad box. To the approaching Aristo, Matteo growled a feigned complaint. “My lord, why have you ordered the army’s supplies to smell like actual food? Aren’t rations supposed to be sawdust? I want to try some of those cakes!”
“So do I,” Anji chimed in, her dark eyes sparkling as she rested her hands over her unborn baby, who was finally becoming large enough to be noticed. “But I have an excuse, cousin. You’ve none except your own appetite. Unless Dalia’s with child and you’re taking on her cravings.”
Might his Dalia be with child? Matteo glanced at the far end of the courtyard where Dalia sat at an opened camp table, meticulously penning a tiny courier bird note for Tragobre—her answer to her parents’ triumphant courier note, informing them of Tragobre’s liberation and Gueronn’s death. Dalia looked up at Matteo then, as if she sensed his glance, and her beautiful face lit with delight. She called to him, “My lord, how can I possibly concentrate when you’re staring so?”
Matteo laughed at her. “I’ve much to stare at! Darzeq’s queen is a wonder to be adored forever. However, if you can’t concentrate, my love, then come learn this new bow my lord-father feared.”
In truth, Dalia must learn this new weapon. Anji must learn. And Ekiael must also, as soon as he dragged himself away from his studies. Darzeq’s royal family would add to its self-protective arsenal. Never must another massacre take them by surprise.
Dalia beamed at his invitation and immediately wiped her writing stylus, then covered the ink vial. “At your command, Sire—and gladly!”
If she was already with child... Matteo’s heart constricted at the thought, half-fear, half hope, all overwhelming. Infinite, bless You and thank You for granting me Dalia as my wife! You are the Mighty One, the One-Who-Sees! You saw my grief and offered me consolation....
He smiled at her, and then toward Ekiael, who hurried down into the archery yard. “I apologize, but the Infinite’s Word must never be neglected—particularly not by one of His priests, particularly as we approach the Season of Joy.”
Matteo nodded. “I agree—though I’m shamed by your studiousness. I need to be more attentive and not allow life’s cares to interfere.” The Season of Joy marked the end of the year, and the beginning of the next, with the Five Observances scattered through the year’s first five weeks: Gratitude, Repentance, Purification, Atonement, and Rejoicing.
Would he be able to observe all five without losing himself to grief over his family?
Resisting the pain of memories, he held out one hand for Dalia, who hurried toward them, asking Aristo, “My lord, is this a difficult weapon?”
Aristo bowed and smiled, clearly delighted with Darzeq’s new queen. “Majesty, it is not. Which is why our good King Jonatan feared it. He said that anyone might take up this invention, this crossbow, and become a warrior—so long as that warrior had enough strength to draw back the bowstring.”
Eshda’s lord kneeled, placed the box on the yard’s paving stones, and lifted the plain wooden cover. Inside, he’d stored two of the new bows and an ample supply of small, metal-winged bolts. “I shall demonstrate, and then all four of you may test the weapon for yourselves.”
He offered the first weapon to Matteo, with a fistful of bolts, then grabbed the second weapon and stood. The weapon appeared deceptively simple. A sleek bow fastened to a long, smoothly polished wooden plank, with a groove carved down its length, set with a shallow metal-sheltered hook at the top of the groove and an iron stirrup at its base. Beneath all, a long metal latch rested within the base of the plank—evidently affixed through the wood to the slight hook above. Aristo cautioned, “Sire and ladies, beware. The slightest touch to this latch will fire the bolt, which will pierce anything in its path—even armor.”
Matteo nodded. “We are excellent students, my lord. Advise us.”
Grinning like a boy sent out to play, Aristo rested the weapon’s iron stirrup on the pavings. Using both hands, he drew back the reinforced bowstring, which gave a satisfying creak just before Aristo latched it into the small, sheltered hook. He straightened, placed a small bolt flat within the long groove, then slid it backward toward the bowstring. Taking aim at the metal target set at the far end of the archery yard, Aristo squeezed the latch.
Before Matteo could even blink, the bolt shot through the metal target, pinging and leaving a perfect hole in the target’s center. Dalia cheered, Anji applauded, and Matteo laughed. “Aristo, you’re a champion! This is amazing!” With one slight problem. “Except that while you’re busy drawing the string and setting the bolt, any plain archer can strike you down in turn.”
“Exactly, Sire.” Aristo nodded. “Which is why one is well-guarded or sheltered when using this weapon. No exceptions.”
Dalia sidled up to Matteo and fluttered her lashes at him, a blatant flirtation. “My dearest lord, hurry and test the thing—I want to try it!”
Her plea tempted Matteo to kiss and torment her. He controlled himself, rested the weapon nose down, and planted his foot within the iron stirrup. “As you command, lady. Be patient.” The bowstring creaked as Matteo drew it back and rested it within the hook. He straightened, clinked a metal bolt into the wooden channel, and slid it backward until its slight wings rested at the bowstring. Then, he held his breath, fixed his gaze on the dot of light left by Aristo’s earlier shot ... and fired.
A second hole appeared in the target, accompanied by a vibrant ping that echoed through the courtyard. Matteo eyed Eshda’s lord. “Thank you, sir. I approve, and claim this one as mine. Unless you’ve a better one.”
“Now that I think if it, Majesty, your lord-father’s was locked away somewhere in the armory. He never touched it. When we’ve finished here, I’ll go search it out and have it restrung for you.”
Aristo offered the second bow to Anji. Matteo was about to claim a kiss from Dalia when a servitor hesitated in the doorway. Matteo raised his eyebrows at the man. “Yes? Do you have news?”
“A courier’s note relayed from Thaddeus of Iydan, and a courier’s note from Arimna.”
Aristo retrieved the note, still sealed within its tiny tube. Shifting the crossbow bolts within his hands, Matteo broke the tube’s seal and frowned at Thaddus’s miniscule script. Karvos Stradin serves Cthar, who wishes to talk with you to discuss terms. All ploys and traps. Karvos told her all our plans. Be warned.
Scowling, Matteo opened the second note and gritted his teeth. His grandmother’s writing sprawled across both sides of the delicate parchment strip. Matteo, my heart is broken and I weep. You, my only living blood, must meet with me and listen for your own sake, as the southern lords even now rally to my cause.
Matteo roared his fury and cast the tube and bolts at a wall, making them ricochet back, clattering and ringing on the courtyard’s pavings. “Ingrates!”
He raged to Dalia and the others, “She’s spinning her webs around the southern lords, and they believe her! Did my father live and fight for nothing? Did my mother and brothers die for nothing? Karvos Stradin has defected to Cthar and she wishes to ‘talk’ with me. There’s nothing to discuss! I want her dead—tortured as she’s tortured others! I want Karvos hacked to pieces, and his estates in ruins! If the other lords do follow him.... They’re traitors! I want to kill them all with my bare hands!”
Anji’s face grayed with obvious distress, causing Ekiael to hold her supportively. Aristo retreated a step, watching Matteo as if he feared Matteo might turn against him, and Dalia’s eyes went huge. She couldn’t look more distraught unless he’d beaten her—which he never would. And yet...
Matteo turned away and pushed a hand through his hair. “Forgive me. How is it possible for me to hate anyone so much as I hate that woman and her toadies?”
Aristo’s voice neared. “It is because her betrayal was too deep and against all that’s right. Majesty, your rage is understandable.”
Straightening in Ekiael’s arms, Anji murmured, “It’s the grief, Matteo. You’ve nothing to apologize for—least of all to me. I saw her betrayal as you did, and I’m angry too! Those who support her have no sense—”
As her voice failed, Ekiael said, “They’re afraid Cthar will win the struggle for Darzeq because she has Arimna. Yet, according to the Infinite’s promises from ages past, your line will continue despite her, and you’re not wrong to crave justice.”
All logical and soothing reasons to tell himself that he wasn’t to blame. Nevertheless, a welling of pain and shadows lifted within his soul and darkened his thoughts. Trying to control his rage, Matteo stalked to the far end of the archery yard and stared down at the target, feeling heart-pierced as that metal plate.
Infinite, One-Who-Sees, I can become as dark as Lord Corban in despair. Darker. Angrier. Even now, I could kill her! Gladly ... too gladly!
Light footsteps approached. Beloved footsteps. Matteo braced himself to face his wife, his comfort. Before he could turn, she twined her arms around his waist and held him, her lilting voice soft. “You’re too cruel toward yourself.”
“No. I’m not.” He half-turned, looped an arm around his wife’s slender frame and drew her close. How could he even look at her? “The truth is that I could easily kill all who oppose me, if I allowed myself to be corrupted. Love, what if I’m ultimately corrupted beyond hope? It’s in my blood! I’m like my grandmother—descended from a mortal fiend. I’m so full of rage that I must deserve to be where I am—no true home, and no true crown. I’d destroy a kingdom. Perhaps I don’t deserve to survive. I’m too much like her!”
“No.” Dalia touched his face, compelling him to look at her. “You’re not like her! You’ve loved others, and you love them still, as you love me. She’s loved no one but herself and those she perceives as portions of herself—yet even there, her love is conditional. Don’t allow her to rule your emotions from a distance. In time you’ll have justice for your family’s deaths.”
He allowed himself to be lulled, soothed by her tenderness, her love, and her cherished face and form. His beautiful little wife. Matteo grazed his fingers over her soft cheek, then murmured, “I would go insane if I didn’t have you here, my love.” But insanity would be too easy an escape, and he must seek justice for his family. He raised his voice. “We should rejoin the others. Perhaps our high priest will counsel me. Won’t you, Ekiael?”
If Ekiael had been a dog or a horse, his ears would have perked. “Won’t I what, Majesty?”
“Counsel me.”
Darzeq’s high priest grinned. “Here’s my counsel, Majesty: Follow true wisdom. Seek answers from the Infinite. Find a true prophet and never ignore his or her words from our Creator.”
Unlike Sheth. Sheth should have listened to Belaal’s prophet. He should have ruled. He would have been a great king. Mighty One, call to me, as you called to Sheth through Your prophet, and let me hear and obey. Unlike Sheth—
Matteo tightened his hold on Dalia and closed his eyes. His last glimpse of Sheth and their brothers returned, attacked by Gueronn and his mercenaries. Because of Cthar. She must not prevail—Infinite, my Creator, do not allow her to triumph!
Above all, prevent me from becoming ever more like her.
Matteo opened his eyes and called out, “Aristo, do we have a courier bird who considers Arimna Palace as home? I must write a note to my erstwhile grandmother.”
***
Cthar of Kaphtor. Murderess, your plea failed. I loathe carrying any taint of you in my blood. You destroyed my family, but I am my father’s son! I will repay you for my mother’s death and my brothers, you she-scaln! Consider yourself prey, and pray to the Infinite for mercy, for I’ve none! Matteo of Darzeq.
***
Finished with her latest note to her parents at Tragobre, Dalia fanned the parchment, and then slid a glance toward Matteo, who sat at his own writing table near their chamber window. A scowl marred his lean, beautiful face as he rolled and bound his own note into a tiny cylinder. Truly, he had every right to be furious and vengeful toward Cthar. And yet ... rage changed Matteo. Rage transformed him into a stranger whom she’d no wish to know.
A stranger she’d chase away whenever he dared to show himself.
Dalia quietly packed away her writing supplies and then crept across the chamber to pounce upon her unsuspecting husband and attack him with kisses. Matteo laughed and stood. He lifted her in his arms, kissed her fiercely, then held her, swaying and smiling as she wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her face against his wonderfully thick dark hair. Matteo murmured against her throat, “What would I do without you, my love?”
“You’d be quite unlike my darling Matteo. Abandon your writing, Majesty, and kiss me.”
***
Evening sunlight streamed into Eshda’s great hall from the high windows, pouring red-gold warmth over the dais and the evening meal like a blessing from the Infinite—a whim as pleasing to Anji’s soul as the entire tranquil day. To her left, Matteo and Dalia where whispering obvious endearments to each other like the teasing pair of newlyweds that they were, and to her right, dear Ekiael ate perfunctorily while he read verses he’d copied from the Infinite’s sacred Books. Beneath his breath, he murmured, “‘...the Infinite hears when I call to Him....’”
Within her, the child stirred and stretched as if summoned by its father’s voice. Or was it more than Ekiael’s voice?
Spiritual recognition poured over Anji, warm as the evening sunlight, and she closed her eyes, absorbed by her Creator’s presence.
One-Who-Sees, You see my child! But what is my child to You, Creator of the Universe?
Breath squeezed from Anji’s lungs at the realization, joy battling fear. She rested her spoon in her dish of black rice, then clasped Ekiael’s hand. “The Infinite claims our child.”
How could she be ill over such an astonishing, divine realization? Yet nausea welled as it hadn’t since the earliest weeks of her pregnancy. Ekiael met her glance, his lively gaze shifting swiftly from joy to wonder, then to a fear that matched her own. His voice so reverent that it must be a prayer, Ekiael breathed, “Infinite, what is Your will?”
His will? Anji swallowed, praying hard as she curved her arms around her unborn child.
Darzeq’s future prophet.
***
Corban’s breath misted in the deepening autumn chill as he urged Ghost northward, off the River Road. One more day’s journey and he’d be in Eshda. Again. The place was beginning to seem like home—welcomed for its promise of comfort and rest, yet dreaded for the responsibilities he owed to its inhabitants.
Was Darzeq’s new king and his exquisite queen well? Surely they’d been protected in his absence. For all of Aristo’s kindly ways, the man kept fanatical watch over the king and Eshda. Knowing this, why did uneasiness settle upon Corban as a murky cowl?
He rode until just before dusk, when wise men sought shelter for the night. Until a promising tinge of food-scented smoke drifted toward him through the cool air. He peered ahead, eyeing a small town in the distance—a mild-seeming cluster of unwalled stone and thatch buildings. A town large enough to boast modest lodgings for travelers. Would the queen-mother or his enemies seek him if he stayed at an inn for the night?
The evening’s growing chill made the risk one worth taking. He needed shelter, and Ghost needed food and care.
His decision made, Corban rode into the town, decided upon the most comfortable-seeming stables and paid for Ghost’s lodging, food, and grooming—which he oversaw for himself, to the stable keeper’s mild annoyance.
Yet the stable keeper seemed level-headed. He handled Ghost adeptly, clearly admiring him as any horse-lover would a superb charger. Corban flung the man an approving grin. “Thank you. Which inn here most meets with your approval?”
The stable keeper looked up from currying Ghost. “Eh. My own home’s the best. If you must pay, however, The Vine is the cleanest and quiet, and its food is the best.”
Corban placed a coin on a nearby stall—away from Ghost—and departed.
The Vine was the most distant inn, but worth the walk. Corban approved the green and gold sign, as well as the clean stone entrance and the well-oiled door. Inside a troop of men, all armed and journey-wearied, turned toward Corban, curious. He approached the heavy wooden ledge, sheltering the innkeeper’s personal alcove. “Do you have a spare chamber?”
The innkeeper looked up from his ledger and eyed Corban. Apparently judging him as a man able to pay, he nodded. “Two, sir. The best is a quarter-weight of silver for one night—a full weight buys you a week. All meals are served here in the main room, but our food’s the best.”
“So I’m told.” Corban glanced at the men, already eating in the main room. They seemed to be uniformly groomed and garbed—a trained force, such as kept by a nobleman to protect his household. “Has another lord paid for lodgings here tonight?”
“Another?” The innkeeper studied Corban with a bit more respect, then nodded. “Lord Losbreq rides to Eshda at dawn.”
Losbreq. The lord of Qamrin who had refused the uncrowned Matteo refuge, and then rained arrows upon them, wounding Ekiael. Corban tamped down an impulse of fury—longing to crash into the rebel-lord’s rented chamber and beat the nobleman to blood-streaked pulp.
What business did Losbreq of Qamrin have at Eshda?
Corban worked a half-weight of silver from his coin purse and clicked it onto the ledge. “My name need not concern you. Give me the best chamber remaining, for one night only. Send my evening meal to me, then leave me in peace. I’ll be riding to Eshda at dawn, so don’t disturb me.” Perhaps by sunrise, he’d be calm enough to greet the lord of Qamrin civilly. Whatever happened, he’d be watching Lord Losbreq’s every move. Let the man breathe one threat toward him or Eshda, and Corban would turn the man to dust.
***
Corban urged Ghost toward the inn, toward the uneasy shadowy cluster of men gathering outside. Golden light rimmed the eastern sky beneath a dark violet canopy still lit with stars, but Losbreq’s men were stamping their booted feet, glaring at the cobbled pavings and grumbling low, surly complaints about the morning’s chill.
Several looked up at Corban as he approached. He nodded to them coolly. One, a coarse-faced, keen-eyed shaven pole of a guard, half-bowed. “Sir? May we assist you?”
“I am traveling to Eshda today,” Corban informed the man. “I’d prefer to journey with your lord and master. I’ve no wish to face an ambush of scalns alone—if there’s one to be faced along the way.”
“Wise,” the coarse-face guard commented to the stones.
Wise? To the Infinite, Corban petitioned beneath his breath, “Yes, grant me wisdom.”
If Losbreq planned ill toward the king and queen, he’d be minus a beating heart within his first traitorous instant.