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Followed by Corban riding Ghost, Matteo spurred Goldensleeve’s glistening two-year-old sorrel along Port Bascin’s stone pier, praying as he eyed his destination. Losbreq’s ships rested uneasily at the end of the pier, just anchored with most unwelcome news and grievous cargo. A funeral... The grandest Port Bascin could muster under such short notice.
Already, six of Losbreq’s men were carrying the purple-draped litter down the ramp from the ship to Thaddeus, who’d reached the ship first. Matteo dismounted and met them with a salute. The men placed the litter on the stones, allowing Matteo room.
One-Who-Sees, give me strength. He reverently lifted the heavy purple pall and gritted his teeth. Kemuel’s scorched and bruised features were tensed as a man caught in a bad dream—never the way he’d appeared in life. A living link to his lord-father ... gone. And Matteo of Darzeq was to blame.
Matteo honored his doughty ally by committing his battle-scarred face to memory, and he gripped Kemuel’s death-bound hands. “Thank you, my friend!”
Corban knelt beside Matteo and sighed. “Here’s a day I never wanted to see—and a man I was honored to know is gone.” Because of him.
He covered Lord Kemuel slowly, reverently, managing the heavy fabric well, despite his still-numbed hand.
Furious tears blinded Matteo’s gaze as he stood. This should never have happened. Cthar must be repaid! She should have been banished years ago—as Tarquin insisted—returned ingloriously to Kaphtor. So many deaths would have been avoided. But Jonatan of Arimna felt duty-bound to honor Cthar as his mother.
By then, Losbreq and Tragobre had descended the stairs, Tragobre limping and raw-skinned, looking nearly drowned with grief and fury. He bowed to Matteo, then stood, his squared face working with emotion. “Sire, we’re blessed that you’re alive. Help me to save my daughter from that woman!”
That woman. Exactly what Aunt Pinny had always called Cthar. Matteo nodded. When he could speak, he rasped, “If it costs me my life, I’ll save her and the baby! Come on—” He greeted Losbreq with a nod and a fierce one-armed hug. “My lord, thank you! I wish you could have found both alive, but at least the queen and I’ve been spared mourning for her lord-father.”
“Sire...” Losbreq’s lean, wary features twisted, revealing deepest guilt. “If only I’d been able to arrive sooner and save her as well!”
“You tried,” Matteo reminded him. “You saved Lord Tragobre, and we’ll give thanks for that. Now, let’s set aside what might have been. Kemuel deserves every honor we can grant him, and then we’ve an invasion to plan. Ekiael has sent word that he and his army are on their way from Port Zamaj. Let’s be ready when they arrive.”
Losbreq nodded, but Matteo caught his uncertainty, which magnified visibly as he watched Corban rest his injured hand within his baldric again. No one had spoken the prevalent fear, but Matteo understood it all too well.
Lord Corban of Siphra was most likely permanently injured, which proved he was as mortal as any man drawing breath.
Cthar would rejoice when she heard. Worse, her mercenary assassins would take courage and stalk Corban, stalk all of them, bent on slaughter. Perhaps he’d be wise to follow Anji’s lead from Eshda, and lock himself and his men safely away until his army was fully gathered.
***
Slouched near the hearth in the main hall of the Port Bascin fortress, Corban flexed his numb fingers, willing them to retain sensation and strength. He was sick to death of the king’s concern, his physician’s uncertainty—and of reading misgivings into others’ kind words and sidelong glances.
Yes, he comprehended their worries. His wound and continued weakness proved that his brief stint of glory as the king’s unofficial champion was ended. He was forsaken by the Mighty One.
Was it true? Should he leave Darzeq? His share of the spoils from Kaphtor’s merchant ships were locked in his chamber to be used as he pleased. Belaal, however, was out of the question. Moreover, he couldn’t leave Darzeq until the Lady Dalia was freed. He’d be forever haunted if he abandoned Matteo and the young couple died.
Honor. Corban scowled inwardly. How base of him to even consider leaving until matters here were settled.
Thaddeus Ormr raced into the great hall, wild as a schoolboy released from his master’s rule. Corban flung him a sour look. “What’s afflicted you?”
“No affliction, my lord.” Thaddeus halted and waved a parchment at him. “Good news! I’ve word from my lord-father. Belaal’s prophet convinced him to join our cause—he’s ordered troops to follow me while he’s detained in Belaal.”
His lord-father was acquainted with Araine? Corban straightened and stared. Thaddeus laughed. “I’ve your serious consideration now, don’t I? Here’s proof.” He handed Corban a fold of parchment that contained a smaller slightly curled strip of parchment—a courier bird’s note.
Thaddeus, as warned by the Prophet Araine of Belaal, I give you charge of all of Iydan’s available fighting men. Lead them in defense of the king. Magni Ormr, Iydan. Written in Belaal.
The larger note was also to Thaddeus, written in the delicate style affected by many noblewomen.
Thaddeus, my beloved son, you will excuse me for opening this script from your lord-father, because I am even now sending out word to every hide of land granted to Iydan since our family first claimed royal honors in Darzeq. I bid you wait patiently in Port Bascin, for Iydan’s men will arrive there, each from his own holding to fulfill service owed to your lord-father. With this happy news, I also send your full allowance for this past winter—forbidden until now at your lord-father’s command. I implore you to be wise and frugal and cause no...
Corban handed the full page of maternal admonishments to Thaddeus. “Good news indeed. Listen to your mother, by the way, and be glad she’s scolding you.”
Corban’s mother had been too busy struggling to cope with Corban’s lord-father to be concerned with errant children.
Thaddeus shrugged. “My mother worries about everything. If Belaal’s prophet were here, I’d kiss her, and gladly! I’ve heard that she’s lovely.”
“She is, and you won’t kiss her. Furthermore, if you’re wise, you’ll never speak of her again so casually. I considered marrying her while I was yet in Siphra.”
Before he’d tried to kill her.
Thaddeus practically stuttered. “Y-you? Marry her?”
Unwilling to speak of Araine—his life’s greatest loss—Corban stood and stalked from Port Bascin’s great hall.
At least she’d forgiven him. He must learn to be content with the dregs of his life.
***
In the seclusion of the royal apartments, Matteo skimmed the courier note and Lady Iydan’s message, then handed them back to the elated Thaddeus. “This would be good news if we could afford a delay, but we can’t. Not while Cthar holds my wife.”
“Sire,” Thaddeus protested, “Isn’t it better to wait and be certain of a full army and victory than another chance battle that might cost us your life, and hers?”
Yes. But would Dalia survive in Cthar’s custody for another month? He needed spies! If only he could reverse time and return to Arimna, three years past. None of this would have happened. He shook his head at Thaddeus. “How I wish my brother Sheth had obeyed the prophet as your lord-father obeyed her. My brothers and mother would still be alive.” Perhaps Father as well. Yet, after weeks of scouring, he’d found no evidence that Cthar had murdered her only surviving child.
Might Cthar have actually honored the parent-child tie?
Pulling himself from brooding, Matteo nodded to Thaddeus. “Thank you for telling me. You’re right; we should be patient and gather our forces. Now, back to work. If we’re to wait and plan a successful invasion, we need informants from inside Arimna—preferably the palace itself.”
Thaddeus scrolled the notes together and tucked them into his money pouch. “Perhaps my lady-mother can petition her contacts in Arimna for news. Does Port Bascin have any courier birds that home-roost in Arimna?”
“No. The last were sent off when we captured Port Bascin.”
“I’ll send our request and thanks now, Sire.” Thaddeus bowed, clearly prepared to take leave. But then he paused. “Lord Corban’s in a dark mood. Did you know that, years ago, he wanted to marry Belaal’s prophet?”
The prophet’s beautiful, wary face appeared in Matteo’s thoughts. Fearful, though Lord Corban bowed and repented before her. “He never said so, but I know that he loved her. Loves her still. Be wary of taunting Lord Corban, Thaddeus. He’s wounded, it’s true, but he’s not vanquished.”
Not yet, Matteo hoped.
A fanfare of trumpets from the gatehouse announced welcome visitors. Who? Perhaps another prospective ally.
Matteo motioned to Thaddeus, and they hurried out to greet their visitors.
***
Corban almost grinned as Ekiael dismounted in the fort’s central yard. Ekiael’s eyes gleamed—a scoundrel plotting mischief. He slung a heavy leather knapsack over his shoulder and approached Corban, bellowing for the entire city to hear, “There you are, Siphran! What is the latest? I see your hand remains stubbornly affixed to your wrist. Clearly you’re not rotten enough that it should fall off!”
Was that a joke? Before Corban could answer with a churlish snarl, Ekiael pounded Corban’s good shoulder cheerily, and then nodded him toward the keep. “After you! Valor must be honored.”
“You find manners just when I’ve decided to hammer you flat with my one good fist,” Corban groused.
“This is what I like about you, Siphran. You’re not intimidated by my sacred rank—though you should be.”
“I am intimidated,” Corban admitted. “I was prepared to die the instant I bashed you.”
Darzeq’s high priest laughed. “I thought you had more brains than that. I’m disappointed.”
“Now you’ve learned the truth, lord-high priest.”
“No, tell me the actual truth. What are your thoughts concerning life?”
The truth? “I’m feeling trapped and trampled—cast into a refuse heap.”
“Well, then you are mortal indeed, and you may grumble and snarl all you please and I’ll listen.”
“There’s nothing else to say.”
Matteo and Thaddeus emerged from the great doors just as Corban started to the steps. Ekiael greeted the king more solemnly. “I’ve received word from my beloved wife that she’s locked herself in Eshda with the boys, and she intends to conquer Arimna herself if we fail. May the Infinite save us all!”
Matteo grimaced as they climbed the broad stone steps. “If Anji is forced to attack Arimna, we’ll certainly be dead beforehand. Tell me that you have good news.”
Darzeq’s high priest actually lowered his voice to something near a whisper. “I pray you think my news is good. Our invasion of Arimna has begun. One soul at a time, slipping through its gates and ports to reclaim the chambers beneath the Infinite’s House. From there, we’ll branch out into the city to await our king.”
Priests as shadow warriors, infiltrating Arimna. Corban cut a look at Ekiael. “I wish I were among them now.”
“But you’re here,” Ekiael pointed out. “Therefore, from this place you serve Him.”
Aware of Matteo and Thaddeus, both looking away, Corban lifted his deadened hand. “How can this serve Him?”
“It will serve Him when you give Him leave to use your misery and weakness for His work—His glory. This decision is yours, Lord Corban. Do you trust Him? Are you His servant?”
If only he could hate Ekiael for those sharp words. But it was impossible to hate Ekiael. “Then He hasn’t forsaken me?”
“Why should He? He’s worked to bring you here, my lord, therefore He will finish what He’s planned. Just because that plan isn’t what you imagined, doesn’t mean it’s canceled.” Changing the subject, Corban asked what the king was undoubtedly wondering. “Do your shadow-priests plan to free the queen from Cthar’s hold?”
“If there’s the least chance without risking her life, yes. Until then, we plan and pray. Which reminds me—” Ekiael tilted his head toward his knapsack. “I’ve some more writings for your studies, and we’ve other details to discuss regarding the king’s formal investiture.”
“What formal investiture?” Matteo leaned into their conversation, his eyebrows almost meeting together in a frown. “About all these plans you’ve made regarding my wife and me ... I would have liked to be included.”
“You know as much as you’ve needed to know, Sire. Until now. Feed me, and we’ll talk.”
***
Dalia woke from her nap, wearing gloom like a cloak. Another day faced with her three unhappy, unspeaking attendants. No wonder she’d been sleeping almost since her arrival in Arimna Palace. Opening her eyes proved too unbearable. If she remained asleep, she’d see Matteo’s handsome face, Ben’s sweetly dimpled baby grin, and she’d hear Anji’s gentle voice. Truly, she could live in her dreams.
A rasping at the door snapped Dalia awake. Brune muttered fierce words as he worked the lock and then opened the door. His words as roughened as the lock, Brune snapped at someone in the hall. “Hurry, you!”
A servant scurried inside, not looking at Dalia, his arms full of kindling and split wood. His face, though averted, arrested Dalia’s attention at once. Matteo’s childhood servant, Abiah. Did he remember her? Was it safe to talk to him? She sat up. Abiah flicked a glance her way and then prodded the sullen ash-dusted coals to life in the hearth. He worked efficiently, as if he’d always been a fire-setter, not the highest-ranked servitor to a prince. She’d at least risk courtesy, and allow him to see that she recognized him. “Thank you.”
Abiah nodded and turned just long enough for her smile, but then he scurried out. He’d recognize her, no doubt. Was he well? Beaten, or...?
Brune scowled at Dalia. “The queen requires your presence soon, so make ready.”
“Commander Brune, I am Darzeq’s queen.”
“Tell her so and she’ll have me carve out your tongue. Hurry, now. First, eat.”
Eat?
Another servant marched inside, thunked down a wooden tray, and then vanished as Dalia’s two gloomy attendants stood to keep watch over her every move.
As if she could incite a revolution with a wooden bowl of bread-soup and a spoon.
Could she?
And why had Cthar summoned her?
Dalia scowled. Perhaps she ought to keep the spoon and sharpen it for a blade. Just before she crowned Cthar with a dish of cold bread soup.