King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (15 page)

She stood up, and before she walked out, she addressed him again. “They will not easily let her be King, you know. This is a hard life you’ve set her on.”

“It was always her destiny,” Royth replied. “I only hastened it.” And yet, he had not begun to consider the consequences of his actions; he did not think of what wearing the crown might do to Caliandra.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Marrol left the castle with an empty heart; he refused to take the carriage, and instead chose Sable – an old, exceedingly loyal horse. The night’s air was good for them, and masked the tears that welled in his eyes; Marrol hoped that he could ride faster still. He only heard the hoofbeats as he traveled, his bodyguards well behind him, and the sound of mourning bells ringing in the night.
The-King Is Dead, The-King Is Dead,
they seemed to clang. The moon hung gloomily overhead, and the downhill path gave way to a curving dirt road, leading to Alton proper.

He and his bodyguards slowed their pace as they entered the village, out of concern for those not yet awake. They found a fair number of distressed peasants, milling about – many were saddened, but some were even crying. In an instant, Marrol no longer felt so alone in his sorrow. These people, who barely knew Rionn – who only admired their King from a distance – wept for his loss. Worse still, he saw a sense of lost hopelessness in their eyes. Without Rionn, who would lead them?

Some prayed, however. He saw several kneeling on the ground in a circle, praying to Yom for Rionn’s safe travels to the afterlife. “For the Soldier-King,” they said. Marrol wagered if anything, a small offering of flowers would rest at the small house Rionn grew up in, in the poor section of Alton that reeked of piss and rot. He was not the first poor boy to pick up a soldier’s spear, nor would he be the last – but he would be the best remembered.

Marrol pulled on Sable’s reins, and directed her towards the outskirts where his house stood proud. Patta would no doubt still be sleeping – it would take a war to wake her, some nights. The ride was quiet, and felt long – longer than it normally was. Marrol used the time to reflect, much as he didn’t want to. He only wanted to ride faster, to be
home
, but there was a peace in the deep, dark hours not offered anywhere else. Marrol thought about his last conversation with Rionn, and his request.
Trust in Peacebringer
, he said.

But how could he? Why should he trust in the magic axe, when other kingdoms did far better without it? The Silenians dominated the southern coast, and their reach extended far inland; the Kersikki held the icy North, and several large provinces beneath it. Ariaci controlled great swaths of the southwest, and the western coast, bordering Barra. The Odrygi controlled regional trade with a strong fist, and the Amaniren on the next continent remained unconquered and uncooperative. The Xie Tsen flourished, and there was talk of other kingdoms farther east, and farther south… and none of them trusted in an axe. None of them needed to.

It seemed foolish. What if the axe disappeared, or was stolen? What would Barra do then? They relied on a King, and behind that, the Council… but those eight could rarely come together on anything. Marrol knew it well enough; so much of their work was built on compromises he hated. The King could overrule the council, and yet they would risk all their stability on someone untested, unproven, and unknown?
This is how Padraeg must have felt
, Marrol thought, as he remembered his grey-bearded predecessor; the man told him stories of the frustrations of helping a wet-behind-the-ears soldier, a
peasant,
learn to rule a kingdom. He was the lowest-born choice that Peacebringer had made in two hundred years, and some days it seemed a stroke of luck that Rionn became so capable.

But the next king wouldn’t have the luxury of time, or an education. Marrol knew that for certain. Any threats would be at their door far, far sooner. For that reason, he knew his king would need him – and yet, the inkling of a thought emerged in his mind.
What if I could act before then, without him?

Marrol arrived as quietly as he was able; the bodyguards remained mounted, and waited outside the stable. The house was dark, there were no candles lit that he could see. “You are dismissed,” Marrol said to them, as he led Sable in to the stable. They offered him a nod, and set their horses to a quiet trot as they departed. He was in the midst of unsaddling Sable when he heard someone else behind him; soft footsteps on hay and mud. He reached for his sword, and turned around; it was Patta, in a nightgown, with only a shawl around her shoulders for warmth. Her brown eyes were full of concern, and the moonlight made her slender cheeks all the more lovely. He was relieved, and let his hand fall by his side.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked. Marrol hung his head, and shook it. Nothing else needed to be said. She walked up to him, and laid her head on his chest; her arms wrapped around him, and held him tight.

“I’m sorry,” Patta said. “You must miss him terribly.”

“It was his time,” Marrol said, shaking his head. “Yom knows I didn’t want it to be… but it was.” The tears came back, fresh and unbidden. He pulled Patta in close, and though it might have seemed from a distance that he was holding her, he knew it was the opposite; she was the only thing holding him up.

It had happened. Rionn was gone, and in the morning, he faced a world without his friend. Only two thoughts brought him solace; that his friend was at last at peace, and that in the morning, the traitor Royth would die.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

It had taken very little to bring Marroll to the castle that morning; the page’s simple mention of what Sophine wished to do sent him off like a cannonball shot. He did not waste time with breakfast; he rode hard, and walked as quickly as his feet allowed. He stormed into the former King’s study, fuming with anger; Fenwyn and Sophine were startled by his words, which poured from his mouth like rolling thunder.

“You cannot let him live!” he yelled, nostrils flaring. He jabbed an accusing finger at Sophine, and added, “Have you gone mad?”

Sophine’s response was cool and measured, handling Marrol as one might a temperamental child. “Please, be seated, Marrol,” she said, distant, never allowing her voice to waver, “We wished to discuss it with you before it was put to action.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Marrol growled, standing firm. “Royth has earned his death.” He saw a flash of anger cross her face, and for a moment, he saw the blizzard beneath.

“I have not forgotten what role he played in Valric’s death, nor will I ever forget it,” Sophine said, her even voice tinged with bitterness, “But we cannot kill him. Not when our kingdom’s future hangs in the balance.”

“It would be a distinct strategic disadvantage,” offered Fenwyn, who nervously clasped at his fingers. He seemed downtrodden; there was none of the smug intelligence that Marrol had known him for. By contrast, the former Queen was still as a statue, and held Marrol’s gaze without interruption. Marrol turned to Fenwyn, who was the easier target of the two.

“Don’t speak to me of strategy, you Yom-damned worm,” Marrol seethed. “Royth is a traitor and a murderer. You and he may have been friends, but she,” Marrol said, pointing at Sophine, “She should know the price that comes with hopping in bed with black devils.”

Marrol watched great hurt cross Fenwyn’s face; the Minister of the Interior stood up to protest, but Sophine stopped him with a careful palm. “Royth is a killer and a scoundrel, but he is not a traitor.” She said. “He wishes to do penance for his crimes.”

Penance. Him?
Marrol paced angrily around the room, shifting his eyes between her and Fenwyn, but finally focusing on Sophine - the bulwark. The unexpected nemesis. How could she, of all people, think to keep Royth alive? “Duchess,” he said, in disbelief, “He’s an agent of the Nest. Regret is a foreign language to him.”

“Then he will learn it,” Sophine said, forcefully; her tone did not take Marrol by surprise, but it gave him pause. “He will remain imprisoned for the rest of his years,” she said. “A swift death would be too kind. He will suffer.”

“It is not about kindness,” he said, glaring at her. “It is about honor. Our people will want blood for Valric’s death, as do you - do not shield yourself with misguided compassion. If you put it to the Council, they will vote for his death.”

“Four of them stand with us, not including Minister Fenwyn,” Kells said, entering the room behind Marrol, and walking around him to the table. He seated himself, and looked over at Marrol. “Torturing him has given us nothing. He has no allies outside these walls, or in. Sorry to disappoint you,” Kells said.

“The reluctant torturer,” Marrol said, and shook his head with a bitter smirk. “Of course you’d trust
him
,” Marrol said, all but spitting at Sophine and Fenwyn. “If you’ve all gone mad, why not put your faith in the man who let the Prince die?”

“Minister Marrol,” Sophine said, firm, “We ask for your support. If we don’t have it, then please, leave.”

“Then I will leave,” Marrol said, angrier than before. “But I will fight you on this. You cannot let Royth live without giving up our country’s honor in the process.” Marrol gestured to the room, “But what would you traitors know of honor?”

“More than you,” Sophine said, her voice bitter as a chill wind. “I have dashed it upon the rocks, so our kingdom will survive - so our next king has a Seer, and does not face our future blind. I want justice more than you ever claim you will, believe me… and I hope that someday, fatherhood helps you understand the pains in my heart when I ask that Royth lives.”

Marrol was silent. All the same, he knew what this meeting meant; they’d already curried five votes of the eight, and could do it again. Until the next King took power, Sophine was the Crown. It infuriated him - his own friend refused to name him King in the interim, and said to place his trust in the Axe. But no sooner had Rionn’s spirit joined the ancestors, than Sophine had refused her husband’s wishes?

No,
Marrol thought.
This won’t stand. This isn’t right. But this isn’t the time to fight.

“You’ll regret this,” he said, before walking out the door, not bowing to any man or woman. “And Royth will answer for what he’s done.”

He left Sophine, Kells, and Fenwyn alone in the study, with books and glimmers of early morning sun; he’d hoped there’d have been more guilt, but he’d only seen glimmers of it.

It was on the way to the barracks that a furious germ of an idea took root -
he
would do the right thing. He could not leave the kingdom’s fate in the hands of such dishonorable, scheming nobles. He would take them at their own game. And he would win.

When he returned to the barracks, Marrol drafted a brief letter, sealed it with wax, and took it to a musty tavern on the cheap side of town - perhaps a hundred yards from where dear Rionn once lived. He placed the letter on a table near the entrance, where a small child sat, fidgeting. The child looked over at Marrol, with a subtle up-turned palm. Marrol produced a small coin purse, and dropped it in the open hand. The child caught and weighed the purse before secreting it in a hidden pocket, and took the letter to the back. Marrol ordered an ale, and was half finished before the child returned. His small hand gripped something, which he placed on the table in front of Marrol.

It was a bird-shaped token, neatly carved from obsidian. Marrol took it with one hand, and replaced it with a silver coin using his other. “Thank you,” he said, secreting the token to his purse. The child took the coin, and sat back down in his chair, glum-faced, waiting for things to carry. Marrol did not wait to finish his ale before leaving.

When Marrol returned to the barracks, he gathered a small group of men - loyal to the last breath - in a quiet room, where they could not be heard. There, he began to talk of new beginnings, of honor, of duty… and of treason.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

It had been some weeks since her conversation with Kells, and yet, the frankness of it lingered in Ostre’s mind. They were trapped in their marriage, and after confronting it, nothing had settled. A new tension took its place. They had slept on opposite sides of the bed; they avoided each other around the house, and rarely shared so much as a meal. Even at the great funerary feast that marked Rionn’s passing to the next world, she hardly saw Kells eat so much as a mouthful.

In a way, the space was a relief, but little could change the distance and strangeness she felt when they were in a room together - much less endure it. Ostre had turned a darkened corner of their relationship, and what she saw there changed her opinion of Kells. She still thought him a decent father to their children, but there was a curious loneliness that came of sharing a life with a person, and then, sharing nothing.

She took the children with her to the market, not knowing what else to do; she didn’t want them near Kells. They were warm and familiar to her; well, Porthan was. Ibhaen, much less so. She wanted to blame Ibhaen for ruining everything. Were she pettier, she would have; the girl was attentive, and nosy, and - and her daughter. Much like Kells could not blame her for straying, she could not blame Ibhaen for catching her in the act, and for her loyalty to her father. Had she been in her daughter’s shoes, and seen her own mother’s affections shared with another man…