The Axe and the Throne (37 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Near a month had passed since Annora had come to live with her new acquaintance, a girl she could now honestly call friend. The small room they shared in the dormitories of the Adeltian Academy of High Manners had been transformed from what must have been a fortress of solitude to that of camaraderie. Ethel had confided in Annora, among many things, that she had hoped to gain respect from her fellow students by remaining in the shared housing rather than requesting a separate royal quarters—as was well within her right. But there seemed nothing Ethel could do to gain any acceptance among her peers, an undertaking Annora had come to appreciate as futile. Even the servants responsible for the upkeep of the main building showed Ethel no courtesy, knowing that there would be no repercussions.

Of the activities they partook, Annora most enjoyed Ethel's reading aloud her favored stories. It was not that Annora had grown fond of books; that which she looked forward to the least was being forced by Ethel to read aloud herself, the result of which was a story so broken by interruption that its meaning was lost. Even when Ethel smiled as if Annora had said something correctly, Annora then had to replay the sound in her head repeatedly before recognizing the words. Spicelanders were never meant to read and write, a thing she tried to impress onto Ethel, but the girl was steadfast in her resolve to prove Annora wrong in that.

There had been no reading of late, however. The little light that peered through the mostly drawn curtains was not enough to break the spell of anguish cast on the once-happy room. Since hearing the fate that had befallen her mother and half brother, Ethel had been in mourning.

“Drink this,” Annora said, having brought Ethel some tea, a strong, semi-sweet brew that they normally both enjoyed while breaking their fast.

“You may leave it by the bedside.” It was as good as Ethel having refused the drink.

“I will
not
.” Annora's accent flared as it always did when she became angry, but her embarrassment only strengthened her resolve to stir Ethel from her perpetual grief and slumber. For the past three days she had eaten nothing and drank only sips of water. Annora was afraid not only for Ethel's safety but for her own, should something happen to her. “You will drink this for me and have something to eat so that you do not die and condemn me to the same fate as your mother.” Annora felt a twinge of guilt at having said the last bit.

Ethel slowly sat up in her bed and took the cup from Annora's hand. She stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact and scowling, but at least she appeared as though she'd finally drink more than water.

“Thank you,” Annora said in mild apology.

Ethel had spoken to Annora about her mother prior to learning of her imprisonment, but not near so much as her father. “I am afraid you would not like her, my mother, if you were to meet her,” Ethel had confessed. “She is very much what you might expect of a highborn lady. She is not a bad woman… She is just very…particular. My father helped me understand that she is not the hateful woman I'd once thought her to be. He is a good man. I know you would love him as I do.”

Ethel never spoke of Alther as anything less than a true father, and there was never any mention of some latent longing to know her birth father. Ethel explained how Alther had adopted her as his own and how embarrassing it must have been for him. She was the bastard child of some Adeltian man, and he was a Rivervalian conqueror. He had every right to have her drowned or exiled. Instead he'd suffered every silent ridicule and mocking expression without so much as blinking, and in doing so, gave Ethel the strength to do the same. So when Alther had knocked at their door days prior, and Ethel lashed out at him in anger, Annora knew the seriousness of her dejection.

“Leave me be, you coward,” she had screamed at him through the door. “How can you let him destroy our family and do nothing?”

It was all Ethel had to say to stop her father from further pursuing his attempt to console her. He left without another word of his own.

Annora knew Ethel referred not only to the imprisonment of Stephon and her mother, but also of Lyell's advances on Ethel herself. Ethel was convinced that her grandfather planned to marry her, and with Alther powerless to prevent Crella from being jailed, it was obvious he would also be unable to stop such a marriage, should it be Lyell's intention.
A good man perhaps, but what good can such a man accomplish without the strength to act?
It was a sentiment she knew Ethel must share but had never spoken.

“What food is there?” asked Ethel. Annora fetched the nearby tray of all Ethel's favorites and held it out to her. Ethel reached for a rolled pastry with a crumb filling of sugar and nuts. She finished it quickly and went for another.

It was pleasing to see her finally eat, but as Ethel turned to meet her face, Annora saw the tears. Annora sat beside her on the bed and held Ethel as she cried into her chest.

“I should not have spoken to him in that way,” Ethel sobbed.

If it drives him to action, it will have been worth it.
Annora did not know how things were done among the ruling parties in the Adeltian Kingdom, but she understood enough from her own land to realize there was little one could do to challenge a king's verdict short of killing him. Voicing this would be of no comfort to her friend. She remained silent and stroked Ethel's hair with her fingers.

“I feel like a prisoner.” The words did not sit well with Annora who stopped stroking her hair upon hearing them.
I
am
a prisoner.
Having recognized her mistake, Ethel looked up at her with an implicit apology.

“Are you not free to leave?” Annora asked her.

“Where would I even go?”

It was a fair question. The thought of a young, pretty highborn girl setting off with a purse full of coin and meeting with anything but ill fortune did not seem rooted in reality. Ethel had none of the experience gained by commoners as they eked out their meager existence, learning to sense, by instinct, signs of potential danger, and to avoid showing the signs of weakness that invite that same danger—neither of which can be taught or defined by words. Without protection it would simply be a matter of time before men would take all that she had. Annora had no answer for her.

“Where would
you
go then?” asked Ethel. “Back to the Spicelands?”

“I do not know. But not there.” Annora considered whether she should reveal just how much she had planned. “I would dirty myself and put on the most common clothing I could find. I would cut my hair short like a boy. I would steal as many small items of value as I could and bring them with me to pay for wagon rides and inns. I would search for a safe, honest community, far from the city, where I would be free from the immediate threat of harm. Some place I could work as a farmhand or apprentice for some tradesman.”

She did not know how Ethel would react to what she had told her. For a servant to admit to planning to steal and flee would be grounds for severe punishment in any other setting. She could not look at Ethel, though she could tell Ethel stared at her. The thought of toiling in the soil would turn any highborn's stomach. She would not blame Ethel if she resented her for wishing to work in the dirt when she had been given such a comfortable life here in the Throne.

“You must promise to never leave me,” said Ethel. “And if you do go, you must promise to take me with you.”

Annora looked down into her pleading eyes. She knew she could not make such a promise honestly. It would be difficult enough to abscond by herself, let alone with a member of the royal family. But Ethel had been hurt enough these past few days. If a harmless lie would help her, then she would give her that reprieve.

“I promise.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cries of gulls reverberated off the clouds.

The birds seemed to have influenced Keethro's dreams, as he had just been walking on the shores of the Timid Sea. It was a most-welcome dream, though he could not remember the last time he'd had it, of his first real voyage as a young boy. His father and uncle had allowed him to accompany them on one of their trips to meet with the sea merchants of the eastern coast. They had expected him to be impressed by the many items the merchants had to trade, and they had to laugh when Keethro ignored the merchants and played at the shore. It was the new landscape that captivated him, and he paid the cold grip of the sea no bother as he chased after the gulls, splashing through the small waves. The elation of having found a new land overwhelmed him, and he had forever longed to see what lay beyond.

Keethro rubbed his eyes free of their waking fog, and saw Titon with a makeshift paddle at the front of the boat. Breathing deeply to take in the warmth of this exotic land, he wondered how it was he had allowed himself to grow so timid with age—to the point of being deathly reluctant to aid his friend on this voyage.
Thank you for making me remember what years of internment with a self-serving woman had robbed me of.
But Keethro was unable to thank Titon, even in thought, without being reminded of the letters, the image of them curling into ash still emblazoned in his mind.

“I am beginning to think the Mighty Three sent the rain merely to bathe us, not humble us,” said Titon, seeing Keethro had awoken.

Indeed, it had been many days since they had been able to bathe. After the encounter with the river dragon, both men—even Titon—had decided it would be wisest to avoid unnecessary dips in the murky waters. Being restricted to whore baths with a wet rag had taken its toll on them. Galatai were not acquainted to the amount of sweat one could produce in such damp air.

Your gods took from us Iron Hips
, Keethro remembered. He was still bitter from the loss of their companion, but he knew Titon would have felt her absence just as much, given that he ate the wolf's share, and hungrily so.

“Yes,” Keethro said. “I feel…
immaculate
.” He got the laughter from Titon he had hoped for. “Something I intend to remedy as soon as we find a city.”

They'd wasted no time fashioning a similar, albeit smaller raft. The loss of most of their supplies and the recent flood had them placing more importance in their craft being manageable rather than luxurious.

“Good that you intend to wait that long. I was afraid you might hop onto the first boat with tits aboard that passed us.”

The river they'd traveled southwesterly upon fed into another, far larger body of water flowing north to south. It seemed to Keethro more like a narrow sea, but the water was without the taste of salt. “The Eos,” both men had agreed in humble veneration when they found themselves upon its mighty waters. They had remained close to the shore to avoid the potential dangers that may lie in its center: odd currents, swells…leviathans. It had been a clear day and they could barely see the far shore. Although daunting, such grandeur gave Keethro hope for the first time that they may actually find a cure for Titon's wife in this faraway land.

“We must be nearing the kingdom of the delta. These are sea birds, I believe. Like the ones on the eastern coast. I would think their presence signifies our approach on the southern seas.”

“We can hope so,” said Titon. “But it is no matter. We are definitely heading somewhere of great wealth and knowledge.”

Keethro supposed it was for the best that they had lost the giant horse hock to the rain. It had given them more of a savage appearance—something they wished to avoid, as they were no longer alone on the water. He had lost count of the many boats and barges that passed, paying them little mind so long as they were not in their way, but one such craft was headed toward them now.

It was an impressive ship with a deck that stood over two men proud of the water's surface. Its sharp bow looked more suited for sea travel, and its sides had been painted white, giving it a finished appearance that was easy to appreciate. The two men looked on in awe of its beauty as it careened toward them.

“We had better move to shore,” Keethro thought aloud.

As they began to paddle, the ship continued on its path directly toward them. Three burly men were visible on the bow, waving their hands from one side to the other.

I fear that is not a southern gesture of greeting.
It became evident the men were motioning for them to paddle their raft in the opposite direction.

“Keep paddling toward shore,” said Titon. Keethro had no cause to object. Their raft did not reverse direction willingly.

The men shouted obscenities and Keethro began to fear for their safety—the safety of the men on the other boat, should they provoke Titon to anger.
God of the Mountain, give Titon restraint
, thought Keethro, having no time to be amused by his inadvertent prayer.

The captain of the other boat must have realized they would not be accommodated in their request, and in turn banked away from shore to avoid the impending collision.

The crafts came dangerously close—so close that the men aboard the other boat saw fit to hurl more than insults. Spit and rotting vegetables made up the majority of the barrage. Keethro watched in horror as pieces flew by Titon's head, smashing upon their raft's deck of lashed timbers. He could not see Titon's expression, but Keethro had known his friend to be incited to violence from less. It would not be long before Titon sent a spear to silence one of their harassers, but rather than look away from the impending debacle, Keethro readied himself to assist Titon in his attack. He'd spent some time earlier in their trip fashioning a throwing weapon not unlike an axe out of a piece of wood and a rusty knife, and Keethro did not mind the opportunity to sink it into something other than the stump he had practiced on.

“Sons of whores,” shouted the men. “Fecking dolts!”

Keethro had picked out the man to kill first. It was the shortest, most nimble looking of them. While Titon liked to attack in order of size, Keethro attacked in order of quickness—a combination that had served them well in the past. Keethro could see the ringleader, a large rough-looking fellow missing plenty of teeth, likely due as much to rot as to bar fights. He was winding up to throw something substantial at them. A head of lettuce, dark and wilted, flew from the man's hand, downward, and exploded atop Titon's skull.
A fine throw, but I am afraid it will be your last
, Keethro eulogized, his grip on his makeshift axe tightening in anticipation.

Titon roared with laughter.

“My friend,” said Titon, turning to Keethro. He was covered in bits of wet, slimy roughage and grinning. “I believe we are on the wrong side of this river.”