Chapter IX

Aryn had expected a child-murderer to be a screaming, raving lunatic, the sort who would never come quietly. She expected that when her soldiers brought Countess Yael into the capital that she’d find bite marks on their necks or claw marks on their hands, and yet, when Yael was brought into the castle she was surprisingly agreeable, walking calmly in, though her hands were in shackles.

Still Aryn made sure to take the necessary precautions. Milo and Shamira were both standing by her side, weapons drawn, as Countess Yael was escorted into the throne room. Every guard in the room had a crossbow aimed at Yael. If she made even so much as a threatening gesture they would bring her down immediately.

“Please tell me you’re wise enough to know this is a misunderstanding,” said Countess Yael, her voice calm and collected.

“It may be,” said Aryn, “But I’m afraid I can’t take any chances. Even so, under the circumstances you will not be locked in the dungeons. You are not here as punishment, you are here because I’m afraid of what might happen if I let you continue to roam free. That being said, you will be staying in one of the guest rooms, but under constant guard.”

“So, am I a prisoner or a guest?”

“When all evidence has been presented we will know. If the evidence against you confirms my suspicions of your guilt, then you will be a prisoner, but if the evidence presented does not confirm my suspicions, or if no evidence is presented in a weeks’ time, you will be an honored guest. You will be compensated for your time, a feast will be thrown in your honor, and I will publicly apologize for the misunderstanding.”

“As long as you apologize afterward anything is excusable,” Countess Yael said, smirking and rolling her eyes, then curtsying and following up her sarcastic quip with, “Your highness.”

Aryn was fuming inside at this woman’s insolence. How dare she speak to her queen so? But Aryn couldn’t let that anger cloud her judgment. If Countess Yael was indeed innocent then she had every reason, though no right, to be so curt. “Please escort her ladyship to her room, and make sure she is well-fed.” Aryn silently thanked God that Countess Yael didn't openly challenge her, or point out that what Aryn was doing was illegal. It wasn't that the guards didn't know that already, Aryn was sure they did, but she wasn't so sure she'd be able to successfully argue her case if openly challenged.

Once the guards had left with Countess Yael, Shamira whispered to Aryn, “She doesn’t seem like the sort of person who’d murder little girls…maybe this was a mistake.”

“Doubtful,” said Milo. “You’d think an innocent person would be sobbing uncontrollably, ‘No, please! I’m innocent, I swear!’ rather than making light of the situation.”

“It may just be her way of dealing with things, not everyone wears their hearts on their sleeves like you do, Milo,” said Aryn.

Milo laughed out loud at that comment, “You see much, your highness.”

Aryn knew the implied statement following Milo’s words just by his tone, “but not as much as you might think.” Again she was reminded of the fact that her head bodyguard, her mother, and her geomancy tutor were all keeping secrets from her. She was the Queen, wasn’t she? What was so important that even the Queen need not know? If she didn’t know these three so well already she’d fear that it was a matter that endangered her, and would have them questioned.

“Is there any other business?”

“One more matter, your highness, a messenger from Sabura.”

Sabura was one of the lands far to the south. There was little in the way of a central government, for the most part it was divided up into various tribes. The people there had skin that had been burnt as dark as ash or coal because of the hot, cruel sun in their skies. Arx had a few loose alliances with some of the tribes in the area, and some of the tribal leaders had converted to the Agalmite faith.

The messenger who came into the throne room was no different. The clothes he wore were Arxian in style, obviously adjusting for the colder climate, as well as trying not to stand out quite so much. Not that the clothes helped much with that, though, for his skin was dark even for a Saburan, and his hair fell down in long locks from under his hat.

“What news do you have for me, friend?” Aryn asked.

“My name is Nuru, your highness.” His voice was deep, and he spoke with only a slight accent, which was probably part of why he was chosen as the messenger. “I come here on behalf of Queen Morowa, ruler of the city of Tajiri. My queen wishes that these were better times, a time for pleasantries, but it is not so. Our tribe is under attack, as are many other tribes in our area.”

“You wish for me to honor the alliance and send my soldiers to aid you?”

“With any luck there will be no need, for, you see, it is one of your lords who threatens us.”

Aryn caught her breath, as did several others in the throne room. “Tell me more.”

“Marquis Husam, of the March of Nagav has been hiring mercenary companies to attack us. They come down from the mountains, slaughter our men, rape our women, and steal our children! They’ve stayed away from Tajiri itself, but they’ve raided the villages under Queen Morowa’s protection!”

“Why would Marquis Husam do this?” Aryn felt her shock quickly turning into a burning rage.

“We cannot know why he is doing this, but we know that since you are his queen you can order him to stop.”

“I can order him to stop, but…what evidence do you have that he’s the one who hired the mercenaries?”

“Only this,” said Nuru, producing a rolled up piece of paper from his pockets and handing it to Aryn, “We found it on one of the bodies of the mercenaries.”

“Do what you will to the dark-skinned men and women, I care nothing for them. Bring me the children, they are valuable to me. You will be richly rewarded for your services to Arx. I may even see you knighted.”

The letter was unsigned, but the broken, wax seal, when pieced back together, was definitely Marquis Husam’s seal.

“I will do more than bring these attacks to a halt,” said Queen Aryn, “I will send soldiers at once to arrest Marquis Husam and to apprehend any Arxian mercenaries they find in Sabura. They will be brought here for trial, and if the Marquis is found guilty he will be put to death for his crimes! I will not allow these war crimes to continue!”

“Thank you, your highness,” Nuru said with a smile and a bow, before leaving the throne room.

Aryn shook her head, “What is it with these lords and ladies, have they all lost their minds?”

“Some of them are getting sloppy, too,” said Milo, looking at the letter, “You’d think if he was going to pay mercenaries to commit war crimes he wouldn’t leave a paper trail.”

“He’d have to discuss the terms of employment with the mercenaries in person, then,” said Aryn. “If he sends a letter he doesn’t have to be in the same room as they are, and if one of them has been paid to kill him…”

“Good point.” It was true, very rarely would a lord or lady want to meet sell-swords in person. Sell-swords were nasty, crude, and vicious people, and there had been occasions where lords or ladies had invited sell-swords into the castle only to be killed, because the sell-swords had been hired by their enemies already, or simply wanted to plunder the castle. Writing a letter, surprisingly, was often the safer way to go about it.

“That was the last matter for today, then?” asked Aryn.

“Yes, your grace.”

“Very well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to spend a little time with my betrothed.” With only one week left until the wedding Aryn wanted to learn as much about her husband-to-be as possible. If she was going to be making vows to spend the rest of her life with him then she needed to understand him better, figure out who he truly was. Furthermore, she had to find a way to tactfully break it to him that they would not be consummating the marriage on the wedding night. Law and traditions be damned, the boy may have been marriageable age, but the thought of conceiving a child with him made Aryn sick, but how can you tell a boy still coming to grips with his own, ever-increasing, adult desires that he won't be able to act on them for another four years or so, especially when you're the object of his affections and, furthermore, his betrothed?

She found Tamas, Prince Paolo’s bodyguard and personal attendant, outside the castle’s chapel, the doors to which were closed. Tamas stood in front of the closed door with his arms crossed and his left shoulder leaning against the door.

“Pardon me, is the prince within?” Aryn asked.

“He is, but he doesn’t wish to be disturbed until he’s finished,” said Tamas.

“He’s praying, then?”

“Actually, he’s communing.”

“Communing?”

“He’s listening, attempting to hear the voice of God, drowning out the sound of his own thoughts to allow God’s voice in.”

“God only speaks to prophets. Does Prince Paolo fancy himself a prophet?”

“No, nothing like that,” Tamas shook his head. “As you know, his father, King Gianni, made the Agalmite faith the official religion of Uvino after he converted, but there were some practices from the old religions we kept. One of those was the practice of communing. If we talk to God all the time, it only seems logical that he’d talk back once in a while.”

“Typically when non-prophets hear God talking back they’re really just madmen hearing voices in their heads,” said Aryn, feeling less and less comfortable about this practice.

“What makes the prophets so special?”

“In short? Miracles. They do things that even the most powerful priests and wizards cannot do. One prophet, long ago, displayed his power by making the sun rise in the west and set in the east. One defeated an entire army of demon-worshipers single-handedly, stopping all of their hearts with a mere wave of her hand. Another ended a three year famine by transforming sand into bread.”

“But, I mean, why does God choose only to talk to those specific people?”

“So that we can more easily distinguish who is hearing the voice of God and who is just a nutter. Is he performing miracles? He’s a prophet, his words are God’s. No miracles? Then he’s just crazy.” Aryn could feel her face getting hot the more she talked about this. What was so hard for this red-headed fool to grasp? This was so elementary, such an easy concept.

“I understand the concept, I mean…” Tamas scratched his head, “I’ll explain it this way, who was the first prophet?”

“That was Erelah.”

“And before God spoke to Erelah what made her so special? Before she started performing miracles, before she learned the Ancient script, before she started teaching it to others, before she was a prophet at all, what made her special?”

“I…I don’t know…” The Sacred Scriptures were silent as to what Erelah’s life was like before she was called to be a prophet. Indeed, they were silent on the lives of most prophets before they were chosen. Aryn had always assumed they were chosen because they were virtuous, or because they performed some great deed and earned their place, but the Scriptures never said anything about any of that. Prophets just sort of appeared, performed their miracles, delivered whatever message God intended for his faithful, and then either disappeared into the wilderness again or died as martyrs.

“Well, here’s a thought, then. What if God chooses these prophets because they were attempting to commune with him? They were trying to hear his voice, they did, and so he granted them miracles to prove it. If that’s the case, shouldn’t all of us be ready to be chosen as a prophet?”

Aryn rolled her eyes, “Sure, let’s impress God with heathen practices.”

“I’m not saying I agree with it, mind you,” said Tamas, “Just explaining the logic behind it. No need to get all worked up.”

“I’m not all worked up!”

Tamas reached up his hand and touched her cheek. Aryn could feel her heart race, though she did not know if this was from fear of the tall warrior moving in closer to her or out of embarrassment that an attractive foreigner was being so bold. Her skin tingled where his fingers touched her, and goosebumps crawled up the back of her neck. “Not worked up? But your face is all hot. If not with rage is it a fever?”

For a moment Aryn looked up into Tamas’ glimmering, black eyes, her mouth hanging slightly open, though no words came to mind. Her eyes took in the sight of this stranger, his soft red hair falling down to frame his face, his cocksure half-smile, his orange stubble lining his jaw. For a brief moment she found herself again thinking, “Why couldn’t this one be prince of Uvino instead of that boy?” But she quickly dismissed the idea, for such trains of thought were dangerous. Entire kingdoms had fallen apart because of one affair. “Remove your hand, sir, or I will have it removed.”

Aryn could almost swear Tamas intended to let his fingertips caress her face, his pinky finger even touching her lips, as he slowly pulled his hand away. He was clearly proud of himself as he said, “I’m sorry, your highness, I forget my place.”

Just then, the door to the chapel opened and young Prince Paolo emerged from within, his eyes lighting up when he saw Aryn. “My love! You’ve come to visit me?”

“Thought we should spend a little time together before the wedding,” said Aryn. “Sir Tamas here told me you were attempting to commune with God. Did God say anything to you?”

“Not this time,” said Paolo.

“This time?” The young prince’s choice of words was more than a bit unsettling, but Aryn was sure that in time she could set him right. He hadn’t responded to any voices in his head since he’d been at the castle, so it was unlikely that he was truly insane. Perhaps he was just confusing his own thoughts for ones that were divinely inspired.

“What did you want to do today?” asked Paolo.

“I was thinking we could read one of my favorite books together,” Aryn replied. “Come, let’s go to the library.”

The library was often the quietest place in the castle, largely because the library keeper, Raz, was so strict about keeping silence when others were reading. On some occasions he'd even harshly told Sarahi to be quiet when she was talking too loudly in the library, and even she, brave warrior that she was, still cowered before him. Raz was an older man, roughly in his sixties, with short gray hair, little round spectacles sitting on the edge of his hooked nose, a jutting lower jaw that gave him a face resembling a bulldog, and jowls that accentuated this most unfriendly look.

As Aryn and Paolo entered the library Raz looked up at them from the book he was reading and barked, “Make sure you put everything back where it goes!”

Paolo glanced at Aryn for a moment, meaning to ask if he should teach this old man a lesson in respect, but Aryn was actually smiling at the librarian and nodding to him.

“Don't worry, I won't ruin your library,” Aryn said. They were in Raz’s kingdom in the library, and he was a fierce king who enforced his own set of laws. She led Paolo over to the fiction section and pulled a book off the shelf, “The Madness of Dr. Nyx.”

Paolo was more than a bit surprised by this selection. His father and older brother had always told him that girls like books of poetry, or stories about handsome, rebellious knights seducing plain-looking common women, but just by the title he could tell that this book was neither.

“By far and away my favorite story,” whispered Aryn, sitting down with Paolo and opening the book to the first page. “Why don't you read first?”

The story detailed the life of an alchemist named Dr. Nyx, starting with his marriage to an enchantress named Raine. They were married in the town where they'd first met, and they had their honeymoon on a tropical island. “In the morning the sun peering in the windows warmed their bed, waking them from their peaceful sleep. Eyes of gold met eyes of sapphire, and the memories of their love-making from the night before filled them.” Paolo blushed and stammered reading through the passage out loud. Once the honeymoon was over and Nyx and Raine returned to their home together the book detailed Nyx's new discoveries, and how every day he found himself getting closer and closer to discovering the recipe for an elixir of immortality, Panacea. Then it started getting strange, disjointed. Men standing only an inch tall began talking to Nyx, helping him develop the Panacea. Nyx saw three suns and six moons in the sky on one occasion. Eventually Nyx found himself unable to remember details of his past, forgot that he was even married, didn't recognize Raine when he saw her, talked to ghosts, and was convinced that his own study notes were someone forging his hand-writing and trying to lead him off course from the truth. He declared that the gods were a falsehood, just before claiming that he was one of the gods, and then deciding that nothing in the world was real. “Who was this strange, black-haired woman living in his house? She spoke to him by his name, acted like she knew him, but he'd never met her before in his life. He did what he could to humor her, perhaps she was a mad woman who had mistaken him for someone else.”

“This is horrible!” Paolo exclaimed.

Raz, from across the library, shouted, “Quiet!”

Aryn patted Paolo on the shoulder and whispered, “We're only half-way through.”

“I don't know how much more I can take of this...it's so sad! This poor man...just falling apart like this...”

“People with brilliant minds are often just on the verge of insanity. Yes, it is sad, but sometimes in order to tell a wonderful story some parts have to be this horrible.”

“And poor Raine...having to deal with all of this...”

“But she stays. She stays because she loves him.”

“Is the rest of the book like this too? Dr. Nyx losing his mind?”

“I can't give that away, Paolo,” Aryn said, “You have to finish the story to find out.”

“I don't want to finish the story if it's just going to end badly! Tell me...does it have a happy ending?”

“I can't say.”

“Please!”

“Pipe down!” Raz shouted again, reminding Paolo that his volume had been slowly rising the whole time.

Aryn whispered, “There's nothing Dr. Nyx can do to save himself at this point, he's lost. How can he be saved?”

“I don't know.”

“Think about it. Think hard.”

“...Raine can save him?”

“Possibly.”

“Is that what happens? Somehow Raine saves Nyx?”

“Isn't that what we do for the ones we love? Protect them, sometimes from themselves? Sometimes from their own madness?” Implanting these ideas in Paolo's head early on was perfect. If he already understood that sometimes people must save their loved ones from themselves then he'd be much more receptive later on if Aryn had to convince him that the voice he was hearing when he communed was just his own thoughts, or possibly just voices in his head. Working to change who someone was usually wasn’t seen as a loving act, she needed him to understand that any ways she worked to change him would be to help him grow; help him be the best version of himself that he could be.

“That...yes. I'd do that for you, my love. I hope you know that,” said Paolo.

This wasn't exactly where Aryn was hoping the conversation would go, but she couldn't deny that she'd led him to this train of thought, even if unintentionally, “I do, and I'm glad for it. If we're to be married we need to look out for each other, even if things get bad.”

Paolo beamed at Aryn, his eyes welling up with affection, before closing his eyes and leaning forward in an attempt to kiss her. Aryn pulled back, keeping just out of his reach. Being just a bit taller than him gave her the advantage there. After a moment Paolo realized that she was pulling away and opened his eyes, giving her a confused look.

Aryn kissed him on the forehead and said, “Let's wait on that, alright? Make our kiss at our wedding special.”