Prince of Wrath (35 page)

Evas scratched his moustache. “They should all be taken to the city jail.”

“And then what? You can’t hold twenty people indefinitely in that small space, you haven’t got enough room to hold them all. Some of these are merely hired grunts, look, that lot there. They don’t look as if they could organise a drinking party at a tavern between them! However,” he turned to the other group that had been stirring the potions. “Now, over here, that’s a different story.” He paced along the line of silent people, all being held by armed militiamen.

Evas came hurrying over anxiously. “Now, now, Demtro, I’m in charge here!”

Demtro waited until Evas had passed him before idly following him along the line of people. “One of these must be running the entire business.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Evas said. He frowned. “I wonder which one?”

“Let’s find out,” Demtro said and grabbed the nearest one to him, a thin man with a shock of black hair. He dragged him away from the militiaman holding him and over to the nearest boiling cauldron. The man struggled but Demtro sent a knuckled blow into his neck and the man sagged. He was then pushed up to the lip and his head forced over.

Evas looked horrified and called out for Demtro to stop, but the merchant was not listening. The governor waved to two of his men to stop Demtro.

“Don’t you want to find out, Governor?” Demtro asked, his face twisted with the effort of holding his struggling captive down. “Or shall we just forget everything and return to our homes? These people are evil; they are prepared to destroy the people in this city. As far as I’m concerned they have waived all rights as citizens of this city and deserve to die.” He looked at the two guards who had come over to him. “Hold him fast.”

They complied and looked round, waiting for a command. Demtro wiped his hands and stepped back to where Evas was standing, his face mirroring the distaste he clearly felt.

“What did you think you were going to do with him?”

Demtro eyed the governor full in the face. “Dunk him into that foul concoction.”

“But-but that would kill him!”

“No it wouldn’t. Might burn him quite a bit, and fuddle the mind. I suspect he’d get a head full of the liquid form of the leaf. I’ve no idea what that would do to him.”

Evas shook his head. “Bring him to the jail, along with all of them! We’re not barbarians here, Demtro! As long as I’m governor here we will follow my rules, not yours!”

Demtro shrugged and looked around at the stack of vessels and containers. One was closed and so he ambled over to it as the captives were dragged off out into the night. Inside the long container were hundreds of newly fired clay pipes. He grimaced. Three guards remained with him. “Here, help me with this. Throw it into the mix.”

Together they lifted the container and hurled it with some effort into the nearest cauldron. The mixture hissed and the liquid spilled over the top, extinguishing the flames beneath it. The second was put out with water they found and the two completed containers of the leaf were thrown into the second cauldron to ruin.

“Secure this building. We’re going to need to dispose of all this waste,” Demtro said. “Nobody enters it, clear?”

“Sir,” one guard slapped his chest in salute.

Demtro grunted and left. At least they had stopped the immediate danger to the city, but what Evas was going to do with the prisoners was something else. He could keep them captive for a short time but there simply was not enough space for them to remain there. Demtro decided to send a letter to the palace and leave it for the Koros to decide. He doubted Evas would ask because he was too afraid of what the reply would be. The man was simply too soft. It demonstrated the old saying; to excuse one crime was to encourage the creating of many.

The day was overcast which was a shame, as the ceremony would have been best in bright sunlight, but not even entreaties to the gods were heeded if the gods decided otherwise.

Brightly coloured pennants decorated the houses along the route of the procession from the palace to the Temple, and the square was bedecked with bunting and flags of all kinds. People thronged the route and cheered as Amne slowly made her way along the cleared path towards the centre of religious belief in the city. She was clearly the centre of attention; her brightly coloured dress and train drew the eye at once, and her hair had been styled high with blonde curls and kept in place with a golden band and hair pins. Ribbons hung from her hair down her back.

She held a posy of flowers, coloured blue and white, and behind her four maids held up her train to prevent it from dragging on the ground and getting dirty and torn. Alongside walked six members of the palace guard, dressed in their finest ceremonial dress, each metallic object polished to a point where it screamed for mercy. Feathers had been affixed to their helms and more hung from the top of the shafts of their volgars just where the blades began.

Alongside her walked the emperor, her father. He was smiling proudly. His daughter was simply stunning, and her face concealed, as was the custom, by a light gauze veil, but he had seen her face prior to leaving the palace and it had been enhanced with light makeup. Her lips reddened, her skin whitened, her cheeks blushed, her eyelids coloured and her lashes coated with a dark plant pigment.

Vosgaris, too, had seen her and his breath had been taken away. He had leaned close to her as she had passed. “You look gorgeous, ma’am,” he had whispered to her. She had glanced at him and smiled nervously before continuing on her way. To be truthful, she was scared witless. It was all she could do to put one foot ahead of the other, to concentrate on moving. She’d wanted to relieve herself continuously, and her stomach was crawling all over the place. She had hardly eaten at breakfast and felt sick.

Everyone was encouraging her. Isbel was waiting at the temple, a sleeve cloth dabbing her eyes. Jorqel was walking behind her, his sword drawn, brightly gleaming in the daylight. His function was that of Protector, guarding her as she made her way to her husband to be. Astiras felt the trembling along her arm as he walked with her through the square. He squeezed her arm gently and she looked at him. He smiled and bent to whisper in her ear. “You look absolutely wonderful, Amne. I’m very proud of you.”

Amne gulped and smiled hesitantly, then returned her concentration on keeping in step with the rest of the entourage. The Temple loomed ahead, a hexagonal building, with a steeply rising roof that ended at a peak twice the height of the walls, atop of which stood a bright golden sun. Other symbols stood on top of stone corbels where the walls changed direction as part of the hexagon. The Temple was in fact known colloquially as The Hexagon, but the authorities tried to discourage that as they felt it smacked of disrespect. It didn’t stop it though.

In the crowd, keeping pace with the emperor and Amne, was Lalaas, dressed in a plain citizen-type jacket and striped leggings, the latest fashion from the east. He pushed past people craning their necks, all wishing to catch a glimpse of the imperial party, cheering in joy. Lalaas showed no emotion, though. His mind was full of purpose, and he had an appointment at the Temple. Striding on ahead, leaving a trail of annoyed people in his wake, he reached the Temple ahead of the procession and went round the rear, away from the square. Here nobody stood, as it was out of sight and anyone here would not see what was going on.

He came to a small dark door and twisted the handle. It was unlocked, as he had expected. Passing swiftly inside he moved along a cold, gloomy passageway full of dust and cobwebs and came to a cross passage. To the left a small stone staircase wound its way up, narrow and bordered with a thin iron rail. He went up quickly and came to a door. It, too, was unlocked and he passed inside.

The room was fairly dark but light filtered in through a small glassed slot in the wall to the left which gave him enough light to see that a canvas bag was propped up against the far wall, next to yet another door. He pulled the canvas lip open and withdrew his bow and a small sheaf of arrows. He quickly tested the string and nodded in satisfaction. All was in order.

The small door opened slowly and he slipped out as quietly as he could, for the sound of the people in the main chamber came to him quite clearly. Below the main ceremony was about to begin, and he was out on a small landing that ran all the way round the outer edge. It was a service landing, but today it would serve as a position from which he could use his bow. He knelt and got one arrow ready. One should be enough.

Below, the priests waited. Three of them stood solemnly together as the procession reached the door outside. The sound of the crowd rose as the emperor and princess walked up the five steps to the entrance and were now in plain view of everyone. Jorqel brought up the rear, as close as he could without treading on the train, which had now been placed on the ground.

Inside the dignitaries stood. Here were those privileged by the regime, trusted people allowed to witness the event. To the right stood Elas Pelgion, smartly attired in a white tunic, sleeveless, with a sash of purple running from his left shoulder down to his right hip. He wore his sword on his left hip and his leggings were of black wormspun. His head was bare and he watched as his wife-to-be was escorted in by Astiras.

Amne saw Elas and smiled behind her veil. His expression was briefly of surprise which pleased her, then he resumed his usual stoic attitude. She was released by Astiras who stopped three paces back as tradition demanded and Elas came to stand alongside her, next to the three priests who were stood around a font of bronze. It was the height of a man’s stomach, raised on a single tapering stand and comprised of a bowl-like shape with a fluted design, and within the bowl it sloped gently. There was not a deep interior. Each of the priests carried an object in their hands. The first had a small bowl of bread. The second had a jar of a liquid that was full of tiny golden flakes, while the chief priest carried a thin strip of gold and white coloured cloth.

Amne’s heart was threatening to burst out of its cage. Her legs were trembling still, despite her silent entreaties for them to stop. Her world had shrunk to just the immediate people around her; she didn’t dare look at anyone else.

Behind her and to her left Astiras was joined by Isbel, still wiping tears from her eyes. She clutched her husband’s arm and he returned the action for a moment, then patted her hand and resumed his stance.

Up on the balcony Lalaas slowly fitted the arrow to the string and looked at Amne’s back. Her upper back was revealed to him and he could see her shoulder blades. It would be an easy shot to put the arrow clean between them. For him it was a ludicrously easy shot. He drained all thoughts from his mind and ever so deliberately raised the bow. The top of the rail was just high enough to allow him to loose underneath it. Perfect.

The chief priest began the ceremony. “We are here to witness the gods’ wishes for these two young people to marry each other. In the name of the gods I shall join their two lives together and may nothing tear them asunder.”

Amne glanced at Elas. What was going through his mind? He was so emotionless normally and it made gauging what he was feeling almost impossible. She was, if anything, far too much the other way, always showing what she felt. How was it that they were so different? Elas was concentrating on what the priest was saying, not looking at Amne, which was correct according to the ceremony rules, but couldn’t he just for once bend the rules and look at her?

Jorqel’s eyes roved around the assembled people, male and female, watching for any move that might betray the start of an attack. If so, he would move quickly and strike. He was in the mood to kill. His frustration at the inability to do anything about Sannia’s imprisonment had begun to boil up through his normally calm demeanour. In some ways, he hoped someone would make a move so he could vent his wrath at them. He looked up at the iron railed balcony running around the chamber. Nobody there.

He didn’t see Lalaas who was directly behind and above him.

The chief priest nodded toward the priest to his left, the one with the bread. “The gods have given you, Elas Pelgion, the choice to accept this woman, Amne Koros, Princess of Kastania, as your wife. Do you accept their choice?”

“I do,” Elas said, and took a piece of bread from the bowl. He bit off half of it and began to chew, then passed the rest to Amne who took it and slipped it under her veil and also began chewing. She hoped she wouldn’t bring it up. It would be undignified, shameful and a bad omen for the future of the marriage. Maybe she should do it? She suppressed the thought almost as soon as she had thought of it.

The chief priest then turned to his right. He nodded to the other cleric. This one thrust forward the jar. Amne dipped her fingers into it and when she withdrew them, they were glittering with the gold flakes.

“Do you, Amne Koros, Princess of Kastania, accept the gods’ choice of Elas Pelgion as your husband?”

Amne licked her lips and nodded. “I do,” she said in a husky voice that almost broke. She placed her fingers on Elas’ forehead and left a wide mark on it. Elas now dipped his fingers in the jar and repeated the action, leaving a similar mark on Amne’s forehead.

“Now,” the chief priest intoned. “Place your hands together in the bowl of life.”

The two put their right hands in the bowl and clasped fingers. The chief priest reached for the cloth in his hand.

Above, Lalaas drew back the string and sighted on his target. He took a deep breath, waited a heartbeat, then released.

The chief priest took hold of the cloth and threw it aside, revealing a small shiny dagger. He grabbed the hilt and was raising it to strike Amne through the chest when Lalaas’ arrow smashed into him, flinging him back with a cry of pain.

The chamber exploded into noise. Elas flung his arms round Amne in a reflex and she gripped him automatically, shocked. Astiras stepped forward, his face a mask of hatred, while Jorqel whirled, his sword held high, ready for any action. He looked up at Lalaas who was slowly getting to his feet, a look of satisfaction on his face. Jorqel glanced at the priest, lying on the dais, the arrow clean through his heart, then looked back up at the hunter and nodded.

Lalaas bowed and slipped back out of sight, his job done.

“Vile wretch!” Astiras snarled at the dead priest. “Fokis lackey! How many pieces of gold did it take to become an assassin?” There was no reply of course, the man was stone dead. Astiras already knew the answer anyway, thanks to Vosgaris and his men getting the truth out of the captive Philas the night before. The ‘archer’ had in fact been a decoy and the real killer had been Suton, the chief priest, a man who had been in the employ of the Fokis for many years and had owed his elevation into the religious hierarchy in the first place to that House. So Astiras and Jorqel between them had set up the scheme to take out Suton once he made his move. Jorqel had in fact pointed out that arresting the priest too early might give the Fokis time to bring in yet another killer. Astiras, all for stringing the priest up that morning, had finally seen reason and gone along with the plan.

He waved at two guards to drag the corpse off and to deal with it, namely to cut his head off and mount it over the city gates. He stood before the second priest. “Complete the ceremony. It is to continue, understand?”

“Yes, highness,” the priest bowed and picked up the cloth.

The furore in the chamber was abating, and the emperor waved for attention. “Please, everyone, the danger is over. The evil scheme has been defeated, and there is no reason for the marriage not to carry on. Please, resume your position.”

Amne was shaking even more. She had caught sight of Lalaas as he had stood up, wondering who it had been who had cut the priest down, and she felt a wave of love for the man. Yet again, he had saved her life. How many more times would that be the case? Elas released her and stared at her intently. “Are you alright to continue, Amne?”

“Y-yes, Elas, I am. Thank you,” she added, looking up at him.

Elas actually smiled. “Very good. You’re a Koros, alright.”

Amne liked the sound of that and turned to look at her father who winked at her. That made her feel much better. She put her hand back in the bowl and Elas grasped her fingers once more. This time the new priest raised the cloth high, began uttering a deep intonation to the gods, and then placed the cloth around both their wrists, symbolically binding the two together. He looked worried, as well he might, for the memory of his superior being skewered right next to him was still vivid in his mind.

The other priest now picked up a jug of water and began pouring it over the two’s hands and wrists. The other priest now raised his hands into the air and closed his eyes. “By the power of the gods through me, I bind these two together for as long as they may live. Let no god, man nor beast separate them.”

The assembled crowd began uttering prayers to the gods, each to the god of their choice, and the confusing cacophony of voices washed over Amne and Elas. The priest now unwrapped the wet cloth and took it from them. “You are now joined as husband and wife. All sing praise to Elas and Amne Pelgion!”

The two faced one another, and Elas removed the veil. He looked at Amne and nodded slightly, as if to himself, and kissed her. Amne kissed him back, closing her eyes, and wondered what it would be like. He was firm, strong, yet not forceful. It was tender, but not powerful. In a way she was disappointed, yet at the same time not. Maybe she had hoped his formal correctness was a shell, something to cast aside once they were wed, and then he would become a passionate vibrant lover. She smiled to herself. Who was she kidding?