The Arcanist (21 page)

It was a very sad home. Leona had cried for days after seeing Edouard. She said he was in a bad way, but she had also told them faithfully what Edouard had told her. Leave. Get out of the city and look after the rest of the family. He would get himself to safety and meet them when he could. It had been the right thing to do Marcus knew. They had to protect the family, most especially the women and children first. Just as his brother had known. Marcus knew that Edouard had the spark but he doubted that it would truly be enough to let him escape the royal dungeons. Edouard had simply said what he'd said to get the rest of the family to safety.

But were they really safe even here? He doubted it.

Bitter Crest wasn't that far from Theria. Less than a day’s ride on a good steed. And it was a free city, not part of any larger realm. It wasn't well defended either, with no walls and few cannon. Soon he knew, or rather he guessed, if Simon's ambition was as terrible as he feared, he would launch an attack on the free city, and they would have to flee again. There was no other reason he could think of that would lead his brother to hire so many mercenaries as it was claimed he was. He didn't want to be just king of Therion. He wanted to be an emperor.

There were other mysteries. The exodus from the city had slowed over time. Not because there weren't more people inside the city wanting to flee, for there were many remaining according to all those who had made it to Bitter Crest after them. But rather because they were being prevented from going. The front gate was guarded by soldiers. Soldiers who didn't seem to be protecting the city from outsiders, but who were now stopping the refugees from leaving. And one by one all the other gates and the holes in the wall were being blockaded too. Within a week of their arrival in Bitter Crest the number of refugees still arriving had fallen away. His best guess was that between ten and twenty thousand souls were now imprisoned in Theria.

Why that was Marcus didn't know, save that of course a city was nothing without people to call it home. But the thought troubled him. As did the understanding that whatever happened in Theria from then on would be unknown to him and everyone else. The city was locked down. No one entered it and no one left it.

Traders were turned away at the gate. So too were emissaries. Farmers bringing their fare to the markets were stopped and sent home too – and that was madness. How much food was stored within the city walls? Not enough was Marcus' thought. Not even for those who remained inside. And those who arrived seeking to find their loved ones and bring them back were also barred. That was something that had never happened before.

But as he spied the woman in the alehouse trying to stand by herself in the middle of the crush and sip her drink, Marcus remembered that there was always one group who were never denied entry into a city. Not even in times of war – the priests. They could come and go freely, even he hoped, into Theria.

So standing there in front of him was the one person in this entire city who might be able to find out what was happening in Theria. Who might be able to check on Edouard and bring him some medicine. Who he might be able to persuade to his cause. Not that he knew her, or even that he expected her to consider him as anything more than a defiler of women. But Edouard was known to her precious Mother, and had looked after her sisters. Even defended them. That had to count for something.

Yet at the same time as he spotted the handmaiden in her home spun gown Marcus suddenly discovered that there were other questions he needed to ask. Who was she? Why was she in Bitter Crest? He wasn't even aware that there was a shrine in the city. Nor would he expect to find one of her calling in an alehouse. Suddenly the wheels were turning in his mind, as were the rumours about the handmaidens he had heard over the years.

The old guards had long held that the hamadryad's handmaidens played more of a role in the affairs of kingdoms than anyone realised. They'd claimed that they wandered the land far further than people realised, and that their service to Tyrel was as more than just her servants. That they spied for her, spread her words and ideas through more than just the streets and temples, and that they whispered into some very important ears. That they also made trade deals with various concerns, amassing large amounts of wealth. Wealth that they used to coerce. In short, they poked their noses into the affairs of state.

Marcus had never really thought much about it. It had never seemed to him to be a matter of any great importance. Not even when he'd visited the temple and seen how many women from so many different realms were attending the hamadryad. But seeing her there in the free city, he suddenly knew those questions were important. Not as important however, as finding out what had happened to Edouard. And maybe getting him some medicine.

With his family settled into their make do lodgings in the city, his father on the way back from his trade mission, hopefully knowing to come to them and not to go to Theria, he had only one brother left to worry about, and he couldn't reach him. None of them could. The likeness of every member of the family was posted on the city walls, and the guards were waiting for them. So said the refugees. By order of the king they couldn't enter the city save on pain of death. And Edouard himself had told them to leave, to keep the family safe. He had been right to do so. That was his duty.

But if Marcus couldn't enter Theria, the handmaidens could. Either in their role as handmaidens to Tyrel, or as simple serving women as they could pretend to be. That was why he was so glad to see the woman. They could go anywhere, even he hoped, into the dungeons. Some of the temples sent their priests into the gaols and dungeons to bring words of comfort to the prisoners. He suspected that the temple of Tyrel did so as well. But not just to bring the words of their Mother to the prisoners. The chances were that they sought information from the prisoners as well. Despite what people – Simon in particular – believed about him, he wasn't a complete fool. The handmaidens were in Theria and they were in Bitter Crest, and somehow he doubted that they were in either city simply to buy and sell wares.

Marcus crossed the room, weaving his way among the press of patrons until he reached her, and he couldn't help but notice that she watched him every step of the way. He doubted she was surprised to see him in the least.

“My Lady.” He nodded politely to her to show respect, but not so much as to seem a convert to her Mother's cause. Not that she or anyone else would ever believe such a thing of him.

“Marcus Severin, the defiler.”

It was a strange thing for her to greet him as, and not a title any man would want. Though he understood exactly what she was referring to. But more important than what she said or defending himself against her accusation was the understanding behind it. She knew who he was by sight and was well aware of his nature. That could not be mere chance. Nor was the fact that she was in an alehouse. The very alehouse they were now calling home. He ignored the slight.

“An odd place for one of the temple to be?”

And it was. The alehouse and the city both.  Bitter Crest was close to the temple, but seldom a place where those of faith stayed. It was a trading city, unwalled and open to all. Most of the people here, even in normal times, were passers through. Traders, wanderers, buyers, bards and mercenaries. Those were the life blood of the city, not priests. Stores, markets, inns, alehouses, smithies and warehouses. They were what the city was built from. Not temples.

“We go where the Mother wishes so we may spread her wisdom.”

She spoke demurely, even managed a small gesture of humility, and he believed not a single word of it. Her presence in the city had nothing to do with spreading her Mother's message.

“No My Lady. You do not fool me.” He decided to be at least a little forceful with her. A little direct. It was shameful, especially when others all around were listening, but necessary. Besides, she had addressed him as a defiler of women without cause. He felt he had cause to be direct with her.

“I don't know what your purpose is in being here, or in Theria, but I know that it is a purpose other than that of simple trade and spreading your Honoured Mother's words. You my Lady – and your sisters – sneak around the cities, watching and nudging.”

“We do not sneak!”

She raised her voice, obviously offended – perhaps with reason – and all around Marcus could see heads turning their way. Maybe it had been impertinent of him to have said it, but Marcus suddenly found that he didn't really care. Manners be damned, there were more important things to consider. There was family. He ignored the other patrons staring at them, knowing that they would look away soon enough. He was a soldier and they could see that. Besides, the handmaiden hadn't tried to leave.

“As you would have it. However, you do have plans that others do not know of, and you do have ways that others do not see. You also have free passage where I do not. Where none of my family can pass. I need that. I need a message carried to my brother. A message and some medicine.”

“You want us to carry a message to the king? And medicine? You think he's ill?” She seemed surprised. “Surely you could hire a messenger and a physician.”

“Not to Simon good maiden. Whatever else he is, he is no longer my brother. Not when he has betrayed the family. To Edouard.”

“The Tinker?”

So she knew him well enough to know his street name, another indication that she knew more of his family than she had let on. But it wasn't the time to point out her slip.

“The Owl.” Marcus used his brother's more normal appellation and added a little emphasis to give it weight. Though it was never a formal title it carried with it a degree of respect that “The Tinker” did not, and Edouard had earned some respect with his sacrifice. He had earned a lot in truth. If what he had been told was true then his brother had covered himself in glory as he'd denied Simon his lies. Of course he had paid for that defiance.

“Surely you can ride to his house yourself. After all, it may be in Therion but I do not expect that anyone guards his home.” She seemed confused and for the first time he actually believed her.

“He's not in his home. He is entombed in the false king's dungeons somewhere under the castle. All of the sparks are.” Finally he'd said something to surprise the woman and she stared at him with wide eyes.

“The dungeons?” The handmaiden looked at him strangely. “How?”

How did she not know was Marcus' question in turn? But maybe she didn't because the events of that night in the throne room were not common knowledge. That only those who had been there – those of the Court – had reported them. And they had likely only spoken their horror and shame to other nobles.

“Simon has become crazed. He had Edouard and many others of the court and the nobility whipped in the throne room on the night of his coup, and imprisoned before dawn. Many were killed.” It was hard saying it. Hard thinking about it.

“I'm sorry. I did not know. My sisters tried to reach him at his home when Theria fell to the dark, but could not find him.”

Of course they had, and he appreciated hearing it, even if she'd let slip something else that she probably shouldn't have. Their mistress, the Honoured Mother or whatever she wanted to be called, had plans for Edouard. His brother didn't realise that – he had been too busy quaking in his boots – but Marcus had seen something in her disturbing eyes that spoke of more than a casual interest in him. He had heard it in her words as well. And in any case there were only six sparks and two flames in all of Therion, and that made his brother important. Even to her Honoured Mother.

Of course he had to wonder how many of the sparks had managed to survive. He also had to wonder how it was that the handmaidens didn't know what was surely the talk of the streets. Perhaps they weren't so well informed as he had thought.

“How do you not know this?”

“The shadow priest, the advisor. Vesar. He can spot our sisters better than any hawk, and the gates are closed to us. He has also closed down all the temples in the city and sent the faithful packing. There are none in faithful service left within Theria's walls. And the temples throughout the rest of Therion fear attack.”

Her words took Marcus aback and it was suddenly his turn to be shaken. No faiths? No priests and priestesses? He hadn't heard that as they'd travelled to Bitter Crest, nor while they'd hunted for lodgings within its newly overcrowded streets. But it was more than just the fact that shook him. It was that somewhere deep down inside he knew that it meant something. Something bad. No priests, no priestesses, no temples, no faiths and no worship. It suggested no gods. It suggested a king who would acknowledge no one above him. A king who would not bend his knee. Or maybe even a king who feared the gods. That could not be good.