Eris was sick. Maybe it was coming so near to overcasting; maybe it was too much drink; maybe it was poison slipped into the wine, by Hierax or Khelidon; or maybe it was some combination of each: all she knew for certain was that she avoided Spellsickness narrowly but did not get better by the next morning. She stayed passed out in her and Rook’s bed while her wounded shoulder oozed. The pain was terrible, but she could endure pain. It was the feeling of illness that more bothered her. She did not feel at home in her own body. Her head swam while she stared at the ceiling.
On the first morning Aletheia wrapped her in bandages and brought a glass of frozen water for her swelling black eye. Then she was left alone for hours. Languishing while the boys discussed their findings and conspired without her.
She felt useless. By midday the worst of her nausea was gone; the hangover passed as her Essence revitalized. She managed to climb to her feet—but the moment she stood she threw up into a chamber pot. Burning pain flooded into her wounds. She was determined to go downstairs, determined not to be left out, but when she made it to the door she had to go back and throw up again.
An expedition outside was a lost cause. She looked into the room’s mirror and saw herself in her white gown—somehow she had been changed last night, she didn’t remember when—and decided to spend the time unbraiding her hair instead.
So that was what she did. Until the sun set. She sat on the floor, and off her feet her stomach calmed, and once her hair was loose and down by her shoulders once more—and she felt her head scalp just exploded—she spread herself out on the carpet and went back to sleep.
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She woke up in Rook’s arms. The room was dark. He lifted her off the ground and back into bed, laying her head on a pillow, and when he saw her eyes awake, he leaned down to kiss her.
That was a much-needed kiss. But he pulled away after a moment. She trailed after him, but he didn’t give in.
“You’ve been sick,” he said with a smile.
Eris let herself go limp. “I could not help it,” she whined. “Thinking of the discussions being had without me was enough to cause plague.”
“Rats cause plague, not usually thoughts.”
“Some thoughts are rats. As are some brothers.” She felt much better now, despite the pain. “How is our Khelidon?”
“In high spirits. Somehow he escaped unscathed.”
“My companions often have a way of avoiding injury,” Eris said. “Though in his defense he is an invalid.”
“He stored his injuries in youth so he wouldn’t need accrue them later on in life.” Rook came around the other side of the bed. “He also told me you danced with our cousin Kirkos most enthusiastically.”
“A long night of excitement and that is your takeaway?”
“No,” he said. He leaned back down near her. “I just couldn’t help notice you balled with my mortal enemies before me, that’s all.”
“Jealous, are we?” she sighed.
“Certainly not,” he used his most dignified voice, “but purple with envy.” He bit his lip. “How is he? Kirkos?”
Eris hesitated. She did not understand the question. “How ‘is’ he? Do you mean, has he come down with disease? Is he fat? Is he ugly? Did he seem—”
“I mean what did you discuss.”
“Ah. He invited me to be his personal guest at the Kathar Tournament, as it happens.”
“Is he fighting?”
“Yes. He promised me he would win the entire affair and dedicate it to my honor.”
“I was going to do that!”
“You may both save yourselves the trouble, for I do not care for anyone’s honor, and certainly not my own. Dedicate it to Rook instead.”
A cloud of contemplation overcame him. His playfulness waned. “He’s barely old enough to be a squire.”
“He was barely tall enough to hold my waist,” Eris said. “We should consider ourselves lucky. If all competitors in the melee are like him, you are certain to win. Not that I doubted you before.”
“What did you think of him?” Rook asked.
She shrugged. “I found him unremarkable. He was infatuated with me, as were most of the men present, so we can be certain our foes are at least sane. Likewise, I found Hierax unremarkable. Dull, even. Very much unlike you. Were it not for Khelidon’s trepidation I think I should have been able to settle this business of your vengeance the moment I saw him.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t. Caution is a good principle for us going forward. After—after we carried you in last night, you looked bad enough. Your dress was—”
“What happened? To my dress?”
He hesitated. “I think it was thrown away. It was ruined, we had to cut it off of you. Every inch was soaked with—well, someone’s blood.”
She groaned. She would have sooner sacrificed Khelidon than that dress. But her mind was unsettled enough not to dwell on it, to accept, for now, the horrible fate of incineration that the garment was to endure.
There was deep affection in his voice as he added, “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re back. Khel told me about the fight—”
She pawed at him. “What did he tell you, precisely?”
“That you took his dagger, cloaked a room in darkness, and fought three Cult Custodians without his help.”
She smiled. “Well. ‘Tis less impressive than it sounds. In truth I blinded them and cut their throats. Not much in terms of your chivalric honor, hm?”
“I don’t care,” he said, firm. “You’re alive. And safe.” Then, more lightly, “Do you remember when you vowed to never use metal weapons?”
She had said something along those lines to Rook many times. In retrospect such pronouncements were, perhaps, naïve. Blood rushed to her cheeks to be so confronted—this was just like Rook. Her face gave everything away, but she decided to be playful.
“I never said anything of the kind,” she said.
“Oh, you didn’t?”
“In fact I have always carried a dagger with me.”
“I had forgotten. Zyd must have stolen Pyraz’s dagger from you, since you were using it for yourself. I wonder if that was before or after you sold his lantern.”
That was so many lifetimes ago she had no reaction at first, but a moment after the words registered her eyes went wide. He leaned against her and she battered his chest with her fists, laughing. “You promised me you would never mention that lantern again!”
“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” he laughed. “My promises are like your vows—I don’t think I’ve ever made a one.”
“Based on the course our affair has taken, your promises do indeed seem to lack substance,” Eris said.
“You have me there,” Rook said. Then he added, “I wonder what Zyd would think of all this.”
“You had just as well contemplate what silken sheets would have meant to Pyraz the dog. Or…if you mean this…” she climbed on top of him, grimacing when her wound grazed his muscles, “then I think we can safely assume he would not approve.”
She stared into his eyes while he traced her jawline. “Hardly anyone does,” he replied. “What were we discussing?”
“My adventures with your brother. But you have heard of them already. I think ‘tis time you told me what it was you and he and found within the documents we recovered.”
“But I want to know more about the ball.”
“But I want to know more about the Duke.”
Some plan concocted behind those blue mirrors. “Okay,” Rook said, “let’s play a game. I’ll ask a question, you ask a question.”
“This again?” Eris sighed. “Can you not just do what I say? The men at Korakos did whatever I asked of them, They were more obedient than slaves.”
“That’s because they wanted to sleep with you,” Rook said, kissing her on the neck. “But were they ever going to? No, because you don’t want a slave. You want a lover with a mind of his own.”
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
His hands were becoming more adventurous, but she still was injured and somewhat ill and yelped to feel an intimate touch, pushing him away. She smiled to signal that all was still well.
“Not tonight, my love.”
Of course he desisted immediately, which she almost regretted—by the aether, he was right. She had no retort for him. She didn’t want Rook to be her slave. It would have been so boring if he was. What she never could have understood as the child who lustfully ambushed the object of her fantasies one year earlier, on that cold spring night, was that the fun of intimacy rooted itself in unpredictability. Rook was his own man. She loved him because they were dissimilar, because for as much as she wanted a rogue like herself in masculine form, she saw in him strength that few others had.
To stick to his convictions, even when they were very stupid. To stand up for who he loved and what he believed, even when to do so was pointless and suicidal. Even now she rarely understood his thinking, and he had done little to convince her to change her own ways, but that Rook had a mind of his own—his own desires, neuroses, phobias, and patterns of action—that operated with or without her input, was itself what she had come to love. Chivalric heroism was foolhardy, yes, but it was hard not to admire when it had saved her own life. And she liked that he was a fool. She liked it when they argued. She liked that he was frustrating, because independence was what she valued above all else, and she liked that for the first time, she was sharing herself with another person. There was nothing interesting about sharing what one already knew.
He apologized to her and, while she thought, she let numbness wash over her wounds. She curled up against him. She hated how much she adored cuddling. Three years ago, if she had seen herself as she was now…
A wave of nausea crept up along the shores of her throat. She did not want to rouse herself now, she was much too comfortable, so she forced it away, coming very near vomiting, but eventually succeeding.
Rook must have seen this all on her face, for he said, “How do you feel?”
“I exerted myself too greatly at the ball,” she said. “Your brother demanded more magic than was wise to use. That is all.”
“Is it Spellsickness? Can I get you something?”
“You might stop talking.” She tightened her grip around his torso, but a thought came as his baritone reverberated against her ears. “No. Recite a poem,” she commanded.
He laughed in surprise. “A poem?”
“You are always raving in verse.”
He hesitated and she was left to wonder what he was thinking for an eternity, until he said, “New or old?”
“I do not care, I just desire proof that I chose the wittier brother.”
A moment of thought. Then:
“The swineherd wrangles pens of hogs
The catcher catches rats
The kennelmaster keeps his dogs
But what man captures cats?”
This required only brief consideration. “The dog catches the cats. There was also a woman who baked them into meatpies in place of pork.”
“It’s a metaphor,” Rook said.
“‘Tis a riddle. Why did you read a riddle when I asked for a poem?”
“I don’t know. It was the first thing that came to mind. I’ve always been stumped by it.”
Eris rolled her eyes. “I have solved it for you in seconds. Are you grateful?”
“More than you can possibly know. In fact, let’s amend it right now:
The swineherd wrangles pens of hogs
The catcher catches rats
The kennelmaster keeps his dogs
And Old Lady Daphne catches cats.”
“The meter could use some work,” Eris said. “But you are improving.”
“Why are you interested in my poetry?”
“Do I need a reason to show interest in the writings of my love?”
He kissed her forehead. “Yes, my love. You do.”
There was an actual reason, but it embarrassed her to admit it. She pulled away from him on the bed and sat upright, fighting off illness as her back straightened. “I…have little interest in art. Or literature. Or religion, or stories at all; I think these things serve only to distract from more useful endeavors. But the poem you wrote me—my wound is causing me pain, I do not wish to speak any longer.”
“Eris.” Rook reached out to her but she pulled away. “What?”
Even as her comfort in expressing affection grew, she still found it challenging to reveal her most sentimental thoughts. There was a forcefield in her mind preventing her from doing so. Such intimate tenderness seemed as though it should come easily enough with Rook, and yet…
“I thought,” she began slowly, “…‘twas adequate.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he said simply, “Thank you.”
Pronouncements of love did not make her feel guilty or disgusting as she always thought they would, but this did. She was embarrassed to admit something as insignificant as poetry had any sway over her. But when she had read those fourteen lines of fourteen syllables in rhyming couplets, left in her backpack while aboard the boat to Rytus, something had been revealed to her—something she never would have seen by herself: that her feelings of anchorage to a man could bring liberation from the self, and that there was as much happiness as misery in such a bond. Or nearly as much. Whether or not this all would prove a terrible mistake was still left undetermined.
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The next day new bandages and a salve were applied to her shoulder. She felt only distantly ill and managed to attend a meeting, where the contents of the obsidian missives recovered from Hierax’s vault were imparted unto her.
“Our father had a shipping fleet,” Khelidon said. “Four quinqueremes for sending cargo up and down the river, among other vessels. Once he ‘inherited’ the estate he continued these merchant operations, but it seems as though he began to develop special relations with Elvish traders on the Senerian coast. He…”
The explanation that followed was the dullest thing Eris had ever endured. She might have been more interested had she been in good health, but twenty minutes passed and she realized that despite having heard every word, she hadn’t understood anything.
“…so there’s business with the Elves,” Rook said. “And evidence he might be skimping on his obligations to the Gray Council.”
“Fascinating,” Eris yawned. “I do not suppose he has missed any of his taxes, too?”
“Actually,” Jason said, “there’s a lot in these papers you brought back.” He thumbed through a stack—frowning when he came to one tinged with blood on its corner. “I’m still going through everything, but it looks like…”
Suddenly she regretted asking. In the end, however, it turned out Khelidon’s suspicions had been right: any rich man was guilty of something. With access to Hierax’s personal papers it would be easy to paint him as a criminal. He had paid off the Cult of the Aether, taken bribes, and knowingly pardoned the guilty more times in four years than most kings could manage in decades. But that was normal enough for aristocrats when they were disrobed. Very few were clean.
The conspiracy involving Seneria was the largest and best-documented. When the black obsidian missives were tapped their crystal sheen turned transparent, and within played a message recorded from far-off. It was through these the Duke had been in communication with an elf. Khelidon played one for her to see.
A female elf appeared. Her dead white eyes stared upward unnaturally. “The workers make good progress, but His Majesty demands more hands. The last ship delivered only one hundred. The next will deliver three hundred, or our arrangement will be terminated. Do not test His patience, Lord Hierax. Dated the Eighth of the Month of the Snake.”
“Sounds like he’s taking condemned prisoners and sneaking them off as slaves for the Elves,” Jason said, “but we’re still untangling things.”
“So he takes those decreed to die and turns them into workers? How scandalous,” Eris said.
“It is scandalous,” Rook said. “No one born in the city can be enslaved, man or woman. It’s against the law.”
“And a citizen can never be a slave,” Khelidon said.
“I know the law,” Eris said, “yet the law is ridiculous. They are more useful alive than dead.”
“Would you rather be enslaved or killed?” Rook asked her.
She stared at him. “You know my answer.”
“Then you know the purpose of the law.”
“Regardless of the law’s merits,” Khelidon said, “we had hoped you might identify these devices.” He tossed her a missive. “And know more of what this elf meant by what she said.”
Eris examined the obsidian slab. They had seen a similar device at the Magister’s Keep in Telmos, but much larger—and it reminded her at once of the AI core at the manaforge.
“This is an artifact of the Old Kingdom,” she said with confidence. “They all are. Used still by the Elves. I have never seen the Magisters send messages this way, but there are spells which behave similarly.”
“And who’s ‘His Majesty?’” Khelidon asked.
“That I do not know. The mountains of Seneria are impassable; few know what happens beyond its shores. Nor do I know what use they would have for slaves. Perhaps she speaks of the king of the Elves; perhaps even one pretentious enough to style himself Regizar, dwelling within the ruins of the old capital. ‘Tis interesting to ponder, but I do not see how it matters now.”
Jason nodded. “We’ll put all this together. If we can show it to anyone who’s not already on Hierax’s side, along with telling them the truth of what happened with his brother, then it might be enough to get support.”
“Meanwhile,” Rook said, “I have a tournament to win.”
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“I want to fight with you!” Aletheia said.
“They don’t let magicians fight,” Rook said.
“We have Eris’ spell, they won’t know!”
“The Archon will be present,” Khelidon said. “In body, at least. Magicians, too, and pontiffs, and with them Custodians. There’s no way to use magic in the Tournament—they make sure of it. If you could, everyone would, and it would be too easy to cheat.”
“Somehow I suspect many still find a way,” Eris said. They were together in one of Jason’s lounges. It had been some days; aside from a new scar she healed well—but still she felt exhausted and too ill to use magic. She cursed herself for growing too reliant on her focus and staff, for that surely was the cause of this weakness.
“Of course they do. Everyone cheats,” Rook said. “That’s half the fun. But they won’t let a magician fight, even as my squire. I’ll simply sit the double melee out and earn points elsewhere.”
“It’s also damn conspicuous,” Khelidon said. “Rook is easy enough to recognize. Throw in Aletheia and someone will figure it out. Why, I remember one year Lord Merikos disguised a troll as his nephew to have him compete; he didn’t make it three steps into the colosseum before being found out. Moreover—I haven’t had any visits from Hierax yet, but we can safely assume I’m among the top suspects in the raid on his vault.”
“He’s right,” Rook said. He looked to Aletheia with a sad face, but his features were firm.
“I can disguise myself,” she protested, “or drink a potion to make me normal—for a little while—"
“I’m sorry, Aletheia, but if they found out the truth, it would ruin everything. And who knows what they would do to you. The risk isn’t worth it. I have to do this on my own.”
The girl looked crushed—outraged and sorrowful both at once. She opened her mouth to curse, but, tears in her eyes, stormed back upstairs to her room instead. Rook collapsed down to a sofa in despair.
“And what of Cleopatra?” Eris asked once Aletheia was gone. “Whose guest shall she be?”
The brothers glanced to each other.
“You did tell Kirkos you would attend on his honor,” Khelidon said.
“Our uncle isn’t smart,” Rook said, “but he isn’t an idiot. You’re too suspicious, Eris. You can’t attend as his guest. It’s—if anyone is a likely suspect in the robbery, it’s you. And what if he has Custodians for guards?”
“No, he won’t,” Khelidon said. “He’s in public. He’ll have his family retinue. There’s some risk of the illusion being detected, but they won’t be checking for it in the stands, in the way they will be for competitors.”
Rook sighed. “It’s dangerous.”
“So is a tournament,” Eris said.
“Yes, but I don’t see the benefit. Does it matter whether you sit with Kirkos or Khelidon? Kirkos won’t even be there if he’s fighting.”
“It may matter, for I could learn something valuable.”
He shook his head. “It’s your decision.” Then, with a smile, “You’re not my slave.”
“I do believe that would be illegal,” Eris said. “Very well. I shall do it. I simply cannot get enough of your family’s company; I wish to meet as many more of your relations as I can, before their heads detach from their bodies.”
Khelidon clapped. “How exciting! Now—you’d better win, brother, or we’ll all have been embarrassed for the month we’ve wasted.”