He was woken by the harsh clatter of the lock in his cell door. His principal gaoler, like all his guards, was drawn from the Queen’s Mounted Guard, a veteran sergeant with a distinct disinclination to conversation who glared at Frentis with unabashed detestation every time he opened the door. The queen had been punctilious in choosing guards unlikely to be swayed by the legend of the Red Brother. Today, however, the man’s hatred was slightly muted as he pulled the heavy door ajar and motioned for him to come out. To his continued surprise, Frentis had not been shackled, or in fact subject to any mistreatment. He was fed twice a day and provided with a fresh jug of water each morning when the sergeant came to fetch his waste bucket. Otherwise he was left to sit in darkness, absent any company or conversation . . . save
The sergeant stood well back as he exited the cell, finding the queen standing in the chamber beyond flanked by Davoka and her two ennobled guards. “Highness,” Frentis said, dropping to one knee.
The queen gave no response, turning to the sergeant. “Leave us please. Give your keys to Lord Iltis.”
She waited until he had gone before speaking again. “The Blackhold has not been so empty since the day of its construction.” Frentis remained on one knee as she surveyed the chamber, eyes tracking over dark stone lit by meagre torchlight. “I find I prefer it that way. I intend to have it torn down at the conclusion of our current difficulties.”
Frentis lowered his head and took a breath, speaking in formal tones, “My Queen, I most humbly offer my life . . .”
“Be silent!” Her voice lashed like a whip as she advanced towards him, coming close enough to touch as she loomed over him, her breath harsh and ragged. “I killed you once before. So I already have your life.”
Her breathing slowed after a moment and she moved away. “Rise,” she ordered with an irritated wave and he stood, waiting as her flawless face regarded him, anger replaced by an icy calm. “Brother Sollis has related your account to me in full. Your actions were not your own, you are no more to blame for the King’s death than a sword is to blame for the blood it spills. I know this, brother. And yet I find I have no forgiveness for you. Do you understand?”
“I do, Highness.”
“Lord Vaelin also tells me you claim that Lord Al Telnar was complicit in the Volarian invasion.”
“He was, Highness, on the promise of power and . . . other rewards.”
“And what might they be?”
“He was at pains to extract promises that no harm should come to you during the attack.”
She sighed, giving a faint shake of her head. “And I thought he died a hero.”
Frentis drew breath, steeling himself before uttering his next words. “Might I crave a moment to speak in private, Highness? I have a message to convey.”
“Lady Davoka and these lords have seen me at my lowest state and still judge me deserving of their loyalty. Any words you say to me are worthy of their ears.”
“I speak for a Lord Marshal of the Mounted Guard, a man I saw slain when the palace fell. His name was Smolen.”
The queen’s face betrayed no emotion as she stared at him, but he saw how her hands shifted as if itching to reach for a hidden weapon. “Relate your message,” she ordered.
“He said it was a great thing to travel so far with the woman he loved.”
Her hands clenched, forming tight fists as she advanced towards him. He heard two swords scraping free of scabbards as her lords came to her side, steel poised to take his life. “How did he die?” she demanded.
“Bravely. He fought well but the Kuritai are skillful, as you know.”
He found himself unable to meet her gaze, the impassive perfection of her face a terrible contrast to the burnt screaming woman who had fled the throne room. “I make no plea for mercy,” he said, lowering his head. “And await your judgement.”
“Do you hunger for death then? Do you imagine the Departed will make a welcome for one such as you?”
“I doubt it, Highness. But hope is at the heart of the Faith.”
“Then your hope is to be dashed, for now at least.” She gestured Iltis towards a locked cell, the Lord Protector working the keys and hauling the door wide, he and his fellow lord going inside to retrieve the occupant. Unlike Frentis this man had been festooned with chains, ankles, knees, wrists and neck all secured with newly forged shackles, forcing him to move in an inching shuffle as the two lords dragged him into the light. Despite his obvious discomfort his face was absent of any sign of distress, the features the familiar immobile mask of the slave-elite. His chest was bare and thick with well-honed muscle, a patchwork of scars covering the flesh from waist to neck.
“Kuritai,” Frentis murmured.
“The only one we have managed to capture in this entire war,” the queen said. “Found senseless at the docks the day the city fell. According to Lord Al Hestian he was set to guard Alucius, assurance of his father’s compliance. His name is Twenty-Seven.”
