Chapter One
Foul Play
Catedrâl, Cathernis
Seven and a half years earlier….
The heat was suffocating. Humid and shimmering, it rose up from the earth in waves beneath a hard, blue sky and a white, burning sun. Folk were naming it the hottest summer in nearly fifty years, and the two young women on horseback were starting to wilt as the temperature steadily climbed.
Belythna pulled the sleeveless tunic she wore away from where it had stuck to her back and glanced across at where her companion rode, red-faced and glowing.
“Black isn’t what we should be wearing in this heat,” she remarked.
“Neither are wool and leather,” Riadamor replied.
Their black woollen tunics itched the skin, and their high leather boots felt glued to their legs. Still, Lady Serina had insisted they dress according to their roles. Both young women wore their long hair tied back into severe braids and tight gold collars about their throats. They had long since cast off their heavy cloaks, although they would have to don them once more before going before the realmlord.
They were not long from their meeting now.
The two Sentorân rode along a wide avenue of oaks, through the magnificent grounds of Haladyn Castle. After a long journey, they had left the open spaces of the Cathernis plains behind, and travelled into the heart of Catedrâl, the realm’s capital.
Haladyn Park was huge. The Sentorân rode through lush meadows and along the banks of the meandering Arden River. Belythna’s first glimpse of the castle itself took her breath away – it was as glorious as Deep-Spire was imposing. The fortress’s Omari sandstone walls glowed as if lit from within; its surface rippling in the bright sunlight. Turreted towers pierced the sky, rising from a round keep. As they neared the castle, Belythna spied a deep moat filled with dark water. They clattered over the drawbridge and under the portcullis into the outer bailey.
Drawing her bay gelding to a halt, Belythna craned her neck up at where the black and red Cathernis flag snapped in the breeze. Finally, after ten long days of travel, they had reached their destination. She glanced across at Riadamor then. As usual, her friend’s face was unreadable.
Riadamor had not been the chattiest of travelling companions. Even though they had known each other for a decade, and spent long days training and studying side-by-side, Belythna had never been able to truly understand Riadamor. The two young sorceresses were both of the same talent – that of the Head – but any similarity between them ended there. Belythna, dark-haired, open and candid, was the opposite of Riadamor, who was pale, cold and gave very little away.
Unspeaking, the young women left their horses with a stable-hand and mounted the steps to the keep. Inside, they waited in the reception hall while a servant went to announce their arrival. Presently, a tall, slim young man wearing black and gold robes strode into the hall. He had golden hair, sharp blue eyes and a regal bearing.
The young man surveyed the Sentorân coolly.
“I am Councillor Arkon Valense,” he informed them. “Is the realmlord expecting you?”
“No,” Riadamor spoke up, eyeing the young man back with equal coldness. “I am Riadamor Garret and this is Belythna Arran. We are here to see Gerta of Deep-Spire.”
The councillor took a few moments to reply. Watching his face, Belythna saw alarm flare in his eyes. When he did speak, his tone was far less imperious.
“Surely, the realmlord sent word? Gerta passed away three months ago.”
Belythna and Riadamor stared back at the councillor. They had both feared this. Lady Serina’s messages to Gerta had gone unanswered over the past few months – hence their unannounced visit. Their leader had sent them to check on Gerta’s well-being.
“No, the realmlord did not inform us,” Riadamor replied. “We will need to speak to him.”
Councillor Valense nodded, his mouth thinning. “He is in the midst of a meeting with the Realm Council but he knows you are here. Come with me.”
They followed him along a corridor with a vaulted ceiling and columns as wide as ancient oaks. The soles of their boots whispered on the polished marble, and their cloaks billowed behind them. Belythna kept her gaze fixed upon the councillor’s back as she walked. If his coldness was anything to go by, they were not about to be welcomed warmly by the realmlord and his council.
Judging from his fine robes, Arkon Valense was also one of the Realm Council – the group responsible for administering the territory and, ultimately, for electing a new realmlord upon the death of the current one. After the fall of the kingdoms, and the ending of the Age of Kings, no realmlord was permitted to pass on his title to his sons. Palâdnith could not risk new kingdoms forming, and the mistakes of old being repeated. As such, the Realm Council voted for the new ruler.
Councillor Valense led them into an enormous chamber where the vaulted ceiling seemed even higher, the columns even more impressive, than the corridor leading to it. A row of black and gold robed men stood along one wall. On a dais in the centre, flanked by his guards, sat the realmlord himself.
He was older than Belythna expected.
Realmlord Bar Chatis was nearing seventy winters, and they looked as if they all weighed upon him heavily. Sagging in the upholstered leather chair, the realmlord was considerably overweight, his girth emphasised by the velvet robes he wore. His face was high coloured. Sweat beaded a bald head and a heavy brow, but the eyes underneath it were sharp and hard.
“Milord,” the young councillor bowed before Lord Chatis, before stepping to one side to introduce the two women behind him. “May I present Riadamor Garret and Belythna Arran of Deep-Spire.”
Belythna felt the realmlord’s gaze rake over them; first Riadamor, then her. His gaze fastened on Belythna, sliding over her body, before it returned to her face.
“Welcome to Catedrâl,” his voice was deep and powerful; the voice of a man who must have been a force to be reckoned with in his prime. “Two young, female – and attractive – Sentorân. What a pleasure… and what a surprise.”
“Really?” Riadamor spoke up before Belythna could address the realmlord. “Surely you realised that one of the Sentorân would pay you a visit sooner or later, seeing as we had heard nothing from Gerta in months.”
“Ah, Gerta,” Lord Chatis’s confidence dimmed slightly, his features drawing tight. “I meant to send Lady Serina a missive; it must have slipped my mind.”
“The last time we heard from Gerta, she was well,” Belythna spoke up, casting a warning glance in Riadamor’s direction. Lady Serina had taught them to approach the realmlords softly. Riadamor’s bluntness would not win them friends here. “How did she die?”
The realmlord refused to meet her eye. “She took a fall down some steps one evening and broke her neck.”
Belythna stared back at the realmlord. “A fall?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And it ‘slipped your mind’ to send word to Deep-Spire?” Riadamor’s face twisted in disbelief.
“I’ve already told you that.”
“Where is Gerta’s body?” Riadamor continued, her voice flinty. “We must take it back to Deep-Spire to be entombed.”
The realmlord started to sweat, his gaze darting around the chamber. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We burnt her corpse.”
A tense silence followed his words.
“You know we do not cremate the bodies of our dead,” Belythna said, not bothering to hide the anger in her voice. Perhaps Riadamor was right to dispense with diplomacy; the Sentorân needed to be firmer with the likes of Lord Chatis. “Why did you do it?”
“Gerta may have been a Sentorân but she was also a resident in Catedrâl,” Chatis was starting to squirm under the two sorcerers’ accusing gazes. “That is how we deal with the dead.”
Belythna noted that Councillor Valense, standing at the wings next to a handful of other councillors, was looking increasingly uncomfortable.
“Milord,”
Riadamor had fixed Chatis with a stare that Belythna knew well; one that demanded his full attention. “I can see you are a clever man so please don’t insult our intelligence by continuing to lie through your teeth. You deliberately omitted to send word when Gerta died, and you knew that burning her body was a defiance of our ways, but you did it anyway. Why?”
Realmlord Chatis regarded Riadamor, his expression turning from nervous to belligerent.
“You’re a self-important one, aren’t you?” he said finally. “You Sentorân have a high opinion of yourselves.”
“Answer my question,” Riadamor commanded. Belythna glanced at her companion and saw that Riadamor had gone still. “I care not for your opinion of me.”
Lord Chatis’s lip curled. “Gerta was a pompous old hag. I had little use for her when she was alive, and had no intention of wasting my time on her once she was dead.”
“Whether you liked Gerta or not is immaterial,” Riadamor countered. “Once a realmlord’s Sentorân adviser dies, he must receive another.”
“I’m in no hurry to receive a replacement for an individual whose opinion I never respected.”
“The pact…”
“Hang that pact,” Realmlord Chatis shouted at Riadamor. He leant forward in his chair, all pretence at civility gone. “I care not for an ancient parchment that a group of fools signed in their own blood. That was centuries ago. I speak for all realmlords when I say that the time of the Sentorân is coming to an end. We don’t need your empty counsel. Leave here you pious bitch, and…”
Whatever the realmlord would have been said next, none of them would know.
One moment Lord Chatis was looming forward, pointing an accusing finger at Riadamor, the next some unseen hand had shoved him back in his chair. A vice fastened around his neck, and squeezed hard.
The realmlord’s eyes bulged and his face turned puce. He grasped at the invisible fingers clamped around his wind-pipe, writhing in his chair like a landed trout. The realmlord’s guards rushed to his aid but could be no use against this unseen foe.
Riadamor stepped forward, her face livid. The look in her eyes was terrifying.
“You know what was written on that pact,” Riadamor told him, her hand outstretched into a claw that slowly compressed. “A realmlord who refuses our counsel must die. We have been too lenient with the lot of you – it’s time you understood who truly rules Palâdnith.”
“Riadamor!” Belythna gasped. “Let him go.”
Riadamor ignored Belythna, her dark gaze boring into the man thrashing in his chair. He was about to pass out.
“Stop her!” Councillor Valense rushed forward. “She’s going to kill him.”
The guards, wary of the enraged Sentorân before them, hung back. However, one was reaching for a throwing knife. The situation was moments away from taking a turn that there would be no way back from.
“Riadamor!” Belythna shouted. “Stop!”
Suddenly, Riadamor dropped her hand. Released from her grasp, the realmlord collapsed in his chair, panting and choking.
“The pact still stands,” Riadamor told him, her voice shaking from the rage that still pulsed through her. “If you break it your life is forfeit.”
Her last words echoed in the cavernous chamber. Its occupants stared back at the enraged Sentorân. Some looked frightened, while others were furious. Councillor Valense was one of the latter; his thin face was white, his blue eyes hard and angry.
Belythna decided to take control of the situation. She stepped forward and threw Riadamor a look of warning – praying that she would not ignore her this time. Then she addressed Lord Chatis.
“We will send you a new Sentorân adviser within the next moon cycle.”
On the dais before them, Lord Bar Chatis had pulled himself up onto his chair. His face was florid, and his body trembled – yet his eyes glittered with defiance.
This is not the end of this, Belythna thought bleakly. Gods preserve us, it is only the beginning.
“You will welcome your new Sentorân,” Riadamor added, her gaze never leaving the realmlord’s face, “and you will see no harm befalls him, or her.” Riadamor paused here, letting her threat hang in the air for a few moments before continuing. “We cannot prove that Gerta was a victim of foul play – but I will report this back to our leader all the same. If you defy us again, we will show you no mercy.”
With that, Riadamor turned and strode towards the great oaken doors at the end of the chamber. No one tried to stop her.
Belythna cast one last glance at the realmlord. She wanted to soften Riadamor’s threat, to try to smooth the situation somewhat – but one look at Lord Chatis’s face made the words die on her lips. Lord Chatis’s gaze tracked Riadamor as she reached the doors. Yet he wisely held his tongue; one more insult and Riadamor would kill him.
Their time here had ended, and no words could put it right. With a heavy heart, Belythna turned her back on the realmlord and his council, and followed Riadamor outside.
Chapter Two
Prayers and Practice
Deep-Spire, Central Omagen
One month later…