Despite his best effort, Frell looked far from dissuaded. The man rubbed a finger along the stubbled crease of his chin. He clearly accepted Kanthe’s words but sought a path around them.
Kanthe huffed his exasperation and tried a different tack before Frell outmaneuvered him. “You know the tale of the Forsworn Knight.”
Frell stiffened, likely baffled by the change in topics, though he did glance at the curled missive from the Cloistery.
Ah, at least he knows where this particular tale ends.
Frell turned back to Kanthe with a frown. “What does that sad story have to do with—”
“So you can understand my father better,” Kanthe explained. “Everyone knows Graylin sy Moor—whose name was stricken from the legion and who would be damned forevermore as the Forsworn Knight. He who broke his oath of fidelity and fealty, by bedding one of my father’s most cherished pleasure serfs, a beauty unlike any other.”
Frell nodded. “And when she grew with child, the knight absconded with her, fleeing into the swamps of M?r.”
“Where she died. Her body gutted, torn to pieces, and coated black with flies. The babe ripped from her womb.” Kanthe closed his eyes, recognizing there were worse fates than being born a Prince in the Cupboard. “Graylin was eventually captured, broken on a wheel, and exiled from the kingdom, forbidden to ever wield a weapon or even raise a fist. But it’s also said he refused to deny his love for the woman, even under torture. He ultimately died in exile—not from his injuries, but from heartache.”
Frell crossed his arms, looking away. “Indeed. It is a hard lesson, both of broken oaths and broken hearts.”
“But that is not the entire story,” he said, drawing back Frell’s attention. “Did you know what my father believed? Why he so pursued knight and serf, sending most of his legion after them?”
Frell answered with silence.
“In truth, my father cared nothing about that serf. The woman is not even named in those tales. In fact, the king was generous in opening his palacio of pleasure serfs to other men, both those in his legion and members of his inner council.”
And to a certain beloved first son.
Kanthe continued, “And my father certainly did not care if the babe in the womb was of his own loins or the knight’s. For centuries, the matrons of the serfs knew how to deal with royal bastards, those that slipped past their thwarting teas.”
Frell swallowed. “Then why did your father pursue the knight and serf with such fervor?”
“Because of the word of a bone-reader, one he holds in great esteem. And not just any soother but one who binds his brows in black and wears a gray robe.”
Frell’s eyes widened. “One of the Shriven.”
“Only this holy man kisses the symbol of the horn’d snaken, and according to my father, communes directly with the dark god ?reyk.”
“So, an Iflelen…” Frell looked aghast, like he wanted to spit.
“Back then, the Shrive hissed in my father’s ear, warning that the child carried by the serf—whether a royal bastard or the knight’s—would end the world. Upon that whisper, my father hunted Graylin, a man he had long considered one of his most loyal knights, whose friendship he had once cherished. All to kill a poor child shadowed by a portent of doom.”
In the narrowing of Frell’s eyes, Kanthe read the understanding there. Still, he pressed harder. “And you want to bend a knee before my father and stoke that old fear. You think he will welcome such counsel in a time of pending war?”
“I don’t intend to bring him portents found in a toss of bones or the entrails of the sacrificed, but in proper alchymies that cannot be denied.”
The pounding in Kanthe’s head had started again. He rubbed at his temples to try to drive it away. “I have no more faith in soothers’ prophecies than you. I think that cursed Shrive just whispered what my father wanted to hear so he could justify ridding the world of a potential bastard. Or maybe the Shrive’s portent was self-serving, telling this tale to drive a stake into the heart of a beloved knight who had the king’s ear, thus eliminating a competitor. But since that time, my father has fallen further and further into the sway of such whispers, especially from that Shrive.”
Kanthe stared hard at Frell. “Your voice will not be heard above those whispers. And even if you are believed, your words will be turned against you. I know this to be true. And what will you gain from it? By your own admission, you offer no solution, no action that can stop the doom you wish to lay at my father’s feet.”
Frell slowly nodded. “You’ve persuaded me.”
Kanthe should have been relieved, but he noted a hardening resolve in the other’s eyes.
“To truly convince the king,” Frell said, “it will take an even greater blasphemy.”
“No, that’s not what—”
Frell patted Kanthe’s arm. “No reason to go to battle with my sword half-drawn.” He shrugged. “I can only be put to death once, right?”
Kanthe groaned. “What do you intend to do?”
“You were correct a moment ago. I can’t only bring a problem to the king, but I must also offer a solution.” He turned to study the spread of parchments on the table. “To accomplish that, I must delve into the cause of it all. And I suspect I know where to start.”
“Where’s that?”
“There’s a forbidden text, rumored to have been written by Lyrrasta herself. It is said to address the relationship between the moon and the Urth, between the Son and Daughter and their Mother Below. It speaks of those invisible forces that bind all together in a dance. But the tome is said to also attend to the greatest blasphemy of all.”
“Which is what?”
“That long ago, before our histories were written, Lyrrasta believed the Mother Below did not always face the Father Above—that she once turned on her own, spinning all the Urth’s surfaces toward the sun.”
Kanthe scoffed loudly. Such an idea was not only blasphemous, but a ridiculous impossibility. He tried to picture the world twirling round and round, the sun baking one side, then the other. The world going cold, then hot again. He felt his own head spinning at just the thought. How could anyone survive such madness?
“I must secure that text,” Frell insisted. “I know answers can be found there.”
“But where do you hope to find such a book?”
“In the Black Librarie of the Anathema.”
Kanthe felt the ground open up under him. He even stared at his feet, knowing where that cursed librarie was buried. It lay down in the darkest depths of the Shrivenkeep.
Frell stepped toward the door. “I must go there. Before it’s too late.”
13
WHAT AM I doing?
Kanthe followed Frell down the winding stairs, passing one tier after another. Throughout most of the descent, he had tried to dissuade Frell from this course, from bringing his dark fears to the bright thronehall of Azantiia—and certainly from traipsing into the Shrivenkeep.
He finally gave up and went silent.
Every student of Kepenhill knew what lay beneath the roots of their school, the shadowy halls of the holy Shriven. It was said the Shrivenkeep delved as deep as Kepenhill climbed high.