Son in Sorrow (An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom Book Two) Read online

  Son in Sorrow

  by MeiLin Miranda

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 by Lynn Siprelle writing as MeiLin Miranda, licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, CA 94041.

  This work is published by

  Sans Culotte Press

  4110 SE Hawthorne Blvd #428

  Portland OR 97214

  Cover design and illustration by Beatriz González: http://www.beagonzalez.com/

  Original cover and character design by Alice Fox: http://www.alice-fox.net/

  Book design by 1889 Labs: http://www.1889.ca/

  Editing by Annetta Ribken: http://www.wordwebbing.com/

  They are all brilliant and you should hire them right this minute.

  Go to MeiLinMiranda.com for information, discussion and even more stories in this series.

  ISBN: 978-1-926959-22-1

  An Intimate History of the Greater Kingdom

  Book One: Lovers and Beloveds

  Book Two: Son in Sorrow

  Prequel stories: “Accounts” and “The Gratification Engine” (ebook only)

  Other books by MeiLin Miranda

  Scryer’s Gulch

  The Machine God (Drifting Isle Chronicles), due late 2012

  All books available at Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MeiLinMiranda

  For the 138 people who believed enough in this project to back it via pre-sales at Kickstarter and my website,

  my beautiful daughters who put up with my scribbling,

  and the husband who has encouraged me every step of the way

  Love to bear him, love to raise him, love to send him on his way

  Son in sorrow, son in joy, brings darkness or the brightest day

  Two the consorts, two the paths, two the deaths for him to rule

  One will be the trusting child and three will be the rivals cruel

  Thirst and hunger, sleep and death will come to strike a trusted one

  And stones will shatter, stones will stand when might reclaims the rising sun

  —Temmin's birth prophecy

  Chapter One

  Paggday night, the 9th day of Spring’s Beginning

  Tremont Keep, Tremont City

  “I do not understand, Your Grace, why so glum the faces,” said an enormous brown-skinned man. His long cloak of iridescent feathers covered otherwise unexceptional evening wear; his strong, naturally crimped black hair streamed unfettered down his back, and as he frowned around the ballroom in woozy concentration the blue-black tattoos curling round his nose and eyes furrowed.

  "Glum, Your Excellency?" said his light-skinned companion. Anvalt Vonturus, Duke of Litta, was not a short man, but next to the tall ambassador even his stiff military bearing could not overcome an impression of smallness. In contrast with the ambassador's tattoos, a pale scar slashed through his left brow; a black ribbon clubbed his slate-colored hair in a queue that announced he was a conservative.

  Litta glanced around the assembly milling about Tremont Keep's Great Ballroom in nervous clumps spiky with the glint of jewels. They winked on countless fingers; in the curls of women's hair; around slender wrists and wrists so fat they nearly hid their bracelets in their folds, and around necks both wrinkled and smooth; and from countless medals—some earned and some Litta knew were given to shut the bearer up. What a decadent age.

  His eye settled on the musicians, fidgeting on the bandstand. To his approval, all the orchestra's members wore spotless evening attire, their brass and silver instruments polished to a blinding luster. The more careless musicians impatiently tapped violin and cello bows against their chair legs as the more careful ones rosined theirs; fingers ran up and down silent flutes, exercising the valves. Despite the orchestra's splendor, despite the brilliance of the Great Ballroom and its hundreds of inhabitants, a hesitant, uncertain mood hung over the whole.

  "I suppose one might call it glum, sir," he continued. "This is not just the Heir's nineteenth birthday, but also his return to the Keep. Some are unsure how he will be received."

  "Received, sir?” The Ambassador of the Vakale’le Confederacy, a Pau’an chieftain of birth high enough to match his stature, fidgeted in his unfamiliar suit; his broad, twitching shoulders set the feathers of his traditional cape to whispering. “Who by?”

  “By His Majesty King Harsin.”

  “Happy the father on the birth date of the son, no? In Pau’a, this is so.”

  Litta allowed himself a smirk. “Oh, it is so here as well. Prince Temmin has been elsewhere for the last year.”

  “Where the Heir has been?”

  “His Highness took religious orders at the Lovers’ Temple.”

  The feathers rustled in shock. “The Heir is a priest?”

  “Temporary orders. Supplicancy,” muttered Litta. “They end next year at Neya’s Day.”

  The Ambassador nudged the Duke, gently enough that Litta just stayed on his feet. “Ha! My wife hopes we are to be here for the Day of Neya Spectacle. That makes two for us this year. Your Gods Days, they are reversed—your Day of Neya, our Day of Harla. It is fall for us when it is spring for you—Tremont is the far side of the world.” The Ambassador's tattoos softened, and Litta realized the man was a bit drunk. “Same Gods the world round, though different names. In strange lands, a comfort. It is said the Embodiments of the Lovers are most beautiful. To take on the Beloved Neya and the Lover Nerr—they must be so beautiful, indeed. They are real twins?”

  “Issak and Allis Obby, yes,” said Litta; his scar twitched.

  The Ambassador pursed his lips. “The Heir is Supplicant, you say? How brave to learn from the Gods, how strange he would have that much skill—no, what word, not skill yet, he learns now the skill—perhaps talent? Talent needs learning to become skill. Oh, to see that deep into someone, to know what he wants. What advantages they could be!” He chose his next words carefully. “The King does not like this?”

  “Oh, very much not.” Few nobles did. Litta himself feared the prophecy attending Temmin's Supplicancy. He'd helped the King try to stop it, but what had that gotten him but the worst run of luck he'd ever had in his life?

  Movement at the top of the ballroom stairs drew everyone's attention upward. On the landing stood a breathtaking pair, a young man and woman each with the same luminous green eyes and loose, thick black hair. The Pau'an hissed, low and soft. “This is them? Real twins, not a matched pair? Have you seen them together on Neya's Day, when the Gods possess them?”

  Litta nodded. He'd watched as the Gods borrowed the Obbys' bodies for lovemaking—but not last year. Probably not this year, either. He didn't even bother entering the lottery for tickets, supposing his entry would be "mislaid." When he died, his body would be received into Harla's Hill, but his soul might wander the earth forever, a howling, despairing spirit. Blasphemy always carried such a risk.

  In his still-reverent youth, he would have said he'd blaspheme when Nerr got the Heir—though he would never say the phrase aloud. The rather vulgar colloquialism meant "that will never happen." It was the remnant of an old prophecy: when an Heir to the throne became Nerr's Supplicant, the common people would rise to equal the nobility. Of course, no one believed it would ever happen, hence the vulgar meaning.

  Commoners believed fulfilling the prophecy meant their prosperity. As Litta grew older, studied more and came into his full inheritance, h
e'd come to disagree. The Scholars, the priests of Eddin the Wise One, had it right: when "Nerr got the Heir" as a Supplicant, the commoners would revolt and the nobility would fall. When it looked as if Prince Temmin would fulfill the prophecy, Litta blackmailed the Obbys to stop him; it backfired, and now Litta faced damnation. For nothing. At least the monarchy hadn't fallen. Yet.

  Behind the twins stood an overly-rounded girl he recognized as Anda Barrows, and Temmin himself: the two Supplicants of the Lovers. The lanky young man had put on weight in his year at the Temple—not fat, simply more of a man's stature than a boy's. His beard had finally filled in, and Litta grudgingly approved the proper if short queue curling at the Heir's nape. None of that modern, liberal shagginess that made men look more like dogs, short hair flapping around their temples like a retriever's ears. The Prince seemed relaxed, unruffled and confident. Even when he spotted Litta, his poise never faltered; he twitched one golden eyebrow in recognition and looked away.

  Litta shifted his own gaze to King Harsin; his old friend’s face was closed, unreadable. Let Temmin and his priests puzzle something out of that.

  Temmin kept his face as tranquil as he could, though his heart beat so hard against his starched shirt front that its studs must be quivering. Would his father cut him on his own birthday? There'd been more than one royal snub in the last year: no invitations to his sisters' birthdays; careful avoidance at events requiring the attendance of the entire family; communication with the royal family completely blocked—even with his mother.

  The Heir's birthday celebrations made contact unavoidable. Every year a countrywide public holiday and fireworks marked the day. Since his coming-of-age the year before, the royal family also hosted a ball. The one last year had been a daunting introduction to life in the City after his peaceful childhood home at Whithorse Estate, to the north and west in the rolling grasslands around Reggiston. How happy they'd all been at home—just him, his sisters, and Mama.

  Temmin banished his melancholy and trained his gaze on the twins' glossy heads. Their nearness should have calmed him, but instead it brought more worries to mind. He'd been seeing less of them lately even though they were his teachers as well as his lovers. It troubled him, especially losing regular contact with Allis. In many ways he'd entered the service of the Gods for her sake; first her beauty and then her empathy had knocked him into near-insensibility. She'd instantly known his heart's every secret, and after a year in her company he trusted her more than anyone on earth but for his mother. No comfort could be found in thoughts of the twins; instead, he focused on his father.

  Harsin wore his full dress cavalry uniform: a smartly-tailored tunic in the blood-dark hue called Tremontine red, and crisp white breeches tucked into brilliant black riding boots. Several jeweled medals, each one earned, hung in a cluster above his heart. He carried the only sword allowed in the room; it hung at his left hip from a broad black sash across his chest. He appeared invincible, as if he could conquer armies single-handed, though silver had almost conquered his beard and was increasingly invading his near-black hair. Temmin wondered if he'd finally grown taller than his father.

  Beside the King stood Temmin's mother, Queen Ansella. She kept her gaze on the Embodiments, though the impatience and excitement twitching at the corner of her mouth told Temmin how much she wanted to embrace him.

  Allis and Issak descended into the room's tense stillness to make their bow and curtsey before the King. Harsin took Issak by the right hand and Allis by the left, and raised them to their feet again before kissing each one on both cheeks. A pleased surprise rippled through the crowd.

  The twins moved aside to make their obeisance to the Queen. Temmin's fellow Supplicant Anda Barrows flicked her eyes at him in signal, and they started down the remaining stairs to the King. Anda made her curtsey; Harsin raised her up, kissed her round cheeks and released her to the Queen.

  The throng held its breath as Temmin and the King came face to face. Temmin concentrated on his training: Blink little, and slowly, smile little if at all. Face forward, eyes front but not staring, head just bent to show respect but not submission. Mimic his posture and stance, and then subtly start changing it—he will follow. Feel what you are doing, don't pretend. You've beaten him once, you have nothing to prove…Oh, if only that were true… He waited for his father to break the moment.

  Harsin smiled, his white teeth blinding, and clasped Temmin at the elbows; Temmin followed suit, pulling his father close in relief. The onlookers exhaled. Harsin put his cheek against Temmin's and whispered, "I haven't forgiven you, but I can play a part better than anyone in your Temple. Welcome home," he added aloud.

  "Thank you, sir," said Temmin, smiling as his insides wrenched. Well, at least he'd get to see his mother and sisters. At a sudden thought, Temmin leaned in again and murmured, "Contrary to your expectations, the prophecy meant nothing. The nobility is still intact and you're still King. All your enmity for nothing, Father."

  Harsin's smile hardened as he drew away. "The night is young, son," he said aloud. "Let's enjoy it while we may." He offered his arm to Allis, and she took it.

  Temmin moved to his mother, and here his body relaxed; he ignored his training entirely and let delight overtake him. "Good evening, Mother."

  "Good evening, my son," all formality until he kissed her on each cheek; she whispered, "Oh, my sweetheart, how happy I am to see you!" He breathed in her familiar scent of roses, lavender and Mama, and allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment.

  He released her and saluted his sisters in the same way. First came Sedra Princess Royal, the most like their father of the three siblings—studious, dark and tall. Her chocolate eyes, usually crackling with intelligence and a somewhat biting wit, shone bright and soft tonight as she murmured a welcome.

  Ellika was a different matter. The middle child was a near-copy of their mother but for her father's deep brown eyes, and she sparkled with excitement and fun. Where her sister wore a spare, elegant steel-colored dress, Ellika wore an exuberant display of lace and tiny pearls over pale primrose satin. Her golden curls bounced as she pounced on her brother and kissed his furred cheek. "Temmy, you're home!" she chirped in his ear before releasing him.

  The King was to dance with Allis, Issak with the Princess Royal, and Temmin with his mother. Who would he give Ellika to for the first dance? Hovering on the crowd's edge stood that loathsome Percet Sandopint—Lord Fennows, the most unwelcome of Ellika's suitors, even if he was the son of the influential Duke of Corland.

  Where was the man Temmin had seen earlier? Choosing him would send a clear signal to certain parties present. He led his sister past the glowering Fennows to his sometime enemy, the Duke of Litta, and presented her. "Your Grace."

  Ellika, who knew nothing of the history between her brother and the Duke, smiled and offered her hand. "I am honored," said Litta, taking it in astonishment.

  Temmin returned to his mother and gave her his arm. The music master shook his black mop of a mustache and his blacker mop of hair; he raised his long, thin arms, the music began, and the dancing pulsed with a cheer no longer forced.

  Temmin twirled his mother through the dobla, the simple traditional dance that began all Tremontine balls. As they turned, he took in the room from the corners of his eyes, as he'd been trained. Issak was making the reserved Sedra blush; Ellika was treating the surprisingly graceful Litta as if he were in doddering need of her guidance, luckily to his amusement; and Harsin was entirely too close to Allis. His father wore the intimate, hooded expression that meant far more than polite interest.

  Temmin buried his anger and brought his full attention back to his mother, to catch her scanning the balconies; she returned searching eyes to his face. "You look so very well! You've grown, my dear! Are you happy? Did you make the right decision?"

  "Oh, yes." His mother quirked a brow; no training could hide his heart from his mother. "Mostly," he amended. "It's not quite what I thought it would be. But I'm learning a great deal,
and not all what…what most people think goes on there." He blushed; he still couldn't control his blushing reliably.

  On the next turn Ansella looked up into the balconies again for a fleeting moment, and when he swung round himself he saw what had fixed her attention, or rather who: Ibbit, priestess of the Temple of Venna the Sister, and the Queen's religious advisor. She'd been Temmin's religious advisor when he was still at home, but they hated one another so much that Ibbit let Temmin skip most lessons: their one shared secret. Ibbit watched the dancing in disapproval until she saw the Queen; her long face broke out into a possessive gloat. She met Temmin's eyes, and her expression changed to contempt.

  He spun his mother round the other way and found himself facing the many mirrors lining the hall. One did not reflect the glittering room. Instead, it showed something no one else in the room could see: a slight, androgynous figure, clad in a severe black suit covered in a black robe; its iron-colored hair was pulled back in a tight, conservative tail, and disturbing, silver-gray eyes followed him as he danced. Teacher! It was Teacher.

  He smiled at the reflection on his next turn; Teacher's stern face split in a rare grin just before vanishing altogether. Seeing Teacher was almost as great a birthday gift as seeing his mother. He returned his attention to her, giving her a spin that left her giggling like a girl, and let happiness swell his heart.

  Harsin spent his time working the crowd and dancing. Balls blended his two favorite pastimes: politics and women. Watching his lords at leisure taught him much. They revealed themselves not only in whom they talked to, but in whom they didn't. It was genuine dislike in cases like Anvalt Duke of Litta and Bornet Duke of Corland, but in the case of Corland and some of the minor lords of his duchy, it seemed to Harsin as if they didn't want to be caught speaking to one another. Interesting.

  More interesting tonight were the women. Take Baroness Hawksfield, a blond beauty married to her much older husband not a year and here she was, blatantly carrying on with a handsome cavalry lieutenant. Did Hawksfield care? He couldn't be oblivious to his young wife's dalliances. The Baroness's libido must take after her sister's; Harsin glanced over at Anda Barrows, his son's fellow Supplicant. Baroness Hawksfield received all the beauty allotted to the Barrows girls, but all in all he thought the plainer of the two more honest in her wants, and far more appealing. Judging by the crowd of men around the plump Supplicant, he wasn't alone in his assessment.