An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Read online

  “Enough!” The old hag shouted. “Only fools choke on their food. And if they do, it means they’re mind is somewhere off… on japes of idleness.” She frowned one eyebrow and arched the other. “I’m going to punish both of you, just to set an example for everyone else. Starting now, you, Laurel, will be tending to the mules. And you’ll be feeding the pigs on top of your usual chores, fiendish eyes.” The woman’s face was stern and filled with wrinkles. They seemed to multiply whenever she’d frown, though, a faint smile could be seen in the corner of her mouth. No doubt the old hag enjoyed punishing them, especially her – the girl with fiendish eyes.

  “Did I make myself clear?” Laurel and Drakanes answered with as much obedience as they could muster. “Good, then… Off you go! I don’t want to see either of your faces for the rest of the day.” With that said, the Sister Superior left for the kitchens, while the porridge-injured sister showed them her tongue before leaving.

  “We’ll get her for this tenfold; tenfold the punishment and tenfold the porridge.” Laurel smiled, and left the table as well.

  Drakanes raised her cup and drank the little water that remained. Yes. One day, I’ll get that bitch for this, and even that crone, Sister Superior. But that was for the future to decide. For now, she’d have to be content with the punishment. She jerked her head right and left, to relieve the stiffness in her neck. The crackle of bones sounded a few times, and she was ready. Drakanes stood up, and left the table – leaving her water cup empty, but for a drop.

  On the way to her room, she passed through several crowds of sisters. Many of them continued the table gossip about the election outside the mess hall. The murmurs would end when the bell rang once more – the signal for the beginning of a new day’s chores. Drakanes walked like she always did, head lowered, with her features masked by the black cowl of the order’s robe. On the way to her chambers, she heard voices. Familiar voices, sister Moravia and sister Anthea... The lord of Rogfort’s daughter.

  She pressed herself into an alcove; and behind stone and shadow, Drakanes listened in on their conversation. Sister Anthea voiced concerns, not trifles. “Those southerners and easterners will try to place their own here. The west must have both councillors in order to maintain the traditional balance of powers. One will not suffice.” As other souls came to pace the halls, assiduous in their boring tasks... there was no more hope of eavesdropping. Too much sound, unclear and reverberating, to discern anything of note. The highborn and their intrigues; never a dull moment.

  She had been living in the See of the Matriarchy for seven years now, serving the High Temple and learning the canons of scripture. And if Drakanes knew anything at all about religion... she knew that it was very much different from the meaning of the word faith. Interests were brewing, and she wanted no part in them. If something went wrong, that would mean more chores as well as punishments, in case someone used her as a scapegoat. After all, the higher orders always blame the menials for their own mistakes.

  When Drakanes reached her chambers, she slipped out of her black robe and small-clothes. Then she went to a corner and squatted over the chamber pot. Her room was very small, composed of a bed, a small table, a chair, and a window which overlooked the High Temple’s entrance. From afar, the green acres and pastures surrounding the great temple’s edifices were beautiful to look upon. But to stare at them was one thing, to work on those domains was another.

  Her stool was hard, and thus, did not stain the rag she used to wipe herself with. Since she had to feed the pigs and walk through the filthy pen mud, on top of her usual chores, Drakanes made sure to prepare herself. So she put on her working clothes – brown stained breeches, cloth shoes, jerkin vest, and cap. “Fiendish eyes should shovel shit more often; she’s good at it.” Drakanes remembered one of the sisters commenting and laughing. She had wanted nothing more then, than to take a handful of the smelly mud, squeeze and roll it into a ball; and throw it right between the cunt’s eyes. But that would have earned her the rod, as well as more work; which would have made her chores that much harder and painful to do.

  The Faith preached that pain was just an illusion of the senses. Be that as it were, the marks on her hands and fingers were no illusions. Through her senses, after all, she perceived the sun and moons. And those were no illusions either. So why was pain considered one? It all seemed drivel. Treating pain as a deception of the senses didn’t prevent her from feeling it. All she could do was bear it, as well she could.

  When Drakanes got outside, sister Laurel was already walking for the stable. The chores of a groom were much nicer compared to those of a swineherd. The horse was a noble animal, the pig was not. “No sense in complaining about it anymore; just get to it, woman.” Drakanes said to herself, trying to muster the necessary will for the task at hand. So she went for the pig sty and began to work – filling the bucket with slop. Carrying and emptying it in the trough, then doing the whole thing all over again. The pigs needed mud and water to keep cool. And since the mud was already there, all she needed was water – another trip, another bucket.

  By this time, she already adjusted to the foul smell. Though inside, Drakanes still hated it; hated it on principle. But it was somewhat better than cleaning old men and women – washing their frail, wrinkled, and loose skin. Not to mention the shaggy hairs, which would stick to the washcloth and fingers like leeches. Or the women’s old dangling lips between their legs, the scrotums and members of old men. And their old, dirty, and smelly asses.

  I hate that more than this, Drakanes mused; as she put her weight into the shovel to raise a scoopful. In her past life, she had been a merchant’s aid and a squire to a master at arms. But now, I’m a sister of the cloth. No more adventure for me.

  She worked all day, until the evening. Her stomach growled. Her arms and back ached, and hear feet were sore. She smelled of sweat and dung… mostly dung. Drakanes didn’t have time to change her dirty clothes, or take a bath; not even after she finished with the pigs. For after that, there was yet more work to be done. Everyone giggled at her, made silent comments amongst themselves and kept a good pace away from her – away from her smelly and dirty presence. After all, fiendish eyes was dutiful in her tasks, silent and smelling like pig shit... A target for mockery indeed. But to hell with them all. If they were in my place, they wouldn’t laugh.

  By the time she finished all the chores, Drakanes barely had any strength left in her to eat. Taking a bath and changing into her robe seemed such an arduous task. She couldn’t eat in the mess hall, smelling as she did; so she decided to eat her dinner outside, at the well. She would sit with her back against it, and use its thick stone lip as a table for her meal. They served them hot brown bread, chicken stew, and an apple for dessert. Fortunately, sister Laurel worked her kitchen shift that evening, and managed to give her more food. She gave her a bowl filled with baked potatoes. They were properly peeled, prepared with cheese, lard, and salt. Drakanes ate them all and licked the salty grease that remained behind. They were delicious.

  She thought of saving the apple for some other time, like on the morrow. On the other hand, I won’t. Drakanes liked only the small green apples, the sour ones. The apple she received was red and flabby, so she threw it away. With her belly full, she dozed off for a while – her back leaning against the well. After a long sweet moment of respite, Laurel woke her up to take away the dishes and return them to the kitchens.

  “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  Drakanes nodded. “That I did, and I thank you.”

  Outside, the sky had darkened. The turn in hour approached, and she was still inside her dirty clothes. There wasn’t time for a proper bath, so Drakanes did the next best thing. She told sister Laurel to go in her room, and toss outside her robe and the small soap she kept on the table. That was better than entering the grand edifice, passing the mess hall and enduring the crude and utter mockery of the other sisters. No, she would rather sleep outside beneath the stars, than go through that.

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nbsp; “What are you going to do?” Laurel asked quietly from the window, after tossing down her robe, slippers, soap, and towel.

  “I’m going for a soak,” Drakanes smiled, then made her way to the nearby lake, trusting that the water wouldn’t be too cold. After such good meal, her spirits were lifted high above her aching limbs. And by the time she reached the moor, the sky changed again, but it was far from black. After all, in summertime the days were longer.

  Drakanes kept away from the thicket, though. She didn’t wish to stir up more mosquitoes than the ones already present. She got undressed and went inside the water. It was indeed cold. Nevertheless, Drakanes endured and began to wash herself. Motion made heat; and it was so much easier to tend to a shaven skull...

  Long hair takes forever to wash and forever to dry.

  In the old days of the Temple, all the sisters shaved their heads, but few did anymore; preferring just to wear it low-cut. It was a custom that stood for unity, that stood against the vanities. It served the purpose of hygiene and it lowered the men’s appetite for flesh, though, not by much. Rapes were still common enough, even while being punished with the severing of the offender’s member. It didn’t matter if you had long and beautiful hair or, indeed, none at all. Liquor and wine made everyone see with different eyes. A crone without teeth would look like a pretty young wench to a man intoxicated with enough drink. The sovereign of loose tongues was also the sovereign of poor judgement and the master of shifting temper.

  She rubbed the small soap thoroughly against her flesh; then sank into the water to rinse. After she finished cleaning herself, the wind caught breath. Her nipples hardened against the cold breeze, and her skin turned to goose prickles. She got out of the water, and reached for the towel. When Drakanes made to grab it, she touched something along the ground... something very sharp. With that motion, she had cut her forefinger. “What the hell?” Drakanes sucked at the finger’s wound. Narrowing her eyes, she spotted the damn thing, a mirror shard sticking out of the dirt.

  “Odd. I could have sworn it wasn’t there before.” After she dried herself, she slipped inside the robe and scooped up the shard. Drakanes did it carefully, so as not to cut herself again; then looked to her smelly stained working clothes. She was too tired and cold to wash them now; so she left them upon a short stone near the lake’s bank. Just one more tedious task for the morrow. “Right, then. Time to head back.”

  When Drakanes returned to the High Temple and slipped past quietly through the kitchen doors – which sister Laurel left unlocked – she was swiftly enough back in her room. She sighed with relief, but she wouldn’t sleep… not yet. Not before she satisfied a curiosity of hers. Drakanes grabbed one of her candles, then gently opened the door and went out into the hallway. She made for the corridor’s lanterns, for the closest one, to borrow a flame. She then returned unnoticed to her chambers, and closed the door behind her. “Now let’s see what we have here...”

  Drakanes sat on the bedside and produced the mirror shard from her folded towel. One of its corners was stained with the blood from her finger. She placed the candle closer to her face and stared into the glass. The reflection it gave was true, not crooked. Curiosity and remembrance drove her to study her features – she had not seen them in a long time. And for just a brief moment, the object in her hand gave out a whisper. Though indiscernible, Drakanes thought it said... “They will eat your soul.”

  A curt shiver ran across her flesh then at her impression, but no more than that. “Bloody hell. I’m so tired, I’m beginning to hear things.”

  For the poor it was a rare thing, a luxury item. And even then, those souls could only afford mirrors of crooked surface. A fine gift for any lowborn girl. Before falling asleep, Drakanes looked again into the mirror shard. She smiled, content with the unblemished reflection it gave her. Fiendish eyes was not so ugly, after all.

  Chapter V: Kalafar

  “Tell me, my son… I hear you are in love.” There was no subtle implication in her voice, only an observation. Olivia Sodomis was not your average woman; she possessed a sharp mind and senses. But she did not exercise them in the pursuit of knowledge or wisdom. Necessity and desire alone preoccupied her thoughts. And like any proud mother, she was just curious about her child... the warden of the Winterlands.

  Or so she wants to seem. “Where did you hear that?” Kalafar asked with a frown.

  “I noticed how you looked at that girl, lord Mayflower’s daughter. Did she somehow invade your fantasies, giving you no peace of mind?”

  Yes, he thought, but dared not say it. “No, mother. She’s just a girl I used to play with when I was fostering in the south at lord Mayflower’s court, at Redgarden. Juni is... no longer the child she was.”

  “Neither are you,” his lady mother replied softly. “But you must set such feelings aside. You are the warden of the Northlands. Your mind must be focused on ruling your realm. And let’s not forget about his majesty’s invitation. That is your chance to keep the ties between the north and the capital in good humours. Your father, Jorghel, was an adept of political matters. And look at your brother for example; Arfaij knows his duty. He is a ram just like you. Marriage has little and rarely to do with love. Don’t you remember the songs? Wars have been started by lovers… powerful knights and lords who followed their hearts instead of their duty.”

  “Yes, mother. I know. I know where you are going with this.” He sighed. “You truly think that marrying a daughter of my vassals is the best thing for our house?”

  “Of course,” she replied impatiently. “The head of the family must look to the future of his line. You are that head, Kalafar, my son. The lord of Weiyenor must join with a house from amongst his vassals. Thus, we gain an alliance, and it strengthens our position.”

  “And are you still bent on me taking lady Amelia, your niece, in marriage?” He did not wait for a reply, instead Kalafar uttered another question. “And what of you, mother? Are you still trying to sway lord Dagincourt into a union by means of your... not so subtle charms?” That was quite a sharp arrow against her, against the woman’s pride; but if she felt hurt, lady Olivia did not show it. That was no surprise to him, his lady mother always enjoyed a good sparring.

  “But of course, my son,” she said in an easy voice. “I would like the bond between Sodomis and Treegreen, Weiyenor and Frostmouth, to continue. Marriage is a simple understanding of convenience. A promise between houses to support each other in times of good and ill. Though lady Amelia might not be the fairest of the north’s maidens, she is nonetheless pleasant on the eyes. And her hips are surely adequate for bearing many children; that is the purpose of any good wife.”

  Surely and adequate were words Kalafar did not care for; not just because they came uttered from the lips of his lady mother, but in general. Mayhaps life was certain and adequate in the green warm lands of the south, but the realm over which he ruled was hard and cruel. A great burden of a gift bestowed upon his house by the Sunborn emperor whose rule had ended the so-called Age of Glory – the betrayed Marcus Octavius Mero. Murdered in cold blood by his own wife, the first and last Aharo empress. Why am I thinking of such bloody history? ’Tis an example that favors my mother’s argument. And no matter how sound it is, my heart feels otherwise.

  “It is said,” she continued, “that poor lord Dagincourt became chaste after the death of his wife. But I’m sure I can return some blood into the man’s limbs.” She chuckled.

  After briefly contemplating the notion, Kalafar grimaced. It was a thought he cared not to linger on. “Wickedness is a sin, you know? That’s what the Faith teaches us.”

  “And yet, the wicked rule the world,” his lady mother replied, a keen smile of understanding stretching across her face. “My reasons are more than carnal, my son. Though, a woman has her needs just like men do. By marrying into house Dagincourt I would bring the strength of Icerock closer to my sons, closer to Weiyenor. But I promise, Kalafar, that if the man wants a dowry… he can forget it.�
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  “But all this trifle for another marriage? Why not just simply become his mistress?”

  Olivia Sodomis shook her head. “Icerock is pretty far way from here, and I don’t wish to live in a court over which I have no influence over. A mistress has no lawful powers over the household. A wife, however, does. But enough about me. The important thing is you – you, my lord. Lie with lady Juni as much as you want while she’s here. Try not to let her lord father find out. But also, get it into your head that the only girl you’ll marry is a proper northern lady.”

  Kalafar snorted at that. “Just because you never loved and never were loved, don’t expect me to be like you.” She slapped him. He felt the sting on his cheek, and he saw that water began to fill her eyes. Huh, ever the actress.

  “I love my children. Always. And I hope they feel the same about their mother.”

  “How!?” Kalafar spat. “How did you love your precious sons? While we were sent off to foster, what did you do? Did you write? What about when we were children? Did you play with us from dawn to dusk? No. Your servants made all of our garments. Our nursemaids watched over us; and Arfaij, he who resembles you plainly – enjoyed so much your brief visits. Yet, you kept them brief all the same. You couldn’t be bothered with anything. While father was off in the south, working as the emperor’s right hand… What did you do then? You were sweet talking with the knights and the more handsome grooms; no doubt you took some into your bed. You didn’t give a rat’s shit – ”

  She slapped him again, and then again. The third time the ram caught her by the wrist. “Don’t make me make you rue the day you squeezed me into this world from between your legs, mother.”

  “I’m already ruing it,” she said sharpish. Kalafar opened his grip, releasing her mother’s hand. Then she turned on her heel to make for the door. “Don’t you even think of taking that skinny southern girl as your wife. In case you’re not aware, she’s already betrothed to another; to the third son of Marcus Krasus, a princeling yet to come of age. And be careful not to leave her great with child. No family wants such dishonor. A whore as you may think me, I never bore any bastards. And to the extent of my knowledge, neither did you father. And if he did, he never brought them here or legitimized them.” With that said, his lady mother left the chambers.