Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

11

Koreti's body was lain out in the Temple, but the doors were barred to all.

Once again, the sound of the tolling bells marked the hours all through the day and night. When the family assembled at last for the funeral, Koreti's body lay where his mother's had not long before, covered in a white shroud embroidered with a border of blood-red roses.

They laid Koreti to rest in the vault next to his mother. It was a massive tomb of marble and gold, which stood in the center of the gardens near the palace. All paths led through the gardens to the tomb, winding through beds of flowers and groves of trees. Statues could be seen here and there among the greenery, commemorating heroes from Penrua's past, including warriors and sorcerers and sovereigns.

Mhera and Koreti had often played in the palace gardens together. They had assumed with the confidence of children that Koreti would one day be commemorated there. They had speculated endlessly as to what brave, famous deeds might win him his place.

But he would never stand in that field of heroes.

Mhera had had time to adjust to her best friend's absence in the wake of the empress' death, but as she awaited his return, his absence had been impermanent. Each time she had eaten ginger cookies at tea time, she had thought, Soon I shall have these with Koreti again. Each time she had walked in the garden, she had stopped at their favorite sitting place and thought, Soon I shall sit with him again and we will talk about everything that happened while he was gone.

Now, those somedays had been buried along with her cousin, and the wound in her heart grew sorer each day she did things she would never do again with her best friend. Her brother.

She remembered the funeral only as a foggy haze. It hadn't been real to her, and she had not had the chance she needed to truly say goodbye. To make matters worse for her, no one would tell her what had happened to him. No one would speak of it.

Finally, Mhera resolved to ask her maid, whom she had never known to tell a lie. Virri heard everything; the body of servants in the palace was a rich network of information.

One evening, Virri was filling Mhera's bath. In the flickering light of the spirit globes, a marke stood out on Virri's cheek, tattooed into her flesh as a symbol of her rank and heritage. She was not much older than the lady, and although they were mistress and servant, they had always treated one another kindly.

Watching as the steaming water filled the tub, bucket by bucket, Mhera ventured to ask whether Virri had heard rumors about the prince's death. "I just want to know what happened to him," she said. "I only want to know why I couldn't see him."

Virri looked at Mhera. "My lady ..."

"Do you know, Virri?"

"Only what I have heard. And you know one cannot believe everything one hears."

"Tell me."

Virri hesitated, looking into Mhera's face, clearly uncertain what she should do. Mhera waited as the reluctant maidservant considered two impossible options: tell, or don't tell. At last, Virri went to the door of Mhera's bedchamber and poked her head out. Madam Gella had gone down to deal with some domestic matters, and they were alone. Virri closed the door and came back to Mhera, who reached out for her hand and pulled her to sit at her side on the bed.

When the silence persisted, Mhera said, "Please."

"He was ... killed," Virri said quietly. "Murdered."

Mhera clutched Virri's hand, feeling the word like a blow to the stomach. She had fretted for days, picturing him drowning in the ocean, falling from a building, being crushed by a cart in the streets. Now, the secrecy surrounding his death made more sense. No wonder she had been forbidden to see him.

"I did not see him when they brought him to the palace. Hardly anyone did. But ... we hear things. They said he was cruelly mistreated, Lady Mhera. His fine clothes were missing. He had been badly beaten, such that his face and his poor body were all black and blue, and his ... and his throat was cut."

Mhera absorbed the information, staring intently at Virri's face. She knew if she looked away, she would cry, and she did not know everything she wanted to know yet. "Who?" Mhera asked with deliberate calm. "Who would want to do that to him?"

Virri shook her head. "One can hardly credit it, my lady. But they have said it was the rebels. The rebel queen, or her followers, taking vengeance for the imprisonment of some of their own, and ..." Virri trailed off.

Mhera had heard, as all children did, of the so-called rebel queen. She had always believed the fearsome woman existed. She was a warmonger and killer. Mhera feared her as any child fears a monster from a grisly tale.

But she who had been little more than a legend was real to Mhera now. The rebel queen had reached out her evil, grasping claws and plucked out Mhera's heart.