Poisoned Well

Chapter 3: The Rightful Heir

The next morning, Lianna woke with the image of den Harkan's scornful eyes plaguing her vision, eyes which had haunted her for the remainder of the evening as the party raged. She had chatted with her friends, cuddled and fed her baby, and collapsed into bed before she could discuss anything with Emick.

"You're troubled," Emick said when he saw her eyes were opened. He pulled her closer to him in the bed and forced her to turn towards him, her loose linen nightgown sliding down her shoulder. His linen shirt hung open down his chest, and he rested his head on his hand. The sunlight was just turning from orange to white as it streamed through their window, and his eyes blazed like glowing copper, flecked with emerald.

She sighed, closing her eyes. Rubbing her disheveled brown braid, she looked at him again; the concern in Emick's eyes matched the anticipation that pumped thorugh their bond. "I haven't seen Harkan for almost three years now, not since my engagement to you was set and I was finally off limits. Smite me, he always gave me the creeps, always lurking around corners to try to talk with me, back since I was twelve. I was actually grateful for the guards shoving him away on several occasions."

"I thought you liked talking to servants," said Emick.

"I didn't mind talking to him much, at first. But I found him horribly ignorant. Uneducated, like his mama never bothered to send him to school or make sure he learned anything. Never seemed to want to learn. Not sure he can even read more than a few words."

"Lack of education in a servant has never bothered you," he said.

"Right. It wasn't just that. He just...made me feel uncomfortable."

"So he was creepy. Why did he insist on hounding you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. It's not like he tried to speak flowery words, like youths do to impress young ladies. He always told me how pretty I looked, but he mostly just talked about himself. A lot of the time, he didn't try to talk at all. Just watched. Like he was spying on me."

"Maybe he was."

"Do I really have to talk with him today?" She gripped his shirt in two fists.

He took her hand and held it close. "I'm curious to know what he says," said Emick. "It does actually affect me, since I'm supposed to be the Kel and all and he thinks I should be replaced."

"It's probably just the nonsense of a drunk. Come with me?"

He shook his head, sighing. "I can't, my love. I must meet with potential Council members. It is long overdue, I think, to have my Council consolidated. I have three more seats to place, and twenty interviews. Talk about a lot of nonsense. After breakfast, I'll walk you to the basement."

***

Lianna regretted her deep breath when she got to the bottom of the basement stairs, which led to Gallel's cells. The stench was overpowering, humid and heavy with the odor of stale body fluids and sweat. Long gone were the days of a true dungeon, where unfortunate, sometimes innocent, people got dragged in order to be forgotten by the Kel or San in charge. Still, it was the only place in Gallel that had not been fitted with plumbing, and the prisoners' chamber pots were always the last to be emptied, if they were remembered that week, and if the prisoner bothered to use his. Instinctively, she lifted the full skirts of her periwinkle dress off the floor. She preferred linen to silk, but she wanted to make a show of royal power, and the silk rustled softly. She forced her hands to stay away from her hair; she had spent only a few minutes brushing and braiding it, so she did lack the proper sans' intricate plaiting. She decided she didn't care.

A few lamps on the walls, and one on a desk, valiantly tried to push away the darkness, but the overall appearance was depressing.

She nodded to the guard sitting at the solid desk; though guards still made her uncomfortable, Markus was one who had always been more friendly . He was a man past his prime in a purple tunic and dark linen trousers, his sword strung up at hand on the back of his chair. His hair hung down his neck in one soldier's braid. He set down a book he was reading, then pointed to a door; he must have known whom she was there to see.