From the grand window in his bedchamber, Aldolus looked over at the two sleeping in his bed—the flaxen-haired daughter of Saul Gos-Ralan and her cousin, son of Jared Gos-Ralan—entwined in slumber, bodies still damp. They could almost have passed as twins, these two. The same high-brow, the same aquiline nose. The same sinful mouths.
They'd been less of a challenge for him—which would usually have deterred Aldolus instantly—but there had been something about the way they'd smiled at exactly the same time, in exactly the same way, that had encouraged him to put aside his doubts. And he was glad that he had.
Or at least, he had been glad. Now, he was just bored.
It was their fifth time in his bed now, more so than any others had lasted of late, and while he couldn't question their enthusiasm, he also noticed that they often seemed more enthused with each other than with him and that was something he could no longer ignore. Javan, son of Jared, could be commended for his pretence. After all, he was one of the King's own players and Aldolus had seen him enough times in the theatre to know his talent wasn't limited to just wrapping his skilful lips around the King's cock. But, his cousin, Prisca—while undoubtedly beautiful and good with her hands—seemed not able to hide her disappointment and spent far too much time inhaling dragontail dust off the tiny silver spoon and not nearly enough time on her knees worshipping Druvaria's new god.
Frustrated, Aldolus leant his forehead against the cool glass, rubbing his finger over where his warm breath left fog on the window. On the other side, scarlet moss had begun to gather about the astragal, its grasping fronds like bloodied fingers, perhaps why Aldolus had always been quite fond of it. Sephral, the Master of the King's Wardrobe, had warned him that the moss was invasive and that it could pop the glass from its frame if allowed to flourish and spread, and of that, the King was not quite as fond.
Looking down, Aldolus' gaze came to rest upon the sprawling mess of Grimefell, its narrow streets and high stacks of rickety houses like a stain he wished he could wipe away with a brush of his hand. It seemed to grow and spread with each tide. Another house, another street. He grimaced and breathed hard on the glass to render it nothing but a blur behind the mist.
If only it were that easy.
Studying the creeping scarlet moss closest to where his head touched the glass, he made a mental note to bid Dageor send one of the groundsmen to scale the palace walls and scrape it all off. Maybe he'd even send Prisca. He quite fancied the idea of dangling her from one of the towers. It would certainly wipe that look of haughty disappointment from her pretty face. Then he could concentrate on Javan. Or maybe not. Maybe he could send the both of them. See which one fell first.
Of course, the Gos-Ralans would not be happy, but he could always direct the King's business to the Ro-Taeyars if they protested. Danael Ro-Taeyar had been flattering him for the past ten moons to grant them royal approval to supply the weapons for the Order. Perhaps now was the time.
He cast his gaze at the bed again, admiring one of Javan's firm thighs draped over Prisca's.
They really did have the most sinful of mouths. It would be a pity indeed.
With a weary sigh, he walked to the fireplace, enjoying the heat of the flames on his naked body. He was feeling the cold more these tides, an ache in his bones that bothered him far more than it used to. Sephral said the climate was not as favourable as it had once been, but he forgot the King had seen more moons than most on Druvaria and was well aware of what it had been and what it was.
Picking up one of the old tomes stacked high by the hearth, Aldolus flicked through the yellowing, tired pages. It smelt of mould and moths. Frowning at the script inside, he turned back to the binding, noting the name of a Carraterrean poet and understanding why the Master Librarian had chosen to send this one—albeit no doubt reluctantly. Why Vi-Garran was so disgustingly attached to books—particularly pointless collections of poems—he would never know. Sometimes Aldolus thought it harder to pry them from his hands than it was to persuade Druvaria's noble mothers to give up their favoured sons to honour the King.
Trailing his fingertips over the cover script, Aldolus smiled and threw the book onto the fire. The flames greedily consumed it, licking at the pages, and blackening them in a way he always found strangely pleasing. He loved watching the paper curl up at the corners, loved how the fire always crackled and groaned as if satisfied with its feast.
Picking up the gown draped over the back of his armchair, he slipped it over his shoulders and arms and tied it loosely at his waist. The black silk was the finest in all of Druvaria. Irritation pinched at his skin. Mica Koh-Miralus, the silk merchant found dead in his own bath. Another problem that Dageor had insisted on pushing under his nose when all he'd wanted to do was push his nose between the thighs of Prisca and inhale her sweetness.
Leaving the bedchamber, Aldolus walked the dark corridors, his pace increasing when he realised where his body was taking him—the same place to which it invariably led him upon these strange, uncertain tides when he felt the cold bite at him and his mind not where it should be.
The King's private chamber—the one even more private than where he slept and fucked—was concealed behind the throne room, an annex that only Dageor had permission to enter. As soon as he crossed the threshold into the room, Aldolus felt that all-too-familiar calm enshroud him, providing the heat he so desperately craved. It was always the same whenever he came here. The work of the crown was arduous, taxing, and fucking irritating at times—especially when he had to deal with people—but then he'd come to his chamber, and he knew he could bear it all, every last laborious, irksome moment, as long as he had this.
Dageor must have been here recently, for the candles were lit in their tall holders, black wax already dripping in fat globules down the pikes. Aldolus frowned as he touched a finger to the molten wax. While he appreciated his advisor's efforts to keep the chamber in candlelight for whenever the King might make an appearance, Aldolus was less keen on the notion of Dageor lingering long here and he had a horrible feeling that he did. Not that he could blame him. Aldolus would have spent most of his tides here if he could get away from all the pointless, civic matters of running the kingdom.
The chair here was a smaller replica of the grand one in the throne room—albeit with additional cushioning considering he much preferred to spend more time here than in the ceremonial chamber—yet this one could be moved, depending on how close to his treasure Aldolus wished to sit. Sometimes he preferred to view it from a distance, take in the angles, admire the exquisiteness of it. Other times, he'd sit close, drink in the detail and feel the swell of the satisfaction it gave him to look at it.
This tide, he chose something in-between the two, resting back on the replica throne as if his body could melt into the velvet, his hands moulding to the arms of the chair, his thumbs brushing over the polished wood.
The wave of calm that overcame him was instantaneous.
Sometimes he fancied the Setalah could lay waste to everything beyond this chamber, and he wouldn't care. As long as he had this, Druvaria could crumble into the sea and all its people with it.
His people. His.
Had he always despised them so? Even the nobles irritated him these tides. Always coming to him with another request, another preening plea for more, more, endlessly more. Crawling on their knees in worship, believing their simpering flattery would be enough for him to grant them everything they wanted. They were starting to disgust him as much as the desperate creatures of Grimefell.
And then there was Lord Dageor who seemed to revel in bothering him with detail as if he knew it irked Aldolus to the point of exhaustion.
Almost as if the priest had climbed into his mind at that very moment and discovered his whereabouts in the private chamber, there was a sharp rap on the door and Dageor entered, bowing in that strange, stiff way of his that always made Aldolus want to push him out of a window. His head would crack well on the rock, he often thought.
Dageor crossed the floor to the King's throne, his long black robes swishing around his feet, his presence obscuring Aldolus' view until he gave the priest a withering look, his stare enough for him to take a step to the side.
"Forgive me, exalted one," he said, bowing again.
"Can I not have one moment on my own, Dageor?" Aldolus said, the calming shroud wrapped around his body swiftly disintegrating and leaving him cold once more.
Dageor pressed his thin lips together into something that perhaps should have resembled a smile but looked more like a grimace.
"It is a matter of most importance," he explained. "You asked me to report on the unrest in the slums, your grace..."
"Which could have waited until tomorrow, Dageor, if the rats are not yet climbing the palace walls," snapped Aldolus. He tore his eyes from his treasure. "I trust they are not climbing the palace walls."
Dageor inclined his head, his face blank. "The Order was swift and merciless as always, exalted one, and the conflict has been eradicated, yes."
"Then you have told me nothing of which I was not already assured and your presence here is unnecessary."
"However..."
Dageor was insufferable when he was like this—fit to bursting with some vital piece of information he thought made him invaluable to the King. Unfortunately for Aldolus, he was probably right about that.
"For pity's sake, Dageor, out with it and then begone."
"Mirha Koh-Miralus has been found dead, your grace. Off the northern shore."
Now, Aldolus did pay attention. Back stiffening, he shifted his weight to lean forward on one arm of the throne, gesturing for the priest to continue with one flick of his fingers.
"He was in pursuit of two women fleeing from the port. Further investigation has ascertained that he was in the company of his cousins, one who..." Dageor slicked a tongue across his lips. "...tragically died during the unrest, and the other, Malchus, has come forward to shed some very...interesting light on the deaths of both his cousins."
"It is connected?"
A plot against a noble family? While Aldolus couldn't deny the flicker of thrill it gave him, he also knew this could have all the nobles flocking to his court in apparent fear for their lives and demanding to know what the King would do about it. Sometimes he wondered if the people had dared to demand of the old gods in much the same way as they did him and had concluded they probably hadn't. He was flesh and blood, after all, the old gods were nothing but clay idols on a shrine.
"I believe it is, your grace."
"You believe or you know, Lord Dageor? They are two very different things, as we have often discovered."
The flash of hatred in Dageor's eyes pleased him. Some would say it was not wise to anger the High Priest of Druvari—many who had, no longer breathed—but Aldolus cared nothing for Dageor's displeasure. Why should he?
"As per our last consultation, your grace, the Order have been seeking a trade runner belonging to Sanus Vise in connection with the death of the noble Mica Koh-Miralus. Malchus, the surviving cousin, reported to Commander Grim that the girl in question may be in league with Tala Koh-Miralus, the silk merchant's missing wife. It is Malchus' claim that they were indeed in pursuit of both women on the tide of the unrest and that is, in fact, the last time he did see Mirha Koh-Miralus alive."
Aldolus slumped back onto the throne again, breathing out an exasperated sigh. "Then have the Order find these two and ship them both to the dead fields, Dageor. Honestly, I have no idea why you are bothering me with such things. I understand the nobles will have their concerns, but it appears to be a family matter that the silk merchants have failed to get under control. I do not see why this should concern the crown."
Dageor pursed his lips, the skin puckering at the edges, his eyes glinting dark reflections in the candlelight. Aldolus had always known that the priest cared nothing for him. Even as a young man, when the Druvari had sent the boy priest, relying on his youthful, fresh face and soft, smooth skin to entice Aldolus and whisper stories of blood and magic and power into his ear, he had never once been in doubt that the fledgling Dageor despised him. Oh, the act would have been good enough to earn him a place in the King's Players, had that been his calling, but Aldolus had learned many moons ago that allies need not be friends, as long as the goal was the same. Together, they had achieved great things—allowing Aldolus to surpass the reign of his own father many times over—but it was time that had become the King's most challenging adversary, and that battle was not yet won. And what had Dageor done about that of late?
He had provided no answers. No solutions. And Aldolus' bones grew colder with each tide.
To think he would come here now and bother his King with such pointless, low-level squabbling.
Aldolus had thought long and hard about what he would do if he discovered he no longer needed Dageor by his side. It gave him comfort to imagine the priest's end, just as it kept his mind pleasantly occupied to think of all the ways he could make that happen. It was said that Dreynian bears could flay the skin with one swipe of their giant claws. Or that the sting of a nest of swarm vipers would not kill a man instantly but would slowly bring him to his death over several tides, the reptiles repeatedly coming back to feast on his flesh as he lay rigid with venom that froze the body like burning ice.
"Forgive me, exalted one, for I fear I have not explained myself fully," Dageor said, bowing his head again. "But I took it upon myself to attend Mica Koh-Miralus' house and view the scene itself and I have grave concerns. Concerns that, I believe, do need to be brought to the crown's attention."
Aldolus pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're giving me a fucking headache, priest. Get to it and quick."
"Two deaths, your grace. First, Mica Koh-Miralus dies in his own bath. A strong man, exalted one. More than capable of dealing with the aggression of a woman, who by all accounts, is a mere slight of a girl and certainly not someone who could easily drown someone such as he. Traces of blood found on the side of the bath were not from the silk merchant. He bore no signs of physical injury. And yet, he did drown. How can that be? Then, his brother, reportedly in pursuit of the same woman, ends up washed onto the shore of the Setalah."
Aldolus' skin prickled, ice gripping his limbs. He sorely wished he'd opted for his fur robe, instead of the silk one. Even the sight of his treasure wasn't enough to warm him now, in fact, looking at it was leaving him decidedly colder.
"Two deaths, I repeat, your grace. Both by the water."
Dageor stepped closer, shadows hollowing out his cheekbones. He touched a hand to the arm of the throne, an act that Aldolus would usually frown upon, vocally so, but instead, all he could do was watch as the priest's skeletal fingers curled over the polished wood.
"I have consulted with the Guardians of the Dal-Durgoth, your grace. I have bid the Druvari to scour all the scrolls, all the parchments, all the maps. Every last fragment of stone tablet. Every etching." He paused. "It is, I regret to say, as Lord Cade said."
Lord Cade. Once High Priest of the Druvari, before Dageor relieved him of his power and had him imprisoned, forcing one drop of the cursed water onto his tongue each tide until he perished—which, by all accounts, did not take as long as Dageor had hoped. Lord Cade, who had insisted that they had misinterpreted the ancient writings of the Dal-Durgoth.
When Aldolus spoke, it was with venom on his own tongue, words like a bitter and acrid poison coating his throat. "May I remind you, Lord Dageor, it was you who assured me that it was naught but madness pouring from Lord Cade's mouth that dark moontide. May I remind you that it was you, my most trusted and revered High Priest, chief advisor to the King and crown, who told me that our work was done and that the last Naiad was dead. And yet, you stand here now, in front of your King—Druvaria's living god—telling me that you were wrong and that insane, gibbering wreck of a man who spent his last tides spewing poisonous vomit down himself was correct?"
"Your grace, forgive me, but..."
Aldolus' hand shot out and gripped the priest by the neck, his fingers squeezing into his flesh. "You swore to me, you mewling cunt. On the King's life, you swore to me it was over..."
Dageor, to his credit, merely raised his chin, but his own hands gripped the arm of the throne and his throat moved under Aldolus' palm as he swallowed. "My King, if you would..."
"If I would?" Aldolus screamed into his face. "I would kill you, priest, that is what I would!"
"Exalted one, do you not see? This is the answer we have been searching for! If it is truly not over, then we have found it. We have found it!"
The King's grip weakened, but his hand remained around Dageor's throat. The priest's bony fingers brushed his wrist, and it was all Aldolus could do not to retch. He'd had his touch once and would not have it again.
"Where there is Naiad, there is blood. Where there is blood, there is life."
Dageor searched his gaze, burying deep into that place where Aldous kept his fears and his nightmares. He knew what this meant. He knew and yet could scarcely dare to believe it might be true. Dare he think it? Dare he hope?
"Bachaeia es aldoris," he whispered. "Bachaeia es eidan."
"Yes, your grace. Yes."
Dageor nodded, his hand encircling Aldolus' wrist fully, but the King found he no longer cared. All he could think about was the blood, the blood, the blood.
"We will spread the word in the slums, exalted one," Dageor said. "We will tell them that a Naiad lives among them, and we will promise the Dreynian water if they expose her. They will tear her from her hiding place, they will drag her through the streets, and then they will throw her onto the steps of the black palace to face the King's judgement. They will find her and the last water witch shall truly belong to you."
He did smile then, thin lips pulled back over receding gums.
"Just as it was written."