State of Sorrow (Untitled #1)(43)

“All right.” Sorrow pushed the sheets back and swung her legs from the bed. “Let’s get this over with.”


It was still dark when she and Irris returned to the chamber the Jedenvat had met in the night before.

Charon was sitting opposite the door, so his was the first face Sorrow saw. She nodded to him warily, unsure of the reception she’d receive. But he was as good as his word, and he bowed his head to her as he always had, his expression carefully blank. Beside him sat Tuva, then Bayrum. They all greeted her with small nods of their own, which she returned, as she and Irris moved to take the seats beside them. It was then that Sorrow saw the other occupants of the table.

On Harun’s right sat Balthasar, and he glared at her, hatred burning in his eyes as she took her seat. Samad and Kaspira sat further down along the same side, and it was opposite them that Sorrow and Irris sat.

Sorrow took the opportunity to look at her father.

It had been months since she’d seen him outside of his chambers in Istevar. Somehow, here in the Summer Palace, Harun looked even more ghoulish, his skin sallow and stretched like a corpse, the joints of his fingers pressing hard against the skin as he gripped the arms of his chair.

His nails were stained from Lamentia, lending them the appearance of rotting. His hair was thin, and combed over his skull, held in place with some kind of gel that made it look wet, arranged with a care that made Sorrow feel ill. He’d shaved, but whoever had done it had done a bad job; his beard was patchy and uneven.

Someone had dressed him in his ceremonial robes, and it was only when he stood that Sorrow saw how much her father had wasted away. Harun was a tall man, his shoulders broad; for all his hatred of war he had a warrior’s form. But his robes, robes that had fitted him well enough a few years ago, now hung from him limply, like a shroud. He looked like a child wearing a costume.

“Daughter,” Harun said in a thin, tired voice. “You’re staring.”

Sorrow blushed. “Father, forgive me. It’s good to see you.”

“Tell me about the boy,” Harun said abruptly.

Sorrow had a name then, for the sickly, sharp feeling that kept twisting and writhing inside her stomach.

Jealousy.

Every time she thought of the boy returning to Rhannon, being Mael, her brother, son of Harun, heir to the Ventaxis dynasty, she was jealous. Harun might look like the walking dead, but he’d roused himself, dressed himself, for the first time in months at the mere thought that his precious Mael might still be alive.

He couldn’t even look her in the eye.

“Tell me of him,” Harun repeated.

She swallowed the bile in her throat and glanced at Charon, waiting for his subtle signal before she spoke. “You remember Lord Vespus, Father?” Harun scowled at the name with what Sorrow assumed was recognition, so she continued. “He came to meet with me on the Humpback Bridge, during the ceremony. He claimed he’d found a boy. Found Mael,” she corrected herself.

Harun looked over her, his eyes feverishly bright.

“And had he?”

“I – I don’t know.”

“Show me the picture,” he said to Balthasar, and the councilman rose from his seat, walking over to where a covered portrait leant against the wall. Sorrow hadn’t noticed it before.

Balthasar lifted the picture, struggling against the weight and height of it as he carried it to a bureau at the end of the room. He grunted as he raised it, resting it against the wall. With a clumsy flourish he pulled away the sheet, revealing the painting.

“Did you see him?” Harun asked. “The boy?” He gestured at the painting. “Did he look like this boy?”

“I… There is a resemblance.” She remembered what Charon had said in the coach, about Vespus’s plans. And the boy’s own words about the plan changing. “But that’s hardly proof that—”

“And he is here, now? In the palace?” He spoke over her.

Sorrow lowered her head. “Yes.”

“Your Excellency, there’s no possible way this boy can be your son.” Charon spoke firmly.

Harun turned on Charon. “And why not?”

“A child could not have survived that fall.”

“You did.” At Harun’s words Samad shot Tuva a triumphant look.

“Barely. It shattered both of my legs. A child could not have survived it,” Charon repeated. “Now, I’m sure there is no malicious intent on the boy’s, or the Rhyllians’ part, but you mustn’t allow your love for Mael, and your grief, to cloud what you know to be the truth. I know you want it to be your son. But you have to face the very likely probability the boy is an imposter.”

Harun nodded, as though considering the words. “Bring him to me. Now,” he said. “I’ll know if he’s my son or not.”

Charon let out an exasperated sigh, as Balthasar rose. “I’ll fetch him, Your Excellency,” he said, and Harun waved a hand to agree. Balthasar spared a final malicious glance for Sorrow before he left them, closing the door behind him.

A pall fell over the room, silent and threatening, like a storm. Sorrow saw then that the table was split clearly, almost comically, into two factions: those who she knew would be loyal to her if she asked it of them; Irris, Charon – though he shouldn’t – Bayrum and Tuva, and those who would, for one reason or another, side with Harun. Despite their promises two night ago, she knew Kaspira and Samad were among that number. Two nights ago she’d been the best – the only – option. But now there was something new to consider.