If you haven’t read the first part of chapter one, start here:
They called it a villa amongst themselves, and most people who spoke of the luxurious homes of Melios described it in this way. But to Jemre, this “villa” was greater than any castle or palace in any book or story or song. It defied comprehension, let alone description. The entire facade of the sprawling complex was carved from enormous blocks of Nesian marble. Columns, friezes, and reliefs, all depicting intricate scenes of battle and diplomacy. He saw Allaxae and the Lion, the former with his greatspear in hand, thrust through the agonized face of an enemy while the Lion ripped out his calf. Tales of the gods, from the Great Beginning to the War of Wars to the Peace Yet to Come stood atop the rest. They walked beside one of the wall, so enormous that Jemre nearly forgot it was just one wall of one wing of the whole building.
The servants’ entrance was hidden behind a half-revealed statue of Mandira, the goddess of ecstasy, who stood frozen in an expression that even made Corro blush. Behind it stretched a path wide enough for their small wagon. They made their way inside, following the light of the sconces along the inner walls.
Jemre marveled at the immediate transition from the most naked, unabashed opulence of the exterior to the crumbling, dusty interior of the servants’ hallway. Cobwebs stretched along the corners of the ceiling, blackened by the soot of the lamps below. Only a few servants milled about in the hallway, something for which Jemre was incredibly thankful. Any more interaction than necessary was more risk, risk they couldn’t afford to take. He felt like they’d spent all of their luck back at the gates.
“Where is he?” Corro whispered, looking around as they continued walking. Addaira looked around as well.
“We’ll know him by the gray tunic and yellow sash,” she replied. Her voice was not as sure as her reply. Jemre suspected that the imperious presence of the palace had gotten to her as well. It was as if they had all been swallowed up by a great beast, finding themselves in the company of the other wretched souls it had previously subdued.
As they continued down the hallway, Jemre searched the faces of the passing servants. They revealed nothing of the person within, having been made perfect masks of pleasant obedience through years of service to this most high Lord. One old woman’s shuffling presence seemed to cry out in a breathless, aching sob. Her back was hunched, her eyes watery and downcast. Her feet moved only with agonizing effort. Jemre thought she must have been at least eighty years, and he wondered how many of them she’d spent as a husk.
“Where have you been?” came a voice from behind. They turned at once to see a young man with dark hair striding toward them. He hadn’t passed them in the hallway, so he must have emerged from some adjacent hidden passage once he’d seen them pass. He wore a gray tunic with a golden sash and a cloak of the same bright blue the guards had been wearing at the gates.
“We were held up by the guards,” Addaira replied. At first, Jemre thought she was mad for talking about their business so openly in front of the other servants, but then he realized that many of them had probably encountered difficulty with the guards at some point or another. Whispering about the affair would only draw attention.
“Well you’re late, the Lord wants his reds and his cellar is nearly empty. I will not have him with an empty glass tonight,” the man snapped.
He flipped the cover off of their wagon and surveyed the jugs before stuffing two under one arm and grabbing another.
“You, you, and you,” he said, pointing to Jemre, Corro, and Prell, “take as many as you can carry and follow me. We don’t allow asses into the stores.”
Without hesitation, they all began to collect the jugs from the wagon. The man turned to Addaira.
“Bring the wagon to the end of the hall. There’s an opening with stables for the pack animals. It’s a full silver for the night, food, water, and hay.”
Addaira rolled her eyes. Of course they would charge an arm and a leg to house an animal they needed to bring them goods for their stores. Nevertheless, she nodded.
“When you’ve finished, come back here, I will have the slim one wait for you once they get all the jugs inside,” he concluded, gesturing to Prell.
She nodded again, removing the rest of the jugs from the wagon and setting them neatly on the ground by the wall. Then, she prodded Chek on and continued toward the stables.
Jemre, Corro, and Prell, arms full of clay jugs, followed the dark-haired man back toward the entrance. Jemre’s suspicion proved right when the man pressed against a nondescript section of wall, revealing a door that swung away with ease. They stepped through into a smaller, wooden hallway.
“This is the servants’ entrance proper,” the man explained, ushering them along the creaky floorboards. “Uterides, the houselord, wanted a passage by which the help could enter and exit without having to jostle and navigate around the merchants, cargo, drivers, and the like.”
“What’s a houselord?” Prell asked Jemre quietly. The dark-haired man must have heard, because before Jemre could answer, he began to explain.
“The houselord is the man in charge of this entire estate. Ominides kept Uterides from his father, who had hired Uterides as the houselord before his father died. But, Ominides’ father had already taken over most of the affairs of the estate — not to mention the business — because of his father’s illness,” the dark-haired man continued, opening endless doors and leading them through passages. Prell looked at Jemre, obviously confused.
“It’s like a shopkeep. The palace is the shop. Stuff goes in, stuff goes out. Draena changes hands and someone needs to oversee it,” Jemre offered. Prell relaxed.
“It’s more equivalent to being an Aeturii,” the dark-haired man countered. “You wouldn’t believe the sheer volume of materials coming into this place. Not to mention the people. Last week, seventeen dignitaries from the Isles came to Melios to stay here, in Ominides’ villa. That meant seventeen retinues, which meant a hundred horses, thousands of gallons of wine, hundreds of servants bustling to and fro, half a peninsula’s worth of food.”
Corro scoffed at this. Jemre frowned. They entered another doorway, descended a flight of steps, and emerged into a massive storehouse. Cheese wheels as big as their wagon, countless rows of casks, barrels, and jugs, whole goat, pig, and cow carcasses hanging from the low ceiling. They picked their way through the carefully organized rows of food toward an empty section with a bright silver plaque.
“Set them down here, I’ll have them arranged properly once we’ve retrieved them all,” he said.
Prell set his jugs down with a special carefulness, wincing as Corro nearly tossed his to the ground.
“What’s that say?” Corro asked, pointing to the plaque on the shelf. The dark-haired man looked up at it.
“Calathean Red,” he replied dismissively.
“No it doesn’t. It’s nonsense,” Corro responded, pointing as if the man hadn’t looked carefully enough.
“It’s Talmurian,” the dark-haired man replied. He ushered the trio back into the labyrinthian tunnels through which they had come.
“I’m not thick, I know it’s foreign. What’s it say in Talmurian?” Corro pressed. The dark-haired man ducked under a low beam and continued on.
“Calathean Red. You can’t speak it, it hasn’t been spoken in thousands of years,” he replied. Corro, Jemre, then Prell all ducked under the beam as well.
“Why have it on the shelves if no one can speak it?” Corro asked. The dark-haired man only shrugged.
“Many can still read it. That and vanity are enough reasons why someone like Ominides would put it on their shelves. It’s everywhere in the villa. I think he likes having words around only a few kn— ”
The dark-haired man stopped mid-sentence, lurching forward awkwardly. Addaira was behind him. Quick as a flash, Corro leapt forward, keeping him pressed against Addaira’s small frame.
“Who knuh...,” the dark-haired man finished, eyes rolling back. Addaira wrenched her arm behind his head, and he collapsed like a doll. Prell stood, struck dumb with shock as Corro gently laid the man down on his stomach.
“He...” Prell began, each thought fighting erupt from him first. Corro reached for the knife handle stuck in the dark-haired man’s neck, but Addaira stopped him.
“He’ll bleed less if you leave it in,” she cautioned. Corro looked down at the man, frowning.
“You’ve already stopped his heart, he won’t bleed,” Corro protested.
“He’ll seep,” she replied, reaching around a nearby corner to grab a couple of the remaining jugs. Jemre prodded Prell out of his reverie, and they both moved to help her.
“But…” Prell muttered, to no one in particular.
“It’s my best knife,” Corro complained.
“You’ll have to do without. Find a sack to put him in, I bought a bag of sawdust by the stables. We wrap his head in this,” she said, holding up a fat burlap sack “and no one finds him until he stinks.”
Corro stood above his knife for a moment, unable to decide whether or not to retrieve it. After a moment, he decided he could get a new knife faster than he could escape if a servant discovered the body and raised the alarm. So, he grabbed the rest of the jugs from behind the corner and took off after Prell and Jemre.
“Why did she kill him?” Prell asked Jemre as they threaded their way through the corridors and passages which led back to the storehouse.
“He knew we were here,” Jemre replied calmly. He knew there would be casualties along the way — there always were. But he also understood the world as Prellum saw it, and to him, the violence appeared sudden and vicious.
“But why like that?” Prell asked.
“It’s quick. The man didn’t suffer more than a few moments of confusion. A stab into the base of the skull there kills him almost instantly.”
“But he was talking.”
“Aye.”
Prell looked as though he didn’t know what question to ask next. He still hadn’t fully grasped the situation. Jemre hoped that any further questions would wait until they were done with their undertaking.
They descended the stairs once again, passed the great wheels of cheese, and wove through the hook-hung meats until they arrived at the spot marked “Calathean Reds.” They both set their jugs down, and helped Corro unload when he arrived moments after.
“Will this do?” Corro asked, holding up a vast stretch of cheesecloth.
“No, check for something with grain or potatoes or salt. We can slit another bag and make it look like a spill,” Jemre replied, already up again and moving through the rows of shelves, searching for something to put the dark-haired man in.
“What about that?” Prellum asked, pointing to an open barrel on the end of a row. Jemre sized it up. He wasn’t sure whether or not the man would fit, but Corro could help arrange him into a smaller size if necessary.
“Perfect.”
They rolled the barrel back to Addaira, who had already wrapped the bag around the dead man’s head, and stuffed him inside. After some gruesome work by Corro, they closed the lid. Addaira handed Corro back his knife, but only because the sack hadn’t fit around his head with the knife protruding. The four of them returned to their jugs in the storehouse and briefly went over the plan. When they were finished, they exited the storehouse through a different door and began working their way through the servants’ alleys, toward the residences of Ominides himself.
Each of them carried a jug and did their best to affect the same broken countenances as those poor wretches they’d seen in the servant’s entrance. No one passed by them as they walked, something Jemre found odd. But then most of the servants would be asleep at this hour. Only a few would stand by to ensure that if Ominides or his family awoke they would have their needs met at once.
After picking their way through the winding maze of halls, they finally emerged from behind a grand fireplace into the residences proper.
The hall was dark except for the weak light from the lamps. Addaira motioned for all of them to remain quiet. It would not do to mess up now, so close to the end. They walked single file, holding their jugs in the same manner they had seen the other servants carrying objects in the main hall, clutched close to the breast, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
Prell struggled to keep up. He was reeling from sudden movement from death’s presnce to the relative opulence of the residences. Gold adorned everything. Railings, doorknobs, wainscotting, drapes, all of it was detailed in gold or made of gold itself. The ceiling was a continuous painting, edged in gold, stretching out above every hallway. His eyes were glued to it. He couldn’t believe that a painting of that size existed.
“Keep your eyes down,” Addaira hissed. A servant wouldn’t gawk as though it was his first time setting seeing it. It would be commonplace to them.
They turned a corner and continued down another hallway, similar save for the plaques above the doors. Jemre couldn’t tell for sure in the dimness, but he suspected it was the same Talmurian text they had seen above the wine in the storehouse.
A guard turned the corner at the far end of the hallway. He was dressed in the same blues as the guards at the gates, though his feathered helmet was decidedly more impressive. Jemre held his breath; it felt like the whole of the world would crash down about them. The great beast that was Melios would finally settle them into its bowels. But the guard didn’t give them so much as a second glance when they passed. He was whistling softly to himself, fussing with a feather that kept going limp against his cheek.
Jemre sighed a breath of relief. Maybe they still had some luck left.
“Right here,” Addaira whispered, pointing to a magnificent set of gilded doors in the middle of the hallway. Two more guards stood at attention on either side. Jemre, sucked in a breath, gripping the jug tightly. If they did not fail here, he believed they would succeed.
They approached in single file, all appropriately cowed, holding their respective jugs. The guards didn’t so much as look at them, but merely pulled the doors open for them.
This wasn’t right.
A paranoia struck at Jemre’s heart. He couldn’t help but feel as though they were being led to their deaths, that there was ome wicked thespian at the heart of this whole endeavor, deep within the villa, cleverly watching their entry. He stole another glance at the guard as they passed into Ominides’ chambers. The man’s face was placid, unreadable. It was neither annoyed, suspicious, or welcoming. There was none of the bloodhound of the guard at the gates. The lack of affect made Jemre uneasy.
Addaira, for her part, understood how they had entered the villa so easily. The outermost guards, knowing no one else has worked to weed out the unwelcome and the nefarious, took it upon themselves to be the most inquisitive, suspect, and thorough. The guards posted outside the villa knew the guards at the gate had done their job, and thus did not have to work as hard. The final line of guards, those posted outside the bedchambers of someone like Ominides, had every confidence the other two layers had filtered anyone who had any chance of causing trouble. There’s no way someone could make it this far in, they thought.
Corro and Prellum, for their own reasons, attributed the ease of entry to dumb luck.
The room into which the foursome entered was not the room with Ominides or his bed. No, a man such as him had an entire suite of bedrooms. They had entered into the antechamber, which was conspicuously more plain than the hallway outside. The walls were bare except for a few very old portraits, whose subjects seemed to look down at them in judgment. There was a small writing desk in the far corner, neatly stacked with scrolls and booklets. On the other side were two doors. Addaira set her jug down and motioned them to move toward the desk.
“Corro, take as many of these as you can,” she urged, pointing toward the desk. Corro who had, in a stroke of genius, kept the cheesecloth from the storehouse, laid it out on the floor and began filling it with the contents of the desk.
“Now, listen,” Addaira whispered. “Once he’s dead, we’ll have to move quickly. Corro and I will deal with him, and douse the room. Jemre and Prell douse now, then stand watch, if anything happens, hide behind the door and head back to the storehouse. You douse and light that too before you leave. This place burns tonight.”
Corro finished bundling the desk materials, tied off the makeshift bag, and handed it off to Jemre. Jemre withdrew a long knife from a sheath on his thigh and handed it to Prell, before taking another from the other thigh for himself. Addaira, pulled two long knives from their scabbards on her back.
She looked at Corro, who nodded. They quietly opened one of the doors, peeked in, and closed it. They opened a second door and slipped inside. Jemre and Prell unstoppered their jugs and began to pour the clear liquid around the room. Prell walked along the wainscotting, occasionally splashing some above onto a low-hung portrait. Jemre took special care to douse by the door. He didn’t want anyone getting in once they had lit the place.
“Will they kill Ominides the same way?” Prellum whispered.
“If they can. Though, he deserves to live through this,” Jemre replied, tipping out the rest of the fluid from his jug.
Beyond the second door, Addaira and Corro stood against the dark walls of the inner bedchamber. It was dimly lit by a single candelabra which burned low on a bedside stand. The sight struck Corro as overly ordinary, out of place in the relative extravagance of the rest of the villa. Addaira set her jug on the ground beside the door, careful so as to not let liquid slosh around. Corro unstoppered his slowly, as if motion itself could arouse their sleeping victim. Corro looked closely, peering through the shifting candlelight to see if he could make out any movement, catch any glimpse of the figure who was responsible for so much misery and evil in the world.
But the mass remained motionless as Addaira approached, her long knives held low so as to not catch the light and give herself away. Then, in a movement so quick Corro nearly missed it, she pushed both blades into the sleeping form. The man jerked, but only for a second. With a twist of her blades, the man went still again.
“I can’t believe it,” Corro whispered, nearly dropping his jug. They had done it. Decades of suffering, years of resistance, and months of planning had finally culminated in this, their assassination of Ominides. Addaira looked at him, her expression softening. She was no longer the implacable leader of the outfit. She was surprised.
“May hell visit his crimes upon him again, a thousandfold,” she whispered into the darkness.
There was a moment of saturation, in which both of them drank in their achievement. The silence between them heaved with inchoate affect, with the sorrows, trials, triumphs, losses, and grief.
But Addaira soon found herself and became the stoic leader once more.
“Douse,” she whispered, retrieving her jug and unstoppering it. Corro followed suit, pulling the stopper and pouring the clear liquid along the base of the walls. As he walked, he felt himself grow happier and happier. This was a day of ultimate triumph. From this moment on they know that, even within their precious paradise, they were not safe from the people they abused and subjugated. Their hubris had been laid bare, there in the bedchamber, by none other than Corro, son of Corfan and Addaira the Calathean.
Ding!
They both froze. Corro looked behind him. It was a servants’ bell posted on the wall by the door, which he had not seen in the dim light. He’d backed into it while dousing.
In the antechamber, Jemre and Prellum were waiting on either side of the door, reading to depart at once when the others finished dispatching Ominides. They heard the loud ring from inside. Jemre went white as a sheet. Prellum moved to investigate. Jemre caught his arm and pushed him back toward the wall, putting his finger to his lips. In moments, the door opened.
One of the door guards, curious as to why his master would ring the summoning bell with four servants already inside, strode in. He walked right past Prellum and Jemre, both of who, remained half-hidden in the darkness on either side of the door. The guard stopped at the door to his master’s room.
“My Lord?” he inquired. After a moments’ silence, he tried the handle. It was locked.
“To Me!” he roared, kicking in the door. The second guard outside gave his own shout, then charged in after. Prellum waited until the second entered before laying on him with his short knife. The first blow was too eager, only catching a little of the guard’s side. Fortunately, the guard’s spear was less than practical in the smaller antechamber, and Prellum followed up with another stab to the belly, then another under the breast.
Jemre felt as though the world were melting around him. This was it. The trap which we had sensed had been sprung. If he did not act fast they would die in these chambers as fools. Fools who believed they could sneak their way into the depths of hell itself and emerge unblackened. He took advantage of Prellum’s attack and ran out the door. He turned left, unable to remember whether or not it was the way they had come. It didn’t matter, in moments the residences would be swarming with guards. He needed to put as much distance between them and him as possible.
He tore down the hallway faster than he had ever run in his life. Tears welled in his eyes as he heard another pair of guards shout from the other end of the hallway behind him.
In the antechamber, Prellum managed to subdue the guard with his furious and unexpected blows from behind. The young boy was filled with so much fear, he stabbed and stabbed into the fallen guard’s face until it was nothing but a black mass in the candlelight. Then he rushed in to help Addaira and Corro, hoping together they could overpower the first guard and escape before help arrived.
When he entered, he saw Addaira plunging both blades into the chest of the guard as he struggled against Corro’s iron grip. The heroic guard’s eyes never left the bloodied mass lying in the bed as he spurted and choked on the blood which filled his lungs.
“Where’s Jem?” Addaira asked.
“He was — I don’t know,” Prellum began.
“Doesn’t matter, there will be more soon. Grab the spear and come,” she commanded, pushing Prell toward the dead guard’s body. She had hoped they would have time to set up another surprise attack in the antechamber before the next group of guards arrived. If they were successful, they could buy enough time to split up and run for it. The guards would not catch them all.
Corro was pain. The first guard had burst into the bedchamber ready for a fight, and had caught him in the hip with the spear before Addaira had slashed his ankle. He was bleeding, but could walk.
Three more guards rushed in before they had time to set the ambush. None of them brought spears this time, having exchanged them for short swords. They charged in with a fearlessness that shook Prellum to his core. The first to enter swung blindly before dipping to the right to take on Addaira. Prellum, armed with the spear, lunged hastily and missed. He was off balance when the second guard entered, batting the spear away and rushing toward the young man. Corro bull rushed him from the side, slamming him into the wall. But as he did, at third guard entered and slashed his side. He roared an animal defiance and turned toward the third, his favorite knife in hand.
Jemre rounded one hallway, then turned left at another. He could not remember how many rights and lefts he had taken. All he could think of was survival. Two maidservants shouted in terror as he blew past, wild-eyed and sweating. He heard the pursuing guards shout at them. There was no time to stop to check the walls for a hidden servant’s entrance. He cursed himself for not remembering how they had entered the hallway.
Despair crept in.
Addaira exchanged four blows with the first guard, finishing him with a swipe that bit down into his cheek and rested on his jaw. She shifted her weight, driving the blade back into his throat. Prellum, encouraged by the bravery of his savior, Corro, leapt again into the fight with his small knife. The second guard had fallen over after Corro’s shouldering, but was ready when Prellum descended upon him. Without the element of surprise, Prellum was no match. The guard backstepped neatly, letting Prell’s blade swipe harmlessly in front of him before lunging forward with his short sword. The blade caught Prell in the collar, metal splitting his flesh. Prell tried to raise his knife again, but found his arm did not work as it should anymore. Corro had somehow managed to disarm the third guard and wrestle him to the ground. They were locked in sticky, fearful contest.
Jemre turned another hallway and flew down a flight of stairs. At the bottom he found yet another hallway. He passed by open arches leading to various studies, drawing rooms, salons, and sitting rooms. They had not come this way. He was lost.
Addaira moved to aid Prellum when two more guards came in. Upon seeing the bloody mess inside of the antechamber, they moved more deliberately, anxious to avoid any rashness which might give their opponents an advantage. They had time on their side. In minutes, fifty more guards would descend on the antechamber. If they were careful, they would all live. Addaira faced off with the two new guards, leveling one of her blades at each. She heard the grunt and triumphant scream of Corro as he pulled the eyes out of the other man on the ground.
Jemre could hear it now, the horns blasting throughout the villa, rousing everyone. Even the guards at the gates to Melios would hear those horns and close off passage.
“Stop!” someone shouted from behind. Jemre redoubled his efforts. Panic overwhelmed him. He stifled a sob only because he knew it would slow him. At each step felt as though his legs might fail.
The third guard made sure Prellum was dead, dragging his shortsword across the boy’s throat. Then he turned to face Corro, backpedaling to join ranks with the two new guards. Addaira and Corro drew close. Prellum, lying on back and gasping in his own blood, stared in horror at the eyeless guard’s pulpy face.
Jemre heard the guards approaching in front of him before he saw them. They rounded the corner, spears and swords levied, spreading out to prevent his escape. Fear exploded in Jemre. He fell to the ground.
“Mercy!” he cried, spreading himself prostrate on the marble floor. “Mercy!”
Four more guards entered the antechamber, pressing Addaira and Corro closer to the bedchamber door. Corro growled and panted against the pain, struggling to stay on his feet. Addaira stole a glance at Corro.
“Hell,” she exhaled. Then she turned and darted into the bedchamber.
“Alive!” one guard shouted as three others pursued her. The other four guards quickly subdued the weakened Corro, pressing his bloodied body into the carpet.
The guards surrounded Jemre, who could not stifle his sobs any longer. He wailed. It was a pathetic, childish lamentation.
“Pleaaasseee,” he cried as he was lifted under each arm. “Mercy!”
Addaira had one object in mind. If they could not escape, then she would burn with the villa. She scrambled across the darkness of the bedchamber and dashed over the candelabra. It fell against a corner of the room, bursting into intense flame. The pursuing guards flinched, blinded by the searing light. The fire spread along the bottom of the walls, catching the curtains and the bedding.
“Unni moran tuttello fiscattan!” Addaira shouted over the roar. Admist the flames she looked like the gatekeeper of hell.
“Cowards!” one guard shouted, pushing his way past his retreating brothers into the inferno.
As some of the guards would later recount the story — after a few drinks — it was a fire that burned hotter than any other, a fire stolen from the Sun, a wicked, corrupted fire.