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“Yes. Lord Kingsley and I are visiting out of curiosity.” I smile at him. “Our purpose here is not political at all, merely cordial. Though, I am somewhat concerned about these rumors of assassins running around.”
“Dreadful,” mutters the noblewoman, fanning herself. “I’ve not been able to set foot outside the house since it began.”
I glance at her. “I do not believe we’ve been introduced.”
Nielf twitches, as if he’s about to speak, then lowers his gaze.
Sensing she’s no longer needed in the room, the servant slips away out the door.
“Lady Meritha Teredwyn,” says the woman. “Due to a rather galling show of ineptitude from the king’s soldiers, I was forced to flee my estate in the south while the lands have been overrun with morag and other horrors from the bog.”
Lindsey, who’d sidled up next to me, leans in and whispers, “Morag are basically like orcs. In the lore, they’re former humans cursed generations ago for meddling with dark powers. But, yeah, they’re basically orcs. Well, swamp orcs.”
The girl tells me this like I know what orcs are. Oh, wait, the green dudes from that Lord of the Rings movie. Yeah, Anthony explained them to me once. Okay, sorta-bestial humans who like violence. Got it.
“Oh, how dreadful,” I say to Meritha (and feeling a bit like a soap opera actress).
“Quite.” She frowns. “It will be years before I feel safe enough to return to the place I grew up… if ever. Tarramor is, thankfully, safe. Not even the king’s army could fail to protect it.”
“Queen’s army,” corrects Nielf in a gentle tone.
Meritha rolls her eyes. “The child? Hardly. She’s as good as irrelevant already, and the others know it. For all intents and purposes, the throne of Frostmarch is empty now, and the houses can smell it.”
“My dear cousin believes the assassination attempts are testing the new queen’s resolve,” says Nielf. “For now, merely a show of threat. If the child queen does not take action, I fear they will become more than acts of show. Once whoever set this in motion is convinced the crown is too feeble to act, they’re going to kill us all and seize the crown.”
I pretend to be surprised. “Dear. It seems my husband and I have chosen a rather inopportune time to visit. Though, he would not think so. Lord Kingsley is not one to shy away from conflict. In fact, it amuses him.”
“You may wish to depart before you are more directly involved.” Meritha grimaces. “It would be most disastrous if the cretins mistake you for someone in the line of succession. Dare I say it could provoke Stonnebrin into war if anything were to happen to you or your husband.”
It’s hard not to laugh—and not only because we’re not really Stonnebrin nobility. They wouldn’t care at all if something killed us. No, I’m laughing inside because the idea of Kingsley running away from someone trying to kill him is about as ludicrous as, oh, I dunno, the Chicago Bears winning the Super Bowl again. Sorry, Chicago.
“Who do you think is responsible?” I ask.
“The Galahirs, obviously.” Meritha frowns. “Their charity and nobility is all an act. No one is that good, kind, and benevolent. It’s the same situation as the followers of Dramnythas.”
Nielf tries to subtly stare at me.
I tilt my head. “Forgive me but I’ve never heard of that.”
“Roughly 200 years prior to the first bo—” Lindsey coughs. “I mean about 200 years before the assassination of King Melecos VI, a group claiming to be followers of a god named Dramnythas spread across the kingdom. They brought food to the starving, offered bedrolls to those on the street, and encouraged everyone to abandon their desire for wealth and power and be kind to others.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
Nielf’s stare is becoming heavy, though I still try to ignore him.
“It’s not, of course.” Lindsey rolls her eyes. “Problem is, they were lying, only pretending to be benevolent and charitable. The cult of Dramnythas worshiped a horrible being from the depths of the Forgotten Sea. In public, they seemed warm and friendly… in the basement of their temples, diabolical things happened. Most of the royals and nobility of the age went mad and died.”
“Sounds a lot like Lovecraft,” I say, remembering all too well my run-in with a Lovecraftian elder god not too long ago.
“Kind of.” Lindsey tilts her hand back and forth. “Not exactly, but definitely inspired by… and Quinton didn’t actually go there. It’s all just stuff talked about as having happened in the distant past.”
“It had nothing to do with love.” Nielf idly strokes two fingers at his tunic’s collar. “The minions of Dramnythas were diabolical. Dare I say they were even worse than the morag. At least those creatures are honest about what they are.”
Meritha closes her eyes, shaking her head slightly side to side in a medieval version of ‘I can’t even.’ “Elden and his sister are too perfect. I am sure they only act as they do in order to disguise their true motivations.”
“Perhaps,” mutters Nielf. “It does seem unlike them to do something so dastardly. I suppose that doubt is a reason it might be them.”
“Or Nald Mur.” Meritha begins pacing around. “If it’s not House Galahir, it’s definitely him.”
