20
Goth Hatches a Plan

The palace was suddenly a hive of activity. Goth had to ask around to discover that the Queen and much of her household was relocating to her winter palace. His small chamber was quite some way from her majesty’s tower which meant that he was last to hear the news. The distance was very annoying. He needed to be closer to her if he was to ingratiate himself and influence her decisions.

Being saved by the Cipreans had been a stroke of great fortune. He had definitely thought his time was up and that the boiling sea would swallow him that terrifying day. He had waved to someone on one of the beaches as he was swept along in the current. It had been too dark to see who it was but after arriving at the palace and hearing the story of the other survivors from The Wasp, Goth had realised he had been waving to his enemy, Torkyn Gynt.

Goth had first seen Gynt on the deck of The Wasp, when the pirate Blackhand was about to chop off the young boy’s hand. He had spent the days since pondering how it could be that Gynt was alive when he himself had witnessed the man’s death by stoning at the hands of the city of Tal’s executioner.

He and hundreds of others had watched Gynt’s head split open by the heavy stones. The wound had bled a torrent and the man had died on the cross while his lover, Alyssandra Qyn, was forced to look on. Goth recalled how he had wanted to touch Gynt’s corpse, to be sure he was truly dead, and how Xantia had mocked him. How could anyone live through such an event? Xantia had gloated. It was surely impossible and yet there Gynt was, standing on the ship’s deck that morning.

Goth began to believe that Gynt could not die. The man had suffered execution by stoning and a deadly storm, but apparently neither had been able to take his life. But then he smiled. As a child, the fire had tried to take his life and yet he had lived through it, and the storm had done its damnedest to claim him too and yet here he was, alive and well and a guest of Ciprean royalty. It seemed he and Gynt were survivors. And life was taking some strange turns for them both.

When Xantia had fled Caradoon, Goth was still disabled by the effects of stracca inhalation. One of the many spies Xantia paid throughout the upper region of Tallinor had sent a message that the King’s Guard was heading further north than usual. It was unclear whether the Guard had been tipped off as to Goth and Xantia’s whereabouts, but Xantia was not taking any chances. She was surprised they had managed to stay hidden amongst Caradoon’s population for as many years as they had; she knew it would be only a matter of time before the search was widened to even the remotest nooks and crannies of the Kingdom.

Goth, weakened by the painful desire for more stracca and the urgent need for security, had begged Xantia whether they might stay together. But the sneer on Xantia’s face had been answer enough. Goth knew he was no longer of any use to her; he wondered what use he may ever have been. His role as Chief Inquisitor had been dissolved and he had been marked for death; he no longer wielded any power. Xantia was a clever woman; she would have worked this out long before she helped him to escape, which meant she had another agenda, a better idea for his use. Not any more though, it appeared. Once she heard the Guards were coming, Xantia had warned him of their approach, told him she had arranged a berth for him on The Wasp, thrown a heavy purse at him and then simply disappeared.

Before he departed Caradoon, Goth had dragged himself to the apothecary. He knew he would not survive more than a day on the ship without something to counteract the effects of the stracca working itself out of his body. Armed with a supply of arraq, he had found his way onto the ship and then ordered that he be left totally alone. He knew the next few days would be filled with the greatest of pain whilst the stracca withdrew from his body. He had to pretend he was ill but the ruse had seemed to work. The stupid cabin boy had not cottoned on to his problem and the captain had hardly wanted a priest at his table.

Goth laughed his high-pitched giggle as he watched the activity taking place in the main courtyard below. If only he had known Gynt was on board The Wasp, he would have taken the opportunity to poison him. He could have disposed of the body by dropping it overboard; Gynt would have vanished without a trace.

Yesterday afternoon at the execution, he had been excited to see the Queen’s guards escorting Gynt from the amphitheatre gallery to the Queen’s box. He had believed the time had come once again for Gynt to die, but it was not so. It seemed that Sylven was interested only in humiliating him; she had tied some kind of leather band around the physic’s head. It must have a special significance for the Cipreans; Goth resolved to ask around to discover more, if he could find time.

His mind slid readily back to the grisly scene which had been carried out in the amphitheatre’s arena. He had thoroughly enjoyed watching Haryd meet his end, although he would have preferred the lad to die too, particularly as both Gynt and the crowd were on his side. A pity he had survived; a good bloodcurdling scream from a lad was always fun, but then again Haryd had issued something akin to a woman’s scream, which had caused Goth a rush of excitement. He had watched in fascination as the blade fell through the locks as cleanly as if they did not exist and then split Haryd’s body in two, cutting off his death shriek. Goth had never seen such a sight; he wished he could have got closer to view the man’s innards spilling onto the dust. He had joined in the crowd’s cheering and wished that they were celebrating the death of Torkyn Gynt.

Goth desperately hoped that the Queen of Cipres could be persuaded that his expertise as former Chief Inquisitor was useful. If he could win her support, he would enjoy the benefits of her influence and be able to indulge himself with the lifestyle he craved. Most importantly, a position at the royal court of Cipres would provide him with the means to create havoc in Tallinor and perhaps even the power to kill Torkyn Gynt, should he remain out of favour with her majesty.

Then, after ending Gynt’s life, he would devise a plan to re-enter that of Alyssandra Qyn. It may take him years but he did not care; he would see her again and revel in that fear on her lovely face. Goth barely understood his fascination with the woman. She was such a delicate thing and yet she commanded his attention. Those large searching eyes and that fragile body. He hurt her all those years ago but he had not managed to break her. The time spent smoking the stracca had given him insight. He realised he had handled her wrongly. She was not the kind of woman to be seduced by power. She would never be ruled by anyone and certainly not by fear. Alyssa would rather die fighting than submit herself to him. The vision of her struggling against him inspired Goth and he fed off it during his dark days and nights in Caradoon. But now he concluded that Alyssa too must die and by his hand, for it was she who had sentenced him to death in Tal’s Great Hall.

Goth remembered how he had tracked down Gynt and Alyssa to the centre of the Great Forest. He had arrived in time to see her newborn baby’s corpse in its shallow grave. He had kicked at the leaves covering it and laughed at her grief. Was that the moment she had hated him most? Yes, he decided. Not even the rape could compare to a mother’s wrath. He giggled again. He would relish the opportunity to end her sad and miserable life.

A familiar figure, tall and gracious, appeared in the courtyard and dragged Goth’s mind away from his dark thoughts. He was shocked to see Gynt smiling and chatting with the Queen’s servants, particularly the one Goth hated most, the wretched Hela. Surely Gynt had not been given his freedom? Yesterday’s investigations had revealed that the physic was cooling his heels in her majesty’s dungeons. What could have happened to make her change her mind?

He watched with loathing as Tor helped Queen Sylven into her carriage, kissing her hand before climbing onto a horse to ride alongside. The royal party comprised many carts and beasts, maids, supplies and even that stupid boy, Ryk, whom Goth remembered from the ship. What was he doing at the palace?

There were too many questions to which Goth didn’t have answers. Why had Gynt been travelling to Cipres in the first place? He had to find out. He could not be left to stew like this. If his plans were to work, he had to be close to the Queen.

Goth put his fluid mind to work, running along a number of paths, rejecting some and turning back to others, testing each of them for potential. He needed to follow the royal party, but he could not risk being recognised by Gynt. And yet, if he was going to kill him, he had to get close enough to do it. How?

Goth watched the carriages move off. He was not worried that they were leaving without him; there would be supply carts still to follow the main party so he could travel with those. Right now his problem was the danger of being recognised.

‘I need a disguise,’ he muttered aloud. ‘But what?’ he asked the walls of his chamber.

He turned to watch the procession once more, his eyes following the last of the carriages out of the main courtyard. His attention was caught by a black veiled figure, holding her robes up slightly so she could move freely and quickly about the yard below.

And then it hit him.

Sylven insisted that she and her personal serving staff never ventured beyond the palace walls without a veil. In addition, her women always wore full black robes outside the royal chambers.

It could work.