Lythor, Lumithar 24, 528 EK

  At the great-hall doors, Lythienne halted Kaelith. The corridor still held the scent of resin and fine cloth — the smell that clung to places of power. Her gaze travelled over the guard’s face with cold precision, not to find fault, but to ensure no shadow from the previous passage remained. She would not allow the tiniest gap that might grow into suspicion.

  Her fingers rose, almost touching Kaelith’s cheek. The motion stopped a heartbeat before skin met skin — close enough to make Kaelith’s breath catch, brief enough to read as correction rather than intimacy. “Straighten your shoulders,” Lythienne said softly. The tone was flat, almost gentle, yet saturated with command. Kaelith obeyed without a sound.

  Alaric passed them without looking back. His jaw tightened and his pace quickened a step. His glance flicked to Kaelith — sharp, assessing — before he opened the door and stepped inside. From within came Kaelric’s voice, light but authoritative: “Alaric, where is my queen?”

  Before Alaric could answer, Lythienne had already entered. The hall opened in its splendor: light fell across stone pillars, bounced from the polished floor in reflecting shadows. Kaelric sat on the throne, relaxed yet alert. Beside him, Ismeria — the Queen Mother — sat with a rigid back; her authority demanded attention without asking. Duke Theron stood a little behind, calm, as if part of the room’s architecture. Before them, a line of women stood — faces carefully made up, breaths synchronized, postures learned and rehearsed night after night.

  Lythienne went directly to her place beside the king. Kaelric rose a half-step and greeted her with a respectful kiss on the back of her hand. The faint wine breath from Kaelric brushed Lythienne’s senses, while the cold glint of the ring on his finger caught the corner of her eye — a small detail she noted, though her face gave nothing away.

  Alaric turned toward his mother. “Is something the matter, my son?” Ismeria asked, her palm smoothing Alaric’s cheek more appraising than comforting.

  “Nothing, Mother,” Alaric answered. He bowed his head slightly — respect, not submission.

  Lythienne let the silence do its work first. Then, plainly, she asked, “How far have you gotten? And who are they?”

  Theron looked to Alaric — this was Alaric’s initiative — but the prince only nodded, handing the floor over. “Allow me,” Theron said. “They are the chosen candidates for our spy network.”

  Lythienne’s gaze moved from face to face. The dresses were modest yet cut to catch the eye; cheap perfume disguised with floral oil; hands too steady for women standing before the crown. She inhaled sharply, fingers touching her temple in a small motion, as if weighing an unseen burden.

  “Two days,” she said flatly, “I gave you time to select and arrange. And this is the result.” Her look shifted to Alaric. “Why them? Explain your idea.”

  Kaelric gave a short laugh, a deliberate, sharp sneer. “Or maybe start with the one you favor most, little brother. The one who amuses you most.”

  The leftover tension made Alaric respond differently. He stepped forward and stopped before one of the women. “Her,” he said tersely. His hand rested on her arm — neither rough nor gentle, simply firm, like someone used to making decisions. He brought the woman closer to Lythienne.

  “You,” Alaric spoke in a low, clear voice, “tell us the whispers, the gossip, the secrets you have heard about Valterion.”

  The woman flinched. Her eyes darted to the palace guards and then to the floor. Fear ran through her in the way her shoulders tightened and her breath faltered. Alaric held his gaze — not to threaten, but to steady. He gave a small, almost invisible nod: you are safe.

  The woman swallowed. “In the servants’ corridors,” she said in a voice almost lost in the hall’s breadth, “we hear about shifts in the gold — shipments delayed, replaced with promises. Noblemen asking questions, and some bribing to learn who benefits.” She drew a breath; the scent of cold sweat mixed faintly with perfume. “And… there are unrecorded night meetings between old houses that were once loyal but now waver.”

  She faltered. Her lips trembled before the last sentence fell. “Names were mentioned, Your Majesty. Not in the hall. In private chambers.”

  “Enough.”

  Alaric’s voice cut through the air like a weight, closing off the space trembling from her confession. He looked to Lythienne — not defiant, but imploring to be heard. His jaw tightened; a faint pulse at his temple marked rapid thought.

  “They will make the best informants,” he said measuredly. “Where do soldiers go after war? Where do rumors begin? If you have a better suggestion, say it. But they —” he exhaled shortly, “—are the best I could find.”

  Lythienne rose. The chair scraped almost soundlessly, an action that made the line of women straighten. She moved closer to the woman who had spoken. The faint smell of fine metal and dried flowers from her robe swept the space between them.

  “Willing to die with your mouth shut?” Lythienne asked. The tone was low and cold — a question that required no quick answer.

  Silence. Even breathing seemed too loud.

  Lythienne turned a touch to Alaric. “Spies are trained to pry, not to wait,” she continued. “They are taught to seal their lips if caught. They accept death in exchange for information.” She addressed the woman again. “Your choice — can you do it?”

  She let the pause hang, then added without emotion, “If you can, I agree. If not — return to your former role.”

  Then Lythienne faced the whole line. “Whoever can perform this will no longer work merely as entertainers,” she said. “You will be Valterion’s spies. Ready for whatever waits in Thalasson. You will be paid handsomely.” Her stare hardened. “Those who cannot — leave now.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The words spread like chill. One by one, footsteps receded across the stone floor. Perfume mingled with fear-sweat. Faces that earlier had hardened began to crumble. Eventually — three women remained, backs straight, eyes lifted.

  Alaric exhaled a relieved breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He looked at Lythienne. “See. They can do it. Now we just choose the best.”

  He turned toward the throne. “Brother. Mother. Theron. What do you think? Shall we select now? Tomorrow logistics will be arranged, and they must depart for Thalasson.”

  Ismeria nodded slowly. Theron crossed his arms, silently in agreement. Kaelric gave a thin grin.

  “All right,” Alaric said to them. “We only need one spy so Thalasson is not suspicious. Now — tell me why you are the most suitable, not her.”

  One of the women opened her mouth. “I’m used to talking… gathering information for—”

  “Enough,” Lythienne cut in.

  Kaelric turned, surprised. “My queen, we—”

  “Allow me to explain,” Lythienne said, smooth but leaving no room for argument.

  She signaled to the guards. “Escort the three of them out. Wait outside. They will enter only when I call.”

  “Lythienne,” Ismeria interjected, voice calm but firm. “Do not decide alone.”

  “No, Mother,” Lythienne replied, looking straight ahead. “I will explain. After they are outside.”

  The guards moved. The three women were led out; their steps retreated, taking them away and leaving the hall with a new hush — a silence that signified the real decision had only just begun.

  Lythienne stepped half a pace forward. Her fingertip rested lightly on the arm of the chair; her nails made almost no sound, but it was enough to draw attention.

  “Listen,” she said. Her voice was calm and measured, like a blade being set down on a table. “We can pay these three women for accurate information. They are entertainers — precisely because of that we cannot guarantee every piece of information they bring is true, nor that they won’t lie.”

  The hall was quiet. No one interrupted. Even Kaelric restrained his usual smile. Lythienne noted that, inhaled shortly, and continued.

  “With three spies,” she went on, “we can sort truth from gossip. Thalasson has three towns. We will place each woman in a different town. They will not meet; they will not speak to each other. Every report we receive will be cross-checked, weighed, and tested.”

  She tilted her head slightly, gaze sharp yet patient. “Thus they do not merely carry whispers. They become instruments of verification.”

  “Agreed,” Kaelric said suddenly, leaning back on the throne, his voice light as if the decision carried no burden.

  Ismeria raised a hand slowly, the small motion enough to halt the flow of conversation. “Wait, child,” she said. “This makes sense. Yet long-term policy is not merely logic — it’s cost. Paying one woman for years can already be an expensive burn of gold. Three is worse.”

  She turned to Lythienne, her look sharp but not hostile. “One spy may be insufficient compared to three. And three may not equal ten. But the question remains: will the result be worth the gold we burn?”

  “We can afford it,” Kaelric interjected, slightly impatient. “Come now, Mother. We are Valterion.”

  “Precisely because we are Valterion,” Theron took over in a low, steady voice, “we must not make policy only because we can. We must ensure this is the best choice, not just the easiest.”

  “It’s a small sum,” Alaric said. He stepped forward half a pace. The smell of the leather of his sword scabbard and cold metal crept into the air. “And it’s worth it.”

  He paused, then looked at Lythienne. A subtle pulse at his jaw showed his mind was moving. “Lythienne is right. Better to burn a bit more gold for accurate information. Yes, they are not trained spies. They may lie, spread gossip.”

  Alaric raised his hands, fingers arranging an invisible board. “But if we have three, we prevent them from meeting. When two — or all three — bring the same news, we know it is not idle talk. It means something really occurred.”

  He nodded slightly toward Lythienne. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it? From the start I knew where your thinking led. That’s why I support sending all three.”

  Lythienne returned a slight nod. No wide smile — only the quiet acknowledgment that, for now, they were on the same page.

  Kaelric looked to his mother and to Theron. “Well? Is this the right decision, or do you have a better proposal?”

  Ismeria exhaled. The air left slowly, carrying the old-wood scent of the hall. “This is not a fully formed decision,” she said at last, “and it may end in waste. But we can afford it, and it increases the chance of success. In this situation… I agree.”

  Theron nodded. “Do it.”

  Lythienne gave a thin smile. She turned her head slightly. “Kaelith.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Kaelith answered at once.

  “Call the guards. Bring the three women back in.”

  Kaelith bowed briefly, without reply and without hesitation. He turned; his cloak whispered on the stone floor and he vanished through the door. A few seconds stretched — longer than they should have — before the great doors swung open again.

  The three women entered.

  Their steps were uneven. One too quick, one too slow, the last nearly tripping on her hem. Their faces were pale. Makeup masked fatigue but not fear — fear shone through their eyes. The cheap perfumes they wore no longer smelled pleasant; it mixed with cold sweat and panic.

  They stopped a few paces from the throne. None dared meet eyes.

  Kaelric rose — not in a grand gesture, nor hurriedly. He simply stood — and that was enough. The hall tightened. The air seemed to pull more tightly around everyone present.

  Kaelric’s gaze dropped to them, calm, weighing.

  “We have discussed whom we will pay,” he said. Not loud. Not harsh. “You three.”

  One of the women drew in a sharp breath she could not hold.

  “You will be Valterion’s spies,” Kaelric continued. “You will be separated. Each placed in different towns in Thalasson.”

  He turned his head slightly. “Theron.”

  Theron stepped forward. One step. His boots stopped exactly at an imaginary line separating crown from people.

  “You are now important people of Valterion,” he said plainly. “But your duty is no longer merely to entertain. You choose with whom you sleep — because your purpose is information.”

  Alaric added without looking at them, “Knights. Nobles. Great merchants. People who sit close to decisions.”

  Theron nodded. “If one night you fail to obtain a valuable target, you still serve ordinary guests.”

  Kaelric interjected lightly, “A woman who often refuses men is a woman who draws suspicion.”

  Theron continued, “You will no longer sell your bodies for small coins. We will pay you a wage. For each Valterion trade shipment — you receive payment.” He paused. “Useful new information — paid extra.”

  Ismeria added, “False information — not paid.”

  Theron closed, “When you arrive in Thalasson, you will be posted back to brothels. You work as usual. Whenever a Valterion comes — you pass the news.”

  Alaric stepped forward half a pace. “If you are caught, we will not come.” Silence pressed. “If you are tortured, we will not know. If you reveal your mouth — you die.” His gaze sharpened. “Those are the terms.”

  Theron ended, “Those are the conditions.”

  Kaelric looked at the three. “Now. Your answers.”

  The hush pulsed.

  The first woman swallowed. “I can do it.”

  The second nodded quickly. “I can.”

  The third closed her eyes a moment, then opened them. “I can.”

  Alaric breathed out softly. Ismeria studied them a long moment.

  Theron said briefly, “Good.”

  Lythienne finally spoke. “Tomorrow morning, you leave with the first supply convoy.” She turned slightly to Alaric. “Under Prince Alaric’s escort.”

  Kaelric added without emotion, “From now on, you speak only if we ask. You live as long as you are useful.” His look hardened. “Understood? You may go to the parlor.” He gave a small sign, and the guards moved in.

  The three women bowed shortly, then turned to follow their escort. Their steps were still stiff, as if their bodies had not yet caught up with the decision spoken aloud. The doors closed behind them, leaving the hall in a thinner hush — yet heavy still.

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  But simply reading and enjoying this tale is more than enough—I am already deeply grateful.