Many times the king had asked the episkopos what he desired, to which Bernardo had always answered, “Only to serve,” and every time a gift had been offered, Bernardo had declined it.
In truth, the gift came the other way; it was the cleric who gave the ruler what he most craved: Bernardo listened. No matter how preposterous or deranged Lodavico’s rant, Bernardo listened, and the king needed this indulgence.
After Bernardo had spent almost two years on Lodavico’s council, the monarch had come to view him as the only being on all of Garn who didn’t hate him, fear him, or want anything from him, the only one who truly cared for his well-being. In short, Lodavico had decided that Bernardo was his only friend.
And this was when the manipulation had begun.
Over the last twenty years Bernardo had contrived to get rid of anyone who might prove an obstacle to his control of the king—a timely accident, an assignment to a particularly dangerous frontier post, a sudden illness. A great deal of patience had brought the cleric to almost complete mastery over the most powerful kingdom in North Tembria.
Bernardo could finally see his goal on the horizon: the Church’s control of Sandura, and his control of the Church. These two aims were intertwined, and he knew the closer he got to his goal, the more his deadliest foe would be his own impatience.
Should the cathedral under construction next to the king’s castle be completed in his lifetime, Bernardo already had plans to annex this monstrosity of a castle to it, tearing down walls, replacing dark corridors with passages of light, ancient dark stone with massive windows of the finest glass. He knew that would be completed years after he had left this existence but was content that whoever he appointed to follow him would share that view. When the Church was supreme, ruling over all Garn, there would be no need for castles, fortresses, or armies.
His plan extended beyond his own lifetime, which was more of a vainglorious desire to be remembered in the Church than for any personal gain. The rulers of Sandura would be so submerged in the culture of the Church that they would not realize this.
He heard the faintest rustle behind him and knew he was no longer alone. Only a handful of men could move that quietly and of those only one would dare approach him unbidden. Without looking around he asked, “What news, Belli?”
Marco Belli, Bernardo’s most trusted and deadliest servant, spoke softly. “More rumors from the west.”
“Marquensas?”
“Yes.”
Bernardo turned to face him. Marco Belli, known as “Piccolo” for obscure reasons, stood motionless before his master. He was a smaller man than Bernardo, but of average height, wiry and agile. Belli’s eyes were his most deceiving feature, for he could look innocent, or jovial, even while planning how best to kill you. He sported a red cap with a hawk’s feather, a dark blue tunic, and leather leggings. At his side hung a short sword, but Bernardo knew he was an expert in many other weapons. Piccolo was the only man the cleric fully trusted and would permit in his presence alone and armed.
“Tell me about Marquensas,” said Bernardo as he reseated himself.
“For months now a town in the north of the barony, Beran’s Hill, has been very busy.”
“This I know,” said the cleric. “Rumors, little more.”
Piccolo nodded. “True, but persistent rumors, Your Eminence.” He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “There is no pattern, nor is there any one item worthy of serious consideration, but in total . . .”
“A design?”
“Not apparently, but . . . something is taking shape. Though if someone is behind it, it isn’t obvious.”
Bernardo nodded. “Something is going on in that town.” He also organized his thoughts before adding, “It’s where Lodavico and I expect the lure to be. If Baron Daylon expects Sandura’s attack, with Copper Hills’s aid, he could trap Lodavico’s forces there.”
“Lose the town, but win the war,” agreed Piccolo.
“Exactly. Lodavico loses a huge number of his military, enrages allies expecting an easy victory, and convinces others of Sandura’s perfidy when whatever excuse Lodavico dreams up is exposed as a lie, so it’s a victory both militarily and politically. At worst, Sandura is wounded and weakened, perhaps enough for old enmity to rise and former allies to turn on Lodavico. At best, Dumarch has allies ready and launches a counteroffensive . . .” He spread his hands slowly and moved them outward, as if wiping away game pieces from a table. “. . . leaves Sandura much as Lodavico left Ithrace . . .” Bernardo let out an audible sigh. “And that we cannot have.”
Piccolo glanced around the dark room. “Can’t say I’d miss this castle.”
“On that we agree. But when the cathedral is finished and blessed it will be the seat of the Church’s power in the twin continents. And that must be protected.
“This war is inevitable, given our king’s obsession with all things related to the fall of Ithrace. Even the suggestion that Daylon Dumarch is becoming the next King of Fire . . .” Bernardo paused. “I have little problem with them making war on each other. I just wish it to be on my terms, at a time of my choosing. Remember, the perfect plan executed at the wrong time has another name.”
Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “A disaster?”
Bernardo chuckled. Piccolo was as lethal an agent as he could have wished for, but he was also clever and occasionally amusing. “Yes.”
Piccolo nodded; then he asked, “Do you wish me to go?”
“I do not; I would rather keep you here, but I think there is a need. We have rumors of odd comings and goings. The agents of Coaltachin are apparently poking around, and they have no business we know of that far west. I’ve also received reports of . . . those who are best kept under watch.”
“The Azhante?”
“I still employ their services. They are not a risk . . . yet. They are the ones sending me intelligence.”
“Whom do they suspect?”
As if fearful of saying the name too loudly, Bernardo almost whispered, “The Flame Guard.”
Piccolo’s shoulders dropped slightly. “Is there no end to them?”
“Apparently not. Most we killed or captured when Ithrace fell. But . . .” He moved his hand again, this time in a vague sweeping gesture, wiggling his fingers. “Some seem to have been carried away on the wind.”
“A few,” observed Piccolo.
“But with . . . magic. Power. Whatever you wish to label it.” Bernardo remained silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose there are any reports of a young man or woman with copper-and-gold hair, by chance?”
Piccolo shook his head. “Even if there were, that doesn’t make them true. A Firemane heir conveniently landing in Marquensas, or even more so in Beran’s Hill, would spur Lodavico to act rashly, I would wager. Even your influence would barely slow him. If that rumor suddenly sprouted up, it very well might be Dumarch’s lure.”
“Yes, agreed.” Bernardo’s brow furrowed slightly. Then he said, “Not if we move first and look for the man or woman. Ensure the rumors are false.”
“So, I should leave now?”
“Yes.” Bernardo stood up. “Go, take a thorough look, then return with haste. I need to know if any of the rumors are true.”
“If they are?”
“Do nothing. Observe, then come back and we shall consider our position. Send word by pigeon and courier, stating clearly the time you will arrive outside Beran’s Hill. Take an armed escort, but look as if you’re traveling mercenaries, then meet our agent outside the town; whoever arrives first must wait for the other. I’ll leave it to you to work out the details. Now go.” He made a dismissive gesture, hand held fingers downward, then a flip up toward the door.
Piccolo bowed and slipped through the hidden doorway. Bernardo was always slightly amused at his agent’s use of ancient passages not known even to the king.
Alone again, he put his mind to matters of the day. In the end the Church would rule Sandura and he would rule the Churc
h, but until that time, he was His Most Holy Majesty’s loyal adviser. It was time to go and advise. Or at least sit feigning attention while watching a bored man pose for a portrait. And ponder this persistent rumor about a man or woman with copper-and-gold hair in a small town half a world away.
1
Hunting and an Unexpected Encounter
The sound of a twig cracking underfoot made the deer’s head jerk upright from grazing, its ears moving as it looked around, seeking the source of the noise. Its nostrils flared as it tested the wind.
Hava froze, her bow halfway to a ready position, not wishing to startle the young buck. After a moment of sniffing the air, the deer started to wander away. Hava stole a glance at Molly Bowman, who looked back at Hava and, with an inclination of her head, indicated she would move off to her right, then, with her lifted chin, communicated that Hava should keep stalking the deer.
All this was new to the girl from Coaltachin: her home islands had no forests like this. Here the trees were so much bigger; the boles were massive compared with the smaller pines, balsams, and fir trees that littered the relatively small mountains on the islands. The lowlands had been cleared centuries earlier for farms and orchards.
She wended her way between massive oaks, while avoiding the sprawling beech trees and their multiple roots and low-hanging branches. Hava understood how easy it would be to get lost. This area, with its interlinked forests, woodlands, small hills with dells, and dead-end canyons, was called the Wild Lands and had once been a haven to savage tribes and outlaws. While the western half of the region was relatively peaceful, due to the Dumarch family’s pacification of their demesne over generations, it was still a very wild place to navigate. To a girl raised in tiny villages and schools on small islands, it was a veritable maze filled with potentially lethal traps. Navigating was hard: she couldn’t see the sun, and the shadows were confusing. All the tricks she knew for how to find her way from place to place in cities were useless in the densest forest she’d ever encountered.
Even the smells were different. There was a damp earthiness overlaid with something that was almost familiar, something like sandalwood, but not. Another floral note teased her, almost apple or pear, but not. The alien quality of this place both intrigued and intimidated her.
The deer started to drift away, and Hava glanced over to see that Molly was already moving. Hava tried to follow the deer as silently as possible, painfully aware that compared with Molly she was making enough noise to scare away half the wildlife in the forest.
Hava liked Molly. Of all the young women she had met since arriving at Beran’s Hill, Molly was by far the most interesting. The others were much as she expected from her own experiences with town girls while traveling, as well as the girls she had known at home, people caught up in their day-to-day tedium, living predictable lives. They served their families, then got married, moved out, and served their husbands. Or served many men as barmaids, shopgirls, or whores.
Though Hava was not yet twenty years of age, she’d traveled, learned to sail, killed a man with a rock, and seen things these women couldn’t dream of, let alone attempt. She had observed their relationships over the years, but they had no meaning to her personally. The hardest thing for Hava to understand was their blind acceptance of such an ordinary existence.
When Hava left her father’s house and joined the class at Master Facaria’s school, she had been just another student, one who excelled, but unlike the town and farm girls she had met, she was her own person, not someone’s daughter or wife.
Molly, too, was different, and she knew some things better than Hava did. Hava might be able to negotiate a dark alley and remain unseen, or enter a house without noise, but she was little more than an awkward child in this forest. She wasn’t even certain how she would get back to the town if Molly wasn’t there.
Then Hava realized Molly wasn’t there. A tiny pang of concern twinged in the pit of her stomach: the first hint of fear. It needed to be ignored, lest it lead to panic. Immediately she employed part of her childhood training to prevent her imagination from running wild and leading her into poor choices.
She took stock of her position. What would she do in a city? She started looking for anything that made this location unique. All she saw were trees! A chiding voice from her memory echoed, from a crew boss named Hilsbek, “You look, but you do not see. Learn to see!”
Again she surveyed her surroundings and saw there was one tree with deep scratches in the bark at chest height, as if someone had used a blade or saw on it and then stopped. To the left of that tree was a stump, perhaps from timber felling, or a diseased tree falling, she didn’t know, but it was old, covered in some sort of vine.
Quickly she inventoried more details: a small outcropping of rocks to her right, a half-broken bough hanging from a large spread of branches forming a sort of canopy behind her. After a moment, she had confidence that should she return, she’d recognize this spot.
She turned around, and was making every detail indelible in her mind, when she heard Molly say, “You coming?”
Looking toward the source of the voice, she could barely make out Molly between two trees growing close together. Hava jogged forward, circling the trees, then saw a hint of movement behind Molly.
Without hesitation, Hava drew and shot, sending a shaft past Molly’s neck. The sound of the arrow striking and a slight grunt was followed by silence. Molly didn’t flinch or even show surprise, but turned to see what Hava had loosed at.
Molly looked back at Hava. “I hope what you saw was a deer and not some fool wearing a deerskin jerkin!”
Hava smiled. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
She moved purposefully through the trees, pausing a couple of times to circumnavigate barriers of brush and tree trunks. Reaching the fallen animal, she knelt and saw it was still alive but motionless in shock, breathing rapidly and shallowly.
Molly knelt next to Hava and with a quick movement slit the deer’s throat. “Best to put it out of its misery.” Sitting back on her heels, she added, “Good shot.” She glanced back. “You had maybe a foot of sight, through five, six trees?”
“I saw movement and took the shot,” Hava said with a shrug.
Molly slid her pack off her shoulder and took out a large sack. “Waste nothing,” she said to Hava, unfolding the sack. Then she drew a light rope out of the pack and in moments had the deer hanging from a branch. Gutting the animal, she gathered the offal into the sack and tied it off. She handed the bag to Hava. “Someone might want the liver or kidneys for pie, and Jarman will give me a few coppers for the rest for his hogs.”
“What about skinning it?” asked Hava.
“When we get back to town.” Molly cut down the deer and with Hava’s help—though Hava thought Molly hardly needed it—she shouldered the carcass easily.
As Hava picked up the bag, Molly said, “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
Falling into the almost unthinking default of lying about her past, Hava said, “My father taught us all. I was the oldest, so I had more time to learn.” She paused, then added, “We all learned.”
Molly said nothing for a few paces, then asked, “You didn’t hunt much, did you?”
“A bit,” replied Hava quickly, seeing where the conversation was heading. “It’s different where I’m from. We don’t have forests like these.”
“Oh?” Molly sounded curious.
“My family lived on an island . . .” Hava let the thought trail off as she quickly realized she didn’t know if Molly had met Master Bodai when he passed through Beran’s Hill in the role of a horse trader. That had been before Hava and Hatu returned to purchase the burned-out inn Hatu was working at restoring while Hava hunted with Molly. The story then was that her “father” was a horse trader.
Hava resumed her story, making a mental note to speak with Hatu when they were alone so they could reconcile their false past history. “The island was small, but pirates and raiders came close so
metimes. We had little of worth, so they rarely troubled us, but occasionally they would take food and, if they could, prisoners they could rape or sell to slavers.
“So we all learned the bow. We’d grab what we could and head up into the hills, leaving behind enough for the raiders so they wouldn’t risk following us. Everyone in my village did this.”
Molly glanced at Hava. “I was curious, because you’re a very good—or lucky—archer, but you seem completely lost in the forest.”
“We left the island when I was young,” said Hava, which was close to the truth. She had been barely seven years of age when she was sent to Facaria’s school. “Trading horses . . . you need to be able to defend yourself. Father didn’t like paying for guards . . .” She shrugged as she let the explanation drop. One thing she had been taught in her training was not to volunteer too much information; it made keeping a false story consistent more difficult. She switched topics. “I admit I had just lost sight of you for a moment and was wondering how to get back to town.”
“Most girls from town would get lost quickly . . . and a fair number of the boys, too.
“I was an only child, so my father took me hunting, despite my mother being furious. I tried to learn the things my mother wanted to teach me, cooking, baking, and all that.”
Hava fell into stride with her as Molly went on. “I learned some of it. I can bake simple bread, cook a bit. I can’t make . . . whatever they call that fruit . . . preserves, yes; I can’t get that right. I recently opened a jar I’d stored away and it was nasty.” She chuckled ruefully. “I never realized how much my mother knew until after she died.”
Hava reflected on that for a moment, realizing she’d never thought much about her own mother, a woman constantly beset by the demands of four younger siblings when Hava left. As a child, Hava had taken her mother’s efforts for granted. Then when she was at the school, those needs were met by the matrons, from wiping noses and bottoms to tending cuts and bruises, to occasionally comforting a crying child, until such time as the children learned not to cry.
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