Ersili, fussing with Anatole’s tunic, counseled, “Make your speech, husband, and worry not of all the rest. Already Cullick moves to buoy its sentiments.”
“What do you mean?” Something Ibin had mentioned the night before unnerved him.
“Ser Darrow rides with Imperial decree already, to see justice served. It will force Cullick’s hand.” Content at last, she leaned back from her handiwork, and smile broadly. “Keep your manners before the crowd, children. And thus, Leo, the man will no longer be the player, but the played.”
Darrow. The name rang true. He sank to hear it. So she had sent the man without his own knowing. Already she played the game, and he had not even known it was afoot. Yet, no—even this, he would not let it ruin this day! Such scheming, yes, it would only aid them in the end. Force his hand, well—let it be so. He was ready.
The carriage halted all at once it seemed, and the Master of the Rolls was calling out, “Make way, make way.” His wife’s hand was in his, and the world seemed to come alive with sound as the guardsmen bared the door to him—and him, to the world. At the top of the steps, destiny waited beside a rotund priest, and it no longer wore a whore’s face.
An uncle. A lion. A spirit. Children seemed to dance the lines between the lot, and as he rose to greet the sun, the crown perched heavy atop his head, he had to wonder which threat they would shy from, and which they would embrace.
* *
Charlotte winced with the rest of the room as a loud crack split Boyce’s placating tone in twain. To the spymaster’s credit, he did not let it unman him. He only stumbled a step, and let it turn his eyes to the floor.
Letters had preceded the man. Riders as well. One by one the flies buzzed through the web, shocked to discover the spider had only carved the illusive outlines of its figure—the base had snapped clean through, and all the threads come tumbling with it. Boyce was their little spider, and he was tumbling through the air without a perch to latch onto.
In Idasia, as in all civilized nations, there were few greater crimes to be found than treason against one’s liege lord, for treason was not truly a crime against one man, but all that man embodied. For a king, that meant the betrayer had unsettled an entire nation. The punishment was, however, left to the lord in question: a gamut of tortures over the course of which a man was disemboweled, racked, and inevitably hung, or at his discretion, a simple beheading. Already they had dreaded the word of Darrow’s death. Now this.
Her father rather prized his head, as she so prized her own, but the fact was that their new emperor now clamored for it, and after all of this, he would do so with all the backing of the Electors’ and Lord’s councils.
“Shall I read you the charges, Boyce?” It was not a question. Not really. The spymaster was too well-acquainted with his master to answer. Walthere raged on regardless, rattling the parchment in Boyce’s downcast face. “This scoundrel is hereby branded outlaw in the lands of Idasia, his lands forfeit, his countenance stripped, for the attempted abduction and murder of Her Most Royal Highness, the princess Rosamine. Plotting against His Majesty, imprisonment of the Royal Mother, and—oh, yes—the dastardly manipulation and dedication of His Most High Personage, the little prince Lothen, his own god-son, to his own seed, for the forced betterment of his own dastardly person.”
The man seethed, red-faced, ending his tirade by crumbling the notice and bouncing it off Boyce’s face. “Is that all?” he hissed thereafter, plodding out each word with a pointed snarl.
It was a black temper, made all the more terrifying by how dreadfully unlike Walthere it was. Call the lion what you will, he is a snake at heart, accustomed to barbs and plots so deep his own hands might never touch the shit. Now it was up to his neck. As it was for them all.
Empress-in-Waiting. Traitor-in-Waiting. The one costs the mind. The other the head. She shifted her eyes to the floor with swift grace as her father’s furious gaze swept over the rest of them. Is there any proper way the coin can fall?
When her father twisted on poor old Ser Luiginw, Charlotte took the moment to weigh the other men’s gazes. She was the only woman here, of course—the rest were the inner council, Walthere’s most vaunted advisors and confidantes. And of the baker’s dozen hosted in these chambers, only two would not shy from her father’s rage: her uncle Maynard, and the hauntingly hollow, sour-smelling specter of Baron Koenraad, a man so dreadfully jaundiced he looked more than half again his own age. The rest were a gaggle of knights and lords in their finest threads and at the peak of life—and not a one that had ever encountered a proper taste of war.
“…Idiots. All of you. And you, Boyce, do not think this is through with you,” Walthere growled suddenly, rounding on his man. “How many dead?”
“Five in all,” the spymaster answered swiftly, but demurely. “Our man with the blade, the three that aided him, and…a stable boy.” He shifted uncomfortably, and dared to raise his eyes when he felt the questions in the rest. “Apparently bribed, to saddle a horse for our man.”
“And Lord Iggersohn? He escapes this?”
Boyce shifted, not meeting his master’s eyes. “By my accounting, I should dare to guess he was the one that sold us out.”
Walthere’s mouth opened, but no words came out, and gradually, it fell shut again as the veins blossomed across his features. His fists clenched and he swung away, beginning to pace.
“A fine mess. Fine mess indeed. The Old Guard will rally to that southerner’s tongue, and hang us all for traitors. Sure enough, he’s already set messages to his dogs in Ravonno. Mark me on that. And what of the Empress? Think of what will become of her when word reaches. Beside herself, I tell you all, to know we shall never have her daughter now. For I tell you true, we will not. After this, there will never be lax in her keeping. Civil war. Now. As the planting season arrives. And that Mauritz, he’ll burn us all out, you mark my words…”
Walthere’s mind was racing almost as fast as his words. Charlotte was not the only one dizzied by the procession, nor, from the looks she saw exchanged, the only one worried by it. These were the moments that made her father appear quite human, as only rage could carry him. It was rare, but the higher his heckles raised, the more he unmanned himself.
Panic. It was not a color any man wore well. Least of all a delicate schemer like her father. Worst of all was the fact that it was not without reason.
Their spies, such that they were, reported the Lord’s Council was in session, meeting not with the Emperor but with his wife. Charlotte, as all the others, was unsure what to make of that. A frivolous, disinterested emperor, or a strong empress? They knew too little to answer in certainties.
Likewise, Walthere had attempted to call the electors together—for bribes, most like—but of course they had refused. Duke Rusthöffen had kindly reminded him the electors met only at the pleasure of the crown, while one still kept a breathing head. Dukes Urtz and Turgitz both were already removed for the capital, with full trains, and the rest of the counts palatine were simply gutless. They saw where the wind blew and dared not sail against it. Theirs were positions given by the pleasure of the crown—they would not shake its bounty.
And looming over everything was the very poignant reality that no one, no one could fight at full strength now. The nation was sapped, its armies scattered, its stock of men depleted. Many lesser lords were left with their household guard, and only just. Many were already relying on sellswords to keep order afoot, or even on the old and the lamed of their lands—the men to which war no longer held attraction.
At last, Maynard inserted himself calmly into the otherwise one-sided discussion. “You speak of things not yet come to pass, brother. They will rally. They can field armies. They intend to descend on us like moths to the flame. But what is certain is that these things take time, especially now.”
Similarly, Baron Koenraad took up Maynard’s banner and came to his defense. “Think, my lord count. Your brother speaks it true, and you said it yourself: it’s plant
ing season. What army will come willingly to the field now? What army is left? So many now walk the roads of Effise. Theirs, as well as our own. But theirs,” he winced to chance a smile, “more so than ours.”
And what were they to make of whispers that the Bastard’s army stirred back on them all? Oh, all knew the rumors by now. They hung, even here, as a pall above the room. They could call it distant, and play as though it might never chance their way, but it was a fool’s thing to do. Another contender, at the least.
A civil war could well prove a war of many fronts, and not all the players or reasons were even clear. Muddled. It was all so muddled. Mark it, she thought with distaste. This is a war that will be fought on foreign backs—or women’s.
A moment’s span carried her into thoughts of the Old Gods, the hushed memories from the days beyond walls and crowns. Of the Huntress, in particular, whose women once tussled their hair and drew steel beside their brothers in Her name. Funny, but she pictured herself in that goddess’s shape.
Perhaps she would commission a portrait. It would be good for a future empress. After all, even the Church had long declared those gods mere aspects of Assal. Let her form be as an avatar. She was only holding faith.
Yet some lacked such conviction.
“But not all, lords. Lievklaus’s already leant support.” Ser Kobulle was to be the bearer of harsh reality, than. A broad man, red of cheek and poxed from an unfortunate youth, he seemed the odd man out to step from the whistling of the reeds. “Letters were barely out afore he and his were pecking at the borders. You know it’s the fields is all he covets, and he’s two hundred men already perched at that border. If it weren’t for Niediheide and the motte our lord Makt keeps there, I suspect they’d already have marched in to sort things out. They do, though, and that motte won’t hold them long, and there’s nothing else to stand those fields.”
Apparently, one brave soul was all that cowards required to find their tongues. “We need to levy the taxes now, my lord. The people will understand. Levy them now, and we’ll buy the swords we need before this so-called emperor might. We’ll shore up old walls, man the borders anew,” Lord Wielo chattered. Now there was a man as short of wit as hair.
“And from whom do you suppose to take these taxes? Already the people have been taxed; would you tax more of what they do not yet have? You take them, we lose the people. Lose the people, we already have lost the war,” replied the more sensible tones of young Amschel, Maynard’s own son. The youth practically scowled at Wielo as he did. “Reach out to them. Do as they have done. This is not about one person, but dynasties, nations, faiths. Do this, then concentrate our forces here.”
“And leave the borders?” Wielo snapped, aghast. “Did you suffer blows to your head, as well? How do you expect to shore up here without the food we provide, whelp?”
“And how do you—”
“Enough,” Maynard cut them both off with a look. The chill took them both to silence, but when it fixed on Amschel, Charlotte could practically feel her cousin shrink and did not envy him. Maynard, one-eyed and lame-legged though he was, still had a presence that could usher a room of armed men to silence. It was not a presence of violence, no, but something more—something more akin to the hunch in a wolf’s stride. Respect. Weight.
When he had the floor again, her uncle continued, “Children bicker. Men find answers.” He levied his heavy stare next on his brother, whom had lapsed into meaningful silence. Walthere had also ceased pacing, which Charlotte took as a hopeful sign.
“The men here are ready. We have prepared for months. I can have 1,500 afield within two octaves’ time, if it comes to that. More, with the calling of the banners, I’m sure. And already we’ve more than enough to scatter that rat, Lievklaus. But I would suggest we use the Empress,” and at this, the man swept the room once more, cutting off the protests that seemed to squeak like so many mice from the floorboards, “You have sent her south. Fine. Send her further still—we have but few friends there, but she has many. Give her a retinue. If not her, then Sara, but someone must go. The people love them both, and would heed another call to arms better from their lips than ours.”
Walthere was very still indeed. He stood looking out the window to the city and the plains below. The light made cruel shadows of his face, deepening the harsh lines time had already carved. His posture was not its high-handed, certain self. It was wearied, drooped, but still. There was something.
Talk helped to center Walthere. The sound of his own voice. The tribulations and tatting of others. It gave him focus, things to hone on and sift through, and in that winnowing, solutions. Tension gathered heavy at his shoulders, but he leaned back sharply, as if to let the whole matter roll off him, and he turned his attention squarely to her. He lifted a hand and waved it in a vaguely dismissive gesture.
“So it is, so it is.” He sighed heavily. “You are dutiful. As are you all. So now I tell it to you true, my lords, this is how it is.
“The prelate can call me what he will. I will walk the middle path, as ever. My lords, we are to call on nobles new and old in the days to come, and remind them of the trials ahead. To this familial guard, the voice of assurance: the Empress is not our prisoner, nor her son. Hells, keep them all riding, yet far from that sniveling little monk’s grip, and make her seen. Make her bless the people. Just make her seen.
“To our Farren friends, you put the fear of Assal in heart—this man is a zealot, a bigot from the south, and he marches not to damn me, but all the Faith. I am the symbol, the point he would use to break us all. Rally, damn them. And go north to do it. Our brothers litter the coast, and if we have them, we have already found that zealot three parts surrounded—his dogs are all massed in the south, or at his feet, on their knees. We are, both of us, isolated. Let us play it true.
“But care is ever the key, and I’ll not have this made a holy war—not on my head. Koenraad, sick your son on Ravonno. Put Fitz with him. I want someone at those courts that can assure the Patriarch we are goodly men of the Orthodox, each and everyone. Would much not be lost in civil war? Was it not we who paid for those most lavish statues in the Patriarch’s new garden? Yes, yes it was we.
“And Banur. Ah, to hells, to hells…my wife will be to that. If this is to be ill for me, we will gently remind her brother king how close his family is to the flames. And, of course, what he stands to gain if he takes to the banner. He’ll give us loans, if nothing else. Pawn what we didn’t mince out from the Matairs for a bit more—and kindly remind those who benefited from that endeavor that if it’s to be my head on a spike, that verdict and all its earnings is like enough to revert to the crown.
“For that matter, Luiginw, on your return I would have you dispatch a rider for our dear Witold post-haste, and remind that fool that his friendship is most valued in these troubled times…and that is why we so cherish his trust in allowing us to continue the warding of his own granddaughter.” He paused, and seemed as if to choke—but as it turned, it was only a gnarled chuckle. “At least those Matairs will be good for something.”
There was more to the rattle that followed, and Charlotte could see the lists unfolding in his subjects’ eyes. Tradesmen were to be reminded of the Cullick family’s patronage. The iron deposits in the south were to be jealously guarded, while seed was to be stocked. Bankers—those lowest of dealers—were to be hounded, be it for repayment or for loans anew. Riders for the streets, such that all the hamlets of Usteroy might know the trial to come. Letters for nobles. Horses from the ranches. Fresh water for the keep. And of course, the Springtide Festival would go on as before. He left nothing to chance when his thoughts began to stir. Paltry though some of his men may have been in spirit, there was not one there of lax mind. They would remember, or they would suffer for it.
The dismissal that followed was terse, but utter. Their lord gave them purpose and set them to it, and they went without question. Maynard lingered long enough to share a nod with his brother—there was more there, C
harlotte noted, than a lifetime of words could suffice—and then he swept down on his all but castrated son like an eagle to the kill, plucking him by the shoulder and nearly yanking him out the door.
Charlotte watched with some small pleasure, always eager to witness the subtle terror of her uncle’s fatherly rebuke. It was so unlike her own. To that end, she made as a cat, to pad softly after them, but all too abruptly found it her turn to be swept down on.
“And you,” Walthere whirled on her, as if to snatch her arm before she could scurry away. “I do not care if the girl is weak. I do not care if she is unstable. She has lain silent too long.” She tittered. So. Her lord father remembered their witch, then. She cast a long glance at the door. If only she had been quicker. His growl snapped her back.
“Rouse her from her thoughts and take her to heel. By month’s end I want that thrice-damned family so stricken the world shall wail at their passing, and lament a family utterly forsaken by the Holy Maker. Do you hear me, child?”
“I do not think—”
“Do not even start. It is this simple: she will kill for me, or she will be killed by me.” The indelicate bluntness of the matter took her off her edge. Her father never spoke to her—or anyone, for that matter—so keenly. “Even a sorceress sleeps, and I’ll have Boyce do her in the dark, I swear it so.”
Charlotte nodded, numbly, in her father’s wake. There was no standing up to it, there was only praying it did not drown her in its passing. A breath, a curtsy, and she fled the room with the rest, trying to ignore the eyes that stalked her flight. Finally, she realized in horror, she had found some understanding of their empress. They were all tools. It was Walthere’s lot merely to decide how he would wield them.
Chapter 11
He kissed me. An octave later, the fact had not changed, no matter how much Essa wished it so.
How to frame the tumultuous twists of the heart’s best intents? She wished to go to him, to set things right again—to that familiar, safe harbor that was their friendship—but as the hours turned to days, she shamed herself to admit that she hid from him. Not in the same manner a child might take to the trees, or a scorned woman to shuttered homes, for there was none of that here. Days were a march and nights were tents and familiar faces—faces Voren was now among. So instead she hid herself in plain sight, taking care to never be alone.
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