A Path to Coldness of Heart

by Glen Cook

  But there was nothing else to do.

  The more he considered the Bragi Ragnarson of recent years the less he liked the man—despite having been the man. Today’s Bragi had serious difficulty understanding choices made by yesterday’s Bragi.

  Back in what seemed antediluvian times Derel Prataxis had observed that power could warp and damage the most soundly grounded mind. Power was worse than opium. It twisted the mind and soul even more.

  A morning spent contemplating his self-debasement, while watching an orange and blood-red sunrise, fell apart around him. Mist appeared.

  He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not so soon, though the soon was an emotional age. It would be just a month or two in objective time

  He had not kept track. Counting the hours only sparked a dismal melancholy. What he could see from his windows suggested springtime.

  Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i followed Mist, then came two behemoths wearing badges identifying them as Imperial lifeguards.

  The visitors so startled Ragnarson that, at first, he retreated like a threatened animal. Then, finally, “Mist?”

  “Bragi.”

  He eyed Shih-ka’i and the bodyguards. The general wore his boar mask. Nothing could be read from his body language.

  “What’s going on? I thought I’d be in solitary forever.”

  “That was the plan. But things keep happening. I found myself unable to be so cruel as to deny you the news.”

  Something in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance suggested that he thought leaving the prisoner in ignorance would be the kinder cut.

  “Tell me what you think I need to know.”

  The natural observer inside marveled at his pretended calm.

  He had not looked into the eyes of another in so long. His heart pounded. His breathing grew heavier.

  The lifeguards moved up beside their mistress.

  Not a good sign. Why so much muscle? He was one out-of-shape, middle-aged man.

  The circumstances guaranteed that the news would be terrible.

  Mist said, “Kavelin has fallen further into chaos. Ingrid has imprisoned her cousin, the Duke. In Itaskia vultures are feeding on the Greyfells family corpse. Meantime, Inger has been abandoned by most of her Kaveliner supporters. They haven’t turned on her, they’ve just gone home. If she tried to call up an army it’s unlikely that anyone would show.”

  He did not care. The man who had loved Kavelin had been a fool who lived in an elder age.

  “Your daughter-in-law has lost most of her support, too, because she hasn’t done anything to help those who stood by her. By autumn it will be every man for himself. There won’t be a pretense of authority outside Vorgreberg.”

  “There is no way you can make me feel any worse or any more responsible. And I’m sure that isn’t the news you’ve brought to torment me. A collapse into a lawless Kavelin has been inevitable since I was dim enough to butt heads with Lord Ssu-ma.”

  “That was the political update. The real news is that Magden Norath is dead. The man who killed him seems to have been your friend Haroun.”

  “Haroun is dead.”

  “Quite probably true. But an eyewitness insists that the man wielding the knife was bin Yousif.”

  “That is a piece of news. If it’s true. It will rattle the world. But it’s insane. Where has Haroun been? Why? Why show himself now?”

  Ragnarson noted a slight adjustment in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance. The Tervola knew something. He would volunteer nothing, though.

  Mist said, “He didn’t announce himself. He was recognized. Maybe. He was one of several dozen derelicts living rough in a remote town. Megelin and Norath went there to meet the Star Rider. Haroun, if it was him, attacked so quickly and violently that the sorcerer had no chance to defend himself.”

  Ragnarson gaped. This was unbelievable. There had to be some error, most likely by the witness. Maybe he was the killer. Passing the blame to Haroun bin Yousif would make a great distraction. But Haroun was dead.

  “That feels like old news. In your world. There’s more, isn’t there? Something more personal and dark. Right?” He gestured. Four of them. Proof of his contention.

  “You’re right.”

  “Out with it, then.”

  “An assassin employed by Dane of Greyfells found your daughter-in-law’s band in the Tamerice Kapenrungs.”

  The floor seemed to go out from under Ragnarson.

  He could not speak. Too much emotion rose up after so many months of nothing but mild disappointments over his meals.

  “How bad was it?”

  “There was one casualty.”

  Ragnarson reddened. “Tell me!”

  The bodyguards stepped forward. The nearest looked eager. Bragi calmed himself. Explosive emotionalism had gotten him into this fix.

  These two would pluck him like a dead chicken.

  Mist said, “The assassin was supposed to wipe out the whole party.”

  Ragnarson’s vision began to go red. He growled. He leaned toward Mist.

  The blow came quicker than a blink. He sprawled against the side of a divan, head spinning. His left shoulder was dislocated. That side of his face felt as though it had been branded.

  Mist observed, “You are a slow study, Bragi. Let me explain this one more time. You prisoner. Me owner of prison.”

  Ragnarson groaned, worked himself into a sitting position. His head began to hurt. “I’m beginning to catch on. Please tell me what happened to my people.”

  “The assassin loosed one crossbow bolt, then vanished. We know that thanks to Varthlokkur. He informed us, presumably counting on us to pass it along.”

  Ragnarson barely suppressed the urge to demand that she tell him, now!

  “The initial target was your daughter-in-law but the bolt hit your leman instead.”

  “Sherilee?”

  “Yes. We won’t be able to bring her here after all.”

  “Sherilee.” In a hollow, lost child voice.

  The lifeguards readied themselves to deal with more bad behavior. But Ragnarson just melted. The concept of Sherilee with no life, going on ahead of him, was so alien that, though long experience had hardened him to the loss of comrades and loved ones, this touched him more deeply than had any but the deaths of his brother Haaken and his lover, Queen Fiana. He had visited Fiana’s grave frequently, up till the day he dragged Kavelin’s best off to their doom.

  After a dozen seconds of silence, Lord Ssu-ma suggested, “Perhaps we should step out for a moment.”

  “You go,” Mist told him. “You three. I’ll stay.”

  Nobody moved.

  Mist said, “I want you three up in the parapet. Varthlokkur is going to deliver that assassin here. Only the Darkness knows why. I’m at no risk here. This is a broken man.”

  No one moved.

  “Do execute your instructions before I become angry. And notify me when the captive arrives.”

  The edge on her voice convinced all three. As they went, though, Mist noted, Shih-ka’i dropped a tiny scroll behind a decorative vase on the small table a step to the right of the doorway. That would be a passive alarm meant to warn him if emotions grew overheated.

  Secretly, Mist was pleased.

  Bragi did not weep. He just sat there staring into infinity. Had he begun to think he was the philosopher’s stone of death for those who got too near him? That those who had died around him had done so only because they were near him? A solipsist conceit impossible to refute logically.

  Mist and Lord Ssu-ma had arrived soon after Ragnarson’s breakfast. The day was fading when the Tervola reported the arrival of the assassin. He found Mist settled on her knees two yards from Ragnarson, apparently watching the westerner sleep but probably meditating. Ragnarson lay on the divan.

  “The prisoner has arrived, Illustrious.”

  “Lord Ssu-ma? Was it the Unborn? Did it unsettle you that much?”

  “It was. It did. And that despite the horrors of the war with the Deliverer.”
<
br />   Mist said, “You do recall that the Deliverer was the grandson of the man who created the Unborn?”

  “I do.”

  Maybe he wished that he did not.

  Maybe Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i had begun to wish that he had not allowed himself to be seduced away from his quiet life as commander of the Demonstration Legion.

  “You would. You’re thorough. So, Lord Ssu-ma. What shall we do with this gift? What do you suppose the Deliverer’s grandfather had in mind?”

  “I couldn’t guess his motives, Illustrious. Surely the killer will know nothing useful, and I doubt that the Empire Destroyer would expect us to use his skills.”

  “Could we be expected to turn him over to Ragnarson?”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Then put him into an empty cell. But let me have a look at him first. Maybe I’m supposed to recognize him.”

  She did not.

  The captive was a gaunt, leathery man of advancing years who did not seem noteworthy at all. He was empty and maybe a little mad after his long flight from Tamerice.

  Mist directed that he be cleaned up. She did not want parasites colonizing her tower.

  ...

  In moments when he surfaced from grief Ragnarson realized that something was happening elsewhere in the tower. He heard what sounded like construction racket.

  He passed several days in communion with despair. He dwelt, to the point of obsession, on what a different world it would be had he just not led his army through the Savernake Gap.

  How many lives lost or ruined because of one fit of pride? And the full toll had yet to be paid. Sherilee was just the latest charge.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Bragi started. He had not heard Mist come in.

  “Better than before. How long have I been feeling sorry for myself?”

  “Five days.”

  “You’ve been hanging around that long?”

  “No. I’ve been attending my duties outside. Other duties brought me back. I thought I’d look in. You seem changed.”

  In a voice edged with wonder, Ragnarson said, “I think you’re right. I feel different. I’m not all boiling inside. It’s confusing, but I seem to have been stricken by clarity.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It’s almost like waking up after a long fever.”

  Mist considered him critically. “I hope so. You haven’t been you for a long time.”

  Ragnarson paced. This was not his caged animal in a rage pacing. This was slow and thoughtful. “I’m probably not myself now, either. Do people get struck sane by tragedy?”

  “Worthy thought. We’ll watch for a relapse. But do try to cling to the state you’re in now.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Unfortunately, you aren’t the reason for my being here. I just stopped to say hello.”

  “Well, thank you for that.”

  ...

  Mist went to the room that Shih-ka’i had remodeled. She looked around. “It looks good. Is that window big enough?”

  Shih-ka’i replied, “It is. You aren’t a large woman.”

  She snorted. A statement of fact, yes, but she was vain enough to take offense. She knew, though, that the pig farmer’s son would not understand even if she did explain.

  She asked, “Do you suppose he’s watching?”

  “I would be if I had dropped that man here and right away you started remodeling.”

  Mist heard an odd inflection there. “You have something on your mind?”

  “I do. But it’s not germane. We have this project on the table. Shall we begin?”

  Mist made another circuit of the room, which resembled Ragnarson’s, several levels below. It now had a larger window. She saw nothing to discourage her. “Have we unraveled the mystery of the attack on the tower yet?”

  “No. All paths lead to dead ends.”

  “Michael Trebilcock, then.”

  “Every prisoner here was high value and most had friends a lot closer than Kavelin.”

  “Could there be another raid while I’m involved in this?”

  “I don’t know about that. I do know that an assault will not succeed.”

  Mist stared at the expanded window. Was she ready emotionally?

  “My father and his brother made transfers without a receiving unit. Do you have any idea how they did that?”

  The inquiry took Shih-ka’i by surprise. “Illustrious? Is that true? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “I don’t know why it came to mind. I’ve never heard anything like that, either. But I just realized, both of them got into Varthlokkur’s fortress in the Dragon’s Teeth, then got themselves trapped and killed. How did they get there?”

  “Is that true?”

  Mist paused. Was it true? She had the story from several sources, none quite agreeing. Some claimed to have been there. None told her what really happened back when.

  “I suppose I’ll have to ask. Bring out the board.”

  ...

  Varthlokkur chuckled. So. The woman had been playing him with all the hustle and bustle. Though, of course, that had been in support of this.

  “Nepanthe. Come look.”

  Smyrena on her shoulder, Nepanthe came. She peered into the globe Varthlokkur was using. She saw Mist beside a large blackboard, smiling. Mist was dressed in masculine travel clothes. The board proclaimed, I am ready to come see my children in bold chalk lettering.

  Nepanthe asked, “Are you going to let her?”

  “What do you think? Can we trust her not to do something unpleasant?”

  Nepanthe considered. “She’ll behave as long as the children are with us.”

  “I imagine you’re right. So. Start getting ready but don’t tell them. She could change her mind. I don’t want their hearts broken.”

  Nepanthe put her arms around him, from behind, and kissed him on the right cheek.

  He blushed. She did not notice.

  He had longed for that sort of spontaneous affection across the ages.

  Nepanthe went away.

  Varthlokkur summoned the Unborn.

  ...

  Ragnarson wakened needing to use the garderobe. He did that more frequently lately. But that was a problem for old men. He was not old. Not yet. No.

  There was a moon out tonight. He lined it up so he could see it. It was living proof that there was a reality beyond his prison.

  Something the color of freshly watered blood occluded the moon. Ragnarson started. What the hell?

  That?

  Eyes old in evil stared for several seconds. Then the Unborn left.

  Ragnarson’s heart hammered. That had been a shock. What did it mean? Was a rescue under way?

  Nothing came of it. It was just something to haunt his thoughts. When he wakened next morning he was no longer sure the monster had not been a nightmare.

  ...

  The Unborn could do nothing but execute its orders. Varthlokkur had made sure of that when he bound the monster. But the evil in the beast would express itself.

  It tried tormenting the Empress, traveling to Fangdred, by dropping her, then catching her after a thousand feet of freefall. But she was no fun. She did not scream after the first surprise.

  Radeachar never felt the magic being woven. It discovered the truth the third time it tried a drop. The woman plunged in silence. There was no pleasure in that.

  There was pain aplenty, though. The farther she fell the worse that became.

  Radeachar was not capable of complex thought. It did possess a strong drive toward self-preservation. That kicked in fast. Thereafter it concentrated on completing its task as quick as could be.

  ...

  Fangdred boasted a small courtyard behind its gate. In the lowlands the world was easing into summer but winter hung on doggedly in the Dragon’s Teeth. Ice rimed Fangdred’s grey walls, inside and out. Black ice patched the grey pavements of the court. Mist slipped almost as soon as the Unborn set her down. She cursed. That
inelegance was not flattering.

  She grumbled about the cold, too. She had not anticipated the difference in weather, nor the impact of the increased altitude.

  Varthlokkur, Nepanthe, Scalza, and Ekaterina came out to meet her. The children stared as though she was some fabulous beast. They did not run to her. In fact, Ekaterina retreated behind Nepanthe, peeked around with one eye, as though she was a shy four.

  Loss shoved a talon into the gut of the most powerful woman in the world. It ripped.

  She could quash an empire of a hundred million souls but could not hold the love of her children.

  Heading their way, stepping carefully, she reminded herself that she had not been much of a mother before she went back to the Empire. Not by the standards of workaday folk on whose backs businesses, nations, and empires were built.

  The four withdrew into the warmth as Mist joined them. Scalza was the perfect soldier. He bowed deeply and said, “We bid you welcome, Mother.” There was no affection in his voice.

  Ekaterina stammered something, then hid behind Nepanthe again. Nepanthe and Varthlokkur both seemed surprised, which suggested that Ekaterina was, usually, much more bold.

  Nepanthe said, “Dinner is being set. If you need to refresh yourself first…”

  “I do.”

  A servant showed Mist the way to quarters already prepared. The woman pretended to have no languages in common with the Dread Empress.

  Nepanthe’s own children were with their mother when Mist arrived for dinner. The infant sprawled on her mother’s left shoulder, asleep. Ethrian sat to Nepanthe’s right. His eyes were vacant.

  Hard to believe that he had threatened the existence of the Empire.

  Uncomfortably conscious of Varthlokkur, Mist focused on Nepanthe. Her sister-in-law. Valther’s little sister. Nepanthe signified most in this domestic drama.

  Varthlokkur would be the referee.

  Servants brought simple fare, as was to be expected in a dreary castle in the most remote of mountains. Dining proceeded lugubriously, silence broken mainly by Nepanthe as she delivered gentle instruction to Ethrian. “Eat your turnips, Ethrian. They’ll help you get better. Good boy, Ethrian. Take your finger out of your nose, Ethrian.” And so on, with the boy always mechanically responsive.