As Kane listened he watched four crows land on the stone railing of another tower balcony. He knew one was Fren, from the white fleck on her left wing. But he’d never seen her in company before, and the sight made him uneasy. He was also musing over the glaring contradiction in what the Archbishop was saying. Then there was the rather amusing detail that all this discussion about Danielle was really quite meaningless. If Fren was true to her word, and he had no doubt that she would be, Arkaelyon’s beloved princess would very likely be dead before any vote was needed in General Council. Of course, it would be a terrible accident that took her life—at least that’s what Kane suspected Fren had planned.
When the Archbishop finished, Kane suppressed his amusement and said, “If our squeamish nobles are fearful of a little blood on the throne room floor, I can’t help but wonder how they will respond when it’s announced that their new high king intends to disregard the Amthenium Treaty and lead the realm into war?”
“When they hear that Amthenium will fall without a sword being drawn and the captured lands divided up among any who swear their banners to the cause, I expect they’ll respond well enough.” The Archbishop stopped and lifted a frown at the darkening sky as a few drops of rain began to fall. “Come with me, I want to show you something Kane.”
A short stroll through the interior of the penthouse brought them to the Archbishop’s dayroom. A fire crackled in the stone hearth at the far end of the chamber, and the Lady Winters sat in a soft chair, her back to them, seemingly lost in a book. It was no surprise when she did not rise to greet them. Kane had instantly disliked this woman from their first meeting almost a year ago. Why exactly, he wasn’t sure. Though he suspected her looks had something to do with it. They were too similar to his sisters. But one thing was certain: the animosity was mutually felt.
“Bianca, my dear, if you would refresh our glasses with wine? There’s a good lass,” the Archbishop said on his way to his bureau. Slipping open a bottom drawer, he retrieved a small glass vial.
“Let me guess: poison?” Kane said.
“I’d happily mix some into your wine if you wish, Milord,” Bianca said as she approached with a jug in hand and without a semblance of mirth in her face.
The Archbishop grimaced a little with embarrassment and annoyance. “You’ll have to forgive the Lady Winters—she has had a trying day.”
“Yes, I’ll bet she has. Enjoy my hospitality this morning, did you, madam?”
“Not willingly, I assure you, Milord.”
“Bianca, that’s enough,” the Archbishop warned.
Watching her refill his glass, Kane wondered fleetingly what it would be like to bed her—such fire and resistance. She was strikingly handsome, and it seemed such a waste that the old vulture should have her to himself.
Her chin came up, and her rebellious blue eyes flashed at them. “Now, if there is nothing else, my lords?”
“Not at this moment, but be ready when I call,” the Archbishop said coolly. As she curtsied and returned to her chair by the fire, he added, “Oh, and Bianca, I don’t wish to correct you again today, do you understand?”
“Of course, Milord.”
Kane chuckled at the woman’s icy smile. “I know dogs that are better trained than that one,” he said. “It’s some wonder you tolerate such insolence—I certainly wouldn’t.”
Bianca had taken up her book again, ignoring them. But Kane could see her face reflected in the mirror above the mantel, and he felt a little thrill at how much his words riled her.
Lightening flashed at the windows of the room, and as thunder rumbled across the sky, heavy rain began to drum on the tiled roof above their heads.
“Yes, well, it’s her common blood,” the Archbishop said dismissively, as he gestured Kane towards the comfortable chairs by the fireplace. “No manner of education of the mind and purification of the soul can fix that completely.”
Kane toyed with the vial in his hand as he settled into a comfortable lion skin chair. “So you intend to have Amthenium by poison, then. How, exactly?”
“Two barrels of the powder in that vial will be evenly divided, and men in my employ will see that it is poured down the wells around the Amthenium Palace just before dawn. The effects are extremely potent, to say the least, and the garrison under Lord Leefton’s control will be devastated within an hour of taking their breakfast. In the panic that will no doubt follow, twelve hundred mercenaries under my authority will shed their disguises and fall on the palace, securing it. Once that is done, they will secure the city and bar the gates until my arrival.”
“And where will these twelve hundred men come from?”
“They are presently in a training camp in a very remote part of the Eastern Mountains, under the command of one of my most trusted men at arms. At my word, they’ll secretly make their way to Pelorus, and from there they will cross the Lake of Mist to Amthenium—under disguise, and weapons hidden, of course.”
“And you expect such a small number of men to hold Amthenium?”
“The effects of the poison will ensure that the citizenry is in no condition to offer up much resistance for some time and I expect to march there myself in the company of a host of loyal followers to the church within a week of its fall. As you know, once I am ensconced there, Amthenium can hold against ten times its numbers.”
“Unfortunately, wider Arkaelyon cannot, a point that will not be lost on the nobles I would think.”
“Like yourself, Kane they will learn that things are contrary to what they fear. You see it’s a matter of timing. Firstly, the attack on Amthenium will not take place until the first rains of autumn. With the roads turned to mud, and the snows soon to begin, no army will march again us on any front.”
“Fine, so we have a four-month reprieve. But come spring there will still be more of them than us, and whatever you say, the nobles will not support a war for Amthenium if they are unable to enjoy their spoils.”
“You assume too much, my young friend if you think there will be more enemies at your borders than we have men to face them. Now, if you’d let me finish?”
Kane gestured that he should.
“Before I speak of the numbers we will face, you should know of those who support us. The archbishops of Abeian and Themia assure me that their respective royals have secretly agreed to remain neutral should we decide to reassert our sovereignty over the Amthenium region. Both realms acknowledge our historic rights to the territory and have long seen the Grand Assembly as little more than a vehicle for spreading the cancer of reformist Goddianism and letting the heathen barbarians of the Vafusolum Empire far too close to their borders. There is even the possibility that they would fight alongside us if certain parts of the Amthenium basin were ceded to them. And even if we do not take that road, at the very least, Abeian’s stance would force Lunwraith to look to its eastern border, reducing the number of men they could rally against us.”
Kane nodded his agreement. Lunwraith was the heart of the reformist church, just as Abeian was for Orthodox Goddianism, and the tensions between the two realms were well known, with skirmishes on their borders not at all uncommon.
“Then, of course, there is Noren,” the Archbishop continued, “and we needn’t concern ourselves with that dear little free republic. For one, they are too small to trouble us, and two, since their economy is dependent on trade, I’m sure the threat to blockade the Amthenium tributary and the Dunston Straits will make them think twice before getting involved.”
Kane was beginning to see some sense in what he was hearing. “Fine, so you can account for any threat from the north. That still leaves every realm east, west and south of us.”
“True,” the Archbishop replied “Corenbald, Coolmaba, Pepolo and the armies of New Arkaelyon will fight; there’s no doubt about that. But they are far too small to beat us in the field. North Surlemia will honour its treaty obligations and send men, but with the current border tensions between them and South Surlemia, their contribut
ion will be token at best.”
Kane found it interesting how the Archbishop was skirting around the continent’s largest, most populous and powerful realm—that same barbaric empire that had held Amthenium against Arkaelyon and Corenbald crusades for two hundred years, before the peace was signed by his father a decade past. “And the Vafusolum Empire?”
“Oh, yes, dear Vafusolum.” The Archbishop sipped from his goblet then touched a silk kerchief to his prim lips. “I spoke of timing a moment ago. Well, it is my long belief that while the gods create opportunities, it is in the hands of the faithful to see them realised. And in light of that, I believe we are at a pivotal moment in Arkaelyon’s history. The decisions made in the next year will determine our future for many generations to come.”
If only you knew, old man, Kane mused, reaching for his goblet. He caught the Lady Winters watching him, and he gave her a look that made her quickly look away.
“In short, Yoon-Soon’s empire has never been weaker, and thus, there has never been a more opportune time to strike.”
“You clearly speak of this drought and the irritation of a few marauding pirates from the Black Isles. I’m not sure either will make Yoon-Soon’s imperial forces inconsequential.”
“Not inconsequential, Kane, but perhaps the next best thing. Your reaction makes me think you have not heard the latest news from the emperor’s court in Arneack. As high king, you really will have to pay more attention to such things.”
“Just get to the point, old man.”
“Simply put, the harvest is failing again, and not only throughout the north-eastern provinces as before, but all the way down the coast. There are even reports that much of the interior is seeing a very poor season. The gods blessing if ever I saw one, for the situation is so bad, it seems Yoon-Soon is being forced to disband much of his vast army. As we speak, entire battalions are being sent back to their starving villages. We strike in the coming months, and come the first snows of winter, we will not have to face an enemy in the field. And come spring, the alliance we’ll be forced to fight will likely have more men gathered under the wolf of Corenbald than the yellow star of the west.”
“And then, young sir,” the Archbishop continued, “There is the equally good news here in Arkaelyon. The nobles have been so busy bemoaning this labour shortage that few realise just how much our population has grown in recent years. In fact, from the thirty-seven noble houses loyal to the church—all of which are aware of my intentions for Amthenium and have given their enthusiastic support—we can field forty-two thousand men. A number that is only just shy of the average crusade sent to the walls of Amthenium before the treaty. Add to that number the men of the royal guard who will swear their loyalty to your throne after your ascension, most of Arkaelyon’s war galleys, including Admiral Rantius himself, and all the banner men of the nobles who agree to offer up their support for a piece of the soils of the Amthenium region and we have an army of unprecedented numbers. Our best estimate is that it could very well number as many as one hundred and fifty thousand. And higher still if Themia and Abeian agree to an alliance and join our banners.”
“That’s an impressive number to be sure. But I do see one flaw. Most of the rank and file will come from the peasantry, and I don’t expect they’ll fight with much grit for a king most of their kind will think a usurper. And then there’s the small matter that they are notoriously unreliable on the field. I can not think of a single summer crusade when there wasn’t large scale desertions or the peasant ranks broke in the face of the enemy.”
“I thought you’d say as much.” The Archbishop plucked a grape from a bowl of fruit and popped it in his mouth as he rose from his chair. “What would you say if I told you I have a way to make such men fight with the discipline of knights and the fury and dedication of the men of my own black robes?” he asked as he walked across the room. “In fact, what if I told you that I have knowledge of a weapon that could very possibly see that we avoid a war altogether?”
“I think you know damn-well what I’d say.” Kane watched as the Archbishop pulled a volume from his extensive bookcase, placed it on a table at the centre of the room and began to leaf through it.
“Most men fight because they believe they can win. With what I have, our enemy will know victory is impossible, and I suspect many of our potential foes will seek a diplomatic resolution rather than take the field and face annihilation. A point, that as you are want to say, will not be lost on our nobles when our plans are made known.”
Tired of being toyed with, Kane got up and went to the table. The Archbishop was looking through what looked to be a very old leather bound volume. What it contained he could not tell.
“You have no doubt heard of the Book of Minion?” the Archbishop said as he continued to turn pages.
“Please tell me you jest.”
“I assure you, young sir, I am deadly serious. You know the myth, of course—that the book contains dark knowledge that enabled the Larnian Druids to control the minds and will of men, and that many of their vast armies were made up of such harnessed and driven men?”
“I’ve heard, too, that they raised the dead, and that such men fought alongside the living.” Kane chuckled at the preposterous idea.
The Archbishop weathered his jesting with an air of calm self-assurance. “What if I told you that this mythical book is real?”
“Yes, I’ve also heard that said once or twice before usually by mad men who, ironically have searched and never found it.”
“And if I told you it was here in Arkaelyon and I know where?”
This is Fren’s work, Kane suddenly realised. Not that the thought made him feel any less uneasy about it.
“But you don’t have it?” he said.
“There’s a certain complication that prevents me, or at least delays me.” The Archbishop turned in the direction of the fireplace. “Bianca, bring me that candelabra.”
With the storm outside and it growing late in the afternoon it had become increasingly dim indoors. When the lady placed the candelabra on the table, the Archbishop pushed the volume across the table so Kane could see it. “Do you recognise this?”
Kane glanced at the charcoal etching on the page before him and then back at the Archbishop. “Of course; it’s the crest of the Brotherhood of Aquarius…” He stopped, realising what was implied. “Please do not tell me that our accursed Lord Protector and his society of misfits have the Book of Minion?”
“It’s not what I think that matters, Kane; it’s what I know. You see, just over a year ago we came into possession of that very old manuscript you see there. It was found in a ruined watchtower on Lord Henry Cameron’s lands, high up in the Eastern Mountains. Cameron realised the language was Trollic, of course, but could not place the dialect, so he sent it to me. With some work on the part of my scholars, we were able to make a rough translation, and what we found was a diary belonging to one of the high lords who served Brutarius Victorium. It spoke of a great number of things, including the fall of Amthenium after what he calls the reformist betrayal. It seems this man managed to escape the city with a handful of soldiers during the final hours of Brutarius’ reign. He was then pursued through the Eastern Mountains for a week before making what one presumes was his last stand at the watchtower. What was of particular interest, though, was the reference to a volume that gave an official account of events leading to the fall, and it even hinted at where this account was hidden. There was enough interest in the diary to persuade me, along with the church elders, to undertake a secret search for this account. Bianca led the search, and in due course she returned, successful.”
“So what did this fairy tale have to say?” Kane had to admit; Fren and her colleagues had truly out done themselves. Puppet masters indeed.
“In short,” the Archbishop said, “the end of the Larnian Druids’ eight-hundred-year reign came about through the theft of the Book of Minion, just as some legends suggest. The account says that three Goddian pries
ts stole it. They were captured two weeks before the theft and thought to be spies from a rebel group that had been attacking supply lines making the passage through the Cronadun Gorge. They were taken in chains to Amthenium and imprisoned in the dungeon below the palace. It is not known how, but they escaped, managing to steal the book from the Druid overlord’s inner sanctum as they fled. It is believed that this was their intent from the beginning. Anyway, when the guards were alerted, one of the three priests was killed, another captured, and the last escaped with the book. They got very little out of the prisoner before he died of his torments, but it was enough to make the Druids suspect reformist Goddians of the theft, not Orthodox Goddians as they had thought. Something of a surprise since the reformists had maintained a doctrine of submission and had bowed down to the Druids since Larnius defeated Ariel’s armies eight hundred years earlier. The torturers also got the name of the man who escaped, a surname I believe you are well acquainted with: Jonathan Samuel Madison?”
“Madison?” Kane grinned. “You’re telling me that the man who stole the Book of Minion is related to our Lord Protector?”
“I am, and I even have the evidence to prove it. Bianca, bring me the index of Goddian brotherhoods, and quickly, please.” As the Lady Winters went to a far bookshelf, the Archbishop continued. “During the early days of the restoration, the names and family lines of every priest, whether Orthodox or reformist, were recorded in a single register. Each monastery or church had kept a well-documented account of its members and history, of course, but this volume merely brought all that knowledge together.”
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