by Duncan Lay
Merren looked at him closely. She suspected his motivations but, more than that, she feared what he said was true. All her old concerns about marrying Martil bubbled back up.
‘I had hoped we could enjoy this victory, relax and luxuriate in what we have achieved. But it seems battles do not finish when the swords are laid down. The work begins after the victory. I want to see confirmation of everything Count Sendric has said.’
‘You cannot be taking this seriously!’ Martil could not sit and listen to this any longer. Sendric had avoided looking at him during his long speech but Martil had not taken his eyes off the old noble. The man was up to something. Martil had no doubt of it. Some of this might be true, but much of it had to be made up, or at least just threads of truth spun into a much larger garment. This must be his last, desperate attempt to stop a marriage he saw as unsuitable. But what worried him was that Merren had not dismissed him immediately.
‘I must take this seriously—until it is proven wrong,’ she told him.
Martil just stared at her in shock.
‘I have not devoted so much time to saving this country only to throw it away now, in the moment of victory,’ she added, speaking to all around the table but, Martil knew, especially for him.
‘What I do not understand, Count, is what all this has to do with whether Merren marries or not,’ Martil said coldly. ‘Even if all this were true, why would having me as a Prince Consort be the final blow for the country? I could walk out of this room and down any street in the capital and every person would want to talk to me, to shake my hand or offer me a kiss.’
Sendric swivelled and looked at Martil. ‘They would do so, to your face. But I think you would find, in private, they are thinking something else. Your reputation as a War Captain has earned you respect—but that would sour if you tried to pass yourself off as their ruler.’
‘And you know this? You know the people’s thoughts?’ Martil said sarcastically.
Sendric smiled thinly. ‘I do. I had thought to hand this out when you could not see it, for I did not want to hurt you. But, since you ask, you should read this. I know how much store the Queen puts in surveys—how she likes to see what the people are really thinking. So I arranged one through these guilds this morning.’
Again the guild leaders hurried around the table, giving each person a new piece of parchment. Martil snatched his and read it swiftly. It was scratched hastily in ink, so quickly that some of the ink had run and other words had spotted. He dropped it on the table from fingers gone suddenly cold.
‘This is a pack of lies!’ he snarled.
Sendric shrugged. ‘We asked the people for their thoughts. You cannot blame us for reporting what they said. These surveys have always been accurate before. They have been a useful tool for the Queen—and I am afraid they have proved so again.’
‘What is it?’ Karia asked, picking it up before he could think of stopping her.
Nobody else said anything, they just looked at the parchment, not at Martil.
‘What does this mean, Dad?’ Karia tugged on Martil’s sleeve.
He looked again at the parchment, a sick feeling sliding deep into his gut. ‘They talked to all these people, asked them who they wanted to see as the Prince Consort, and what they would think about having me sitting beside Merren. Almost all of them wanted to see a noble-born Norstaline as Prince Consort and most of them said they would hate to have me as a Prince Consort.’
‘I am afraid Gello’s trick with the bards did its work rather too well,’ Sendric said gently. ‘The phrase Butcher of Bellic kept coming up when people were asked. The people are willing to let the Rallorans live among us after what they did to help the country—but they are not fully trusted. A more detailed report is being prepared by guild scribes, even now. One thing that comes up time and again is the fear that, once they have a Prince Consort, the Rallorans will take over the country—as Gello, the Tenochs and Berellians tried to do. This country has never been invaded before. After the trauma it has suffered, the people want reassurance. They want something and somebody they know and trust. They want familiarity, not something new.’
‘Well, I don’t believe it!’
Everyone looked as Karia climbed onto the table and stood, hands on hips.
‘My daddy is kind and good and nice. People like him! If they knew him like me, they would love him! This can’t be true. It’s all made up. I bet if I asked people, they would say different to this paper!’
Sendric shook his head. ‘These people gave their honest opinions. If you send armed Rallorans out to ask people the same questions, then of course you will get a different response, for the people will be too scared to talk to them!’
‘Well, let’s get those people in here and have them tell the Queen!’ Karia cried. ‘Then we shall hear the truth!’
Sendric laughed gently. ‘My dear Karia, I am afraid we would not be able to do that. We do not know their names. They spoke only because they knew no angry Rallorans would be visiting them in the dead of the night…’
‘Enough!’ Merren interrupted.
Martil searched her face, looking for some hint that she would dismiss this out of hand.
‘I want to see the detailed survey, as well as the raw reports made by every scribe in every guild that carried this out. And I want you all to investigate the truth of what Count Sendric has told us this morning. If it is true, then the fight to save this country has only just begun. Before I make any decisions, I need the full picture. Conal, I put you in charge of this. Nothing else is as important. Meanwhile, Louise and Gia must compile a full inventory of the food we have in the capital, as well as what we captured from the supplies of our enemies.’ She looked around the table. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Martil and Karia were the only ones not to hurry out. Martil deliberately sat at the table, looking at Merren. She waited until the room was empty before she stood and walked over to him.
‘What did you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘Tell Sendric that this was not fit to wipe your…nose on.’ Martil tossed Sendric’s parchment onto the table, conscious that he had to be careful what he was saying in front of Karia. ‘That you trust the spirit of the people. You’ve seen what is happening out in the city—the people have changed already! The rest of the country will change with them, they just need time.’
Merren shook her head. ‘Time is something we don’t have. Either of us. I have to be married soon and you have to leave for Dragonara Isle.’ Uppermost in her mind was the memory of the last time she had let her heart rule her head; when she had spent the night with Martil before the battle. If the Derthals had not arrived in time, her selfishness would have doomed thousands more people to death. She would not make the same mistake twice.
‘By the time I get back, they will have grown used to the idea,’ he argued.
‘Or the country will be in turmoil. The people have suffered too much as it is. I cannot put them through months of civil unrest, on top of what they have to face in privation and hunger. My first duty is to the people, not to myself. If it was my choice, then we would marry today. But…’
‘But nothing. You are the Queen! You can do what you like,’ Martil almost howled.
Merren grabbed his arm. ‘No. I cannot,’ she said deliberately. ‘That is the path that leads to Gello and even the Fearpriests. I must do what is right.’
‘Even if it means marrying Sendric?’ he demanded. ‘How is that the right thing?’
‘If it is what the people want, then it is the right thing,’ she insisted. ‘I am the Queen first. You knew that from the start.’
‘So you have already decided to marry Sendric, and you believe this ridiculous lie that he has thought up!’
‘No, I have decided to look into it further. I cannot dismiss it out of hand! If it is true, then I have to consider it. What sort of ruler would I be if I ignored the people, after telling them I wanted to give them a voice?’
‘I tel
l you, this is a plot by Sendric…’
‘And if I find out he has lied to me, then he will see the inside of a dungeon cell,’ she assured him.
‘And if not?’
‘We’ll talk about it then.’ She turned away from him. ‘And I am wasting time here.’
Martil watched her go with a rising sense of despair. How could this happen? He had been so sure his destiny was about to change, that all his dreams were about to come true—and now this. How could she listen to that concoction of half-truths and believe it? How could she turn her back on him?
Merren leaned against the wall and took several deep breaths. Sendric’s report had been like a blow to the stomach. The choice it offered was her happiness or the country. But that was not a choice. The thought of hurting Martil was like a dagger in the heart. The thought of seeing him every day, of being so close yet so far away, was worse still. She hoped with all her heart that Sendric’s words were false. But her head was telling her he was probably right. She sighed. Nothing for it but to get back to work—and pray there was still a chance for them both.
‘What if the Queen finds out?’
Sendric shook his head. ‘She won’t find out. She knows what I’m saying is true, anyway. We just have to make it look convincing. Just because every man we spoke to was a guild member who was telling us what we wanted to hear, doesn’t make this survey less real. Now finish those parchments and get them over to the Queen.’
Martil tried to get into the streets—but ran into Havell almost immediately.
‘I must see the Queen. We cannot delay,’ the Elfaran declared. ‘More dragons are dying each day. The time for the Dragon Sword wielder is approaching and we must get to Dragonara Isle as soon as possible.’
Martil stared at him.
‘You know, you have to thrust the Sword into the Egg to ensure the rebirth of the dragons, and the magic?’
‘I remember! But why now? Can’t it wait for a few more days?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t understand what is happening…’
Havell grabbed Martil by the tunic. ‘No, you don’t understand! It is a simple duty, an easy task—but you have to be there to perform it! If you are not there, then all life on this world will end. You cannot take that risk!’
‘Take your hands off me!’ Martil growled.
Havell stepped away. ‘Don’t ignore this! Everything else must come second!’ he warned.
‘Easy for you to say!’ Martil fired back.
‘Yes, very easy, considering when the last dragon dies, I shall follow in the next breath! Believe me, I wish it were many years hence but we do not choose our future!’
Martil gave him a grudging nod. ‘How long before we must go?’
‘Tomorrow morning at the latest,’ Havell said.
Martil threw up his hands. ‘Go and find the Queen! I have work to do! I shall see you tomorrow.’
Gello looked out to sea. There was something about the water that appealed to him. Its power, its vastness, seemed to call to him. He could stare at it all day.
Usually there were few sea voyages undertaken at this time of year—too many storms. These Tenoch ships were large and powerful, propelled both by sail and oar—but there were waves that could turn them into kindling. Except they had Fearpriests with them, as well as the Berellian magician Khaliz. The power of Onzalez, Prent and Khaliz was ensuring this was a peaceful, easy voyage—as well as a swift one. Most of Gello’s men had barely thrown up. After the desperate struggle to get the men away from the pursuing Rallorans, he had little enough to do on board. But he could not just sit and stare at the sea.
The biggest problem was the Berellians. They had families and friends at home. Naturally they wanted to know what was going to happen to them, fearing a Norstaline invasion led by Captain Martil and his Butchers of Bellic. Gello had pointed out the best way to save Berellia was to return to Norstalos with a massive army, created with the help of the Dragon Egg. And then he reminded them they owed him their lives and anyone who disagreed would go over the side.
That dealt with, he had decided to corner Ezok over the magical object they were all pinning their hopes on.
‘And you are sure about this Dragon Egg?’ he demanded.
‘In what way, sire?’ Ezok said carefully.
‘I know you. You have a way with words. You twist them and all the time you are playing your own game. You did it to me before Pilleth. Are you doing it to Onzalez now? Is this Dragon Egg real?’
Ezok smiled naturally, keeping his fast-beating heart to himself. ‘It is as real as you or I. As you will see when we reach the Isle. And if you think I can fool a Fearpriest such as Brother Onzalez, you overestimate me.’
Gello stared at him. He distrusted magic. But, after what the Dragon Sword had done to him, he was willing to try anything.
‘Stay close to me when we reach the Isle. I want to keep a close watch on you. If you prove worthy of trust, then we shall talk again.’
‘As you wish, sire.’ Ezok bowed, keeping his face impassive. Behind the mask, he was thinking furiously. He had no doubt the Egg was real—but in describing its abilities, he did fear he had overegged the pudding—so to speak. There had to be a way to explain its abilities, which would also preserve his head for a few more days.
Merren listened in silence as Havell explained that he needed the Dragon Sword wielder by the next day.
‘How long will he be away then, if the dragons are dying out?’ she said, when Havell had finished talking.
‘I cannot say. It could be days, it could be weeks, it could be months. It is better to err on the side of caution, however.’
She stared down at her desk, which was covered in parchment. Scroll after scroll had revealed scribbled comments that backed up everything Sendric had said. Along with that was the news from the others, from Gia, Louise, Milly, Quiller and even Conal.
None of it was good for Martil.
Gia and Louise had discovered the desperate escape from invading armies, as well as two nights of frantic celebration, had left the capital short of food and drink. And, as it had been the major storehouse, this was serious indeed. But both of them had insisted there were ways around this problem.
‘Look, we’ve got thousands of extra horses in this country left from the invasion. If we have to, half the country will eat horsemeat soup for the winter. Aroaril knows we won’t be using them for cavalry charges any time soon,’ Louise pointed out.
‘Do what is right for you. The country will follow you,’ Gia offered.
‘But can I really be happy, if marrying him throws the country into turmoil? I could not bear it if even one life was lost because I put myself first…’
‘You cannot think like that,’ Louise implored.
But Merren could not stop thinking about the sobbing people in the park, who thought they were waiting to die on a Fearpriest altar, because she had chosen to spend time with Martil rather than work at saving them.
She had sought out Romon.
‘There is no doubt the people respect the Rallorans and, to an extent, the Derthals. But there is a difference between respecting an ally and preparing to let your daughter marry one of them. And that is how the people see it. We know that you are the Queen, the true ruler of this country and that Martil has no desire to wield power. But many of the people still see the woman as subservient to the man. Marry a Ralloran and they will think their country has been taken over,’ Romon admitted. ‘But give them time. Already the tales of what happened here, of how Martil helped save this country, are spreading across the land. We are singing songs of the Battle of Sendric, the Battle of Pilleth and now the Battle of Norstalos. Tales of how the Rallorans rescued a village from the Berellians, of how one Ralloran priest saved an entire village by himself, how the new Archbishop defeated a Fearpriest to save him, how the old Archbishop defeated the High Fearpriest on the field of battle to save us all. Of how you persuaded our ancient enemies, the goblins, to fight
by our side and destroy those who sought to rule us through Zorva. The people are hearing the stories and they know them to be true. With time, they will come around. Ask me again in six months.’
‘Six months? I do not have six weeks!’ Merren had sighed.
Archbishop Sadlier had proved to be little comfort.
‘Archbishop Nott’s sacrifice has inspired the people here. They have seen what the Fearpriests had planned for them—men, women and children having their hearts ripped out of their bodies. And they saw Aroaril defeat Zorva. The church is facing an extraordinary upsurge. People are not just coming to services out of habit, or because they want to stay in the priest’s good books, in case they might need healing one day. We have had hundreds inquiring about joining the priesthood—men and women. These people want to go out and tell the country the truth they have discovered—that there is evil out there and good people cannot just sit back and rely on others to fight it.’
‘Well, that sounds wonderful!’ Merren had smiled.
‘But these people need months of training. The church is already in disarray, after what Prent did to it. I have two bishops to help me administer the whole country. One of them was a Ralloran sergeant a few moons ago and knows little more than the newest novice. Bishop Quiller, on the other hand, is an old man and the exertions of the past few weeks have taken their toll on him. I cannot ask him to do much of the actual work, although his advice is extremely valuable. Meanwhile, the rest of the country has not seen any of those things. All they know is that their familiar parish priest is gone, the Archbishop they knew, as well as the one they had heard about, are gone and a young woman wears the robes, for the first time. I shall win them over, but I need time. Within a year I shall have real priests in every town and village and the church will be strong again.’