Then Katherine was screaming. She leapt out of her seat. Not taking the time to descend by the stairs, not caring about decorum, she clambered past her son, over the railing, and down to the sand. Prince Richard dropped his toy knight and quickly scrambled down after his mother. The black knight, looking to the crowd, and noticing that no one was cheering, turned his horse around, unable to see through his slit visor in the right direction. He rode up to the prince and the crowd of heralds and servants rushing to aid the prince. The prince’s squire ran up from the end. The black knight dismounted.
Katherine was still screaming. “Get it off. Get it off. Careful, you’ll hurt him.” Tears were streaming down her face, and her son clung to her like a much younger boy, staring dazed at his father, the undefeatable prince Arthur, fallen. He too was crying now, as were many of the servants, and many in the crowd. The crowd surged forward, over the barrier. All was chaos, all thought of rank and etiquette forgotten. The black knight knelt, opposite the princess Katherine. Sophie and Eleanor were now at Katherine’s side, and all the ladies in waiting of the royal ladies were milling about, crying, uncertain what to do. Even the queen and her attendant puritan nuns were overcome with emotion. The queen took Sophie’s hand and held it tightly. Katherine looked up at the black knight.
“You,” she screamed, and launching herself at him beat against his breastplate.
He tried to remove his own helmet, while the princess’s blows rained down on him. And then the prince’s helmet had been removed. The life was gone from the eyes. But they weren’t the eyes of the prince. The black knight managed to remove his helmet. And Katherine saw her husband’s face. She was uncomprehending for a moment.
“I thought you knew,” he said, perspiration rolling down his face, “I carried the token, that you gave me so many years ago. I thought you would know.”
“But he wears your armour, your tabard, rides your horse, with your saddle.”
He looked at her sheepishly. “That’s why I wore the token. Only you would know. I suppose it was a long time ago. And much has happened since. Much that you might not forgive.”
She threw her arms around him then. “All is forgiven. I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead. I thought....” And her torrent of tears prevented her saying more.
The crowd was confused, but gradually the word spread that the prince was alive. They surged forward to see. They did not believe their ears. But there he stood, tall, a head above most other men, and his wife clinging to him, and their son crying with her. And some wiped their tears away, but many more still cried, though now for joy, for the prince they loved still lived.
When all were sure that the prince was alive, he knelt down again beside the white knight, closing his eyes. The herald now recognized him, and said loudly, “the brave Sir Smiglon Woldby.”
“Yes,” Arthur said, sadly, “he was a good servant and a true. He will be honoured.”
Chapter 41: Jasper: West of Vrong Veld
With their usual efficiency, by noon the next day the Crimson Monks had left the city behind, sailing west on the river barges. Soon they reached the mountains, from where they disembarked and marched around the northern edge of the range. If the prevailing winds were good they would sail again from the junction of the River Selta and the River Rel, two days march to the north west. If not, by forced march they would reach the capital when Amery had need of them. As they rode their palfreys, their unencumbered warhorses led by novices, pages and grooms, while caparisons and barding and the heavy armour of the monks were carried in carts behind with pavilions and provisions, a novice who led one of Jasper’s warhorses asked why the Dark Monks hated the Crimson Monks so much.
“That’s a long tale to tell, young Ilbert, but we have a lot of time. I’m surprised your tutors haven’t told you the history. What do they teach young novices these days?”
“The arts of war.”
“Useful, but without history, war has no meaning.”
“I thought we were a practical order.”
“That we are, but don’t underestimate the practical value of a good education. Without geometry you won’t so easily calculate the trajectory for a catapult. Of course, you can use trial and error, but why waste time when a simple drawing in the dirt will achieve the same as several shots?”
“But what’s the practical value of history, commander? I mean, I’ve studied Vagra’s treatise on the arts of war, I’ve inscribed them on my brain by banging my head on the book…”
“I used to use it as a pillow,” Marcos said.
The boy was pleased that a senior monk had been as much bored by study as him, but continued addressing Jasper, “…and master Naldor has caned me more than once for not recalling correctly the seven principles of Melthar…”
“Theory, theory, theory,” Jasper said, “in history you find real battles, real tactics, and the real reactions of men. Many a brave knight or monk has lost heart in the midst of battle, and with his fear has infected a whole host and caused the rout of a great army that fought only a small army. Many an army in rout has been but a ruse, and many a ruse has failed when the men thought it real and truly ran away. You must be quick to see opportunity, and quicker to see your enemy’s opportunities. Calculate your resources, judge your men, lead them, but charge with them when they break ranks and so prevent them being decimated. There are so many lessons, so many variables, so many ways that a battle can turn.”
“Then I should fight more battles to learn?”
“There’s always that, and nothing will prepare you so well for battle as battle itself, but no man can fight all wars, so we should read of many also. That is history, the history of war. And then there is politics. Politics is war by other means. We must know all means, for our god is more subtle than most people think. All existence is force within force and force against force, force absorbed to augment strength or force destroyed to contain risk. All about us is perpetual conflict. It can’t be escaped. The wise find a balance between forces that best serves their ends.”
“So peace is an aspect of war.”
“Yes! Marcos, we have a quick pupil here. Yes, Ilbert, never is war so present as in peace. But only the most skilful general can discern that potential and control the forces that lead to that balance.”
“And does that balance honour our Lord?”
“More than any battle.”
“So I should seek peace in service of War.”
“It seems a paradox.”
“I think I understand.”
“The theory at least.”
“Theory of practice,” the boy said with a grin.
Jasper nodded and Marcos laughed, “He’s wiser than either of us were at that age.”
“I grow old,” Jasper said and slouched in imitation of crippled age.
“You should be in the cart not on horseback,” Abelard said seriously, riding up to join them, “that poison should have killed you.”
“Yes,” Jasper said, looking grimly ahead.
“It seems hardly possible,” Abelard said, “I should examine you again. You should ride in one of the carts.”
“You grow like a woman in old age, Abe. Worry, worry, worry.”
“I didn’t see you objecting to Hwe Li’s worrying,” Abelard said stiffly, then pulling his shoulders back, “I could still whip you.”
“When was the last time you did that?” Jasper said, imitating the grimace of a novice being caned.
“Not that long ago, and I could make the last time now if you like.”
Jasper held up his hands in mock supplication. “Mercy, master, mercy. I won’t deflower that lord’s daughter, no matter how much she begs me. I’ll rote learn those poultice ingredients.”
“You’ll have need of them when I’ve done with you.”
Though Jasper joked, he knew the old monk was still as tough as nails, and as skilled with fist and sword and lance as he was with medicine.
“Don’t think I taught you e
verything I know, either,” Abelard added.
“Hiding tricks from me? The knight commander of your chapter? Rank insubordination! I’ll have you flogged until you tell me all.”
“That might work on these soft young novices. It won’t work on me. No, when I teach you a lesson you’ll be the one howling. But I’m serious about the poison. That kind is always fatal if you don’t get the antidote immediately.”
“Not quite always,” Jasper said, tapping a finger on his own chest.
“No, and that worries me. Is it a new poison?”
“The antidote worked.”
“Did it?”
“I recovered.”
“But was the recovery from the antidote or…?”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know.” Abelard shook his head, clearly troubled. “It just doesn’t make sense.” Abelard fell back, a pensive look on his face.
Ilbert reminded Jasper, “You were going to tell me about the Dark Monks, and why we’re sworn enemies instead of allies.”
“Allies of the Dark Monks!” Jasper felt sudden fury and spat.
“But war brings about death,” the boy insisted, not cowed by Jasper’s rage, “they worship Death. Why not?”
Jasper looked kindly at the novice and sighed. The boy was not timid, and that was good for a Crimson Monk. He was also intelligent. Perhaps one day he would be commander of a chapter. “It’s not quite as simple as that. There’s a long history, going back many centuries, but the key event was the Day of the Sublime Sanctification.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, if the Dark Monks assassinate anyone too important there are consequences, which is why political assassinations are always decided on by a conclave of the Dark Suvarks. If the target is highly placed enough, like a king, they won’t do it without the blessing of the Dark Arkon himself, the supposedly infallible high priest of their cult. No one really knows this for sure, but we’ve infiltrated them on several occasions, and as far as we could learn before our spies were killed this seems to be the way they decide. Anyone can request an assassination by leaving a donation at the Temple of the Harvest, and it only requires the approval of an ordinary priest of the cult, but the powerful targets need this permission from the temple hierarchy.” His features clouded over. “So the temple hierarchy themselves must be responsible, unless the duke...”
“So what’s so special about this Sublime Sanctification?”
“Day of the Sublime Sanctification. The important thing to remember is that we’re the ones who forced them to change, to be more careful in who they target. Before we purged their ranks anyone could get anyone murdered if enough money was donated to the stinking temple of Death. That all changed more than four hundred years ago. A Dark Priest approved the assassination of a powerful noble, Wilhelm, duke Sard. He was Chancellor of the Exchequer. Wilhelm’s son appealed secretly to the king, who sent in troops and decimated the temple priesthood, including all the Dark Suvarks. An internecine war followed. Two kings were assassinated in short order. But the second king either survived the attempt or returned through a miracle, if you believe in that sort of thing. Whatever the truth of that, claiming to be yet another messiah king he led War’s Monks on a purge of the temple and order. His nephew was a commander of our order, and we had reasons enough to hate the cult of Death, so we happily joined in the slaughter. That was the Day of the Sublime Sanctification. The Dark Abbot, the Dark Arkon, and most of the monks and priests of Nethra, were slaughtered.”
“They can’t have liked that.”
“It got even more dangerous for them than that. The whole populace of Thedra were emboldened by the death of the Dark Priests and Dark Monks they’d feared so much for so long. They turned on them. Who could blame them? Unfortunately it wasn’t only the vermin that died. Anyone who could be accused, truly or falsely, of belonging to the temple priesthood or monastic order was murdered. Old grudges were settled. It’s said the streets were glutted with bodies and flooded with blood. Some of the surviving priests and monks wanted to pursue a vendetta from the shadows, and more than a few of our house commanders and knight commanders were poisoned, but eventually the wiser minds among them decided to end it. They made submission to the king. The whole sordid affair proved how much political discernment is required for high assassination. Their ways have changed in recent years though, at least since the rise of Augustyn. The Arkon seems to be virtually the servant of the duke Relyan. In him they have a powerful protector. Perhaps that’s why they risk so much. His power is so great; perhaps he calculates he can limit the damages…. But, damn them all! I don’t know.”
When they had made camp a messenger rode up. With memories of the recent attempt on his life, Jasper quickly drew his longsword, but he recognized a senior servant of duchess Alma. He sheathed his sword. The servant dismounted, handed a scroll to Jasper, and said, “The duchess praises the gods for your quick recovery, and thanks you for your speed despite your condition.” The messenger then lowered his voice, “My mistress has received news from her husband, and says you need to read her missive before proceeding. She says leave no trace. It came in parts and each part needed a cypher only she possesses. Burn it immediately once you’ve read it.” Jasper nodded, taking the scroll, waited for the messenger to depart, then went into his tent, followed by Marcos. Jasper broke the seal, and unrolled the scroll.
At first he frowned, but the frown turned into angry glare as he exploded, “What? No! That son of a snake. How can she ask it?” He began to crush the scroll in his hand, the scar turning from white to red with his anger, a cruel smile when matched with the hatred in his eyes.
“What is it?” Marcos asked.
Jasper did not answer, but crushed the scroll into a ball, and stared into space, silent for several moments.
“What?”
Jasper stared through Marcos, through the tent canvas, through space to an unseen infinity. In a distant, disbelieving voice he said, “Her Grace says it’s become imperative that we cooperate with Augustyn’s forces until Amery indicates otherwise.” Then his eyes snapped back to an angry focus. “That man is the true mastermind behind the plots of the Death Cult. I should crush him beneath my boot, not aid him.”
“But why are we to aid him?”
“It can’t be true. She can’t mean that.” Jasper un-crumpled the scroll and read again. “Ah,” he said, looking up, “let this be a lesson, Marcos. Don’t be too hasty. But….” He read on, and a troubled expression crossed his face.
“So she tells you her reasons?”
Jasper quickly crossed to the brazier and burned the scroll. He turned to face Marcos, and said sadly, “Duty before honour.”
Chapter 42: Alex: Thedra
The dusty corridors of the labyrinth could wait. There was something far more important to Alex than any secrets hidden in a smelly old codex.
He hunted through the rubbish for it now, reminded by the smell of his time here eleven nights ago when Randy and the other guild manglers had dumped his body after bashing him senseless. If anything it was worse now than then. The moon was little more than a prismatic sliver slicing through the night, and what spectral light it shed only made the contents of the refuse plateau look, from a distance, like a thousand horrid writhing creatures disgorged from those demonic planes where madness was the norm. Close up the horrific became mundane, though frequently no less repulsive. Anything that the wealthy merchants or nobles of Thedra had replaced with something new and fashionable might end up here, along with things no one could use. There were faded painted cloths, knotted tangles of woollen twine, broken roof tiles and rootless pot plants, heavily rusted utensils, cracked vases, broken bed frames. There were also rotting dead mongrels, half eaten food sprouting mould, unwashed rags crusty with menstrual blood and a million other things that could not be described without the shuddering ingenuity of a depraved paranoiac. The stench was so overpowering it threatened his very sanity. He wondered how the scavengers co
uld bear it. He hoped he would not find that for which he searched and, despite having to discover it, tried not to think of what it would look like if he did.
A part of the refuse mountain suddenly slipped, and Alex instinctively sprinted away from the slippage as it turned into an avalanche. The terrain was hard to run on quickly, and despite his excellent reflexes he almost fell more than once. But he followed a scavenger woman in front of him, who seemed to know the way to safety. Behind him he heard the roar of the pile as it thundered down the mountain side. He made it to a path and looked back. The avalanche continued, starting and stopping, for several minutes. When it stopped he was going to give up.
Then he saw the arm, exposed by the avalanche. A chill swept over him and he turned away. Then he turned back. He had to know. Gingerly, he picked his way across the rubbish, wary for any new slippage. He could not see it clearly. Then he was sure he had imagined it. There was nothing there. Then he saw it again, clearly. It looked so small in the distance. He was careless now where he trod. He only cared about that arm, with its look of decay. It had no hand. How long had she been dead? How had they killed her? Had they tortured her? That she was in pieces suggested great cruelty. Would the guild do that? Perhaps. Then he reached it. He extended his arm, his hand about to touch it, and stopped. It was a child’s arm, not attached to a body. He felt a rush of relief. It was not Rose.
Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar Page 39