The Saldarian jerked Trell upright, and he tossed his dark hair from his eyes as he replied with a wry smile, “If it was Cephrael returned me to your doorstep, Viernan, you can be certain He had his reasons.”
Then the Saldarian was shoving the hood over Trell’s head and dragging him away, but not before he noted with deep satisfaction the shocked expression on Viernan’s face.
Fifty-One
“If you want a pattern to be eternal, unbreakable, irreversible, you bind it with the fifth. Love often feels the same.”
- The First Vestal Alshiba Torinin
His Majesty Gydryn val Lorian paced at one end of the soapstone-paneled hall with hands clasped behind his back. Six of the king’s remaining knights—those who hadn’t gone with Duke val Whitney—stood near the wall with gauntleted hands resting on the hilts of their swords. They had all been waiting for far too long, which only helped the king to summon real heat behind his tone when at last Viernan hal’Jaitar walked through the doors.
“I will stand for no more of this, hal’Jaitar,” Gydryn growled, turning at once to face the wielder as the latter strode sinuously across the hall, each step stirring the voluminous silk of his ebon robes.
“Pray tell, no more of what, Majesty?” asked the wielder, smiling benignly.
“Of Radov’s stalling,” the king answered with blunt disapproval. “And where is your prince? He is conspicuously absent to a meeting called with him directly.”
“A touch of fever, Majesty. He sends his gravest regards…and me…to attend your needs.”
“My needs? I’ve been here for a score of days and still there is no word from your prince on when this parley shall commence. My kingdom suffers constant threat of danger, Viernan—grave threat from Stefan, Duke of Morwyk. I came at Radov’s urgent request, only to sit and await his pleasure. My men endure this stifling heat and the ever-corrosive effects of boredom while you and your prince deliberate?” Gydryn brandished his hand with outright fury. “I will not abide it, Viernan hal’Jaitar!”
“Your Majesty, I must confess his Highness, too, is most aggrieved by the delay,” Viernan returned, though his dark eyes were all too reminiscent of a predator’s watchful gaze. He motioned to a low table surrounded by four low-backed chairs, where a tea service had been set. “Won’t you take tea while I explain what little I know?”
The King eyed him disagreeably. “Very well.” He walked to join the wielder and took a seat across from him. Viernan poured tea into two glass cups rimmed in gold, and raised his to the king. “May this war find a swift and sure end upon the blade of our alliance.”
Gydryn took up his cup to make the toast, but he lowered it again as Viernan drank. “Speak then,” rumbled the king. “I would know what keeps us from pursuing the purpose of my journey.”
If Viernan noticed the king’s untouched tea, he did not remark upon it. “Whispers, your Majesty,” he advised warily instead. He set down his glass and sat back in his seat, crossing one knee and clasping hands around its bony protrusion. “Whispers of plots and intrigues, of assassination.”
Gydryn frowned. “Threats against your prince?”
“We are unsure as yet of the target,” Viernan murmured, “but it forestalls progress while we investigate. However, preparations for the parley continue. I myself was not too long ago upon the site inspecting the progress. Tents have been erected, supplies loaded in…all stands ready but for any and all possible steps to ensure the safety of the parley’s members.” Though he smiled at this utterance, there was ne’er a shadow of amiable intent in Viernan hal’Jaitar. His repertoire of smiles was but a cache of deadly needles, each focused to draw the blood of a different emotion through the veins of conversation. “Too well does my prince remember how ill-prepared we were when last we attempted to reason with Abdul-Basir,” Viernan noted then, his smile sharp and cutting, “…and how much was lost as a result.”
Gydryn’s expression darkened at the reference to his first-born son, Sebastian, whose life had been claimed by Basi assassins in the aforementioned meeting—or so hal’Jaitar certainly expected him to believe.
Rather than rising to this taunt—for it was surely an attempt to rouse his ire, that hal’Jaitar might learn something of the king—Gydryn stared fixedly at the wielder. “I mislike the ills I find in your prince’s domain, hal’Jaitar,” he observed, his wolf-grey eyes fierce in accusation. “Saldarians running rampant, Ascendants spreading their doctrine of filth uncensored and unchecked.” He leaned toward hal’Jaitar, setting his untouched tea upon the table as he remarked, “If I didn’t know better, Viernan, I might be inclined to imagine your prince has formed a pact with the Prophet Bethamin.”
Viernan’s smile was unkind. “How foolish you must think us. Naught but dull-witted heathens lacking in couth and culture.”
Gydryn stood and looked down at the man. The lie came easily to his lips. “General Loran val Whitney is on his way to Taj al’Jahanna to ready my troops for departure. He awaits but word from me to evacuate.”
Viernan’s smile withered, replaced by cold anger. “I hope you have given no such word, Majesty.”
“Three days,” Gydryn told him in no uncertain tone. “Radov has three days to secure the parley, or my army and I are leaving.” Upon this statement, Gydryn’s knights marched forth to surround their king, and all departed.
***
Radov abin Hadorin, Ruling Prince of M’Nador, paced restlessly behind the elaborately carved soapstone screens secretly opening upon the Hall of Seas, where his wielder, Viernan hal’Jaitar, was meeting with the King of Dannym.
Belloth take those damnable val Lorians!
They were always causing problems. He really should’ve had both of the older boys beheaded when he’d had the chance, as Viernan had pushed him so vehemently to do. He could’ve dumped their heads in Duan’Bai and blamed the deaths unquestionably on Abdul-Basir. But then…well, he had tried having the middle prince killed and look where that got him. Viernan didn’t know everything.
Radov spun on his heel and stalked back in the opposite direction with hands clasped behind his back, his footfalls muffled by thick Veneisean carpets. Those Veneiseans knew how to weave a good carpet even if their military was as worthless as a pox-laden camp whore.
Radov stopped before a chest and glared at his reflection in the ornate mirror above it. Even when he was in a mild humor, which was a rarity of late, Prince Radov was a fierce-looking man. His aquiline nose extended from a heavy brow that shadowed deep-set eyes, and he wore a goatee that left his face clean to better view the intricate tattoos adorning his lower jaw. The tattoos extended down his neck and met in a jagged-edged design, glimpsed that day between the open folds of a kameez of crimson silk worked all over with jet beads. He wore a large ruby in each pierced lobe, and a gold band at the top of each ear, and to court he wore a royal keffiyeh but today had chosen a simple black one striped with gold.
Radov pushed fingers to pinch his brow. The king in the other room was already giving him a headache. Jai’Gar be praised that Veirnan had the foresight to encourage Radov to feign illness rather than deal with this sniveling Northman. All any of them ever did was complain about the heat. He would’ve sent them all back to the wilderness they called home long ago, except a solid few knew where best to stick their steel to kill a Khurd and had passing good aim with a crossbow.
Still, his head was pounding.
Radov spun a desirous look toward the crystal bottle resting upon a near table, its liquid contents clear and bright. He licked his lips lustfully. His hooded eyes examined the bottle like a virgin disrobing before him, and his tongue flickered at the edge of his teeth as he considered its fiery touch. By Jai’Gar, but the bottle called out its own name, the wanton whisper of a prurient nymph: Absinthe…absinthe…
The powerful distilled spirit was useful for naught but cleaning resin off an axe or starting fires—it certainly wasn’t fit for human consumption. But a spoon of it in a glass of water
was enough to bring a lightness to the head, and certainly this was how the Veneiseans took it, yet Radov poured himself a glass and sipped it straight.
Veirnan would be furious with him, of course; the man was outspoken about the evils of the ‘vile drink.’ But since when did he answer to Viernan hal’Jaitar? Radov was the Ruling Prince of M’Nador! Besides, the Veneisean spirit was the only thing that quieted the voices in his head…
Radov cast a sooty glare past the concealing screen to where Viernan was now talking with one of his spies. Viernan and his damned intrigues. Radov couldn’t spit in his own palace without hitting a spy.
Hal’Jaitar was just then saying, “…find val Whitney and the Dannish knights. I would know if they have departed as the king claimed…”
Radov frowned. When had the king departed? He realized he couldn’t remember Gydryn and his knights leaving the room. He looked at his glass to find it startlingly empty and set it down on a table with sudden revulsion. Viernan was right—the stuff was the drink of the damned…no doubt a trick of Indora’s spies. Hadn’t the absinthe first come to him as gift from Veneisea’s decadent queen?
No! No…he refused to believe his memory troubles stemmed from the absinthe. It was that Bethamin’s fault!
Yes, Bethamin was definitely to blame.
No matter what complaint Radov conceived—the lingering war, his financial problems, the lesser princes and their petty politics—and a bunch of whiney, nagging bitches they were—whatever the issue, Radov blamed it unerringly on Bethamin. See, the man had…done something to him.
Ever since that Prophet’s grey hound dared put his leprous hands on Radov’s royal person…every night since, his dreams had been haunted. After so many sleepless nights, it was getting so he couldn’t think straight—never mind how his appetite had abandoned him. Everything he ate tasted of ash and cyanide. He was losing weight.
His once-favorite daughter—the ungrateful whore!—had run away, and this after he’d spared her life. Granted her mercy! But mercy only gained one a knife in the back. Viernan was always saying that.
Viernan…he was ever a bad taste in the mouth. Fennel…like fennel. No, not fennel. Wormwood, maybe. In any event, Viernan could not be trusted. No, Radov knew Viernan would betray him, but not yet…not yet. He had an agenda, Viernan did. The man was nothing if not conniving. Radov made him legitimate. Viernan could do anything in the prince’s name. And where would he be without Radov? Just one more relic from a bygone era—one of the Fifty Companions…
Radov snorted at the moniker. Whatever had any of them done except manage not to die? Like those damned Sundragons. They just wouldn’t die, no matter what you did to them. Viernan was always promising to do something about the Belloth-spawned dragons. Radov knew he would’ve won the war by now if not for those hell-forsaken beasts…and the Mage. The Emir’s Mage.
But the Mage…Radov didn’t understand his magic. Viernan didn’t even understand his magic—at least he pretended not to. In any event, Radov preferred not to think about the Mage.
That’s why he needed Dannym’s army. He needed well-trained men—and lots of them!—to retake Raku. The Prophet had given him big promises, promises of weapons and men. Then he sent Saldarians. Saldarians! A pox on the lot of them. They were useless in battle. Undisciplined. Erratic. Except for terrorizing the countryside. This they did well, so he let them do that. What if they ravaged villages on the wrong side of the lines here and there? Radov was the first to admit it was hard to tell the bloody peasants apart—Basi, Khurd, Telnadi, Nadori…they were all inbred rabble anyway. Radov couldn’t be bothered with reining in the Saldarians.
No, the problem with the Dannish army was the Dannish general. Yes, the problem was leadership. The Northmen were too bloody stubborn. A press—that’s what he needed—an all-out press for Raku. An over-the-ramparts unyielding assault, wave upon wave until that damnable Basi and all of his upstart Converted were pulp beneath their boots. That would regain the oasis. The Khurds wouldn’t know what hit them.
Only…that craven Loran val Whitney refused to do it! Complaining about the potential death toll—it was infuriating. This was war! The men were soldiers! They were supposed to die.
Yes, the problem was definitely one of leadership. The leadership had to go.
Abruptly a soapstone screen between Radov and the Hall of Seas swung inward on well-oiled hinges, and Radov spun to find Viernan standing in the portal. The wielder’s dark eyes immediately narrowed with black disapproval.
Radov followed the wielder’s gaze to the half-empty glass in his hand. When had he poured another? Never mind. The absinthe was the least of his problems. “Gydryn is suspicious,” Radov asserted, taking another sip of absinthe in the face of Viernan’s displeasure. What did he care what the man thought? He ruled in his own kingdom, not Viernan hal’Jaitar.
“That is doubtful,” said the wielder as he let the concealing screen close behind him.
“Are you certain he suspects nothing?” Radov pressed. “He sounded suspicious to me.”
“Even should he suspect something, my prince, what can he know? The king merely bristles at being kept waiting and at Bethamin’s dogs milling about. But he can have no proof of your alliance with the Prophet, nor with Morwyk.”
“Morwyk…” Radov hissed into his drink. “I know he means to betray me.” He shot Viernan a dark glare, daring him to argue. “I act upon the deeds Morwyk is too cowardly to own, make it simple for him to claim all he covets…” The prince shook his head and snapped vituperatively, “He will raise arms against us, Viernan! Mark my words!”
“Let Morwyk have his fantasies,” the wielder murmured, still eyeing the absinthe in Radov’s hand like a jealous mistress. He walked to an armchair and settled in, crossing a knee as he rested hands on either chair arm. “Dannym only thrives because the val Lorian line keeps it strong. Even that lunatic Bethamin sees this truth. The bloodline is old—as old as your roots, my lord—dating back to ancient times, to Agasan and the first families. It is the strength of Gydryn’s blood that keeps his kingdom hale. When the val Lorian line is broken, the kingdom will wither. Morwyk inherits a dying reign.”
Radov was somewhat mollified by this thought. He would like to see Morwyk thwarted. The man was above himself and far too chummy with Bethamin.
Seeing he had the prince’s attention, Viernan dropped his voice low, his words as the whispering of prophecy as he continued, “And when Morwyk finds his new kingdom disintegrating, his armies in revolt, duchies splintering away…then, my lord, then will Morwyk come crawling back to you…destitute, desperate, ready to shed his blood for your every whim. Then, my lord, shall you own him wholly.”
“Yes,” Radov whispered into the glass held close to his lips, and the nymph whispered back, yes…absinthe…
Radov enjoyed thoughts of the high and mighty Stefan val Tryst groveling at his feet, abasing himself before the entire Congress of Princes…receiving Bethamin’s Fire…
The Prince’s dark eyes gleamed at this thought—for truly, only the latter would be punishment enough for all the trouble Morwyk had caused him. How dare Morwyk think of betraying him after all Radov had done! He would crush the man! Crush him with his armies! His massive armies! For a moment, Radov saw himself riding at the head of a force as like none had seen outside of Agasan.
Yes!…absinthe…
But no. Wait. Radov vaguely remembered hearing Gydryn say something about leaving with his army.
He spun to Veirnan. “Gydryn threatened to leave! The king must know of his son!”
Viernan was sitting in the armchair with chin resting in hand. Radov got the distinct impression the wielder had been listening to his thoughts. “Impossible,” hal’Jaitar returned. “If he knew we had Trell in custody he would’ve been in here with all fifty of his knights brandishing weapons, not merely making threats.”
Radov didn’t like the way Viernan was looking at him, all smug and condescending. Viernan was going to turn on
him, sure as silver. But not yet. Not yet. They could use each other. But the man had to stay out of his head. It wasn’t right, poking around in other men’s minds. That’s why he wouldn’t abide truthreaders in his presence. Dung beetles, the lot of them! Sneaking through the shadowed crevices and corners of people’s heads. It wasn’t natural! Bethamin had the right of that.
Yes…absinthe…
A knock came upon the door, oddly repetitive, and Viernan called for entrance. It was his spy come back to report. Radov didn’t like spies. They were just as bad as truthreaders…hiding in the shadows, stealing secrets. Like rats. Yes, rats. It wasn’t natural for men to be as rats. Spies were unnatural. Just like truthreaders. Would that Bethamin had worked his foul trick on all the spies too.
“It is so,” the spy meanwhile reported to Viernan. He’d barely acknowledged Radov, which made the Prince bristle until he remembered that actually the man had bowed respectfully low. “Forty knights left during the night.”
Viernan’s gaze was as viperous as his tone as he hissed, “Why was I not informed of forty men and horse departing the gates?”
Radov reflected that if Viernan’s eyes were daggers, he’d have just speared the spy to the wall. The latter was unruffled though. He was a cool character, that one. Probably an assassin. They were a cold-eyed, cold-blooded crowd, the lot of them.
“The knights left in small groups, my lord,” the spy meanwhile replied, “two and three at a time. Some volunteered to go along with the patrols, pleading boredom.” He offered reluctantly, “You want us to track them all down?”
“No, no,” hal’Jaitar grumbled, waving the man irritably off, “I know where they’ve gone. The king has told us his intentions.” He strummed his long fingers under his chin while he contemplated the spy. After a moment of silent stroking, Viernan ordered, “Get a force to Taj al’Jahanna. I want Loran val Whitney and all of his knights under lock and key until further notice.”
The Dagger of Adendigaeth (A Pattern of Shadow & Light) Page 74