by T. O. Munro
“Please,” Odestus raised his arms for calm even as Dema flung back her hood. “We all know the Master’s wishes in this. We are to act in unity so that no thought or force from Medyrsalve should interfere in the absorption of Morsalve beneath his hand.”
“Unity means one,” Dema hissed. “Yet it seems we have two generals in this pampered pavilion. I have it in mind to halve that number.”
“Odestus,” Galen squealed. “You assured me this witch would honour the safe conduct I gave her.”
“Dema,” the little wizard cried and the Medusa turned on him, two azure lights scintillating so brightly through the gauze across her eyes they threatened to pierce the film which warded against her gaze. “Dema, remember!” Odestus summoned a rare authority to his tone and, with a snarl the Medusa turned away and slumped into a canvas chair, her snakes hissing their distaste at being denied prey.
Odestus took in a breath of calmer air. “We know that Galen has sent his zombies into the hills. Some may have evaded the pickets and made their way into Medyrsalve.”
“We don’t know that,” Dema snapped. “We know nothing beyond this peacock’s boasts.”
“Well, Dema, when I learn the trick of flight I will oe’er fly the lands of Medyrsalve and bring back a full report,” Odestus felt his threadbare patience stretch to breaking point. “But given that such a feat is unlikely this side of the Prophet’s return, and we have no intelligence from the enemy camp, we will have to make do as best we can with a few spells of far seeing and some sensible deductions.”
The Medusa nodded. “So what use is this prick going to be then?” she dipped her chin towards Galen. The necromancer’s face flushed as crimson as his garish cloak.
“As I said, I have been carrying the fight to the enemy with my legions, while you have sat licking,” the necromancer’s eye had been fixed on the ragged scar on Dema’s cheek as he spoke, but he suddenly braved the sparkle of her veiled eyes. “licking whoever and whatever you chose.”
“You’ve been throwing your precious zombies away without thought or strategy, you fool.”
“What should I have been doing pray tell?”
“Launching a diversion a few zombies with your orcs and nomads to draw their pickets down and enable the bulk of the undead to be driven round the southern edge of their abandoned picket lines.”
Odestus looked at Dema wide mouthed, the Medusa looked back with a shrug palms spread outwards. “It is not complicated, little wizard. If the little shit actually wants to get his wandering dead to stalk Medyrsalve it needs something slightly more subtle than just throwing the beggars at their defences.”
Odestus smiled. “Well at last we begin to see how we might work together.”
***
“We heard last week from the Lady Niarmit and her associates,” Rugan announced once the formalities of reconvening the council had been concluded. “And we have argued long and hard over what intelligence can be gleaned from those reports. Before we take any decisions of import, we should hear the latest news from the other delegates. Bishop Sorenson what passes in Nordsalve?”
Niarmit tapped her fingers in impatience as the Bishop rose ponderously to his feet. The season was advancing and there was little time to waste in diplomatic procrastination.
“Thank you, Prince Rugan, you are most gracious,” Sorenson began. “The conflict has gone ill with us. Prince Hetwith and the best part of his guard fell to orcish treachery at the bridge over the Derrach Gorge. The force we have left is thinly spread along the banks of the Derrach fully employed in preventing any incursion from the conquered province of Morsalve.”
“What of Hetwith’s son, the boy Prince?” Kychelle broke in on Sorenson’s mournful deposition.
“Prince Yannuck is just past his ninth birthday. His mother has assumed the Regency for his minority.”
“Yet neither of them would attend my Grandson’s council in person?”
Sorenson hesitated, before embarking on a circumspect response. “Lady Kychelle, the roads here took us through the Northern reaches of Morsalve and were not without peril. The Lady Isobel would not trust herself or the young Prince to such a journey.” The Bishop bowed a little lower, in anticipation of the offence he was about to cause. “Of course, if passage were admitted through the Silverwood, then all danger could have been evaded…”
“My husband deemed the secrets of the Silverwood are not for human eyes,” Kychelle retorted with a stamp of her stick upon the ground. “It would be a dark day indeed that had myself or his Steward revoke that decree.”
“I can think of no darker day than this.” Niarmit’s muttered comment had been louder than was discreet, but she met the Elf’s black glare with a gaze of steady defiance.
“Those who have lived barely two short decades in this Isle should bow to the greater experience of those who have spent more than two millennia here,” Kychelled declared. “My husband and I lived through the death throes of the Monar Empire, through the rise of Maelgrum, the triumph and disaster of the Vanquisher and his line including the Kinslaying which nearly destroyed this realm. In all that time no human, orc or other creature was admitted into the Silverwood. When you have lived two thousand years, Lady Niarmit, then you can tell me if this is a dark enough day to open the borders of my husband’s realm to all or any non-elven kin.”
“Perhaps, Grandmama,” Rugan interrupted, dragging Kychelle from her contemptuous scrutiny of Niarmit. “You could remind us then how things stand in the Silverwood.”
“Our borders are intact, the wards my husband laid and the vigilance of our guard ensure that no force of the enemy has crossed into it in two millennia. The Steward has sent word that we have welcomed refugees from Feyril’s lost realm of Hershwood.” Kychelle drew in a deep breath, savouring the moment. “They are a sorry people, much reduced in power and number and a most timely reminder of what befalls when true Elven blood indulges in the folly of interference in human affairs. That was ever my husband’s argument with the Lord Feyril and I am only sorry to have seen Andril proved so roundly right,” she finished with a gleam of sorrowless triumph in her eye.
“Feyril was a brave and true elf who gave everything in the fight against Maelgrum,” Niarmit cried, rising from her seat. She could not stop herself crossing the council chamber to confront the haughty elf. “He didn’t pick and choose when and where to meddle in the affairs of the Salved for his own twisted amusement. He gave his all.”
“And he lost! He lost it all.” Kychelle stood straight and tall unbowed by Niarmit’s anger. “I will give my advice to my Grandson and the people of the Salved. My husband always held it was our duty to lend our wisdom to you short-lived mayflies, but I will not gamble with my husband’s inheritance and his people as Feyril gambled with his. My words you shall have for free and you should pay them heed, all of you, but my lands and my spearmen and archers you shall not have.”
“If we fail, Lady Kychelle, if Maelgrum and his legions flow around your precious forest like the plague they are and you sit and wait and hope that Maelgrum does not come for you, then you will think on this day and rue your choices.”
“The Silverwood has survived Maelgrum before.”
“Bought him off with your own daughter as a hostage to Andril’s good behaviour. Who would you send in Liessa’s place this time?”
The slap resounded and reverberated from the domed ceiling to Rugan’s council chamber. Niarmit’s head jerked sideways with the force of it. She turned back slowly, to meet the elf’s eyes with an unrepentant rage. Kychelle’s hand swung again, lightning fast, harder than before, but Niarmit caught and held it half an inch from her cheek. “You are an insult to your kind,” the priestess said with slow deliberation.
“I’ll take no lessons in being an elf from a human bastard,” Kychelle spat back.
“Your Majesty, my Lady Niarmit, let us not fall to quarrelling amongst ourselves about what is past,” Quintala at Niarmit’s shoulder stumbled through the unacc
ustomed role of peacemaker. The Queen let herself be pulled away, but she took two steps back before she turned her eyes from Kychelle’s brooding malevolence.
In the silence that lingered, the Lord Leniot made a tentative suggestion. “Perhaps it is time to hear from Oostsalve?”
“We know your mind Lord Leniot, and your father’s also,” Kychelle observed without looking round.
“In the interests of completeness, though,” Rugan admitted. “Let us hear and record what message you have brought.”
“Well, my father has already parted with the best part of his force. We had hoped to see them here.”
“Your brother and the hobilers are doing fine service helping hold the gap of Tandar.” Quintala spoke up. Niarmit was grateful for the Seneschal’s intervention. Her cheek was still stinging from Kychelle’s blow and she did not trust herself to speak well or wisely.
“Quite so, well the rest of our father’s force is needed in Oostsalve and cannot be parted with.”
“Fool boy,” Rugan gestured at the map of the Kingdom of the Salved picked out in mosaic on the floor, a map which placed Medyrsalve at the Kingdom’s centre. “How will the enemy reach Oostsalve saving through my province. Your father’s greatest advantage lies in helping secure Medyrsalve. He should lend his force to mine. If Medyrsalve should fall what hope can Oostslave have of enduring alone. What value another six thousand then?”
“Perhaps they might be thought sufficient to guard the Prince’s retreat to his ships and vouchsafe him a secure passage to the Eastern Lands?” The faces of the Lords of Oostsalve reddened at Quintala’s blunt suggestion.
Niarmit caught a glance from Giseanne and decided the Princess had judged the time right. “It seems to me,” the Queen began, “that what this council lacks is one person with authority to instruct all the Princes, that our forces may act in concert against the threat we face.”
“And you think you are the one with that authority, Lady Niarmit?” Rugan’s lip curled in contempt as he delivered his challenge.
“I know there are those here who doubt my claim.” Niarmit gave a moue of self-deprecation.
“Where there is no monarch, authority rests with the Prince of the senior province.” Kychelle could barely contain her satisfaction. “That is the Prince of Medyrsalve.”
Niarmit shook her head. “We are all sure that there is a monarch. Those who think it is not I, would place the crown on the head of the Bishop Udecht.”
“But he is in captivity,” Leniot said.
“And where the monarch has been incapacitated, by captivity, madness or minority,” Quintala intoned, “rulership has passed to the monarch’s nearest blood relative who acts as Regent with all royal power and prerogative. Thus it was for Gregor the Third in his insanity, Thren the Sixth in captivity, Eadran the Sixth in minority. I could go on.”
“So who is the nearest blood relative?” Tybert asked his brother in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
Bishop Sorenson gave the lords of Oostsalve a glare that would wake a slumbering parishioner in a Prophet’s day service, before turning with all the ecclesiastical and physical weight that he could muster to Prince Rugan’s wife. “My Lady Giseanne, do you accept this charge as Regent of the Salved.”
Kychelle’s grip on her stick loosened so it dropped with a dull thud to the marble floor. “What madness is this? You would make my grandson’s wife the ruler of us all?”
“It is within the protocols, Lady Kychelle,” Bishop Sorenson assured her.
The elf rounded on Niarmit, “but you, you cannot accept this Regency, to do so would be to deny your claim.”
Niarmit smiled. “If my authority is compromised by the dispute to my claim, then the Lady Giseanne is as much my Regent as she is my Uncle’s. She is my closest blood relative, free from captivity or minority. You will find no dispute from me of her right to the Regency and I see no others in the room would challenge the lady’s legitimate right to rule until I or her brother can prove our claim to the throne.”
Kychelle spun to face Giseanne. “Are you ready then, my Lady to take up this double Regency, all its pains and woes?”
The lady’s calm assurance as she nodded inflamed the elf even more. “This was known?” she cried. “This was planned in advance! It is a trick!” She strode across the chamber, her staff clacking on the mosaic floor as she approached Niarmit.
“There is no plan, grandmama,” Quintala assured her. “This is simply how it is. How it had to be.”
“Silence!” Kychelle gave a quick chop of her hand to cut her grand-daughter short. She leaned in towards Niarmit, the Queen’s cheek still red from her earlier blow. “I sense your meddling at work here, it will avail you nothing. I am sure my grandson can keep his wife in check.”
“I will take close counsel with all my nobles,” Giseanne interjected. “Not just my dear Rugan.”
Kychelle spared her a glare. “I had heard tell that childbirth softened the mind of human mothers, but I had not thought to see it before now. Do not think by this stratagem that any bastard of that cuckold Matteus will command the obedience of the Elves of Silverwood.”
“I’ll thank you, Lady Kychelle, to speak with more courtesy of him whom I called father,” Niarmit kept her fury cold.
“You’ll thank me not to put a matching mark on your other cheek,” Kychelle spat back. “Impudent witch.” With that the elf stalked from the room without a backward glance.
“Lady that is twice in two days you have surprised me,” Rugan told his wife, though not without some grudging admiration.
***
“So this is where you scurry like mice desperate to find some crumbs with which to curry the Master’s favour.” Rondol’s rumbling voice echoed like thunder around the crowded shelves and arched recesses.
Udecht looked up from the desk at the towering sorcerer coming through the gate, red beard bristling with ill intent. Rondol spared the Bishop not even a glance as Haselrig came round a corner bearing an armful of papers.
“What brings you here, Rondol?” The antiquary quizzed. “Bored with rulership already?”
“Fear is a most efficient mode of government, Haselrig,” The sorcerer spat out the antiquary’s name as though offended by the sound of it. “With enough fear, the creatures that you serve anticipate the Master’s needs and fulfil them without ever being told, for fear they will suffer for failing him. They pass on that fear in a hierarchy of terror which leaves the one at the top with little to do save reap the credit.”
“It is a vile system which cannot endure,” Udecht said.
In an instant the sorcerer’s hand was about the Bishop’s throat and he found himself lifted aloft in a choking grasp while his toes stretched for the floor. “Did you speak to me, slave? Did you dare to raise your eyes to me?”
“Rondol, the Bishop is my slave,” Haselrig called. Udecht could make no more than strangled gasps through his clamped larynx.
“And you are the Master’s slave and I am the Master’s deputy and so by right you both serve me.” Rondol dropped Udecht into a crumpled heap on the floor. “I have a whip will remind you both of that in an instant.”
“The Master would not be pleased if he returned to hear that you had impeded our study,” the antiquary stammered.
Rondol snorted. “I could smear the pair of you into dirt on the ground, manage the Master’s affairs here and solve this trifling riddle which puzzles you so, all before the Master returned. He would thank me for it, Haselrig.”
“Perhaps then,” Haselrig ventured. “You might be so gracious as to spare me your opinion on that tome on the shelf by the gate.”
Udecht looked up. It was the book which the antiquary had tugged him so vehemently from on their first day of this dungeon research. The sorcerer plucked the book from the shelf. There was a spark of static that fizzled out as he touched it and Rondol rubbed finger and thumb over each other in mild irritation. Udecht looked across and saw a scowl of disappointment on Hasel
rig’s face for a fraction of a second, before the antiquary slipped back behind a mask of indifference.
“It is wise always to have one’s guard against enchantments up,” Rondol was saying as he leafed through the pages. “But then I was forgetting Haselrig, how you have no magic in you. Why the Master indulges you I cannot imagine.” He tossed the book on the desk. “There is nothing of interest there.”
“Be not so quick to dismiss a source of knowledge, Rondol. There are many mysteries the Master has shared with me and I with him. I am privy to secrets you have not dreamed of.”
The sorcerer leant close breathing in the antiquary’s face. “There is nothing of consequence that has passed between the Master and you, little librarian which I do not know of.”
“So he has told you of the blue gate then?”
“What?”
“A gate in the planes, blue in colour. Surely the Master would have confided in you about it too since you are held so high in his esteem.”
“You lie, little librarian.”
“I do not, but if you do not believe me…” Haselrig shrugged and picked up a scroll which Udecht knew he had already examined in great depth.
“What is this blue gate?”
“If the Master has not told you Rondol, it is hardly my place to break his confidence. You could always ask him to enlighten you when he returns.”
“I will not be duped by your trickery, Haselrig. There is no such thing as a blue gate.”
“Of course not. Either I lie and you fear to find the proof, or I tell the truth and you fear to admit your ignorance. Whichever way you are most certainly not duped, Rondol. Not duped at all.” Haselrig turned the scroll over idly and spoke to it rather than the glowering sorcerer. “Fear is as you say such an efficient mode of government.”
Rondol bent close to Haselrig’s ear. “I look forward to your failure and the Master’s return, librarian. Your time is done, I am the future.”
Haselrig whistled softly to himself, an old nursery rhyme and after a few seconds of being ignored, the sorcerer straightened up, spat on the floor and strode from the archive.