by Tad Williams
How could he say no? “Of course, Magister. It’s an honor.”
“Good. Very good.” Cinnabar rose, not without a small noise of effort. “Here, give me your hand on it. Come to me tomorrow and I’ll give you the plans and your list of men. Oh, and thanking you for your hospitality, Mistress Opal.”
Her smile was genuine now. “Our pleasure, Magister.”
He did not leave, but took a step forward and stood over Flint. “What do you say, boy?” he asked, mock-stern. “Do you like stone?”
The child regarded him carefully. “Which kind?”
Cinnabar laughed. “Well questioned! Ah, Master Chert, perhaps he has the making of a Funderling at that, if he grows not too big for the tunnels.” He was still chuckling as Chert let him out.
“Such wonderful news!” Opal’s eyes were shining. “Your family will regret their snubs now.”
“Perhaps.” Chert was glad, of course, but he knew old Hornblende for a levelheaded fellow. Was there a reason he had given up such a prestigious post? Could there be something of a poisoned offering about it? Chert was not used to kindnesses from the town leaders, although he had no reason to mistrust Cinnabar, who was reputed for fair-dealing.
“Little Flint has brought us good luck,” Opal purred. “He will have a shirt, and I will have that winter shawl and . . . and you, my husband, you must have a handsome new pair of boots. You cannot go walking through the big folk’s castle in those miserable old things.”
“Let’s not spend silver we haven’t seen yet,” he said, but mildly. He might have been a little uncertain about this surprising good fortune, but it was good to see Opal so happy.
“And you would have left the boy there,” she said, almost giddy. “Left our luck sitting in the grass!”
“Luck’s a strange thing,” Chert reminded her, “and as they say, there is much digging before the entire vein is uncovered.” He sat down to finish his tea.
Kendrick had convened the council in the castle’s Chapel of Erivor, dedicated to the sea god who had always been the Eddon family’s special protector. The main chamber was dominated by the statue of the god in green soapstone trimmed with bright metal, with golden kelp coiling in Erivor’s hair and beard and his great golden spear held high to calm the waters so Anglin’s ancestors could cross the sea from Connord. Generations of Eddons had been named and married at the low stone altar beneath the statue, and many had lain in state there, too, after they had died: the echoes that drifted back from the chapel’s high, tiled ceiling sometimes seemed to be voices from other times.
Barrick had enough difficulty with unwanted voices as it was: he didn’t like the chapel much.
Today a ring of chairs had been set up on the floor just beneath the steps that led to the low stone altar. “It is the only chamber in this castle where we can close the door and find any privacy,” Kendrick explained to the nobles. “Anything important said in the throne room or the Oak Chamber will be spread across Southmarch before the speaker has finished.”
Barrick moved uncomfortably in the hard, high-backed chair. He had been chewing willow bark since supper but his crippled arm still ached miserably from Shaso’s blows. He darted a sour look at the master of arms. Shaso’s face was a mask, his eyes fixed on the frescoes that, with so many lamps lit, gleamed daytime-bright, as though the birth and triumph of Erivor was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. Barrick had not attended many of these councils: he and Briony had only been invited since their father’s departure, and this was his first without her, which added to his discomfort. He could not shake off the feeling that a part of him was gone, as though he had woken up to find he had only one leg.
Gailon of Summerfield was talking quietly into the prince regent’s left ear. Sisel, Hierarch of Southmarch, had been given the position of honor on Kendrick’s other hand. The hierarch, a slender, active man of sixty winters or so, was the leading priest of the marchlands, and although in some things he was forced to act as the hand of the Trigonarch in distant Syan, he was also the first northerner to hold the position, and thus unusually loyal to the Eddons. The Trigonarchy had been unhappy that Barrick’s father Olin had chosen to elevate one of the local priests over their own candidate, but neither Syan nor the Trigon itself wielded as much power in the north as they once had.
Ranged around the table were many of the other leading nobles of the realm, Blueshore’s Tyne, Lord Nynor the castellan, the bearlike lord constable, Avin Brone, and Barrick’s dandified cousin Rorick Longarren, who was Earl of Daler’s Troth (strangely matched with those dour, plain-spoken folk, Barrick always felt) as well as a half dozen more nobles, some clearly sleepy after the midday meal, others indifferently hiding their irritation at giving up a day of hunting or hawking. That sort would not even have been present were it not for their interest in seeing some relief from the royal levy, Barrick felt sure. The fact that his sister was the bargaining chip bothered them not at all.
He would gladly have seen them all skewered on Erivor’s golden fish spear.
Shaso alone seemed suitably grave. He had taken a place at the table’s far end, with a space between himself and the nearest nobles on either side: Barrick thought he looked a bit like a prisoner brought to judgment.
“Your argument should be made to all,” Kendrick loudly told Gailon, who was still whispering to him. At this signal, the other nobles turned their attention to the head of the table.
Duke Gailon paused. A bit of a flush crept up his neck and onto his handsome face. Other than Barrick and the prince regent, he was the youngest man at the gathering. “I simply said that I think we would be making a mistake to so easily give the princess to Ludis Drakava,” he began. “We all want nothing more than to have our King Olin back, but even if Ludis honors the bargain and delivers him without treachery, what then? Olin, may the gods long preserve him, will grow old one day and die. Much can happen before that day, and only the unsleeping Fates know all, but one thing is certain—when our liege is gone, Ludis and his heirs will have a perpetual claim on the throne of the March Kings.”
And his claim will be a better one than yours, Barrick thought, which is your real objection. Still, he was heartened to discover he had an ally, even one he cared for as little as he did Gailon Tolly. He supposed he should be grateful Gailon was the oldest of the Tolly sons. He might be an ambitious prig, but he looked noble as Silas when set beside his brothers, shiftless Caradon and mad Hendon.
“Easy enough for you to say, Summerfield,” growled Tyne Aldritch, “with all your share of the ransom gathered already. What of the rest of us? We would be fools not to take up Ludis’ bargain.”
“Fools?” Barrick straightened. “We are fools if we don’t sell my sister?”
“Enough,” said Kendrick heavily. “We will come back to this question later. First there are more pressing matters. Can Ludis and his envoy even be trusted? Obviously, if we were to agree to this offering . . . and I speak only of possibilities, Barrick, so please keep still . . . we could not allow my sister to leave our protection until the king was released and safe.”
Barrick squirmed, almost breathless with fury—he would never have believed that Kendrick could talk so carelessly about giving his own sister to a bandit—but the prince regent had spoken with another purpose.
“In fact,” Kendrick continued, “we know little about Ludis, except by reputation, and less of his envoy. Shaso, perhaps you can make us wiser about this man Dawet dan-Faar, since you seem to know him.”
His question settled on the master of arms as softly as a silken noose. Shaso stirred. “Yes,” he said heavily. “I know him. We are . . . related.”
This set the table muttering. “Then you should not be seated in this council, sir,” said Earl Rorick loudly. The royal cousin was dressed in the very latest fashion, the slashes in his deep purple doublet a blazing yellow. He turned to the prince regent, bright and self-assured as a courting bird. “This is shameful. How many councils have we held, speakin
g, though we knew it not, for the benefit not only of the marchlands but Hierosol as well?”
At last, Shaso seemed to pay attention. Like an old lion woken from sleep, he blinked and leaned forward. One hand had fallen to his side, close to the hilt of his dagger. “Stay. Are you calling me a traitor, my lord?”
Rorick’s return look was haughty, but the earl’s cheeks had gone pale. “You never told us you were this man’s relative.”
“Why should I?” Shaso stared at him for a moment, then sagged back, his energy spent. “He was of no importance to any of you before he arrived here. I myself did not know he had taken service with Ludis until the day he arrived. Last I had heard of him, he led his own free company, robbing and burning across Krace and the south.”
“What else do you know of him?” Kendrick asked, not particularly kindly. “He called you a name—‘Mordiya’?”
“It means ‘uncle,’ or sometimes ‘father-in-law.’ He was mocking me.” Shaso closed his eyes for a moment. “Dawet is the fourth son of the old king of Tuan. When he was young I taught him and his brothers, just as I have taught the children of this family. He was in many ways the best of them, but in more ways the worst—swift and strong and clever, but with the heart of a desert jackal, looking only for what would advantage himself. When I was captured by your father in the battle for Hierosol, I thought that I would never see him or any of the rest of my family again.”
“So how does this Dawet come to be serving Ludis Drakava?”
“I do not know, as I said, Ke . . . Highness. I heard that Dawet had been exiled from Tuan because of . . . because of a crime he had committed.” Shaso’s face had gone hard and blank. “His bad ways had continued and worsened, and at last he despoiled a young woman of good family and even his father would no longer protect him. Exiled, he crossed the ocean from Xand to Eion, then joined a mercenary company and rose to lead it. He did not fight for his father or Tuan when our country was conquered by the Autarch. Nor did I, for that matter, since I had already been brought here.”
“A complicated story,” said Hierarch Sisel. “Your pardon, but you ask us to take much on faith, Lord Shaso. How is it that you heard of his doings after your exile here?”
Shaso looked at him but said nothing.
“See,” Rorick proclaimed. “He hides something.”
“These are foul times,” Kendrick said, “that we should all be so mistrustful. But the hierarch’s question is a fair one. How do you come to know of what happened to him after you left Tuan?”
Shaso’s expression became even more lifeless. “Ten years ago, I had a letter from my wife, the gods rest her. It was the last she sent me before she died.”
“And she used this letter to tell you about one of what must have been many students?”
The master of arms placed his dark hands flat on his knees, then looked down at them carefully, as though he had never seen such unusual things as hands before. “The girl he ruined was my youngest daughter. Afterward, in her grief, she went to the temple and became a priestess of the Great Mother. When she sickened and died two years later, my wife wrote to tell me. My wife thought it was a shattered heart that had taken Hanede—that our daughter had died from shame, not just fever. She also told me something of Dawet, full of despair that such a man should live and prosper when our daughter was dead.”
Silence reigned for long moments in the small chapel.
“I . . . I am grieved to hear it, Shaso,” Kendrick said at last. “And doubly grieved that I have forced you to think of it again.”
“I have thought of nothing else since I first heard the name of Hierosol’s envoy,” the old man said. Barrick had seen Shaso do this before—go away to somewhere deep inside himself, like the master of a besieged castle. “Were Dawet dan-Faar not under the March King’s seal, one of the two of us would already be dead.”
Kendrick had clearly been caught by surprise, and just as clearly had not enjoyed it. “This . . . this speaks badly of the envoy, of course. Does it also mean his offer is not to be trusted?”
Hierarch Sisel cleared his throat. “I, for one, think the offer is honest, although the messenger be not. Like many bandit-lords, Ludis Drakava is desperate to make himself a true monarch—already he has petitioned the Trigon to recognize him as Hierosol’s king. It would be to his advantage to link himself to one of the existing noble houses as well. Syan and Jellon will not do it—even with the mountains between, Hierosol is too close to them, and they deem Ludis too ambitious. Thus, I suspect, his mind has turned to Southmarch.” He frowned, considering. “It could even be he planned this all along, and is the reason he took King Olin.”
“He wanted the ransom to begin to pinch before he offered us this other bargain?” asked a baron from Marrinswalk, shaking his head. “Very crafty.”
“All this talk of why and what happened does not change the facts,” snapped Earl Tyne. “He has the king. We do not. He wants the king’s daughter. Do we give her to him?”
“Do you agree with the hierarch, Shaso?” Kendrick looked at the master of arms keenly. He had never felt Briony’s loyalty to the old Tuani, but he did not share Barrick’s grudges either. “Is the offer to be trusted?”
“I think it genuine, yes,” Shaso said at last. “But the Earl of Blueshore has reminded us of the true question here.”
“And what do you think?” Kendrick prodded him.
“It is not for me to say.” The old man’s eyes were hooded. “She is not my sister. The king is not my father.”
“The final decision will be mine, of course. But I wish to hear counsel first, and you were always one of my father’s most trusted councillors.”
Barrick could not help but notice that Kendrick had called Shaso his father’s trusted councillor, not his own. The master of arms grew even more stony at this slight, but he spoke carefully. “I think it a bad idea.”
“Again, one who does not suffer has an easy choice,” said Tyne Aldritch. “You have no ransom to raise, no tithe of crops to deliver. What does it matter to you whether the rest of us are crippled by this?”
Shaso would not answer the Earl of Blueshore, but Gailon Tolly did. “Can none of you see any farther than the boundaries of your own smallholdings?” he demanded. “Do you think you alone suffer hardship? If we do not give the princess to Ludis, as I think we should not, we all must still share the burden of the greatest hardship—the king’s absence!”
“What did our father say?” Barrick asked suddenly. The whole gathering had been like a bad dream, a confusion of voices and faces. He still could not believe his brother was giving the Lord Protector’s suit any consideration at all. “You read his letter, Kendrick—he must have said something about this.”
His brother nodded but did not meet his younger brother’s eye. “Yes, but in few words, as though he did not take it seriously. He called it a foolish offer.” Kendrick blinked, suddenly weary. “Does this help us to decide, Barrick? You know that Father would never allow himself to be bartered for anyone, even the lowest pig farmer. He has always put his ideals above all else.” There was a note of bitterness, now. “And you know he dotes on Briony, and has since she was in swaddling clothes. You’ve complained of it often enough, Barrick.”
“But he’s right! She is our sister!”
“And we Eddons are the rulers of Southmarch. Even Father has always put those responsibilities above his own desires. Who do you think is more important to our people, our father or sister?”
“The people love Briony!”
“Yes, they do. Her absence would sadden them, but it would not make them fearful, as they have been since the king has been gone. A kingdom without its monarch is like a man without a heart. Better Father were dead, the gods preserve him and us, than simply gone!”
A shocked silence fell over the table at this near-treason, but Barrick knew that his brother was right. Although everyone had tried to pretend otherwise, the king’s absence had been a kind of living death for t
he March Kingdoms, as unnatural as a year without sunshine. And now, for the first time, Barrick could see the strain beneath what he sometimes thought of as his brother’s guileless features, the immense worry and exhaustion. Barrick could only wonder what other things Kendrick had been hiding from him.
The other nobles took up the argument. It quickly became apparent that Shaso and Gailon were in the minority, that Tyne and Rorick and even Lord Constable Avin Brone thought that since one day Briony would be married off for political gain anyway, her maidenhead might as well be bartered now for something as valuable as restoring King Olin. However, few beside Tyne were honest enough to admit that part of the plan’s appeal was that it would spare them many golden dolphins as well.
Tempers frayed and the discussion became loud. At one point, Avin Brone threatened to knock in Ivar of Silverside’s head, although both were arguing in favor of the same position. At last Kendrick demanded quiet.
“It is late and I have not made up my mind yet,” the prince regent said. “I must think and then sleep on it tonight. My brother Barrick is right in one thing, especially—this is my sister, and I’ll do nothing lightly that will so greatly affect her. Tomorrow I will announce my decision.”
He stood; the others rose and bade him good night, although ill will was still in the air. Barrick was dissatisfied with many things, but he did not for a moment envy his older brother, who like a cattle herder’s dog had to nip at the heels of these vexatious bulls to keep them moving together.
“I want to talk to you,” he told Kendrick as his brother left the chapel. The prince regent’s guards had already formed a silent wall behind him.
“Not tonight, Barrick. I know what you think. I still have much to do before I sleep.”
“But . . . but, Kendrick, she’s our sister! She is terrified—I went to her chambers and heard her sobbing . . . !”