by Marc Turner
The nail file paused in Rosel’s fingers. “Did he say why he is coming?”
General Reynes did not look up from stroking his cinderhound. “I think we can guess—war.”
“Well if he’s looking for an excuse to start one, it won’t take him long to find it. There’s the small matter of our forces massing near the Sartorian border.”
Reynes shrugged. “The consel won’t learn anything by coming here that his spies haven’t told him already.”
“Nevertheless, he’ll view the deployment as a provocation.”
“Better he sees we’re ready for war than open to an attack.”
“And if we give him the justification he seeks to strike first?”
Ebon held up his hands. “Enough. We have been through this before. If the Sartorians want a war, they will start one no matter what we say or do. The question is whether we need to step up our preparations. General, what is the precise disposition of our armies?”
Reynes gathered his thoughts. “The Bronze Guard has moved north to reinforce Kolamin. General Ton has begun fortifying the strongholds along the Sametta River. The Blue Shields and the Plains Guard already have contingents stationed there. More will follow before the year is out.”
“And the Sartorians?”
It was the chancellor who answered. “There are reports that Consel Garat Hallon has won a decisive victory in his war against the Almarian League. The city of Villandry has fallen, and the League is suing for peace. Sartorian troops are returning in large numbers from the west.”
General Reynes said, “I think we can assume they won’t sit on their hands for long. The offensive will come in the spring.”
Ebon saw his unease mirrored in the faces round him. The escalation in hostilities between Sartor and the Almarian League on its western border had brought Galitia a welcome respite from the threat of invasion by its northern neighbor. Now it seemed the years of peace were coming to an end. “Will we be ready?”
“We’ll have to be. Sartorian troops are converging on Camessil. They won’t risk provoking the Merceriens by crossing the Sametta River west of Kolamin, so the attack will come from the north. We can’t match the Sartorians’ numbers, meaning we’ll have to fight smart. Caches of food and weapons have been concealed throughout the wildlands and the forests north of Linnar, enough to support scores of small fighting units. When the Sartorians come, we’ll burn the land ahead of them, disrupt their supply lines behind, and hope they flounder when they reach the Sametta.”
“And the bridges?”
“Pulled down or rigged to fall.” Reynes’s cinderhound rolled onto its back, and the general scratched its belly. “Come spring, the river will be flooded with snowmelt from the White Mountains. We’ll have a few surprises ready for the Sartorians when they try to cross.”
And no doubt the Sartorians will have some for us.
The chancellor cleared his throat. “What of the lands north of the Sametta? Are you suggesting we surrender them without a fight?”
“With or without a fight,” Reynes replied, “we lose them.”
“And Linnar?” Ebon said. “The city will be cut off.”
The general shrugged. “The defenses are being strengthened. Janir thinks he can hold.”
And, as ever, my uncle’s mind is not for turning. “The Sartorians will not leave an enemy city holding out behind their front line. The consel will throw everything he has at it.”
“Then Janir will stand alone,” Rosel said. “We cannot sacrifice troops just to indulge his pigheadedness.”
A maid entered, and the room fell silent. Seeing she was the center of attention, the girl scampered to the hearth and scattered a handful of powders on the fire before retreating. The heady scent of ganda spices filled the chamber.
Ebon looked at the chancellor. “Where does the balance of power lie in Sartor? The rise of this Garat Hallon has been remarkable.”
“Strictly speaking, the Patrician remains in command, but there can be no question the consel is pulling the strings. Presumably he intends to retain the Patrician as a figurehead until he is ready to make the transition of power official. Meanwhile he tightens his hold on Sartor by installing his supporters in positions of influence.”
“Has there been no opposition to his maneuverings?”
“None worth mentioning. The war with the Almarian League has seen Garat’s star rise far. He is now commander of the Sartorian armies, and every success on the battlefield strengthens his hand.” Tamarin glanced at Mottle. “There are also reports of a powerful sorceress in his employ. A woman called Ambolina.”
Mottle nodded gravely. “Her name has been making ripples on the Currents—”
Ebon held up a hand to interrupt. “Later.” Then, to the chancellor, “The title ‘consel,’ what does it mean?”
“It is an ancient honorific that Garat Hallon resurrected when he first came to prominence. I suspect it means whatever he wants it to mean.”
“What do we know about him?”
“First son of a minor noble who died a few years ago under suspicious circumstances. He is said to be ambitious, intelligent, educated…” The chancellor paused. “He is also, lest we forget, the liege lord of the Sartorian village that Domen Janir … eradicated.”
Ebon let out a slow breath. “That was five years ago.”
“I think it unlikely the consel has forgotten the affair.”
“If he comes seeking reparation he will be wasting his time. With Irrella’s death … My uncle will not so much as offer an apology.”
“No doubt the consel is counting on it.”
Ebon looked across at Isanovir to see if he was paying attention. The king’s gaze, though, remained on the fire. Ebon could have done with his father’s advice on what had been said, but it seemed Isanovir’s illness had broken his spirit as well as his body.
Mottle strode into the center of the room, smoothing his robe as if he were conscious of his disheveled appearance. “Much though he is loath to be the bearer of yet more ill tidings, your humble servant is honor bound to raise a further matter of consternation. Upheaval in the Forest of Sighs! Disturbances of the direst portent! Prince Ebon’s wounds bear testimony to the veracity of Mottle’s words if ever you were to doubt them, which of course you would not—”
“On my ride north from the borderlands,” Ebon cut in, “I encountered a Kinevar raiding party, more than fivescore strong.” He turned to Reynes. “They attacked a village in daylight, just a couple of bells from here.”
The general rose from his crouch. “It’s been coming, your Highness. I’ve sent three patrols into the forest this past fourday. Not one man has returned.”
“Patrols? Why?”
“The River Amber has been poisoned. You must have seen it on your ride through the city.”
The chancellor spoke. “Disease is spreading through the poorer quarters. Not in itself a concern, admittedly, but with the outbreak of Yellow Plague last year…”
Ebon considered this, his gaze still on Reynes. “To blight a river like the Amber would take a sizable force.”
“I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it. Missing scouts or not, we’d have had word if an army was close.”
“Then what’s behind the poisoning?”
All eyes turned to Mottle. The mage sighed. “Alas, the sordid taint of the forest’s earth-magic makes it impossible for Mottle’s arts to penetrate its borders—earth is dominant over air, yes, just as air rules water, water fire, and fire earth. But the Currents bear warning of a convergence to the south and west.”
“Convergence?” Reynes said. “Of what?”
“Power. Something is drawing energies to it like a lodestone.”
“Is it a threat?”
“Unknown as yet. The pattern is still forming.”
Reynes snorted. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” He crouched again to stroke his cinderhound. “As ever, the mage talks much but says little. By the time
he’s got anything useful to tell us, the war will be over.”
Mottle scratched at an armpit. “The general believes, perhaps, that the future is an open book to peruse at one’s leisure? A grave misapprehension! The Currents carry only fragments of what is and what has been, not of what is to come.”
Rosel pointed a finger at him. “Mage, could this convergence have anything to do with Consel Garat Hallon?”
“Certainly not! He does not control such power. Indeed, such power is beyond control.”
“Is it directed against us?”
“Unknown.”
“Then what do you suggest we do about it?”
Mottle looked puzzled. “Do? Why, nothing, my Queen. What can one do when a storm bears down, save bar the shutters and hope the brunt of its fury falls elsewhere?”
Reynes grunted. “For once we are in agreement.”
“Nevertheless,” Ebon said, “we should increase patrols along the borders of the forest, bolster the village garrisons. If a strike comes, we must not be unprepared.”
The general grimaced, but made no response. It did not need saying that, if they were attacked from both west and north at the same time, no amount of preparation would save them.
The chancellor raised his hands. “I suggest any further deliberations should await the convening of the full King’s Council. We have two weeks to make ready for the consel’s arrival. I will use the time to invite delegations from Mercerie and Koronos to the reception. Perhaps Garat Hallon will be less inclined to aggression if there are witnesses present. The king will receive the consel in—”
“No.”
Ebon started. The voice had been his father’s.
Tamarin turned to the king. “Your Majesty?”
“I will not host Garat Hallon,” Isanovir said. “Ebon will.”
Ebon exchanged a look with the chancellor. “Is that wise, Father? The consel will not be slow to take insult. He will expect the king.”
“And he shall have him.” Isanovir lifted the crown in a trembling hand and tossed it to Ebon, who caught it awkwardly. “It’s yours, take it.” His father slumped back in his chair.
A heavy silence had fallen on the room, the only sound the crack and pop of wood on the fire. The crown felt cold and heavy in Ebon’s hand. “Why?” he asked. “Why now?”
When Isanovir spoke there was bitterness in his voice. “Would you have our enemy see me like this? Look at me! A kingdom is only as strong as its king. The consel will see in me a nation ripe for the picking.”
“The physicians—”
“No! My time is almost up, Ebon. You know it as well as I do. I can see it in your eyes.” He raised his voice. “I can see it in all your eyes.”
Ebon’s response was forestalled by a commotion in the next room. The door to the chamber was thrown open with such force that it crashed against the wall and rebounded, shuddering. Reynes’s cinderhound was on its feet, growling.
Domen Janir filled the doorway, but Ebon could still make out a maid on the floor behind him, a bruise forming on her cheek. Janir’s face was flushed, and veins throbbed at his temples. “What is the meaning of this? Why was I not told about this meeting?” His gaze settled on Ebon and the crown in his hands. The color drained from his face. “Isanovir,” he said, “what have you done?”
“What I should have done a long time ago.”
Janir pointed at Ebon. “You would leave the kingdom in the hands of this … this boy?”
For a moment Isanovir’s eyes flashed with their old strength. “This ‘boy,’ as you call him, is twenty-four—”
“He is possessed!”
Ebon kept his expression even. Janir could not know the spirits had returned, but then his uncle had never believed they’d left him the first time. For once he was right to doubt.
Isanovir tried to stand, but fell back in his chair. His breathing was ragged. “You go too far, Janir. He is my son.”
Queen Rosel spoke. “The spirits are gone, Domen, as you well know.”
“Gone?” Janir said. “How can you be certain?”
“Because Ebon tells me so. Can you prove otherwise?”
The domen looked round the room. His voice took on a more reasonable tone. “We have all seen people taken by the spirits. How many have you known to recover? Not one!” He waved a hand in Ebon’s direction. “Why should he be different?”
“I’ve heard enough,” Rosel said.
Janir rounded on her. “I’m not finished! So what if the boy seems himself now? How do we know his mind is his own? Maybe the spirits have been waiting for a moment such as this to take control.”
“You have a suggestion, Domen?” the chancellor asked.
“Perhaps a steward should assume command until we can be sure of the boy’s reason.”
“And you are volunteering yourself, I take it?”
“Who else has a better claim?”
“And how long,” the queen said, “before you are satisfied the risk has passed? Five years? Ten? You’re a fool if you expect us to believe you would ever relinquish power.”
“You question my honor? Isanovir, hear me. The boy is untried.”
The chancellor spoke. “And is there not experience enough in this room to guide him, Domen?”
Ebon’s eyebrows lifted. He had not expected support from that particular quarter, but the chancellor’s motives would be colored, as ever, by self-interest. Not that Ebon needed Tamarin’s backing. The kingship was his right, his burden, and no one was going to take it from him. “I am tired of people talking about me as if I were not here,” he said, meeting Janir’s gaze. “Tell me, Uncle, you have heard the news about Consel Garat Hallon’s visit?”
Janir was stunned silent for a few heartbeats. “He’s coming here? The snake would deliver himself into my hands?”
“He comes to talk.”
“And you would treat with him? Then you are more of a fool than he is. He comes to start a war!”
“And if you are wrong?” Ebon looked about him. “What if we are all wrong? What if the consel comes to petition for peace?” He swung back to Janir. “Would you refuse him? I was there when Irrella died, remember. You swore—”
“I know what I said!”
“Then explain to us, Uncle, how the consel is to speak with his head on the end of your spear. If Garat Hallon wants peace, can you put aside your enmity and parley with him?”
A slow smile crept over Janir’s face. “Save your pretty words for that wench of yours.” He looked round. “Let the King’s Council select Isanovir’s successor.”
“The Council has no standing on matters—”
“Then perhaps it is time that it did!”
Ebon eyed him skeptically. Not even his uncle was deluded enough to believe he would command the support of the domens, but there was more at stake here than who had the larger following. A king did not rule by council. “Enough. Centuries of convention cannot be disregarded simply because it serves your—”
“Nor sheltered behind because it serves yours!”
“Interrupt me again, and I will have you put in irons.”
Janir gave a strangled choke. “You threaten me!”
“I am your king,” Ebon said. “Whether you approve or not means nothing to me. Now, I am done talking with you. I want your oath. Here, before these witnesses. Kneel and swear allegiance.”
His uncle barked a laugh, then spun round and took a step toward the door.
“Mottle,” Ebon said. “If you please.”
The door slammed shut.
Janir stumbled to a halt, before turning to face Ebon again, his hands clenched into fists.
Transferring the Serrate Crown to his left hand, Ebon drew his saber in his right. “What is to be, Uncle? I trust I do not have to spell out the options for you. Choose, or I will choose for you.”
“You wouldn’t dare—”
“Choose!”
His uncle’s chest was heaving, and his shirt showed sweat patch
es beneath his arms. Again, he looked round the chamber for support, his expression darkening all the while.
Ebon’s gaze flickered to his father. In all likelihood Isanovir had arranged this gathering of key players not just to discuss Garat Hallon, but also to firm up support for Ebon’s claim to the throne. And while Janir had unquestionably complicated matters with his unscheduled appearance, in this company his uncle remained isolated from those who might have backed him. Isolated, and now trapped. Janir knew it too. His frustration showed in his look, and for a heartbeat his right hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. Do it, Ebon silently urged him. At least then this would be finished now. For even if Janir did pledge his support here, his backing would last only as long as it took him to return to Linnar.
Instead, Janir gave a wordless growl and dropped to one knee. He would not look at Ebon, but he spoke his oath clearly enough to carry to those present.
From the corner of his eye, Ebon saw movement. Glancing across, he watched Mottle kneel as well, a hint of a smile on the old man’s face. After a pause, Rendale, General Reynes, Rosel, and finally the chancellor followed suit.
Isanovir remained seated in his chair, staring at the fire.
With a grunt, Janir pushed himself to his feet and stalked from the room.
* * *
From the shadows of an alley, Luker kept watch on the gates to the Imperial Stables. His mood was as black as the storm clouds overhead. After leaving Jenna he had returned to the Sacrosanct to find his old room filled with dust and memories that were better left undisturbed. Sitting on the floor, he’d closed his eyes and spirit-walked in an attempt to locate Kanon, but the distance to Arandas was too great, as he had known it would be. Hadn’t stopped him trying, though, had it? What had he expected to find, Kanon sitting next to a Shroud-cursed bonfire, just waiting to guide him in? Instead, Luker had stumbled across some alien presence abroad in the dark emptiness, and he’d been forced to flee back to his body. The experience had left him on edge, and he’d paced the Sacrosanct’s cold corridors until the tenth bell roused him.
Where the hell are you, Kanon?