Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  One glance told him it was warmer down by the lake. Warmer and less windy. People were harvesting ice. They would store it in caves, carrying a little winter into the summer. Birds drifted and soared at several levels between Corpseour and Albodiges. One species seemed unusual. The Perfect supposed it had come from the north, fleeing the permanent ice.

  Cold came and went several times before spring achieved ascendance. And news came through.

  It was a new world. There was a new Patriarch in Brothe. The Captain-General and his army had gone.

  A new war was taking shape in Direcia. This one posed a mortal threat far beyond those Chaldarean kingdoms in the direct path of the Almanohides.

  The Maysalean Heresy had not been forgotten — the Society was making its notes and accusations — but in the larger picture the dualists had become insignificant. Had become annoying blowflies because wolves were running the borders.

  Socia was put out. “We went through all that up there for nothing!” And Kedle backed her up, almost viciously.

  “Indeed?” Brother Candle responded. “And which of you girls was prescient enough to foresee all those changes?”

  “Bah!” Socia snorted. Knowing the argument could not be won.

  “We make the best decisions we can using the information we have. In time to come you’ll realize that one never has enough information to make the perfect decision. You do the best you can, and hope. Or, like Duke Tormond, you try to wait till you can make the perfect choice.”

  “Grr!” Socia said. “And then it’s too late. I get it. But I sure as hell don’t have to like it. What’re we gonna do now?”

  “Go back to Khaurene. Help these folk reclaim their places there.” The Society must have tried to seize the properties of Seekers who had not stayed to protect them.

  But, Brother Candle soon learned, the Society’s influence in Khaurene had guttered and gone. Known members had paid dearly for the successes of the Patriarchal forces in the fighting outside Khaurene.

  Brothen Episcopal churches had been looted and their priests driven out. Members of those parishes had banded together to protect themselves. They called themselves the Scarlet Cross. They wore black robes with red crosses sewn on when they roamed the streets.

  Chaldareans who supported the resurgent Bellicose in Viscesment wore pale robes with black, blue, or even purple crosses sewn on. Some younger, more spirited Seekers had adopted white robes with a yellow cross for their vigilance bands.

  A seamstress told Brother Candle that the militias chose the cross because that was the most efficient way of making a symbol using costly colored cloth. Other shapes left waste material.

  Khaurene had changed dramatically. It had become abidingly factional. Street brawls happened almost every day. Duke Tormond made ineffectual efforts to stifle them with insufficient resources.

  Socia sneered, “I thought all the fools got wiped out in that battle last fall.”

  Brother Candle said, “Human nature being human nature, the fools were the more likely survivors. And, pray, don’t say that in front of Kedle.”

  Still no news of the Archimbault daughter’s spouse. His battalion had been overrun by the Captain-General’s handful of heavy cavalry. Most survivors did not want to talk. Which suggested that they might have had their backs to the enemy by then. No one who would talk knew what had become of Soames.

  Socia said, “He’ll turn up if he survived. He looked forward to becoming a parasite. If you ask me.”

  Brother Candle’s estimate of the man had been somewhat higher. But not much. He wondered what Raulet had hoped to gain from the match. “Not kind, girl.”

  “But true. All right. All right. I’ll be a good Seeker and look on the bright side. We won’t have to stay with that foul baker again.” Spoken with Madam Scarre standing scarcely two yards away.

  Brother Candle sighed. The child was hopeless. But, after all this time, she was almost a daughter. Or even a chaste young wife. He had difficulty imagining life without her. But that day was coming. He had to take her back to Antieux.

  Khaurene was a sizable city but word got around. The summons to Metrelieux reached the Master his third afternoon back in the city.

  Socia refused to go up the hill with him. She had no faith in the good behavior of the local gentry, probably because her own nature was wholly predatory.

  Unfamiliar men guarded the gate of the ancient fortress. Younger than their predecessors, they might actually have offered a moment of resistance. An unfamiliar chamberlain greeted Brother Candle. Inside, the Perfect saw unfamiliar faces everywhere, mostly strangers dressed in Direcian styles. He wondered why they were here when so critical a campaign was taking shape in their homeland.

  Securing somewhere to run to if the worst happened?

  The chamberlain led him to a hall he had visited several times before. This was well stocked with familiar faces. “All the usual miscreants, I see,” he said as he arrived.

  “Welcome, Charde,” Duke Tormond said, coming to meet him. With his usual overestimation of the warmth of their relationship. Tormond had aged horribly. He would not last much longer. Which might explain the Navayans another way. Was Isabeth somewhere handy, ready to step in?

  Then the Direcians would be here to enforce her claim to succeed Tormond, despite the law?

  The Duke continued. “Not all the usual gang. Sir Eardale perished in his ill-starred battle. He just had to fight. And Tember Sirht isn’t with us anymore. He took his people into exile in Terliaga.”

  Duke Tormond seemed resigned to the Terliagan Littoral’s defection. The man seemed resigned, in fact, to anything.

  The effort to poison him had been a waste of ambition. When you came right down to it.

  “You wanted to see me?” Brother Candle asked after he shed the Duke’s embrace.

  Bishop Clayto told him, “We need your wisdom. Great things will soon happen in Direcia. The backwash may drown us.”

  “I’ve just spent four months on top of a mountain. Freezing. Plus time going and coming. I have no idea what’s happening.”

  “There’s a new Patriarch in Brothe. Another new one. Boniface VII. We don’t know what he’ll be like, yet. The Captain-General destroyed the pagan revivalists in Artecipea that the last Patriarch forced him to attack, hoping he’d get bogged down. Because he’d become strong enough to be feared by his masters. Meantime, the flower of Chaldarean chivalry is flooding into Direcea. We expect to hear of a battle any day now. And we fear that, no matter the outcome, what follows won’t be good for the Connec.”

  “How so?”

  “If God averts His countenance we’ll soon see Almanohides horsemen outside the walls. If King Peter is victorious, it’ll be Arnhanders out there doing mischief as they trudge on home. Anne of Menand certainly had that in mind when she sent Regard down with half the feudal levy of Arnhand.”

  “Regard?” Brother Candle asked. “She dared let the boy out of sight?”

  “She had no choice. Strong as she is, fierce as she is, Anne’s position is still fluid. And will never get any more solid if Regard doesn’t win the respect of the fighting nobility.”

  “I see,” Brother Candle said. “To tighten her grip Anne has to let her baby go off to war. Suppose the worst happens? Who succeeds? The younger brother?”

  “Anselin? Probably. Though Anne hasn’t thought that far ahead.”

  Duke Tormond chipped in, “Anselin is on crusade in the Holy Lands. Or that was his plan when I visited Salpeno. He wasn’t happy. He didn’t want to go. It was the only way he could get away from his mother.”

  “Then Regard’s fall throws Arnhand into chaos. The nobility would never let Anne take charge directly.

  Might not even accept her as regent while Anselin was recalled.”

  Bishop Clayto said, “So you’re suggesting that we could experience several years respite if Regard doesn’t make it back from Direcia.”

  The Master protested, “That’s not what I meant at
all!”

  The Duke said, “You see, gentlemen? I told you it would be worthwhile to drag Charde up out of the stews.”

  Brother Candle protested again. And was ignored. The Council, including the Brothen Episcopal Bishop, began amusing themselves by conspiring to cause the premature ascent to paradise of King Regard of Arnhand. It as not a conspiracy with any heart. It was a wishful thinking game played by a covey of weak men who had been drinking too much wine too early in the day. Men, Brother Candle concluded, who would shepherd an ancient culture into oblivion not because they could not withstand predators from within but because they could not get up on their hind legs and take charge within.

  Not once was his advice actively invited. He went away again after a few hours. No one seemed to note or care.

  Brother Candle and Socia Rault had just settled in to rest with the resurgent Seeker commity in Castreresone. The city’s bells began ringing joyously, celebrating the Chaldarean victory at Los Naves de los Fantas. Word spread fast. No one believed the news was not exaggerated. Al-Prama’s worst defeat in four hundred years? Impossible.

  “And now the torment of the Connec resumes,” Brother Candle observed.

  “When did it let up?” Socia demanded.

  Reaching Castreresone had taken nine days. Not so bad as the trek westward, yet fraught with danger from bandits and men serving surviving local lords who were little better than bandits. Not to mention things of the Night.

  The pagans of Artecipea had released more dark spirits than they anticipated. When the ghost of a Shade or Rook or Hilt began to crawl the earth again, and reached a breakthrough level of restoration, it began to call up and release its own satellite Instrumentalities. Scores of which now roamed the wilderness, frail and blind but perfectly capable of preying on the incautious and unwitting.

  Brother Candle stayed a while at Castreresone to relax and recollect his strength. He was there longer than he hoped. He wanted to send a message to Antieux. Socia would not hear of it. He hoped she would not be as surprised as Count Raymone might.

  He was looking forward to turning his charge over. That would free him, finally, to tend to the cleansing and healing of his soul.

  The pause at Castreresone seemed endless. Just when Brother Candle felt ready to go on, he fell sick.

  Then the situation outside became so nasty the consuls locked everyone in till patrols cleared the danger.

  That danger did not keep news out: Neither Regard nor his chief followers were interested in more war after what they had survived in Direcia. They just wanted to go home.

  Eventually, the old man and girl did return to the road, he observing, “I expect Regard will get a real scolding when he gets back to Salpeno.”

  “Or his mother will. He’s a veteran, now. He’s been tempered in the flame. Maybe he’s developed a backbone.”

  Socia was dressed to look like an older boy. As always when they were on the road. And a good choice it was.

  Maysalean pilgrims, a Master and his student, were troubled by none but the frenetically insane. Masters disdained money. Their only currency was wisdom. Any student companion would be poorer still.

  Later, they learned that a few Arnhanders did, indeed, indulge in looting and terror tactics, ignoring the distinction between heretics, Unbelievers, and Chaldareans of various allegiances. They just took whatever had not been taken already by previous invaders or predatory neighbors. They captured few towns or castles, nor did any great slaughter, but they did guarantee that they would find no allies if they returned.

  Antieux was in sight when the old man and girl met a frightened traveler who shared what he believed was terrible news. The new Patriarch, Boniface VII, intended to send the Captain-General back to the Connec. He would have fewer men but all of them would be hardened veterans.

  Antieux had begun preparing for yet another siege already.

  Socia was grim. “How will we manage? There was almost no harvest last year. And the enemy isn’t likely to let us get many crops in before he shows up this year.”

  Brother Candle had listened to the traveler more closely than she. “This is a new Patriarch. Not that lunatic Sublime. My guess is, he really does want to clean up the Instrumentalities that got loose here.”

  “We’re talking about a man who said he would put an end to the Society’s wickedness. Have you heard of any changes for the better, there?”

  He had. But Socia was not about to hear it. He saved his breath. There were miles to be walked and his old joints ached. He thought about retiring altogether, not just dallying in a cloister while he rebuilt his spiritual center. Some Perfect did withdraw permanently, generally into one of several fastnesses down in the mountainous frontier counties between the Connec and Direcia. Even devout Episcopals there scorned the rule of Brothe and loved their neighbors more.

  From crusty and bellicose, Socia turned concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, child. It’s just age slowing me down.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. She had been his companion long enough to follow the weakening of his flesh.

  “I’m just tired.” But he knew a hint of fear. His fiercest will could not push him forward at as fast a pace as he could make just last summer. He thought his decline had begun during that terrible passage from Castreresone to Khaurene. The miserable sojourn in Corpseour had not helped.

  He despised his own weakness. Not his physical failing. That came to every man fortunate enough to grow old. No. He detested the fear that slipped foul tendrils through the armor of his faith. Death should not be dreaded. Death was no revenant creeping through the night, spreading corruption. Death was the doorway to the Light.

  “I just need to get my feet back on the Path.”

  Socia understood that side of him, however weak her own faith.

  Someone riding, who had passed them heading east, must have recognized Brother Candle. Socia’s surprise did not materialize as planned. As they began the last mile downhill, Antieux’s gate spilled a covey of horsemen. The Perfect recognized Bernardin Amberchelle almost immediately, then several Rault brothers and Count Raymone. “Looks like they mean to run us off before we can pollute their city.”

  “Smartass.” Tearful, Socia began to run.

  There was no run left in Brother Candle’s old corpse. He trudged on, considering the countryside around him. A determined effort at restoration was under way. It appeared amazingly successful. The siege must not have been as harsh as rumor insisted. Or …

  Or Count Raymone had done something extraordinary. And what that was became obvious after a study of the people in the fields and on the hillsides.

  Raymone was using forced labor to restore his county. He must have rounded up all the Grolsachers he could find.

  The Perfect would learn later, that not just refugees had been forced into the labor gangs. Prisoners of war, criminals, captured bandits, and members of the Society were slaving out there, being used up with grim indifference to their humanity. And Count Raymone’s logic was hard to refute. Those were the people responsible for the damage to the Connec. Let them die undoing the evil they had wrought.

  The reunion was well under way when Brother Candle caught up to Socia, who was pummeling her brothers severely in her excitement. Of them, only Booth seemed the worse for wear. He had suffered a fierce wound to the left side of his head. Part of his ear was gone. The scar itself remained puffy and purplish. It was one of those that might take a decade to subside into normal scar tissue. The Perfect noted that Booth’s left eye did not track, either. But the youngest Rault was wearing one huge grin.

  Count Raymone came to Brother Candle. “I don’t know how to thank you, Master. I didn’t mean for Socia to become your whole life. You kept faith through hardships I can’t begin to imagine. Till yesterday I feared you were lost. Bernardin has been keeping my spirits up since he came back from captivity. He was more confident of you than I was. I’m sorry.”

  The warrior enveloped t
he old man in his powerful arms. “I owe you, Master. I don’t have much anymore, but anything I have is yours. For the asking.”

  “Peace, then.”

  “Master?”

  “Make peace with the new Patriarch.”

  “I am at peace with him. And shall ever be. So long as he stays in Brothe. If he comes to Antieux to tell us what to do, then it’s him who breaks that peace.”

  Brother Candle abandoned the argument. For the moment. There would be a better time. A time when reason might practice its subtle sedition against prejudice.

  Count Raymone said, “Socia tells me that you’re eager to get back to the intellectual harbor of Perfect companions. But I hope you’ll stay for the wedding.”

  “I can do that. Unless war comes. I’m done with war.”

  Count Raymone’s conviction that that was silly shone through. Then he grinned. “Done. If it looks like we can’t get along with somebody, I’ll slap your skinny ass on a donkey, point it west, and give it a whack on the rump.”

  Brother Candle considered the possibility that, even now, his outlook was too naive. If he lived much longer he would see more war. The Arnhanders would be back. They sensed the weakness and rot in the Connec. The province’s hope was not Tormond, never Duke Tormond, nor even Count Raymone Garete. Count Raymone did not have the resources. Hope lay beyond the Verses Mountains, in Direcia.

  In Peter of Navaya.

  “All right. Who could resist that offer?”

  The wedding came off perfectly, within the month. Two newlyweds could not have been more thrilled with one another. And Socia won the hearts of the obdurate people of Antieux with her fierce talk.

  Following the wedding Count Raymone sent Bernardin Amberchelle and a hundred men to take the Rault brothers home. Caron ande Lette was in the hands of Grolsacher squatters. The expedition did not go well. The squatters were more numerous than expected. And the Night haunted the land. It was no longer a place for a man who had not surrendered to the will of the Night.

  When the tattered survivors returned to Antieux Count Raymone decided, “I’ll send word to the Captain-General. He can muck out that cesspool for us.”