by Greg Curtis
But there was nothing to be done. Not now. Not while these rock gnomes were everywhere and the city was still closed. Not when they still had a war to fight.
It seemed that Simon's abdication had only slowed things down. Even blowing up the temple as he claimed to have done, hadn't stopped them. And the reports from those who had managed to escape the city in the confusion suggested that the work on the temple would continue. It was only that without Simon's wealth behind them to pay for work to continue, they'd have to turn to a new system. Slavery. They'd already begun according to some.
There were reports from those living outside the city and in the rest of Therion that the rock gnomes were gathering in numbers. With no gold to pay them the mercenaries would leave, but the veiled guards would replace them.
The armoured winds were being seen more often as well. Whatever they truly were no one knew, but everyone knew they were dangerous. Especially against walls and static defences. The only defence against them if you weren't lucky enough to be in a warded region was speed. But speed and a lance made for a good attack. If a man on horseback was quick enough and could get the point of the lance between the steel plates, they would part and the wind inside would be released. Thus far it was the only weapon they had against them.
Occasionally Marcus wondered if the rock gnome soldiers still called themselves royal guards with no king to serve. But that was an idle question for a quiet moment. His true fear and what he and the rest of the court that had escaped were trying to prevent, was that with so many workers in the city dead and work slow because of it, soon they would start enslaving the entire kingdom.
Because of that fear, riders were being sent to all of the towns nearest the city, warning people to leave. But success was limited. Not everyone believed them. Out in the more pastoral regions the people were still adjusting to the fact that King Byron was dead. They hadn't actually heard the rest. Time moved more slowly away from the cities and news crawled. And of course many of the riders were not returning. It was dangerous riding through a land filled with enemies.
“Thank you Anatha.”
Marcus looked up when he heard his father speak, and he realised that the handmaiden had finished her report. He'd given up on listening after the first ten minutes. In the end it was just a list, and while terrible and a stain on the family honour, one crime was much the same as another.
Others in the family were looking shocked though. Not so much about the crimes Simon had committed to take and hold the throne – they'd already known the gist of them. The whole city knew them. But about all the crimes Simon had committed before that. Thirty years of crimes. Betrayal, treachery, theft, murder, extortion, swindling – there seemed to be no act that his older brother had not been willing to do. Not if it brought him gold. And to finally have it stated that Simon not only traded on the black market but actually ran most of it; that was another mark of shame for the family to carry.
There was so much shame. That was the thing that weighed so heavily upon him. Upon his father too – and as he looked at him Marcus could see the burden it left on his ageing flesh. It made him look tired and old as he had never been before.
But still there were other matters to discuss. The progress the handmaidens were making in building their shrines. Any problems they might be having with their people in their various houses. What they could do to make things easier between the house and the temple. As his father had said, it was one thing to forge an alliance and another thing entirely to maintain it. Which was why the Count asked her to continue with the other orders of business.
“There is another matter yet to deal with before then.”
Everyone looked up at the handmaiden, worried by her words. And why wouldn't they? With everything they had already heard they could not conceive of anything good being spoken. Not this day. Not of Simon.
“Surely there cannot be yet more crimes of my son to hear.” But Marcus knew that in his heart his father was only saying the words. It wasn't that he didn't believe that Marcus had no more crimes to confess. It was only that he couldn't stand to hear them. There had already been too many.
“No. His crimes are known. The Honoured Mother was most thorough with Simon.”
Thorough was an understatement Marcus thought. Whole teams of torturers could not have extracted such a confession. But even as he wondered what was left to speak of his attention was distracted by the sound of a baby crying. Why was there a baby in the family's warehouse? Marcus turned to look as did the others, but he could see no one. Only hear the crying.
“It is the matter of his fate that must be told.”
Th'yssen gasped and the rest of them turned back to the handmaiden in a hurry. Simon's fate had been decided and perhaps the sentence carried out. Suddenly Marcus felt unbelievably sorry for Th'yssen and his father. The expressions on their faces was a study in pain. No parent should ever have to face the loss of a child. Even a child like Simon.
“He should face justice for his actions.”
The Count had said that from the beginning, and he had to keep saying it Marcus knew. Even though it pained him terribly it was what had to be. So Simon would swing from the end of a noose if he hadn't already. No one had asked. No one wanted to know what had been decided.
“This is true and Tyrel is in agreement. But her hands were bound by the deal she made with Simon. She could not do as was proper and so had to devise another fate for him.”
She hadn't killed him? Marcus was shocked by that. After all that Edouard had told him of Tyrel he would have thought that that would have been done immediately. But of course there were political matters to deal with. It would be a difficult day for the alliance between the House of Barris and the temple if the temple were to execute the son and heir to the house. Maybe that had played into her decision. And maybe Simon had counted on it when he'd made his deal with her. And why was there a baby still crying somewhere nearby?
“So she decided to give him another chance.”
Th'yssen gasped once more, torn between the hope that her son still lived and the fear that he lived to commit more crimes. His father just looked ill. Because the truth was that they could not control him. Simon's greed and lack of morals was matched only by his ability to turn and twist others to his ends. And it suddenly seemed to Marcus that Simon had even managed to twist a power. Could that be?
He was prevented from asking by the arrival of another handmaiden who turned up out of nowhere carrying a baby in her arms. The same one that had been crying as the list of Simon's crimes was read out. Why was she there? Why bring a baby to the meeting?
“The poison that had corrupted his soul was both deep rooted and old and his crimes have also spanned nearly thirty years. If Simon was to truly be given a second chance the Mother knew that all would have to be wiped away. Every trace, not just of the poisoned soul that committed these terrible deeds and the memories of them, but also the child that grew up spoiled and bitter to become the man. So that is what she did.”
Marcus sat there trying to understand what she was saying and failing for the longest time. Because it didn't make any sense to him. Until he realised that she was talking about the baby in her sister's arms. After that his mouth fell open and he felt strangely light headed. She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she was saying.
“This time the Honoured Mother asks that you raise him better.”
It couldn't be! It wasn't possible! Surely? He knew it wasn't. And yet even as he knew it he watched as the handmaiden walked over to Th'yssen and handed her the baby. The baby she claimed was Simon. And all the while as she did so Anatha was telling them of how Simon had been taken back all the way to his innocent beginnings. That not a stain of corruption existed within him anymore. Not a memory of who he had been. And that this time he could grow into a better man. A good man. She seemed to think that that was a good thing.
Marcus was shocked. So was everyone else, especially Th'yssen who was sitting there holdi
ng the baby, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly as she tried to think of something to say and failed. Maybe she was trying to see him as her son. Maybe she was trying to think of how she could raise him again when she was in her sixties. Maybe she just didn't know what to think.
No one else knew what to say either. What did you say? Was this a reason for gratitude? That a son was returned to them? For shame? That the man who had caused such terrible suffering to so many should live? That justice should be denied to so many? Or was it a reason for anger? That one of the family had had his entire life somehow stolen from him? He didn't know. Looking around Marcus realised that no one else did either.
But the one thing that he did suddenly understand was that Edouard had been right from the very start. That the hamadryad was far more powerful than anyone he'd ever met. Far more powerful than he could even understand. And that if she could do that then there was no limit to what else she could do. That troubled him.
Just who or what had the House of Barris made an alliance with?
Chapter Forty One
Steel musket balls were a pain to make, but Edouard was getting quite practised at it. He had to. Over the previous two weeks he and Fergis had made thousands of them for the various patrols that were being sent riding through Therion. They were the best weapon they had against the armoured winds as they were being called. Fired from a long barrelled musket, the weapon with the highest muzzle velocity, the steel musket balls could pierce the metal plates of the devices where lead balls couldn't. And if you made enough holes in them the enchantment failed and the wind escaped. It was a better option than charging them with lances – a desperate tactic that had cost the lives of too many soldiers as they rode the borders.
Of course they weren't actually steel. Steel was too light and didn't hit with enough force. So he'd used an alloy of lead and iron and a few other metals that he'd found in one of his smithing recipe books and it was a good compromise. Not as hard as steel but nearly so, and nearly as dense as lead.
It was a lot of work. The fort had a natural shot tower already set up, but it involved a great many stairs. So he and Fergis would take it in turns to carry each load of the molten alloy all the way from the forge behind the fort to the top of the tower, then pour out the liquid metal into measures and drop them one by one into buckets of water set out on the roof of the fort far below. They were both getting very tired of climbing those endless steps. Especially in full leather aprons, asbestos gloves and boots and carrying red hot stone buckets full of molten metal. But it was what needed to be done.
To make matters worse it was painstaking work. If he'd been making lead shot he would have simply run the molten lead through a properly sized sieve to create the drops. That way he could make maybe a hundred balls in a pour. But he couldn't do that with steel alloy. The alloy would stick to the sieve so tightly that it would never come off and the sieve would then be useless. So he had to use a measure and scoop them out one by one. All while the metal kept cooling. Experience had taught him that thirty musket balls was about the limit for each batch. That meant a lot more batches and a lot more stairs.
And then, once the balls had been created they had to be dragged out of the water troughs, graded for shape, sorted for size and then polished with grit for at least a day. So he had a small steam engine running day and night to keep the barrels full of grit and musket balls turning, and annoying everyone's sleep.
Edouard was becoming quite tired, and he was sure he wasn't alone.
So when Mara came to inform him that he had a visitor Edouard was grateful for the interruption. Though maybe not for the way she looked at him. Ever since he had burnt Simon's legs she and the other handmaidens seemed to be constantly studying him, possibly wondering if he was about to do something terrible. They said nothing but the way they looked at him told him everything they thought without the need for words. Some days he almost felt as if he was a dog being examined to see if he was rabid and likely to bite.
He felt ill about it too, but not for the same reasons. It didn't concern him that he'd hurt Simon. Though it was wrong and ignoble, it was a memory that still brought him pleasure. The anger he'd known for his brother had consumed him for a long time. It only troubled him that he'd done it under a flag of truce. That he'd lost control and dishonoured himself. There were some things an honourable man just did not do. And it bothered him that the handmaidens should look at him in such a way. But the actual act didn't trouble him at all.
For some reason Mara didn't tell him who his visitor was or how he'd got through the blockade. Perhaps he'd taken the portal. But it seemed she had no interest in telling him anything at all. She just turned and walked up the stairs leaving him to follow her. He could perhaps have pressed her on the matter, but he decided against it. There was no point in making her any more uncomfortable in his presence. Especially not when all he had to do to find out was climb some stairs. It was easier to thank her politely and do that.
When he arrived in the drawing room Edouard immediately discovered that his guest wasn't anyone he'd ever expected to see in his home. He was also someone he'd never wanted to see in his home. He was a servant of Ascorlexia, something that immediately made Edouard nervous. Just seeing him standing there in his long scaled vest and black cloak brought back disturbing memories. Memories of a dragon with teeth larger than he was and breath more foul than an underworld sewer. The man's presence also left him with some obvious questions. Why was he there? Why did he want to speak with him? And why was there a pile of tomes sitting on the table in front of him? Edouard didn't recognise the works.
“Librarian.” Edouard nodded respectfully to his guest. “I am Lord Edouard Severin.”
He used his proper title because something about the meeting felt formal to him. Maybe it was simply that he normally didn't see the servants of the powers in his home. Save of course for the handmaidens as he had to remind himself. Or maybe it was just that he was acutely aware that he was wearing his leather apron and looked like a village blacksmith. Not the sort of thing a lord of the realm was supposed to wear. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“To the advancement of knowledge of course.” The man smiled politely if a little formally at him.
Of course, was Edouard's thought. What else would Ascorlexia be concerned with? And it was a fairly standard explanation the great dragon's servants gave for being anywhere. But it seemed a little lacking as explanations went in a time of war. Still, he nodded politely to the librarian and agreed with him. It seemed the proper thing to do. Besides, if the great dragon had sent his servant to him with another purpose in mind he was sure he would be told soon enough.
“The Great Lord says that he was pleased with your scholarship in studying the portal. That it shows promise and that he is happy to have your workings for your air ship among his collection.” That surprised Edouard, as did the fact that Ascorlexia even had his notes and drawings when he hadn't given them to him. But he could guess how he'd got them and their names were Mara and Kyriel. That annoyed him. Still, he restrained himself from commenting.
While he'd been working they'd been spying on him, and no doubt they'd brought their Honoured Mother a copy of everything he'd produced. Tyrel had of course passed it on to the black dragon in turn. He wondered what else the dragon might now have of his. The designs for his weapons and his horseless carriage? The records of all the relics he'd identified and studied over the years? His journal? It was something he'd have to investigate after his guest had left. But for the moment he had to see to his guest. And maybe discover what the books were that he had set out on the table in front of him.
“Please inform the Great Lord that I am flattered by his praise and surely unworthy of such an honour.” Edouard answered the servant automatically, his mind racing ahead to the books the man had apparently brought with him. Copies of books from the library of Ascorlexia. It was not only unheard of, it was a wonder. What books could the dragon have sent him? What boo
ks would he deem a mere simpleton like him worthy of?
“I will of course.” The servant nodded politely, probably extremely happy to have something good to report back to his master. Ascorlexia was ever a prideful dragon.
“And please inform him also that I have a small library here. Obviously insignificant in comparison to his. But if there are any books within it that are not within his collection and which he might wish to read he is most welcome to them.”
It was unlikely of course that he would have any such book, but Edouard knew the offer needed to be made. It more than anything else would please the dragon. And he needed to please the dragon. With the handmaidens upset with him, and no doubt their Honoured Mother as well, the last thing he needed was an unhappy dragon.
“I shall so inform him and perhaps in time an archivist will be sent.”
“He will be welcome.”
He wouldn't really. Edouard was among other things a collector and like all such people he hated the thought of books leaving his collection. But it wasn't a choice. There was no choice when a power was involved. Still, there were new books to read and curiosity was always one of Edouard's failings. Something his guest obviously realised as he saw the direction Edouard's eyes were pointing.