by Hal Emerson
The Prince looked at him with a mixture of shock and surprise, a look that was mirrored on the bluff face of Tomaz. Davydd’s whit was certainly acerbic, but he never spoke in anger to his friends, not with the kind of fire that he had just used.
“Leah said to tell you that she holds you responsible for our father’s death,” he said firmly, without emotion, and the Prince felt the blood drain from his face.
“What?” Rumbled Tomaz incredulously.
“I think she’s being an idiot,” Davydd continued as if the big man hadn’t spoken. “She doesn’t deal with loss well … but we all have our ways of coping. If I didn’t have responsibilities I’d be deep in a bottle somewhere with a little pleasant company doing some coping of my own.”
“I’ll talk to her,” rumbled Tomaz ominously. “She has no right to say such things – she’s acting like a spoiled child.”
And with that he was gone, striding down the corridor with heavy purpose. The Prince numbly thought that he didn’t envy the girl the tongue-lashing she was about to receive.
“Don’t worry about it,” Davydd said, coming out of his stupor a little bit as he saw the look on the Prince’s face and even going so far as to slap the Prince’s shoulder with something like his usual good-humor. “She’s stupid about things like that. She was the same when I found her after she’d run from our parents in Banelyn – she blamed me for leaving her there, blamed everyone for everything.”
“What exactly did she say?” The Prince asked quietly.
Davydd didn’t answer him immediately, but bit his lip and grimaced. The Prince turned his head and locked eyes with the man.
“Tell me,” he said softly, like a sigh.
“She said that you waited too long to act,” he responded finally. “She said that all of this could have been prevented if you had taken the Veil the first time, or had been more vigilant scanning the area with the Talisman … and that she was a fool to trust you as far as she did.”
The Prince nodded, and then turned to go, but Davydd caught him by the elbow and stopped him.
“My sister has loved only one person in her whole life, and it was our father.”
Davydd’s voice broke on the final word, but he continued.
“And her world just came crashing down on her. Give her time. She’ll realize how foolish she’s being.”
“That’s just the problem,” said the Prince. “She isn’t being foolish. I didn’t act in time. I wasn’t vigilant. And if I had spent a single minute thinking about what was right for the Kindred, what was right for you or for her or your father, or for the thousands of innocent people outside these walls, then we wouldn’t be where we are now.”
The Prince looked at Davydd hard, feeling his jaw tighten with anger, his teeth clenched, barely able to get the words out.
“You have my word that I will not fail you again.”
Davydd watched him for a long time, but said nothing. The Prince nodded and left. He descended to the bottom floor of the Bricks, and was headed toward the door when he was stopped by a tall figure – Henri Perci.
“I need to speak with you,” said the man in his deep, commanding voice, his beard bristling with contempt and disgust as he looked the Prince up and down, taking in his newly gilded armor. They often saw each other now, as Perci was one of the five generals that rounded out the War Council, but something was different here. Perci and the Prince had certainly never gotten along before, but there was something deeper about the animosity now. It was sharp and brittle, like a sword made of glass, one that could break and wound either party.
“What would you like to say?” The Prince asked.
Henri Perci stepped close – too close. The Prince immediately reacted by dropping a hand to the hilt of his sword, Aemon’s Blade, which he now wore by his side every waking moment, but stopped. Perci towered over him at his full height, his golden hair like a lion’s mane around his face, but did not advance any further. They stood there in tableau for a long moment, not saying anything, each silent, daring the other to back down. In the end it was Perci who broke the moment by speaking:
“You are a figurehead and nothing more, do you understand me?” he breathed, his face barely inches away from the Prince. His breath smelled like rage. “This is a war that will be won by the Kindred alone, not by a cast out son of the Tyrant. You are no better than your blood will let you be, and do not ever think that I will forget it. I have spoken to Elder Warryn – he has agreed to resume the duties of the Elder of State until such a time that the council can elect someone new to fill the post. He and I are in agreement; you will have no say whatsoever in the tactical planning of this campaign. You will be present, because you must be, and you will be silent, or I will make you wish you had been.”
The Prince, still reeling from the rejection he’d received from Leah, found he could think of nothing to say.
Perci left, and for a long time the Prince just stood there, wondering how, in just a few weeks, his entire world could have turned upside down.
And this led to another problem – the new Elder of State.
It appeared that Henri Perci had been slightly premature in his announcement of Elder Warryn’s reinstatement – Crane had said that he would think on it, and while he had, he had not yet decided it was a good idea.
“There has never been an Elder reinstated before,” said Dawn the Dragon Lady Elder, “it’s not part of what we swear to when we sheath the dagger, and as such it should not be allowed. History takes precedence here – we should elect a new Elder.”
“Oh come now,” said Lymaugh the Merciful Elder, “you know that it is not as bad as all that. It’s a simple thing … besides, Warryn made a mistake. We’ve all made mistakes.”
“Lawful Elder,” Crane said to Spader, who was drinking something that the Prince highly suspected was not juice out of a small glass cup, “can we get around this? We need –”
“We need a full circle of thirteen to advise the Prince,” finished Spader with his dry arrogance, “that’s the one law no one can get around in any way. And before you ask Crane, no, not even me. There’s no wiggle room, and I should know since I wrote it that way at the insistence of the majority of the people in this room.”
He looked around pointedly at the other Elders, a caustic smile on his lips.
“Very well,” said Crane, “then it looks like we have no choice. Time is of the essence, and we need a full circle of thirteen, even if we don’t have the final dagger.”
“I still have my memories at least,” said Warryn, stepping forward. He also still had the same superior, pompous air to him as before that so drove the Prince to anger. “And I have experience with the rituals.”
“Very well,” repeated Crane, his voice carefully without inflection.
“In normal times it would be put to a vote,” Spader said, “but in times of war we have the right to elect an interim Elder until such time as a vote can be held by the general populace. We’ll have to publish the notice through the Five Cities, but –”
“Of course, of course,” said Warryn, waving a hand in the air dismissively five feet to the right of Spader, not even caring enough to turn around and look to see where he was actually standing. “We have more important matters to attend to. Matters of State. Just get on with it.”
“I nominate Archibald Warryn for the position of Elder of State,” said Crane. “All those in favor say ‘aye.’”
“Aye,” said eleven voice in unison, including Warryn’s.
“Nay,” said Spader.
“Now is not the time for jokes,” Elder Keri reminded him with a bright smile, but one that held an edge to it as well.
“Fine, hold on.”
He tipped his head back and downed the amber liquid that had been left in his glass – it had been almost half full – and shook his head vigorously. He paused for a moment, then smiled, nodded and said:
“Ok, now ‘aye.’”
“Elder Warryn is reinstated
,” Crane concluded. “As Elder Iliad is absent, his vote will be counted in the affirmative.”
“As it always is,” sighed Ishmael softly from a corner of the room.
“Not yet – he has to swear fealty to the Prince,” Spader admonished, with a look on his face that said he was suddenly taking cruel pleasure in the proceeding. “He must swear fealty in all things, whatsoever, until such time as the Prince should release him, or his task be completed. We all swore during the Oath ceremony, but since he wasn’t part of it, he needs to do so now.”
The proud, regal look on Warryn’s face curdled, but he quickly replaced the dismay with a neutral expression and crossed the room to the Prince, quite likely under the impression that the faster he got this over with the better.
He knelt before the Prince, and spoke words in an unfamiliar language, sharp and clipped, then began to rise.
“Not yet!” Called Spader. “Since you weren’t at the Oath ceremony, you have to wait for him to raise you up you twit.”
“You will keep a civil tongue in your head Spader,” snapped Elder Dawn, her tight gray bun of hair bristling like a cat’s. Spader shrugged, raised an eyebrow at the Prince as if to say “he’s all yours,” and turned away.
The Prince looked down at Warryn, and noticed now that he was kneeling that the man was rather severely balding and trying to cover it up. He also smelled like some kind of fruity, fermented drink layered over an unpleasant musk that belied constant perspiration. His shirt had lace ruffles at the collar, the sleeves, and the hem, and it was far too tight, spilling out his large belly and straning the bottom button of a vest that must have been soldered on by a blacksmith in order to keep the whole thing shut about his vast girth.
“What are the words?” The Prince asked suddenly, turning to Spader. “I want to make sure they’re right.”
Spader, who had refilled his glass as if by magic, looked up at him in mild surprise, and then looked down at Warryn, balanced precariously on one knee, and smiled wickedly.
“You know, the wording is very important, why don’t I just double check to make sure –”
“This is ridiculous,” said the Dragon Lady, “we have no time for games – he didn’t speak the words during the official ceremony, he doesn’t need to speak them now, it’s purely ritualistic.”
“Games?” Spader said, acting absolutely shocked, placing a hand over his mouth. “I take affront at such accusations.”
“Just give him the damn words,” Warryn said, his face turning beat red as his too-tight clothing restricted proper blood flow in his kneeling position.
Spader recited the words with the Prince repeating after him, mimicking the strange sounds. When he finished the final word Warryn nearly jumped back to his feet – possibly more physical exertion than he’d seen in years – and strode to the Council table, ignoring the Prince.
Spader smiled coyly at the Prince, who flashed a small smile in return.
But his good mood quickly died as another unproductive month passed beneath the Capitol. For days, and then weeks, as the storms of winter blew out and the weather calmed in anticipation of spring, they sat in the Council chamber and debated, going back and forth over the best plan of action – from the rather drastic ideas of the Dragon Lady that involved destroying the pass of Roarke and closing them off from the Empire forever, to the foolhardy and completely ignored urgings of Warryn to charge straight for Tyne – or Lucien – or both – and challenge the Children in the field.
During these times, the Prince found his mind wandering. This process seemed hopeless – they would never defeat any of the Children this way. These generals were children desperately studying chess strategies before playing against a master; the first move really wouldn’t matter. His mind went to the people he had to protect, the people who were counting on him, and he tried to help the conversation, but each time he spoke Perci’s eyes shot daggers at him and Warryn quickly beat back any of his suggestions with loud, obscurant verbosity. But still the Prince tried, thinking as he did of the look on Leah’s face when she’d seen Goldwyn’s body, knowing countless more daughters would be left grieving by the time this was done.
As for Leah herself, the Prince saw her once, and only once, in all of the time they spent preparing for the inevitable war with the Empire.
It was a few weeks into the endless process, when they needed exact figures on the gathered Rogues and Rangers that were to serve under her. At the urging of Ishmael, she had recently been promoted to the rank of Major, as had Davydd, and as such now commanded a force of nearly a thousand Eshendai and Ashandel. Warryn and Dawn, as well as Stanton and Ceres, had tried to beat this back, but the rest of the Elders had voted them down. The children of Goldwyn were two of the finest military minds the Kindred had – they needed to be in places of command where they could make a difference, regardless of their age.
When she entered the room, the Prince wasn’t prepared. The door opened with a wooden boom, and he turned quickly, surprised by the intrusion; the first thing he saw was her black hair, blown by the wind of her passage, floating free around her head like a halo. It looked as if she had been woken and rushed to the Council.
He was standing at a table off to the side, one that was overflowing with charts and lists; but even from the distance of the room his heart gave a sickly, sideways lurch, as a darkness descended on him that had nothing to do with the gloomy light of the underground chamber.
She crossed the room quickly, watching the Elders, standing straight and tall, walking with her unconscious, fluid grace, and the rest of the room disappeared for him.
But he stayed in the shadows, as he had done all of his life, and made neither sign nor motion to let her know that he was there and watching. She spoke with the Elders, with the quick and calm assurance of her well-ordered thoughts, and they thanked her and dismissed her. She bowed her head in deference, and turned to go.
But, as she left, her eyes swept the hall and met his gaze, hidden though he was in the gathered shadows that rimmed the edges of the Council room. Her green eyes took him in, and it was as though he’d been drowning and hadn’t known it. Breath came in through his nose as his lungs filled themselves – her life brushed against his mind – green and silver, trail dust and lavender soap, honeyed breath on Midwinter night, a dagger cutting through silk, the peal of silver bells – and his world narrowed in on her, filled with her. But with the life came darkness, a deep and painful knowledge that his need for her would never be fulfilled, that this was as close as he would ever come to her again.
And so he turned back to his lists, his charts, his maps, and planned the invasion of what was once his homeland, knowing all the while that it was hopeless.
Chapter Twenty-One: North
Spring broke soon after – too soon, in fact, for the Prince, who wished the day would never come. Word came that the Pass had begun to thaw, despite the Prince’s fervent wish that time should stand still, and the day arrived with a dawn that was bright and warm, when all knew the time had come to move. With no further ado the Kindred forces, tens of thousands strong, assembled themselves, readying their horses and supplies, saying goodbye to their families, making the last memories they might ever make. They left on that fateful morn, and the thunderous sound of their passage silenced the wildlife as they passed, the land holding its breath as it watched its sons and daughters ride out to meet their deaths.
The first week that it took to travel north, through the Pass of Roarke, was miserable, and set a very poor tone for the rest of the journey. It rained the whole time, and everyone, including the Prince and the Generals, ended up soaked through. Henri Perci was often heard complaining to his valet that his clothing wasn’t kept dry, and the Prince felt bad for the man. Not for Perci, but for his valet – the man looked constantly haggard and put-upon. But the Prince knew he had enough trouble with the belligerent general without telling him how to properly reprimand a servant.
The Prince had been offered
a valet as well but had turned it down. Before he had left the Empire he’d had servants and some slaves even – but he’d never had a valet. He hated the very idea – they were for men who couldn’t do simple things for themselves, like put on shoes or other such nonsense.
In effect the traveling War Council was much the same as the council back in Vale; it came down to the five generals Henri Perci, Wyck, Oleander, Dunhold, and Gates, as well as Elder Keri with an army of Healers and Elder Ishmael, who would command the Rangers and Rogues. Elder Spader was there as well, though not in an official capacity. The Elders did not go to war, save for the Spy Elder and the Healing Elder whose services were often useful; they were civilians, all of them with little military training save Warryn, who had been politically forced to stay behind by Elder Crane. They were, of course, in constant contact with the Generals, and Crane, Dawn, and Warryn had all implied they would make trips to the battlefront, but otherwise they were governors, not warriors, whose place was in the Kindred lands. Spader had been told by the other Elders to stay behind, but being his wily self, he had managed to secure secret passage out of Vale with a supply train, and came sauntering into the command tent the first night with his air of affable arrogance, nearly scaring them all to death, and had acted as general council and comic relief ever since. The Prince, who had come to like Spader, was grateful for his presence, though Herni Perci and his followers gave the Elder only the barest modicum of the respect due his rank.