He turned, limped away, and came back a few moments later with his fist clenched in the dead warrior’s hair. He tossed the head out between him and the mount. It rolled in a wobbling, awkward motion that stopped soon enough. The creature studied it, turning side to side as if suspecting trickery. Leeka tested several possible witticisms. None quite fit the moment. He let the silence sink in. The beast had enough to consider with its dull mind anyway. He would give him a little while to think it all through.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Aliver dressed for the meeting with a military crispness. Though he was alone in his room, he snapped out the folds of his council vest audibly, as if his every move were being watched by elders keen to denounce him for slackness. It was dimly lit, because he had snuffed out most of the lamps, and chilly, because he had opened one of the large bay windows. He was to attend his first meeting of the king’s councillors, an abrupt gathering called because of the assassination attempt. Attempt, he made sure to tell himself. Attempt only. Though he had not been allowed to see his father for two days since the attack, Thaddeus had assured him the king lived and fought for his life with all his strength. For the time being, he had said, only the physicians could aid him. That fact in itself seemed absurd. How could Leodan Akaran’s life and the fate of an empire lie at the mercy of so few men? One with a knife, a few others with potions and tonics…
It was not as if Aliver had never been warned of such possibilities, but previous discussions of the rules of ascension had seemed distant notions, not soon to be relevant to his life. His tutor, Jason, had once said that a prince knows no greater time of danger than the days or weeks leading up to his crowning. Ofttimes, he claimed, princes were slain by their most trusted advisers, friends, even kin hungry for power themselves. Aliver could not remember the words he had responded to this with, but surely he had denied any such treachery would befall the Akarans. But Jason had an answer to this also. “Never in the historical record has a power of any nation, no matter how strong, maintained control indefinitely. Either you Akarans have broken the mold, or else history has dawdled a time before catching up with you.” Jason had bowed as he said this, almost joking, deferential and friendly, as he always was when he challenged the prince. But thinking of it now, Aliver felt a prickle of apprehension.
A sharp knock at the door startled him. A moment later a squire stood before him, displaying on his palms the sword called the King’s Trust. The prince knew the blade well. It was the very weapon that Edifus fought with at Carni. The black stain on the hilt leather, it was said, was blood from the first king’s own hand. At some point in his single combat with a tribal leader Edifus had stumbled, lost grip of his sword, and survived the moment only by catching his foe’s slashing blade pinched between his palm and fingers. Quite a move, one that had, for training purposes, been modified into a blocking motion, pushing on the flat of the opponent’s sword with the fat edge of the hand. Leodan had worn the sword only on the rare occasions that called for it, but Aliver had sought out the altar that displayed it in his father’s dressing chambers on many occasions. He had run his fingers over the ridged, soiled weave of the hilt, cupping his hand around it, hoping to find that his fingers fit perfectly into the worn grip of it.
Once he had lifted it out of its cradle, held it before him with one hand on the hilt and one on the sheath. He broke the seal between the two with a motion of his wrist and slid an inch or two of the blade into the light. He got no further. He had never been sure afterward, but he thought at the moment that the exposed portion of the blade sang out as air and light touched it. And it was not a cry of joy. It was sorrow conveyed through tempered steel. He felt sure the chamber was filled with ghosts about to materialize in wrath around him. He had done something wrong, touched an object he should not have, something not yet for him. The moment also left him with the fear that the martial history known to that blade was horrible in ways he had not yet been schooled in.
Now he stood with his arms upraised as the squire secured the sword around his waist, a weapon considered his until his father was well enough to take it up again. He tried to wear it with an appropriate ease, ignoring the way it banged against his thigh with each step. He had not expected to take his place at council until his seventeenth birthday. Only a few days ago he would have considered it a great honor to sit among the generals and advisers he was about to. Now the guilt of it sat inside him like a rough-edged stone. He had watched an assassin stab his father in the breast, and he had not done a thing about it. The vile creature had named his father a despot. A despot! What reason was there in that? He knew evil men twisted the world to their aims and could not be trusted to speak even a single truth, but the fact that the assassin had uttered such a phrase within the hearing of so many, with such apparent confidence…It galled Aliver. It set his blood to boiling.
He so wanted to step back into that moment and grab the man by the throat. Why hadn’t he? Instead, all he had managed to do was yell again and again for someone to stop the man. He could have pushed the guards aside if he had wanted to. He could have vaulted over the table. He could have done so many things that he might now be proud of. But he had not. He replayed the scene and all the possible variations on it a hundred times before the sun rose the next day. None of it did him any good. It only solidified his belief that his father’s wound was his fault more than anyone else’s.
In comparison to the expansive grandeur of most Acacian architecture the council chamber was a cramped, claustrophobic space barely large enough for the oval table at its center, a low surface of polished granite, around which sat the ten advisers of his father’s kingdom. Light entered from a single slotted window high on the southern wall. The shaft of it fell in such a way as to illuminate the center of the table and to cast up highlights on the councillors’ features. The brilliant contrast of this effect made the walls beyond into a dim boundary that felt to Aliver decidedly like a chamber for some sort of interrogation.
The prince, after a moment of hesitation as his eyes adjusted to the light, took his place in his father’s seat. He wondered if he should commence the meeting. He looked around at the shadow-dimmed and creviced faces of the elders gazing back at him and at others whom his eyes drifted past. He took them in not as the individuals they were but as if looking upon so many stone busts. How to start such a meeting?
He did not have to. Thaddeus Clegg called the meeting to order by invoking the names of the first five Acacian kings, reminding all in attendance that they here partook in a discourse of the highest order. It was to them that they should look for wisdom. Them upon whom to model themselves as they faced the turmoil now confronting them.
“Before we proceed to the matters we must discuss here, I am sure you all wish to know how the king fares.” There were murmurs all around. “All I can tell you is what the physicians have told me. At this moment the king lives. If he did not, they would come to us and we would know immediately. But he was almost certainly poisoned. They believe the blade that cut him was of the Ilhach, the old order of Meinish assassins. I know-they were disbanded by Edifus and outlawed. But still it may be their deadly poison that drains the life from him.” The chancellor touched Aliver with his roaming gaze, locked on him for a minute. He looked away before he continued. “The physicians are doing all they can. The king may survive; then again, he may not. We need to be prepared for either eventuality. As you all can see, Prince Aliver sits in his father’s place this day. Bid him welcome, even as you pray he will soon give his seat back to his father.”
Aliver tried to look around and return the greetings directed at him, but his eyes faltered before long. He heard some of the kind words with his gaze fixed on the tabletop.
His eyes continued to roam over the grain of the stone as he heard Thaddeus’s secretary give his report. There was scarcely a person on the island who could confirm the assassin’s identity, he said. By chance an official who had lived a year in Cathgergen auditing
the satrapy’s books attested that the man was, indeed, Thasren Mein. But the matter was not without dispute. Speaking via messenger pigeons, Meinish representatives in Alecia issued a denial, swearing the assassin could not have been Thasren. They insisted that it was a plot by some other conspirators, but not by the Mein. They even announced their intention to sail promptly to Acacia and plead their innocence. This may have been a ploy, however, for the only Meinish official actually on the island had vanished. Gurnal and his family had fled, leaving his house a tomb for several servants. It was, to say the least, difficult to make sense of.
As the secretary concluded, Julian, one of the more senior councillors, said, “This is not enough information to form action on.” A few voices, seemingly exasperated with the elder already, pointed out that nobody had yet suggested any action. Julian continued undeterred. “Hanish Mein sending his brother to his death…and for what-to start a war he cannot hope to win? I can believe neither what my eyes saw nor what I’ve been told since. Hanish is barely more than a boy. I saw him at the winter rites a few years ago. He grew a downy beard on his cheeks, untrimmed like boys anxious to be men.”
Relos, the commander of the Acacian forces and a man Aliver knew his father trusted, said, “He is a boy no longer. I believe he is now in his twenty-ninth year.”
Julian’s eyes touched on Aliver for a second, and then he asked the general company, “If Hanish Mein did this, for what reason? What does he intend?”
“We cannot know what he intends,” Chales, another older soldier, said. “Julian, your love of peace is well known, but not all persons are as generous minded as you.”
“And boys are often foolish,” Relos said. “Full of pride. Folly.”
Thaddeus cut off Julian’s response. “No one here looks at the night and calls it day,” he said. “We should consider all possibilities, and Julian’s question is valid. Perhaps this is not Hanish Mein’s doing. Perhaps, but I have found the most obvious culprit is usually the actual culprit. The Mein are an ancient people. Ancient people have long memories. Hanish might believe he acts on his forefathers’ behalf. He is in contact with his ancestors, and they crave Acacian blood as much now as they ever did. At least, that is what men of the Mein believe. They delude themselves this way.”
“We are all ancient people, Thaddeus,” Relos said. “Some of us remember this and some don’t. Some can name their father’s father’s father and some cannot. But the blood in each of us began at the beginning and runs still. Age is no excuse for treachery.”
A quiet moment of hesitation prompted Aliver to speak. “We are circling the issue here without looking it in the face,” he said. “The man-the assassin-does anyone doubt he was of the Mein race? And that he spoke their language with ease? Did he not name himself?” The room answered this with silence, all seemingly surprised to hear the young man speak and not sure how to answer him. “Then why look at the night sky and wonder whether it is actually daytime disguised? We know who did this. A Mein stuck a blade in my father! We will do the same to them but with greater force. And I do not care why they did it. An act is an act, no matter the reasoning of the mind that commited it. They must be punished.”
“Just so, Prince,” Thaddeus said. “That is why we are here. We must form some sort of response. The governors will have their own ideas, but they will look to us for guidance and, ultimately, for approval of any course of action.”
“Then we are here to decide how to attack?” Aliver asked, gaining confidence from his own boldness. “How quickly can we have an army knocking on the door of Tahalian?”
Thaddeus deferred to Carver, the only Marah captain on the island, for his thoughts on military deployments. In his role as councillor Carver was the youngest in attendance, just in his mid-thirties. He had been born fortunate, the latest of a long line of warriors, and his skill and ambition had sped his way to prominence. He had volunteered to lead the army against the Candovian Discord a few years earlier. This was a rare military action, of which Aliver believed the stories were more fiction than truth, but Carver could claim to have commanded in battle. Few Acacians could say the same. Still, Aliver did not care for what he had to say.
No attack against the Mein could be rushed, he proclaimed. They had to consider the Mein’s military prowess, their isolated location, and the territory through which one had to travel to reach them. Acacian forces were spread through the empire in a way that allowed them police powers but not in concentrations sufficient to launch a military campaign without reorganization and transportation of troops. They could start pulling in units from the provinces, order call-ups of more, and they could marshal troops around Alecia in the early spring. Perhaps, if Aushenia was amenable, they could move troops into forward positions near the Gradthic Gap by the spring equinox. But this would be a defensive measure. They could not actually march onto the Mein Plateau until at least a month later, and then travel would be difficult over the sodden ground and with all the rivers at flood, not to mention the insects…
“Insects?” Aliver asked. “Are you mad? My father is stabbed by a Mein assassin and you speak to me of insects?”
Carver frowned in a way that drew his prominent eyebrows toward each other. “My lord, have you ever seen the tiny flies of the Meinish spring? They swarm the land, clouds so thick that men have suffocated just from inhaling them. And they bite. Men have died of blood loss. But the worst is that they cause disease, fevers, plagues… There are many things to consider in a military campaign, many ways for soldiers to die other than on a sword. Insects, my prince, are one of them. Perhaps a forward force familiar with the winter conditions of the Mein could start movements earlier, before the thaw brings the pests of the place to life, but with General Alain missing I would not recommend it.”
Aliver shook his head, perplexed to hear a soldier voice such reluctance. He had always been taught to think in terms of a direct strike, especially as their army outnumbered the forces of any one province. He wanted to ask what had happened to General Alain, but from the way that Carver mentioned him, it was clear everyone else knew something of this already. He said, “The soldiers of the Mein number no more than twenty thousand, and ten of those are in our service throughout the empire. That was the decree. So my question is how quickly can we have a force large enough to defeat the ten thousand fighters in place? That hardly seems an impossible task.”
Carver muttered that the Mein’s population had always been hard to ascertain. At times their numbers seemed to fluctuate in ways that did not correspond to the official census. “If we are to have war with the Mein, it is unlikely we will clash arms before early summer. A punitive force sent sooner…I am not sure it is possible. If Hanish picked his timing so as to leave us unable to strike back immediately, he chose well. There is also the innate nature of Meinish soldiers to consider. Men of the Mein kill as a matter of course. They cull the weak so that each generation makes them stronger. They train in the harshest of conditions. They keep secret customs that we can only guess at. Each Mein life we take will be paid for dearly.”
This was met with murmurs of agreement. One councillor said he had heard tales that Hanish had trained a secret army in some hidden location. Another agreed. Julian shook his head at the speculative direction of the conversation but had nothing to add other than his disapproval.
“Hanish fights the Maseret,” Carver said, “the dueling dance the Mein so enjoy. If the attack on the king is his doing, it is like a dagger thrust in the face. He wishes to have us back on our heels, off balance. We must concede that he has achieved this much already.”
“I fear the next strike is already initiated,” Chales said.
Relos nodded a few times, as he always did to indicate he was about to speak. “They have belief, those people. They speak with their dead; and the dead, I am told, are very convincing orators. Belief is dangerous when turned to a cause.”
Aliver looked about him. What was wrong with these people? What happened to his f
ather cast as a simple tactic in some dance? Talking with the dead? One would have thought from their tones that this was nothing more than a war game, a business meeting…
“Are you here to write out the terms of surrender of my father’s rightful kingdom?” Aliver snapped. “Damn you all if you don’t find one manly thing to tell me!”
“Young prince,” Thaddeus said, his face pained as if he wished they were having this discussion in private, “you need not damn us. Not a man here believes we are in true peril. They would just have you know the matter is grave.”
“I know that,” Aliver said. “Did I not look upon my father’s face? Tell me whatever more you must. But I say again-speak with me on how we will punish Hanish Mein. That is what we will do. We have to decide only how and on what day. Understood?”
The others murmured assent, but through the rest of the long meeting Aliver wondered whether his outburst had been wise. The meeting adjourned, leaving his head cluttered with ideas that floated about bumping into one another, rising and sinking like pieces of debris from a shipwreck. He had no true feel for what was to come. He felt like a cabin boy clinging to a piece of wreckage, at the whim of currents he had no power over.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Of all the things that pained Thaddeus as he stood beside the sickbed of his old friend the king, it was the loose manner in which the flesh of his face sagged that most shot him through with regret. It showed Leodan for what he was: a man grown ancient, so tired of life that the muscles of his face barely had the power to contract or to quiver or to register emotion. To say his skin was ashen would speak only to the surface of the truth. He was a powdery white, indeed, but the color and life had been bled from far below the skin’s waxy surface. Thaddeus had the momentary thought that Edifus himself may have looked much the same on his deathbed. And this death-like the first king’s generations before-might well mark a shift in the order of the world.
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