“My prince,” someone interrupted my thoughts. This time Ulysses was looking down. It was the priest talking again. “My prince?”
“Yes, Father Yates, come out with it.” He had been pestering me every possible moment of my short reign about right and wrong, as he had my entire childhood. Debating was no use with the man, but I intended to teach him through actions that power mattered more than his pedantic lessons. Ramzi’s doctrine prevailed on that point.
“I have been receiving frightful reports from Valemidas. The people are not doing well. Our harvest will be weak this year, there have been political, ah, changes, and their faith is not what it used to be. My reports say crime is increasing and our churches cannot hold all the homeless. And this spring will soon be turning into a horribly hot summer—”
“Enough.” I was on my feet and in his face. “What do you want? Speak it straight, and quit babbling about the unavoidable. The people of Valemidas have always been a mess. What they need is inspiration. They need something to believe in. That is what I am trying to give them. What are you trying to do, priest?”
Father Yates, as ever, remained calm. “My prince, you are right that the people need inspiration. All I want to suggest is, well, an alternative. It would be more, shall we say, direct if you were there with the people. Let them see you, let them see that you share their concerns, that you are one of them, living, worshipping, and caring for others in Valemidas. That would inspire our people. The community in Valemidas is unbalanced without their accustomed figurehead.”
How could the man not understand that this was war? I had to be here for the battle. My face must have shown my thoughts, because Yates quickly changed his tack.
“Or, if you cannot go to the people now, send orders to your administrators in Valemidas. Ramzi is a dark man who has laid too harsh a yoke on the people. They are under twice as many laws as they were a year ago, and they do not understand the reason for many of them. If these laws are born of a man’s pride, then they will never sit well, particularly when they reach into the privacy of one’s family and home.”
I sat back in my chair again and considered the priest’s words. He was a strange little fellow, but it was hard not to respect his spirit. He had thought of himself as some sort of father to Andor, and maybe to me before Ramzi came to my side. It was good to keep Yates close. He was creative with his suggestions, like this one. Maybe he was right about Ramzi going too far, especially in my absence. The dark man was savvy, but I had worried about the power going to his head. At least with Yates, I did not have to worry about that. He would still be wearing his tattered brown robes even if he were the one sitting on the throne.
So it was not without regret that I would have to send the priest away. Here, he was weakening my army with his constant teaching about humility. In Valemidas, he would be the perfect foil to Ramzi until my return. His efforts against Ramzi’s laws might not change much, but he would help pacify the people and hold my darker advisor back. The people needed to be harnessed if they were ever to achieve their highest purpose.
“Yes, Father Yates, you speak true that the people of Valemidas need me. I will return to them, I assure you, but not yet. You will go in my place, taking a message from me to the people. Something from the heart, something about duty, about pushing through adversity and being strong. Include this: ‘only those who obey my law can be free.’ Bring me a draft of the speech before the sun falls. Make it good. You leave with tonight’s messengers.”
Father Yates had been about to speak but closed his mouth and tilted his head to look at me searchingly, obviously trying to read my intentions. Yes, he would be valuable in Valemidas. Let the people grovel in humility, believing in Yates’ myths of a greater power and a greater meaning to their pathetic lives. I had subdued enough of the people by force. Now Yates could tame them, distract them—an ideal figurehead for now, just as he suggested.
By the time I came back with the continent under my rule, and with the heads of Valemidas’ enemies, the people would be fed up with both Yates and Ramzi. They would be fed up with humility and with obedience. They would be hungry for greatness—the perfect state for turning their praises to me and moving me into the next era of history, unshackled by nobles and empty traditions. I looked up to see Yates still studying me silently.
“You may go now, Father Yates.”
He bowed low. “Yes, my prince. Remember, victory in this battle brings you closer to death if you believe only in your own power.”
Another priestly riddle, I thought as he walked out, and a riddle I did not want to try to solve this morning. I stood, returned to the table, and stared down at the map.
“Ulysses.” He came to my side and studied the map. “You said we could make it in five days. Make it happen.”
“My prince, I said that we could, but our reports about the Icarians concern me. They are huddled in a defensive fortress. It will not be an open-field battle, so our men and our knights will be at a great disadvantage. With patience, a quarter of our number could lay siege to—”
“No, this will not be a siege. This is war, and we will lose men, but for now we have to get our forces moving. Maybe we lose a hundred soldiers every day. They are probably the worst men of the Lycurgus, which should not host such weakness anyway. My reports, our reports, your reports—they all say the same thing. The Icarians have no more than two thousand men. Thanks to your ingenious bridge, we will storm their stone fortress and defeat them in a single day. But first, we march to the mountains’ edge within two days, and then we hike for three. The bridge must arrive safely, along with the supplies for more bridges. You are a leader of men, Ulysses. Make it happen.”
I had no more patience for this discussion, not even with Ulysses. He was too cunning, but perfect as the second-commander of my Lycurgus. The men loved him, perhaps even more than me. That was just history and would have to change. My infantry feared me enough to dare nothing, and Ulysses could be trusted far enough. He had served the past two princes well, and he seemed to be capable of nothing short of duty.
After a long moment, Ulysses spoke. “As you wish, my prince,” he said crisply as he bowed. He turned and walked from my tent, the consummate knight. With Yates and Ulysses gone, I was left with sycophants. Well, seven sycophants, and Jon.
“Sir Jon, has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” I posited my question to my cup of steaming coffee.
“Why yes, my prince,” another knight answered. “Sir Jon is a strong addition.” The words flowed out of Jonas Davosman, who looked at Jon nervously, then smiled towards me. What a weak, formless knight. I hated to keep him so close, but I had promised as much to win his father’s support in Valemidas. Too bad for House Davosman that proximity to me was the surest way to find death in this war.
“Jonas, if Jon is a strong addition, what does that make you?” I kept my eyes on the swirling, black liquid in my cup. It would have given better answers than Jonas.
“Um, my prince, I am not quite sure what you mean. I am your servant as always, and a knight, and—”
“And he has never been a morning person. Forgive him for his sluggish mind.” Like a blast of fresh air, Jon’s voice spread through the tent and pulled my eyes up.
Jon was looking at me expectantly. Jonas was kicking at the rug at his feet. The other five knights were pushed back against the wall of the tent, close to the opening and ready to flee. My female servants blended against the walls, but the girl from Albemarle stood out, Mailyn. She wore a snug black bodice and studied me almost casually. No one else seemed to look at me like that anymore. I rose to my feet and began to pace.
“Jon, Jon, have you ever been less than brave and true? No matter, Jonas is right. You are a strong addition. My knights have never been stronger.” I would have to get rid of Jonas at some point. The other five knights on my Council were not wise companions, but they were loyal men who could handle the sword.
“Thank you good men, for your counsel. Uly
sses probably has the men packing camp now. Gather up your squires and prepare for the road.” The knights did not waste a second in leaving.
“Jon, please, stay a moment. I have another matter I would like to discuss with you.” He paused at the door, looking back at me. It was a hesitance I was not used to seeing from him. But this was his first morning in my tent. There was plenty to put him in awe. “Mailyn, prepare my bath now. We will have a hard ride today.”
She strode across the thick carpets and came to my side. Her lips grazed my ear, pressing close as she set a silver tray and coffee pot on the table. Then she was gone as soon as she had come. She had a gift of service, that much was certain.
“We enter the mountains tomorrow, probably in the evening.” My finger traced the Prince’s Road, the broad line on the map. Jon’s eyes followed. “And three more days through the mountains, before we reach the Icarians.”
Once off the road, the going would be treacherous. As we drew closer to the enemy, there was only one path, and it fit only five men abreast. My finger settled on the little dot of Icaria. They were insignificant, but powerful enough to rouse the Lycurgus for glory.
“Jon, tell me, what do you think of our plan?”
“Why do you ask me, my prince. You have heard from your more experienced knights. I am a merchant first, and my fighting days are in the past.”
“There was a time when you beat me on the field. None of these other knights can say that.”
“That was a long time ago, my prince. We were just boys.”
“And now we are the same, grown into larger bodies. I asked for your opinion.”
“I think we endanger a lot of men with this plan.”
“Yes, and do you think it is worth that potential cost?”
“I do not know the mountains or the Icarians, but I do fear their position. Look, if you strip a talented merchant of everything but a turnip, what will he do?”
“You are the merchant, Jon. You tell me. Eat it?”
Jon laughed lightly. It was good to see a smile. He had always been a pleasure to have around, and everyone’s seriousness had been wearing on me.
“My prince, you are right, you are no merchant if you would eat the turnip. A true merchant would perhaps cut the turnip into pieces, sell it at higher prices. He might even steal another turnip. Then he trades for more turnips, and then he trades turnips for coins. Next thing you know, that desperate merchant has a wagon full of turnips, pulled by two nice looking horses.”
“Okay, so some merchant wins some turnips.” He sounded too much like Wren. His brother’s motives were suspect, and that meant Jon’s were too. “Even the best merchant will meet his match, maybe his superior. He will lose out to more powerful forces in the end.”
“My prince, you asked my opinion.” Jon’s tone was surprisingly assertive. “The Icarians will be fighting with nothing to lose. You have everything to lose, so lead the battle from a safe place, not on the front line.”
“What’s under your skin, Jon? You are thinking of the boy you knew. Things have changed, and one of them is that I no longer lose, ever.”
“As you say, my prince.”
I let silence build, maybe letting him feel some fear. It would help keep him honest, and it might trickle down to his conniving brother. Wren was a pathetic excuse for a knight, with no place in the Lycurgus. The brothers had to be up to something, and my fear was that it had to do with more than just gold. I had Sebastian and his men watching them, but perhaps I could find the truth myself by keeping Jon close.
“As I say, we will win. You are one of my highest knights now, Jon, and that means you join my morning meetings, you dine at my table, and you give me your guidance. Your position requires it, but I choose you because of our past. These other knights do not share what we share.”
“Thank you, my prince, it is an honor. I will serve you well.”
“I know you will.” I reached out and clasped his arm. Whatever his motives, compared to knights like Jonas, he would be a force at my side in battle. “Observe the knights and the infantry these next days. We will be marching hard, and once we enter the mountains, I need to know what my men are thinking. The discipline of the Lycurgus is wearing on some of them, but they must bear it. Otherwise, the Icarians are going to fill their wagons with our turnips, picking us off in the mountain passes, before I get a chance to break their gate and crush their hidden world.”
“Yes, my prince. You know how I like my turnips.” He smiled and turned. Something about his old, jovial self was missing, but it was hard not to like the man.
Mailyn approached as Jon left—just in time to prevent my mind from turning to Wren again. “Mailyn, the water is always a better temperature with you in it.”
She blushed and whispered, “I would say the same of you, my prince.”
I thought of the statue in Albemarle as she sauntered towards the back rooms of my tent. That statue was a good precedent, even if it did honor the wrong prince. My victory against the Icarians would be the right start to putting the right prince in the center of every town square of the continent. Pawns we might lose, but the real men of the Lycurgus would be rewarded.
Chapter 14
DISCIPLINE AND CALLING
“Do you wish to rise?
Begin by descending.
You plan a tower that
will pierce the clouds?
Lay first the foundation
of humility.”
Father Yates was troubled. His deepest concern was Ramzi, and the dark forces he summoned from the Gloaming. Yates believed the light would prevail over the darkness in the end, but no one could say when the end would come. Sometimes Yates felt that his prayers collided into Ramzi’s and that the fate of the world depended on the invisible battle between them. But sometimes he just thought Ramzi was crazy.
As he walked from the prince’s lavish tent, he pulled his cloak closer. It was good wool, but old, and some holes allowed a bit too much of a draft this close to the mountains. Striding toward his small tent, he tried to channel his frustrated and fearful energy into something good.
He still had hope for Tryst, but the man had proven over and over again his ruinous pride. There was no greater impediment to living in the light. For those filled with anger, Yates could show them love and peace. For those with sloth, greed, and promiscuity, Yates could help identify the weakness and help in restoration. But for pride, it was often hopeless.
His mentor, Father Clive, had spent his life exposing the evil of pride. He had denounced pride as the devil. He had taught that pride was the complete anti-god state of mind. Pride led to enmity, to separation from the light, and ultimately to eternal death. Yates himself had struggled with the great vice as he had risen to the top of the priesthood, which held its own allure of power. To fight against it, he tried to keep his focus on the needs of others, and especially those whose souls were crumbling, like Tryst’s.
Yates had run out of ways to confront Tryst about pride. He had tried for the new prince’s entire life. The man had oozed with arrogance since his childhood. He had to beat everyone at everything. As soon as the young Tryst won a competition, he would find another bout in which to assert his superiority. He could not abide others’ successes, unless they somehow made him look better. That led early on to his complex rivalry with Andor. As prince, Tryst seemed more focused on himself than ever. Now he had sent Yates away.
There’s no use dwelling on this failure, the thought sprang into Yates’ mind. Yes, Yates prayed, please show me an opportunity. Valemidas needed plenty of help—anything to counteract Ramzi’s idolatry and manipulation.
But the most important person is still here—Andor.
Yates seized the insight, feeling divinely inspired. He had been avoiding Andor, at the man’s own command. Yet it was Andor who needed him most. Tryst remained a puzzle that could not be broken. Andor had long been similarly closed, with a complicated past, but he had recently been broken. He was now a p
romising shell, aware of his former self-centeredness and capable of re-orienting his life. If Yates could help refill that shell with light, then there could soon be a righteous prince.
And if Andor could be healed, then who better to confront Tryst?
Yates turned a different direction with a bounce in his step. Packing could wait.
The priest had always loved to walk fast, and this was as good a time as any. Despite his many years, his legs found a warm rhythm as he crested a rolling foothill. Andor was camped on the far south side of camp, which was more than a mile from Tryst’s headquarters. That separation is such a blessing now, Yates exulted, as he neared the pace of a jog.
His loose coat was flapping in the wind, and Yates laughed again at what he must look like. An old priest speeding through camp—on an urgent errand from his god!
As he walked by another group of infantrymen, Yates had to admire the discipline of the Lycurgus. Men were training in all regiments, and every tent was aligned precisely. For all his faults, Tryst ran a tight ship. If only the man would release his pride, he had talents that could make him a good leader. A closer look at the soldiers hinted at the ill effects of Tryst’s command. They were frightened, even though the battle was days away. Their movements seemed forced and rigid, lacking in the harnessed liberty that made for greatness.
Within a few minutes, Yates had found the Fourth Marchers. An energetic young knight was organizing his pikemen into ranks. He stood before them, barking orders excitedly. The men formed clean lines, practicing their lunges. On the far side, Andor was walking along the columns of men, stopping every few steps to show a soldier how to keep his balance when leaning, or where to grip the pike at its pivot point. Joy swelled in Yates at the sight of Andor teaching these men—a good sign of his continuing recovery.
It was clear that the Gloaming had changed the man. He had been born great, and only Yates and Justus Davosman knew the true ancestry and destiny behind that greatness. One year the ritual vessel from the Sunan people had carried Andor on it, when he was only a small boy. That had been the last year the vessel arrived, and the abandoned boy had gone to the Cathedral, where orphans were taken in and raised.
Light in the Gloaming (The Gloaming Book One) Page 15