Wintersong

by William Cooper

  The King shook his head. ‘No. I will not have it. Perriswood has been loyal.’

  ‘Then where is he, my King?’ insisted, Tristan, ’He knows he must pay a price for what happened, but he hides in his halls. You must be seen to hold him to account, even if you show him mercy, my King.’

  Merric looked down at his table and almost in a whisper said, ‘I would not be king. I have never wanted to be king, but now I wear the crown. I am so tired Tristan. Go away and leave me to think.’

  The Queen and the Ambassador

  The carriage was a plain affair, of a type common to the King’s Hill region of Thornsreach. It was black with a roof that protected the passengers from the inclement weather of the isle. The carriage was pulled by two horses that were in turn controlled by a man that wore equally plain and nondescript clothing. The curtains of the carriage were drawn shut, hiding the occupant from casual onlookers. Not that any would have paid much attention to the carriage in this part of the city. As the carriage made its slow progress through the busy streets it turned into one of the many alleyways that circled behind the homes of the rich and powerful. Alleyways designed for tradesmen to bring their wares to the rear of the great homes, so as not to offend any delicate lordly sensibilities with common trade. This particular quarter of King’s Hill held many of the embassies of the great nations of the world. Each building told you a little of the power and wealth of the nation that held it. Some were grand edifices like the Brethic building; others, more humble like the trading nations of Scillith. All little sovereign realms within the great capital, and all places of commerce, politics and espionage

  Rattling along the cobbled roads, the carriage came to a stop at the rear of a great house. The driver maneuvered the carriage so that the door lined up perfectly with a small archway. It held a single door inset into a high stone wall topped with iron spikes. The thick, oak door opened smoothly, on well cared for hinges. Maria alighted from the coach, wrapping her dark cloak close and pulled her hood up to hide her features. She quickly entered the archway, the door closed behind her swiftly and the carriage rattled on. It took but a few moments, and was easily missed by the casual onlooker.

  Maria took a breath to calm her fluttering nerves as she stood in the white marbled courtyard of the embassy of the Holy Empire of Islinor. A guard stood behind the door, a tall man who greeted her graciously, and motioned for her to follow him. He led her quickly across the empty courtyard. Such a place would normally be busy at this time of day, but today it was free of the messengers, guards and stable hands that should have filled this place with a bustling energy. The many windows that overlooked the courtyard had their shutters closed, so none could observe her cross the eerily silent yard. Without another word the guard ushered her through a side door, a tradesman entrance of some kind that led to a narrow corridor that opened into towards some storerooms. The Islinor guard stopped halfway up the corridor and opened the door of an old cupboard that stood neglected. He reached into it, and after a few moments she heard a soft click. Gasping in surprise she saw the cupboard swing out, and beyond it was a small chamber that was filled with a circler staircase that led up into darkness. The guard pulled a lantern out of the cupboard, lit the oiled wick and motioned for her to follow him. Wordlessly she did so, her heart beating in fear. So much was at risk, if anyone found out what she was planning. Even her husband the King believed she only carried a message to be given to the ambassador. She would deliver the letter, of course, but she had a plan of her own.

  The guard took her up three floors, passing three identical doors on each floor, before he stopped at the fourth. He pulled a small lever near the door frame and waited for a soft clicking noise, and then he pushed the door open. Waving her into the room he quickly closed the secret door, disguised as an ornate floor to ceiling mirror. She took a moment to admire the room she was in. It was a magnificently splendorous thing. Built in the high style of the Holy Empire, it was awash with statues, art, beautifully executed landscapes of Islinor and colourful wall hangings, depicting religious scenes. She stood in a sumptuous dining room. Maria’s eyes were drawn to the long, brightly polished dining table that filled it. At the furthest end two places were set. One of the places was occupied by an elegantly dressed man. It was Kalthisk Ar Gothus, the Islinor ambassador to the Golden Isles. There was also a bowl of oranges, which were her favourite and hard to get in Thornsreach this time of year. A nice touch, she thought, and typical of the cultivated manners of the Islinor elite.

  With a friendly smile, Ar Gothus stood and walked towards Maria. Once he reached her, he bowed with elegant courtesy, and took her hands in his. ‘Queen Maria, I’m, as always, your humble servant.’ His accent betrayed him for one of the Adalsi, the ruling class of the Holy Empire. They were renowned for their devotion to courtly tradition, etiquette and their obsession with keeping their bloodlines pure. She acknowledged his bow politely, and she let him guide her to her seat. She took a moment to remove her cloak before she sat down, taking the opportunity to appraise this Ar Gothus. She knew a little of him, as he had often attended royal events, he was always immaculately dressed and presented, but he gave little of himself away.

  ‘Please, enjoy.’ He motioned to the fruit, as he sat. He had slipped into Adjalic, the official language of the Empire and academia. It had a light lilting tone that was pleasing to listen to, but difficult to learn with its complex grammar and many archaic phrases.

  ‘I hope your children and your husband are well,’ he said. ‘The recent riots were very distressing. I cannot imagine such happening in our capital. The Emperor is particular about law and order. Perhaps your King would do well to seek some advice from him? It would please the Emperor to help a king of a lesser realm.’

  Maria smiled politely, resisting the urge to slap the man across the face. She knew his sort, and had often thought they were far too common in the courts of this world. They were arrogant and powerful, in a limited sense. Small men who acted like little king’s in their small little realms. Their pale shadows were readily given up to the long shadow of the Emperor. How else could they grasp at some power? She had met the Emperor herself once, many years ago, and she saw him for what he was. A truly dangerous man that was capable of doing anything to protect his Empire, yet he would not stoop to such petty insults.

  She sat in silence for a moment watching Ar Gothus like a cat watches a mouse. She outranked him, both in the Isle and at the Imperial court, and he knew it. But he thought her just a woman. She let the ambassador grow uncomfortable as the silence continued. Then in perfect unaccented Adjalic, she said, ‘The riot was indeed an unfortunate business. I hear your embassy was sadly attacked, and a few windows broken here and there, before General Tobin arrived to clear the rioters away and rescued your soldiers. Which was good, or else a few poorly armed Golden Isle commoners may very well have raised the mighty Imperial Embassy to the ground. My husband is, however, a humble man, and has expected no thanks for aiding you, which is well, as none was given.’

  The ambassador sat silently for a moment, stroking his well-oiled beard. He looked at her with a faint tinge of hatred. She could see that he realised he had misjudged her and his body language changed subtly. He seemed more attentive now. He smiled with easy charm and said, ‘You speak well your highness. And of course the Embassy thanks the King for his help. However, I suspect that is not why you are here? You went to a great deal of trouble to hide your visit from all. So your Highness, what is it you wish?’

  ‘A message to be delivered to the emperor,’ she answered.

  Kalthisk sat back. He was no fool she thought, arrogant and pompous, yes, but not stupid. She watched him pick up his goblet and take a delicate sip of his wine. He knows why I am here, but we will dance and talk until a price is agreed she thought.

  ‘An odd request, your highness,’ he said. ‘We have channels for such things, and a simple letter would have sufficed. I would have been happy to lend my own men to take such a l
etter personally to the Emperor.’

  ‘Speak truly Ar Gothus. It has been a long time since I was at the Imperial court. Do all imperial ambassadors play such fruitless games?’ I heard your Emperor appreciated quickness of word and action in those that work for him. Perhaps that is why you are here in a lesser Kingdom?’

  Ar Gothus threw his head back and laughed. It was a surprisingly merry sound, light and quick to the heart and easily forgotten in a moment, she suspected. ‘My lady,’ he said smiling broadly, ‘You are as strong as your father. I fear I am quite outmatched. I bow to you, and I apologise for my meagre remarks earlier.’ Picking up the goblet again he took another sip and continued, ‘Tell me, my lady. What is it you seek here, what is it you want?’

  She gave a bitter smile and said, ‘What do you see happening in this kingdom, Ar Gothus? He seemed surprised by the question and, after thinking for moment, answered, ‘I see blood and ashes my queen. Your nation is teetering on a knife edge. The Concord seeks to control the King. The King seeks to put an end to the Concord, and the middling sorts are calling for an end to this wrangling. The poor folk chaff under the taxes they struggle to pay. Your country is like a rope pulled too tightly on both ends. It is starting to fray. This first thread to snap was Cathan; the next was the riot but a few days ago, and then the Concord demanded the head of Perriswood.’

  ‘So you think there will be Civil War?’ She asked.

  ‘Already the nobles of the Concord are quietly raising small armies,’ he answered. ‘Their agents have crossed the continent to raise contracts with mercenary companies. We watch such things closely your highness. War is coming.’

  Her heart sank and her mind turned to her children. She saw their sweet smiling faces. They knew nothing of the dangers they faced. She had fought hard to maintain some normalcy for them. Perhaps she had erred, but what mother did not want to create a cocoon around her children that gave them a world full of play and joy? Now war threated to tear into that cocoon and destroy their world. She could not allow it. ‘What does the Emperor believe will happen?’

  Ar Gothus shrugged again and said, ‘I do not know, Highness. I mean no insult when I say I do not think your husband can stop this war. I doubt even his father could. I think you are at a turning point in your countries tale.’

  She knew he spoke the truth; but she didn’t enjoy hearing such a truth from another. It somehow made the threat more real to her. She knew she would have to act as if the worst was going to happen. That left her with no choice but to continue with her plan. She pulled a letter out of her gown and passed it to the ambassador. ‘This is from my husband, he begs for help, for weapons and armour. For men if needed. He will pay.’

  The ambassador took the letter and placed it gently on the table. ‘As you wish. I will pass it onto my Emperor.’ She noted he barely looked at it, his hand dropping the letter onto the table as if it was a dirty thing. He reached for his goblet with much more care and grace. She didn’t bother to ask him if the Emperor would listen, she thought it a fool’s hope. The letter spoke of the majesty of kings and emperors and the divine right to rule. Merric had likened malcontent nobles to a disease attacking a body. He wrote that if such a disease was left unchecked in one land, it would spread to another. She knew it would do no good, the Emperor was a practical man. He who would not embroil himself in a war where a nation tore at its own throat. No he would treat with the victor and be done with it. The Golden Isle was nothing to him.

  ‘Is there something else, your Highness?’ inquired Ar Gothus. She hated his knowing, little smile, hated the fact that he knew what she had do next was of more import to her than the King’s message.

  ‘Yes, there is one more thing. It is a personal matter.’ She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to say the next few words, but pushed on. ‘It is well known that a faction in the Concord wishes my children illegitimate, because they fear that they may have been brought up secretly in the High Church.’

  ‘Have they?’ said Ar Gothus, with a cruel smile.

  ‘I have obeyed the wishes of my King, but fools see what they want, no matter what the truth is’ she snapped. She paused and calmed herself, there was too much at risk for her too allow her feelings to cloud matters. She continued, ‘I fear that if there is war and it goes badly for my husband the children will be in danger. They will face a grim fate. At best a life in some prison cell, or at worst a knife into the dark. I would ask that we make arrangements to secure their safety, and transport them to my father for safe custody. Should the worst happen.’

  Ar Gothus sat back and nodded slowly at her. For a moment his face lost the patronising, smug expression she had come to despise. Sadness seemed to wash over him, as if some old memory stirred him. Eventually, he said, ‘Our children suffer for the foolishness of powerful men. Perhaps there is no harm in such an arrangement. I’m sure, should the worst happen, we could arrange for your father to have his grandchildren come visit him.’

  She felt a sense of guarded relief at his words and unexpected empathy. While she still did not trust this man completely she knew he would do as he promised. After all her father was a powerful Lord of the Empire, and she had no illusion that Ar Gothus knew he would gain prestige in the court for safely delivering his grandchildren to him. She felt guiltily for doing this without her husband’s knowledge, but she knew she had to protect her children. How could she be certain Merric would prevail against the Concord? She had to be strong for her children’s sake, even if it meant never seeing them again.

  The Lady of the Night.

  She had been working at the Merry Maiden brothel for two months now, plying her trade with the men and women who came to pay for their pleasures. The Maiden, as its patrons called it, was a high class brothel, just off the fashionable district of the port of Conith. Resting discreetly between the rougher areas of the docks and the more salubrious town homes of the wealthy, it offered its clients a safe thrill of danger. The Maiden was richly decorated and famed for the beauty of its girls and the welcoming madam.

  It hadn’t been hard for Alice, as she had decided to call herself, to gain employment in the Maiden. Such places took their toll on the girls who worked in them, and they needed to be replaced with regularity. Also Alice was beautiful, with a good figure, and long blonde hair. She knew how to dress and move seductively, and any madam with an eye for business would know she would be a new delicacy to pull the customers in. However, when Alice met the madam of the Maiden she made sure she acted the naive country girl in awe of the fancy brothel she was in, with all its fancy customers and shiny mirrors. She had watched the insincerely smiling woman looking at her in approval as her dry papery hands moved hungrily over her youthful body.

  She was quickly accepted by the other girls. She had learnt to survive from an early age, and an ability to manipulate others was a skill she had honed into a fine art. She was well liked by the other girls. Soon she was almost a part of the furniture. Her movements and actions would not be questioned by anyone.

  The first time she saw Perriswood she had judged him to be a posing peacock, with little between his ears. As she watched him during his frequent visits she saw nothing to change her mind. He frequently came into the brothel with a group of friends, all lords who appeared to have been important enough company to flatter the man’s ego, but not so important as to threaten it. They were all of a type, loud, boorish and drunken. They were the kind of men who believed the pretty lies the whores told them, and no doubt they thought the false sighs of pleasures the girls mimicked were proof of their manliness.

  Many of the girls whispered that the men were often so intoxicated that they were unable to perform, but no girl would mock them to their face for their failure to fuck. Such men were dangerous to a woman foolish enough to laugh at them to their face. ‘Little swords’ the women of The Maiden called them behind their backs, and Alice could see the humour in that. She always wondered why weak men were always so concerned about such things. She often
smiled inwardly as she watched Perriswood and his friends swagger around with their swords on their hips, trying to look like they were warriors. She knew violent men. Men who were capable of bloody acts. Savage and dangerous men that could laugh and joke with their comrades as they gutted you with a knife. Such men had a glint in their eyes, something savage, dark and empty. A look none of Perriswoods friends possessed. If these primping lords faced a real killer they would soil their expensive breeches. These were simply boys, aping at being men, and the worst of the boys was Perriswood.

  He was easy to spot amongst his friends. Perriswood was the loudest and most boorish of them all. Handsome, in his own way, always finely turned out in his rich doublets and his expensive, unused, sword hanging from his left hip. However, as soon as he opened his vacant mouth his handsomeness was quickly forgotten, and she felt nothing but a mild contempt for him. When she first saw him he was sitting at a table, his body language aggressive and dominating, while he made some coarse jest to his pets in a loud voice. They, of course, dutifully laughed.

  Perriswood was famous across the Golden Isle for his failure, at Cathan. The bards called him Perriswood the Hare for he had run so fast from battle. They also said he had turned his ship to flee to back to the Golden Isles so fast he didn’t have time to hear his men screaming on the beach. He was a lord in disgrace, drinking in a brothel and telling jokes. A coward that was too afraid to go to Thornsreach for fear of the King and the Concord.