“During my years of exile, I saw Vinnengael fall in men’s esteem. I saw her held up to derision, saw her despised and ridiculed. I saw the Church grow in power, saw the monarchy become weak and ineffectual, her nobles ground down beneath the heel of the clergy.”
Some low-voiced mutterings of agreement came from the barons.
“I saw her military dwindle, its numbers decline, morale plummet,” Dagnarus continued. “Thus, when Karnu attacked Vinnengaeleans at the city now named Delak ’Vir, the Vinnengaelean army was defeated, forced to retreat in shame. Worse than that, Vinnengael did not act to take back the Portal the Karnuans stole from us.
“Years go by, and Karnuans walk our soil with impunity. They demand fees from us to use what was once our Portal. They sneer at us and call us cowards. Are the Vinnengaelean soldiers cowards?” He looked directly at several members of the Imperial Cavalry, whose faces were flushed.
“No!” Dagnarus said, biting off the words. “Vinnengaelean soldiers are the bravest, the best, the most loyal soldiers in the world.”
He was interrupted by shouts of angry agreement.
Dagnarus raised his voice. “I should know. I led them into battle myself on many occasions. But even the bravest soldiers need training, they need money, they need the best in weaponry and armor. More than that”—he paused—“they need respect.”
Several of the knights cheered. The soldiers lifted their heads. Their eyes gleamed, their hands clenched into fists. Some nodded emphatically, while others exclaimed “yes!” and nearly all cast dour glances at the Regent and the other Church officials.
How clever, Rigiswald thought, admiring in spite of himself. How very clever.
“Yes, I came back to Loerem with an army!” Dagnarus cried. “An army that has conquered Dunkar and brought it low! An army that has taken on Karnu and will soon conquer that proud land.” He pointed directly at the knights. “Because of my assault on their homeland, the Karnuans have been forced to pull back many of their troops from Delak Vir. If you attack them now, they cannot withstand your might. You will recapture your Portal and with it regain the respect that is your due.”
Cheers met each of his statements.
Dagnarus paused again, then said, quietly, “I give you Dunkarga, its wealth, its people. I give you Karnu, its wealth, its people. I give these to Vinnengael as my gift. With these two great nations now under her control, Vinnengael becomes the most powerful nation in Loerem, more powerful than she was under the rule of my father, King Tamaros, the gods assoil him.”
Dagnarus held out his hands, as though he held those countries within them. “Take them. They are yours. All I ask is that you grant me what is mine by right. Make me king. Or rather, emperor. For Vinnengael will become the greatest empire in the history of Loerem.”
No one spoke. No one even seemed to breathe. The Regent blinked at him, dazed. Of all the demands he could have made, she had not expected this one. The Inquisitor’s face was impassive, he gave nothing away. Grim and glowering, Tasgall looked often at Rigiswald, trying to meet his eye. Rigiswald refused to answer that mute appeal. Tasgall was too late. This had gone too far.
Like all successful liars, Dagnarus had cunningly based his falsehoods and half-truths on a few solid facts. He had grown up amid palace intrigue. His Vrykyl must have told him of the growing enmity between the Church and the barons and the military. For too long, the complacency of the Church had beamed like strong sunshine on a frozen, snow-packed mountain of problems. It had taken but a single shout to start the snow to sliding, and now no one could halt the coming avalanche.
“What about that army of fiends?” the Regent demanded suddenly. “What will you do with them? We heard what happened to Dunkar. We heard how its women were carried off, its children were butchered. Will the same happen to our people? Even if we agree to your terms, which, at the moment, we do not, I do not think it likely that those savages of yours will give up and go back meekly to their homeland.”
Dagnarus was ready with his answer. “Half my forces I will send to Delak ’Vir to fight the Karnuans and regain our Portal. The rest, as King of Vinnengael, I will destroy.”
“Will you destroy troops who are loyal to you?”
The question came from the young king, and he sounded disapproving.
Rigiswald saw Dagnarus’s eyes flicker with a dangerous light. Bowing to the king, to acknowledge his question, Dagnarus replied, “The farmer does not speak of loyalty when he butchers pigs, Your Majesty. The taan are not men. They are animals. They have been well fed, well treated by me. If I demand their lives, it is no more than what they owe me in return.”
Dagnarus turned to the assembly. “I do not require that you give me an immediate answer. I will withdraw for a short time to give you a chance to consider my proposition. When the sun sets, I will return for your answer. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes,” said some of the barons loudly.
The Regent exchanged glances with the Inquisitor and with Tasgall.
“We need far more time than that,” stated the Regent.
“I don’t see why,” said Dagnarus with a charming smile. “You either accept my proposal or refuse it. Until sunset.” He made his obeisance and was about to withdraw when Rigiswald, impelled by some inner demon, spoke up, “And what of the Vrykyl, Your Highness?”
Dagnarus turned, his cloak falling around him in graceful folds. His expression was one of baffled confusion.
“I beg your pardon, old gentleman?”
“The Vrykyl,” said Rigiswald. Clasping his hands behind him, he rose to his feet. “Foul and undead creatures of the Void created by the one who wields the Dagger of the Vrykyl. I am certain you must have heard of them.”
“From my nursemaid when I was little,” said Dagnarus, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “I know nothing more of them, I assure you, sir.”
“One was slain last night in the city,” stated Tasgall. He might have added more, but Dagnarus interrupted him.
“If that be true, and such evil creatures do walk the earth, then all the more reason Vinnengael needs a strong king to protect her. Until sunset.”
Dagnarus departed. Such was his majestic demeanor that those who had been guarding him looked to Tasgall to see if they should continue. He gave them a furious glance, and they hastened out after Dagnarus. Rigiswald bet that they would not try to blindfold him this time.
Havis III, at a stern glance from the Regent, slid off his throne and, taking time to adjust the crown, which had slipped over one eye, stepped with carefully taught dignity off the dais. Halfway across the room, he stopped and faced the assembly.
“I think he should be king,” said Havis.
The adults glanced at each other, discomfited, embarrassed. Some looked pitying.
“Your Majesty!” The Regent came bustling over. “You have no idea what you are saying.”
“I do,” said Havis. He pointed to the monk from Dragon Mountain. “This man said Dagnarus was the true king. All know the gods hold the monks sacred. He wouldn’t lie, would he, Madam?”
The Regent blanched, nonplussed. “No, Your Majesty,” she finally said.
“I will pray to the gods,” said Havis III. “I will ask them for their counsel. But I think I know what I must do, and that is to abdicate”—he brought out this hard word after a struggle—“in favor of my cousin, Prince Dagnarus.”
He left the room, walking between his guards with the childish dignity that was so becoming and so utterly and heartbreakingly convincing.
When he was gone, the hubbub of voices rose. The barons took their leave, and with them went the soldiers and knights. The head of the Association of Merchants’ Guilds left in haste, jowls quivering, presumably to report back to his fellow merchants. Courtiers and functionaries fluttered about like gaily colored birds, prepared to fly to whatever hand held the food. The Regent gathered the heads of the Orders around her, like so many chickens. They all looked stunned, as though they’d
been struck by falling debris. Tasgall started to join them, then changed his mind.
Rigiswald picked up the book he had been reading. Tucking it under one arm, he walked toward the door.
“I need to speak to you. Where are you going?” Tasgall demanded.
“To my dinner,” said Rigiswald.
“But we aren’t finished,” Tasgall protested.
“Oh, yes, you are,” said Rigiswald. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Paying no attention to Tasgall, who called stridently after him, Rigiswald left the palace and walked alone through the sodden, gray streets of New Vinnengael.
RIGISWALD ATE A CHEERLESS DINNER ALONE. THE HOUR FOR sunset drew near, although one could tell only by a gradual deepening of the grayness. The sun could not be seen for the heavy clouds that dragged curtains of rain over the city.
Of course, word spread. The barons and knights retired to a tavern to discuss the matter and, although they took a private room, their raised voices could be heard by everyone who crowded inside the tavern in search of news. The head of the Association of Merchants’ Guilds summoned his members to an emergency session. They met in the Guild Hall—an enormous, imposing building of dark timber and whitewashed walls located at the end of a street known as Guild Hall Row. Horse holders and carriage drivers crowded into the doorway to hear the proceedings, passing on what they heard to the guards who were supposed to be patrolling the streets.
Rigiswald stood on the steps of the Temple, watching the large crowds beginning to gather in front of the palace. All thought of curfew was abandoned. The city guards, who should have been keeping people off the streets, were among those pressing against the wrought-iron fence that encircled the palace grounds, craning their necks to get a view of the man who claimed to be the long-dead son of long-dead King Tamaros.
The barons and knights came out of their meeting to find their way back to the palace blocked. The moment the crowd became aware of their presence, they clamored for news. Eventually, finding that they could not enter the palace otherwise, the barons hastily chose one of their number to speak. Someone rolled forth a large dray used by one of the local breweries for hauling kegs. The spokesman climbed into the wagon; the crowd was hushed, attentive.
The baron began by relating everything that Dagnarus had said. The baron’s recounting was accurate, as far as it went. He was sympathetic to Dagnarus, that much was clear, and he soon had the crowd on his side. There were emphatic nods in many places and a rousing cheer when he came to the part “Vinnengaelean soldiers are the bravest, the best, the most loyal soldiers in the world!” for there were many in the crowd who had served in the city militia and who, even now, had friends and relatives standing duty on the walls.
When he spoke of the young king, his voice softened, and the crowd murmured in sympathy, particularly the women.
“But as much as we love our young king,” the baron proclaimed, “he is young—only a child. He will not be of age to rule for many years. Meanwhile, we all know who is the true power behind the throne.”
He cast a grim glance at the Temple. The crowd followed his gaze, and a low rumble, like a growl, swept the multitude.
“Hypocrites,” Rigiswald told them from his vantage point in the Temple. “There is not a one of you who has not run bleating to the Church at some time in your life. You want to be healed, you want magic to lift the stones that build your homes, you want to be protected. Yes, we’ve made mistakes, the gods help us. But you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your lives.”
“We support Prince Dagnarus!” cried the baron.
The crowd let out a cheer that shook the ground and sent the pigeons flapping skyward in alarm. The barons and knights climbed into the wagon and were escorted by the crowd in a grand procession to the gates.
Rigiswald, disgusted, turned on his heel and went back inside the Temple. There he found some of the novitiates and acolytes huddled together in the foyer, listening with wide eyes and shocked expressions.
“Is it true, Revered Brother?” asked a young woman with a snub nose who wasn’t in awe of anyone, let alone an elderly master. “Are they truly siding with the Lord of the Void?”
“Go back to your studies,” Rigiswald advised her. “You will have need of them.”
Outside, he could hear the crowd shouting: “Dagnarus! Dagnarus!” Someone scrounged up a kettledrum, and they began chanting the name to its rhythmic beat, separating the name into three parts with the drum in between.
“Dag-nar-us!” Boom. “Dag-nar-us.” Boom.
“Well, that should make him feel at home,” Rigiswald reflected as he went back to his room in the dortour. “He’ll think he’s back among his savages.”
Once in his room, he slammed shut the door, to block out the noise, and bolted it. The resulting silence was soothing, gave him a chance to think. He pondered what to do. He intended to report to Shadamehr, but should he make his report now or wait until the matter of Dagnarus was final? Rigiswald decided that there was no hurry. The baron was out in the middle of the ocean somewhere, hopefully sailing as fast and as far away from New Vinnengael as possible. As for Dagnarus, his coronation was a given, as far as Rigiswald was concerned. He was curious to know how their new king planned to rid himself of ten thousand slavering monsters thirsting for Vinnengaelean blood though.
And how would Dagnarus deal with the Church? He couldn’t hope to find support there. Or could he?
“He will,” Rigiswald decided, lying down on his bed, worn out by the rigors of the day. “He’ll win them over, and those he doesn’t he’ll remove. If I were you, Clovis, I’d watch my back.”
The thought occurred to Rigiswald, as he was drifting off, that he had better watch his own back. He’d been foolish to mention the Vrykyl. Dagnarus had been none too pleased, and there had been a look in his eye that jolted Rigiswald out of his slumber when he recalled it. He fumbled about his robes, drew out his vial of earth, tossed some beneath the door, and muttered a few words of magic.
The warding spell would not stop the Lord of the Void, but Dagnarus could hardly be expected to come deal with an annoying old man himself, and it might stop one of his minions. Either that, or give Rigiswald time to defend himself.
Keeping hold of the vial, Rigiswald rolled over and went to sleep.
Prince Dagnarus did not leave the palace. He was escorted to a private chamber, where he was furnished with food and wine. Since he dined on the Void, Dagnarus had no need of sustenance, and, in fact, the sight of food sickened him. But he had learned over the years to pretend to eat for the benefit of those watching, learned to force down a few mouthfuls, shoving the food around on his plate, sharing delicacies with his guests. He could drink, and he did drink, often to excess.
Wine closed the staring, accusing eyes of Gareth and Shakur and all the rest of those he’d murdered. Wine made the foul Vrykyl Valura—the woman he had once loved, the woman he now loathed almost as much as he loathed himself—beautiful again. Wine gave him the patience to put up with Shakur, kept him from slaying a servant who was rapidly growing to be more trouble than he was worth. Wine gave Dagnarus the ability to stomach the taan, a deadly weapon he himself had forged, a weapon he despised and had recently begun to think might come to be pointed at his own throat.
Dagnarus did not drink deeply this evening. He needed his wits about him. Looking back over his performance that day, he was pleased with it. He was particularly impressed with his decision—formed in the moment—to destroy the taan. Once he was Emperor of Vinnengael, he would have no need for such a large military force. He would send half to retake the Portal at Delak ’Vir, then ship those taan back through the Portal to continue the fight in Karnu—a fight that was going badly, but one he had not yet lost.
All was proceeding according to plan. He had won over the barons, the knights, and the military. He had not won over the Church, nor would he ever, but he could deal with that. He had been planning to have his Vrykyl replace certai
n key people—the Regent, for one. But he’d been forced to abandon that idea as too dangerous. The battle magi knew of the Vrykyl; they’d actually managed to slay the inept Jedash. Dagnarus blamed Shakur for that lapse. The battle magi would be on their guard against them and, much as Dagnarus hated the Church, he had a healthy respect for the brains and abilities of her magi.
“I will dispense with the Regent’s services,” Dagnarus decided, pouring himself another goblet of the excellent wine that came direct from the royal cellars. “I will make her a nonentity. Too bad she cannot meet with an accident, but that would look suspicious. The key is to win over the battle magi. Once I have them on my side, they will keep the heads of the Orders in check. The most dangerous to me is that blasted Inquisitor, always sniffing about in search of Void magic.”
Dagnarus turned the goblet in his hand, stared into the ruby depths. “I will see to it that his Order is disbanded. That should be easy enough. No one trusts them. I’ll wager that most in the Temple will be happy to see them gone. As to the battle magi, they are warriors, and I understand warriors. We understand each other. They will help me destroy the taan and, after that, there will be no question of their loyalty to me.”
That decided, he sent the servants away and spent the remainder of his time pacing the room and thinking. He heard the cheers of the crowd outside, heard them chanting his name, and he smiled. He ignored Shakur, who wanted to speak to him through the Blood-knife. Shakur’s impertinent question about the king destroying those loyal to him had angered Dagnarus, and he intended to make his anger felt. Let Shakur stew a bit, reflect on the fact that he hung suspended over the Void by a rope thin as a hair, a rope Dagnarus could sever at whim. Dagnarus shut out Shakur’s whinings and pleadings and concentrated on more pleasant prospects—his plans for the future, both long-range and short.
Journey into the Void Page 18