This was his sole chance to build the alliance he so desperately needed. Now. Bidding over the still, cold bodies of his wife and his son.
Hal had let himself be dressed in his finest robes. He’d been curried and combed like some fine beast, guided through the forest, down the road to Riadelle.
It had been after midnight when they arrived at the city gates. The captain of the guard was finally persuaded to let them pass, but there was no lever that could be applied to Hamid’s chamberlain, no argument that would get them to the king in the wee hours of the morning. The servant had only sniffed down his thin nose and reluctantly agreed to place the visitors in state apartments. He would arrange for them to see Hamid after first daylight.
He would summon the night guard if Hal persisted in his impossible request. Electors backed up the threat.
So Hal had conceded. As soon as he was locked into his finely appointed cell, he had stalked to the mantel, poured a glass of Hamid’s finest red. Farso had asked some foolish question, pointed out some stupid detail, and Hal had flung the flagon.
Farso had not taken offense, though. Instead, he had shrugged and found another flagon, one that was wonderfully, gloriously full. He had poured for his king, and again, and again. He had listened to Hal’s raging, to the royal insistence that all the Thousand Gods were liars and cheats, that the world was all unfair. He had smoothed back the hair from Hal’s face as the king collapsed onto his feather bed, as his rage melted into tears. Farso had murmured like a child’s nurse as his king sobbed, weeping like the boy he once had been, years ago in distant Morenia.
And now, in the light of day, Farso stood over him, shaking out a simple tunic and leggings. The black fabric hung, as limp as Hal’s hair. “Come, Sire,” Farso said. “It is time for you to dress for your audience with Hamid.”
Hal’s belly turned as he saw the funereal clothes, and he scarcely managed to scramble from the bed, to find the chamber pot before bile burned his throat. His retching lasted longer than he would have thought possible, leaving his sides aching and his throat raw.
Farso waited for him, a few steps away. Ever the mindful servant, the baron had a basin of water at hand and clean strips of linen. When Hal finally managed to stand, Farso eased him to the edge of the bed. The man was more comfort than any nurse could have been, silent and watchful as he sponged his king’s face, as he offered up a cup of pure water and a simple clay basin to spit into.
Hal accepted the attention woodenly. This was impossible, he thought. Impossible that he should once again don the black of mourning. Impossible that he should once again contemplate a pyre. Another son lost–this one, who had been born alive, who had thrived.
And Mareka. Gone. The spiderguild journeyman who had snared him with a poison. The wife who had worked beside him to build an empire. The woman who had trusted him to keep her safe, to keep her alive, even as she fled from her house, from her adopted land.
Adopted land. Murderous hand. All unmanned.
The rhymes swirled through his thoughts, louder than they had been for days, for weeks. Hal nearly lost himself in the echoes, stumbling down dark corridors, through reeking hallways where there was nothing but madness and sorrow and hopeless, hapless memories.
Somehow, he became aware that Farso was offering him a crust of plain white bread. “It would be best, Sire. You have a difficult meeting ahead of you.”
“I cannot eat, Farso.” Hal was surprised that his voice could sound so even, that his words could be so measured, so calm, even as they tamped down the voices.
Of course, Farso understood. He bowed and set aside the bread.
Hal let his friend dress him then. He allowed Farso to slip a black tunic over his head. He waited while the bands of satin were straightened, while the hem was tugged into place. He permitted Farso to adjust the silk leggings, to pull them into alignment over Hal’s knees. He forced his heel into one black boot, and then another, forbidding himself to wonder where the grim clothing had been found and on such short notice.
Only when he was fully dressed did he speak, and then the words were pulled out of him, sharp and painful, like a blade from a wound. “Who waits out there?”
Who waits. Heavenly Gates. Tarn sates.
The voices were a physical burden that pulled down his spine, and Hal’s knees nearly buckled.
Farso said, “Puladarati, of course. Father Siritalanu. The Electors who escorted us here last night.”
“Rani?” He asked the question as a hedge against further thought, already certain that she was there, even though he could not remember her on the late night march through the woods, could not recall her face staring at him in helpless concern.
Farso shifted from one foot to the other. He scrutinized Hal’s shoulder, picking at a bit of lint. “Farso,” Hal said more pointedly. “Rani will be there, won’t she? I need her to bargain for me. I need her to present our case to Hamid.”
Present our case. Enemies face. Win the race.
The voices chattered faster now, more eagerly, as if they knew Hal was on the edge of a precipice, at the end of his resources.
“Sire.…” Farso’s voice was strained.
“Where is she?” Hal flashed on an image of a woman’s throat, slashed and bleeding. “What has happened to Rani?”
“Sire, the herb witch–”
“No!” Not another death. Not another soul counted out against his own. “I’ll poison her myself! My wife and son were not enough? She has killed Rani too?”
“No!” Farso shouted, and then he lowered his voice. “No, Sire. The herb witch did not kill Rani.” Hal heard the words, forced himself to take a breath, to listen. “She did not kill Rani. But she left the glasswright in her cottage. Left her bound.”
“Bound?” Hal might never have heard the word before.
“Bound. For … the Fellowship.” Farso winced at Hal’s wordless cry. “Sire!” he managed, when Hal had to pause, had to take a breath. “Sire, she still lives.”
“How can you know that?” Rani was dead. Dead, dead, dead. No rhymes, only the single word, repeated over and over again in his mind. Dead. Dead. Dead.
“Would the Fellowship be stealthy in something like this? They long to see you defeated. They long to see you ruined. If they had killed Rani Trader, they would have left her body for you to find.”
“Then where is she?” Dead. Dead. Dead.
“We believe that she returns to Moren. Hamid’s men saw a large company on the road, riding north in the darkest hours of the night.”
“We will go after her.” Dead. Dead. Dead.
“Aye, Sire.”
“We will go after her, and we will get the Fellowship, and they will pay for all that they have done.” Dead.
“Aye, Sire. But for that you must speak to Hamid.”
“Aye.” Hal must garner support. Not for him–he was lost forever; he would never find the path away from the whispering voices in his mind. Not for dead Mareka, for dead Marekanoran. For Rani. Rani, who had fought for him. Rani, who had worked to build his kingdom. Rani.…
Hal knew that he should notice more as he walked through the corridors. He should be more aware of the Sarmonians who hovered in doorways. He should listen to the rumors whispered behind raised hands. He should see the pitying stares, the shaking heads. He should acknowledge the condolences of his lords, of Puladarati and Father Siritalanu, of the soldiers who formed an honor guard behind him.
But Hal could only see the dreams inside his head. He could see Mareka, her sly face smoothed into the contented mask of motherhood. He could see his son, his own Marekanoran, sleeping by the fireside.
And Rani. He could see Rani a hundred different ways–as merchant and glasswright, as soldier who had stood beside him in the battle against their staunchest enemy.
Dead. For even if the Fellowship had not killed her yet, it would soon enough. It would murder her when he least could stand the blow. It would cut off the last of his great supporters, the l
ast of his true allies. Rani would pay with her life so that he might be controlled. Her name would be added to the lists, along with Mareka, Marekanoran, with all the loyal men and women who had died in his service.
Somehow, they reached Hamid’s Great Hall. Somehow Hal was announced, was ushered into the king’s presence. Somehow, he made his appropriate bows, gracefully, fluidly, as if he were not wearing borrowed clothing and the weight of death, as if his belly were not roiled by too much wine and too little sleep.
“My lord,” Hamid said, and his sharp voice was solicitous. His narrow frame was swathed in midnight-colored silk. “I grieve with you at your loss. I wish that our stories might have been different, that I might have known the forces that sought you out. I would have offered you all the protections of my house, for all we kings are brothers.”
Fine words, but scarcely the truth. Hamid had not wanted to borrow grief, not from Hal, not from any of the Morenians. Hal glanced at the assembled electors, thinking that Hamid had known trouble enough, even before the Fellowship made their presence known in Sarmonia.
Unaware of Hal’s scrutiny, Hamid continued. “If there is anything that I can do for you, Halaravilli ben-Jair, if there is any comfort that my house can offer yours.…”
Hal inclined his head in acceptance of the sentiment, ignoring the flurry of death-whispers that the movement evoked in his skull. He was supposed to demand support now. He was supposed to say that Kella had belonged to Hamid, and that the Sarmonian must pay for the herb witch’s wrongs.
Looking at Hamid, though, Hal knew that the argument would fail. Oh, Hamid would likely execute Kella, that was easy enough. But he would never agree to raise an army against the Fellowship. Not here. Not in front of his electors.
Perhaps Rani Trader would have had the skill to persuade Hamid. But Hal did not. Hal would need a different approach. He would need his own subterfuge. He glanced at Puladarati and Farso, knowing that his councilors would not approve of the step he was about to take. He flicked his gaze toward Father Siritalanu. Would the priest be swift enough to follow what Hal would say?
These were desperate days. It was time for desperate measures.
“There is one thing, my lord.” Hamid merely quirked an eyebrow, waiting for Hal to continue. Swallowing hard, Hal spun out his lie. After all, what was one more story? What was one more tale in the face of all that had transpired in Sarmonia? “In my kingdom, it is customary for brothers to drink together over a loss. The Thousand Gods expect us to raise a cup as family, in salute to those who have reached the Heavenly Gates. The Gods intend for us royals to grieve without restraint, in private and away from the eyes of all our retainers, all our people.”
To foster credibility, Hal gestured at Father Siritalanu. Fortunately, the priest had learned something in his time at court–he merely inclined his head and looked for all the world as if he were familiar with the custom Hal described.
Farso appeared surprised, but he stayed silent. Puladarati, alas, was less accepting. The old advisor stepped forward, reaching out with his three-fingered hand as if he would interrupt the delicate balance that Hal was creating.
“Please, my lord,” Hal said to Hamid, rushing his words a bit so that he would not be interrupted. “Is there a chamber where we could raise a glass? Where I could tell you of the kin that I have lost and you could grieve with me like the brother you pledge yourself to be?”
Hamid glanced at his electors, and Hal sensed the quick debate that flashed between them. Of course the retainers did not want their king to act alone. Of course, they did not want to lose any shred of the power that they had gathered over Sarmonia. But they were wise enough not to try to correct their leader in public, wise enough to recognize the power of death rites and rituals.
“Very well, brother,” Hamid said, when he had confirmed permission to speak. “Let us drink, that we may share your loss.”
Hamid led the way from the dais. Hal remembered the hallways that led to the study, the stone walls that had seemed to eavesdrop on him the last time that he passed this way. Like Hamid, he allowed his retainers to come with him this far, to follow carefully behind.
The entire procession was silent, as if each man counted out his own sorrow, his own loss on this bitter morning. Hal suspected that his own people attempted to think their warnings loudly enough that he could hear them through his pounding skull. He swallowed with his dry mouth, unable to imagine any convincing arguments above the tattoo of his boot heels, above the single repeated syllable: Dead, dead, dead.
When they arrived at the study, Hamid ordered his men to wait. One of the electors challenged propriety enough to step forward, to make a bow in Hal’s general direction, and to say to his own lord, “Your Majesty, we electors would add our grief to yours. We would speak for all the people of Sarmonia as we join together to mourn our northern brother’s loss.”
Hal thought that he heard a slight emphasis on the word “together.” He waited while Hamid formulated an answer, counting out his own heartbeats. If the electors came, all would be lost. If the electors entered the study, Hal’s fledgling plan would be shredded like a cobweb in a gale.
“Thank you, my lord,” Hamid said at last. Hal could hear the ripple of tension beneath his courteous words. “I must yield to Morenia in this. We support him in his loss, and we honor all his customs, however different they might be from our own. Wait here, and we will all return to the Great Hall together.”
Hal’s relief was so intense that he felt faint. As wings of blackness swept in from the sides of his vision, Farso slipped a supporting hand beneath his elbow. Hal permitted himself only a moment of leaning on his friend, on his true, heartfelt brother. Any longer, and Farso might think himself bound to enter the study. Any longer, and Hamid’s retainers would follow suit.
A single deep breath steeled him enough to cross the threshold, to watch Hamid close the door. He thrust down the whispers in his head, banished them with a strength that he did not know he possessed. He waited only for the Sarmonian to come close enough to hear him, and then he whispered, “Fast now. We have much to discuss, and not enough time to do it.”
“What?”
“Quiet! Do not let them hear you. Quick. Pour a glass, that we might leave behind what they expect to see.” Hamid hesitated, uncertainty moving his hand toward the jeweled dagger at his waist. Hal saw the edge glint in the brilliant morning light, imagined the sharp blade against his own throat, cutting his wrists, plunging into his chest.
Pain, yes. But not a pain as deep as he already suffered. Not a pain as endless as the one he now faced.…
He sharpened his voice, reminding himself not to yield. Not now. Not yet. “Will you let your electors call you a liar after we leave this room? Pour the wine, and listen to me!”
Hamid crossed to his writing desk. A pitcher was set close to hand, covered with a slip of parchment, as if he were particular about dust settling on his wine. “There is only one cup,” he said, and Hal noted that he projected his voice, as if he wanted the assembled nobles on the other side of the door to hear.
“That is well,” Hal said in a similar tone. “In my land, brothers share the same cup, as they share the burden of their loss.”
Hamid shrugged and poured, and Hal closed the distance between them with a few quick steps. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “You have no reason to believe me, I know, no reason to trust me. I will only tell you what I know, and then you must make your decision.
“My wife and son were killed by the Fellowship of Jair, by a secret band that seeks to gain power in all the kingdoms in the world.”
“Your family was poisoned by an herb witch!”
“Upon the Fellowship’s orders. The Fellowship has long sought to destroy my line and gain all power in Morenia. It is behind the Briantan invasion. It supports the Liantines who barricade my harbor.”
Hamid stared at him as if he were insane, and Hal nearly laughed aloud. Of course Hamid thought him mad. Why wouldn
’t he?
At least Hamid ventured a question. “Who is this Fellowship? How could anyone hold such power over a king?”
“They work beneath the surface of a kingdom. They select their members from all the castes. The draw their strength because no one expects them where they are, no one thinks to look for them.”
“How have you learned of them, then?”
“I was one of them.” The words were bitter on Hal’s tongue. “For more than a decade, I was welcomed in their meetings. I, and members of my closest circle.” Rani. If only she were here. Her words could convince Hamid; she could sway the king.
She was dead, though–now or soon enough. Dead, as he would be. As he and all his kingdom, if he could not convince Hamid, if he could not bring Sarmonia to his side.…
Hamid was confused. “And you have left it now, left this … Fellowship of Jair?”
“Aye. I left once I was certain that they worked for my downfall. They already have Brianta and Liantine. If they take Morenia, they get not only my kingdom, but Amanthia as well. After that, Sarmonia could be plucked at leisure, like a ripened fruit.”
Hamid shook his head in protest, his pointed beard emphasizing his disagreement. “That’s absurd! If these people lurk beneath the surface of society, how can they gain such power? How can they control so much?”
“You can ask that?” Hal’s frustration flashed through his hands; he pounded Hamid’s table and scarcely remembered to lower his voice. “You? Who lives on the leash of your electors? How do they control you? How do they dictate what happens in Sarmonia?”
He had pushed too hard. Hamid’s face darkened like a thunderhead, and he flashed a look at the door of his chamber.
“Yes!” Hal said, knowing that he had to give a focus to that rage. He stepped closer so that his harsh whisper could be heard. “Power rises when we least expect it. When was the last time that you sat alone in this room, my lord? When was the last time you made a decision without them? The electors control your every move. They might appear to stand aside, they might permit you to be seen in public. They let your people think that you act as a free man, but they control every rein.”
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