There were other faces, a few familiar, many absolute strangers. Each of them had one thing in common, though. Each looked to Glair and Dartulamino for guidance.
The Touched woman nodded to the Holy Father, taking a small step back while still maintaining her place of pride upon the dais. Dartulamino stepped forward, shrugging in his black Fellowship robes as if he wore the finest of holy garments.
“Greetings, Fellows,” he said, and his voice carried easily throughout the chamber. “For many years, we have met in shadowed hallways. For many years, we have worn our robes and masks, we have hidden our identities from each other and from the outside world. All of that changes today. All of that ends.
“Our Fellowship now moves into a new age. It is time for us to take the power that we have earned. It is time for us to take control over the world that we have built. It is time us to emerge from hiding and stake claim to our place in all the kingdoms of the world!”
* * *
Hal took a deep breath as he raised his spyglass. The boats on the outskirts of the harbor were at the very edge of the glass’s power. Even using Davin’s double lenses, Hal needed to narrow his eyes, squinting like an ancient man. The signal should be clearly visible. There were six Liantine boats, six targets for the water walkers to conquer.
Hal swore and lowered the spyglass, shaking it as if violence might better its working. He only stopped when Tovin raised a single eyebrow. “I can’t see anything,” he said to the player.
“They are supposed to show their colors when the sun is one hand above the horizon. We wanted to give them time, so that all the boats would be surprised together.”
“I know the plan!” Hal snapped, but he immediately regretted his temper. He forced himself to say more calmly, “I know the plan, and I trust your players.”
And Hal was surprised to find that he did trust the players. They were disciplined troops, in their own way. They had practiced using Davin’s creations until any ordinary soldiers would have been bored to distraction. They had measured out the tools’ limits, testing, building, creating new strengths.
Hal forced himself to say, “I understand now why Rani took up the sponsorship of your troop.”
“Sire?” Tovin offered the question warily. With all the time the player had spent in Moren, Hal had never dared address him directly, had never dared to comment on the woman who bound their lives together.
“Rani. She lives for patterns.” Like all the people in his camp, Hal kept the conversation in the present tense. No one admitted that Rani Trader would soon be dead, if she lived even now. No one admitted that the Fellowship would kill her, if not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after that. She might already be murdered, and her body not yet found.
Hal forced himself back to the matter at hand. “You players build patterns in everything you do–acting out your pieces, performing your acrobatics. She has always been drawn to order, to logic.”
Tovin seemed amused. “No one has ever called my players logical before, Sire.”
Hal nodded, noting that Tovin did not precisely correct him. There were some liberties than even a player would not take with a king. “Do you miss her?” Hal asked the question before he’d thought about it, and he was surprised by the lance of pain through his own heart.
Tovin’s mouth twisted into a grimace too bitter to be a smile. “I never had her, Sire.” Sunlight glinted on the player’s copper eyes as he visibly steeled himself to meet his liege lord’s gaze. “She came to me for a while, and we both enjoyed the time we shared. But she never intended to stay with me. Her heart was never mine.”
Hal forced himself to phrase an answer in the present tense. “She loves you, Tovin Player. She loves you in her way.”
“She may have loved me while she was with me, but there was always another in her past.”
Hal could not hear the words, could not hear the truth that he had always known, had always set aside. He swallowed hard and lifted up the spyglass again. Toying with the mechanism, he made a series of unnecessary adjustments. He blinked and told himself that the wind had brought the tears to his eyes.
When he raised the glass again, he thought he must be imagining what he saw. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six ships in the harbor. Six trails of brilliant red silk, floating on the air above each prow. “Tovin!”
The player grasped the spyglass without ceremony. “Yes!” he cried, and his joy seemed brighter than the sunlight that flooded the hillside. Scarcely taking the time to thrust the glass back into Hal’s hands, he lifted up his own length of silk, tossing its wooden handle lightly in the air. He stood straight and tall as he wove the players’ pattern.
Once, twice, three times, he repeated his acknowledgment to the waiting ships, waiting for confirmation that they had understood him. Then, he focused on the small army of men on the plain below. That signal was simpler, a defiant pattern of looping silk, a challenge to head for the city gates with all possible speed.
Hal did not need the glass to see the army respond. Three players in their midst spun a rapid silken reply, and then the army moved out from its sheltering bushes.
Hal glanced back to the harbor. The conquered Liantine ships were already taking wind in their sails, already moving to Moren’s docks. The players had control of the vessels, control of the great crossbows that were anchored to the Liantine decks.
Hal muttered a prayer to the Thousand, asking that Morenian lives might be spared. He had never wanted to see the damage that naval crossbows could inflict.
He had never wanted to see his own gates attacked, either. He had never wanted to watch fiery bolts launched at his walls, targeting soldiers who wore the holy green of Briantan priests.
And yet once Hal began watching, he could not take his eyes from the plain before him. He could not look away as Davin’s engines wheeled across the plain, spinning their wooden arms and gathering speed. He could not drag his attention from Hamid, far below, from the Sarmonians who moved in ordered phalanxes across the open space. He could not speak to Tovin as the Briantans harnessed Davin’s defensive engines and miniature trebuchets began to rain death upon the advancing army.
* * *
Rani felt the excitement building in all the people around her. She tried to remember how she would have felt one year before, five years before, eight years before, when she first became a member of the Fellowship. She tried to remember a time when she would have greeted Dartulamino’s announcement with pride, with excitement, with joy. She tried to remember what it had felt like to believe in the power of the Fellowship, in the organization’s goals, in its intentions.
It was impossible. Not now. Not when she could see the trail of the Fellowship’s victims, the men and women and children–Laranifarso, her heart cried–children, who had died to further the cabal. It might have started with noble goals. It might have begun with great intentions. But like a magnificent melon on a heavy summer vine, it had grown too large, become too heavy, rotted beneath its own weight.
Rani was shaken from her thoughts by Dartulamino’s rough grasp on her arm. “Fellows!” the priest declaimed, and his voice was as strong as any that he had used in the cathedral above this massive chamber. “Fellows, for decades we have awaited the Royal Pilgrim. We have awaited the one who will bring us into harmony with our brethren, into balance with the other cells of the Fellowship that await us near and far.”
An expectant hush fell over the crowd. Rani saw many hands make holy signs, gesturing across black-clad chests. More than one pair of eyes blinked closed in fervent prayer, and many lips moved in quick whispered petitions.
Just to confirm her own senses, Rani brushed her thoughts across the nearest of the gods. Clain. Tren. Bon. None of them reacted with anything more than calm expectation and their familiar signatures. Apparently, the Thousand did not anticipate the Royal Pilgrim with anything more than usual eternal patience.
Dartulamino continued. “The Royal Pilgrim could be man
y things. He could be a warrior, destined to bind together the countries of the world through battle after battle. He could be a prince, heir to one throne, husband to another, father to several more. He could be a priest, a visionary, a guiding light who shows the ways of the Thousand Gods to all the nations of the world.”
The assembled fellows were growing more excited. Rani heard whispers of speculation. Pockets formed around some of the members, particularly religious priests, Rani supposed, or soldiers who were known to fight with a mean sword.
Dartulamino drew out the pause, growing the excitement with the expertise of a master. At last, he raised a single hand, commanding an almost immediate silence. “I come to tell you that the Royal Pilgrim is none of those. The Royal Pilgrim stands before you. This woman, this prisoner, she is the Royal Pilgrim that we have awaited. She is the one who will unite us. She is the one who will bring the Fellowship to its one true end.”
The explosion of disbelief echoed off the chamber’s ceiling. Rani’s voice was added to the chaos; she could not hold back her own amazed, “What?” Automatically, she reached toward the Thousand, opened her senses for the gods to whisper truth, but she was greeted with nothing more than the familiar presences she had come to know so intimately. There was nothing special, nothing different, nothing that marked her as the one the Fellowship had awaited.
Dartulamino raised his voice, straining to be heard. “I tell you, this one is the Royal Pilgrim. Rani Trader, Ranita Glasswright, she has gone by many names. She is the Royal Pilgrim, and another of our brotherhood will explain to you how she will bring us glory.”
The Holy Father raised a hand, as if he were calling down a lightning strike. The motion transfixed the throng; the entire Fellowship fell silent. Then, as if by some hidden magic, a path opened in the crowd.
One figure limped forward. One figure, clad all in somber black. One figure, with a withered arm, a wasted leg. One figure, who dared to walk toward Rani, who dared to climb the steps of the dais, who dared to stand before the Fellowship.
“Crestman,” Rani said, and she knew that she should not be surprised. Other members of the Fellowship took up the soldier’s name, whispering it, spreading it to the farthest ranks so that all knew who stood before them.
He did not bother to answer her greeting, not with words. Instead, he limped one step closer. He reached out with his good hand, and he gathered up the rope that bound her arms to her side. He moved so quickly that her eyes could scarcely follow, but she could feel his action.
She could feel the rope loop around her throat. She could feel the hemp saw across her windpipe. She could feel the sharp tug that forced her to her knees, the vicious yank that turned her neck at a painful angle. Her breath rasped, and she started to choke, but he only tightened his noose, tugging on the rope with a viciousness that confirmed that she was doomed.
The Fellowship exclaimed as one, and every person in the room stepped closer to the dais.
“Hold!” Crestman exclaimed. “Stand still, and I’ll explain.”
Rani could scarcely hear his words, could barely make order out of the syllables. He was going to strangle her. Here. Now. In front of all these witnesses. In front of all the Thousand. Crestman was going to murder her, and no one would raise a hand to stop him. Not until it was too late. Not until she had drawn her last, rasping breath. Not until she had collapsed beneath the curtain of red haze.
Crestman tugged again at the rope, and his voice grew stronger, as if tormenting her gave him a power he had thought lost forever. “It is said that the Royal Pilgrim will bring all the kingdoms of the world together. As you know, many of those lands are already joined. Brianta and Liantine are met in Moren herself, holding the harbor, holding the gates. Morenia holds my own homeland, Amanthia, and now it has built ties with Sarmonia. The world is reduced to two vast forces. Two vast forces that soon will be one.”
Rani heard what Crestman was saying, knew that he was speaking words he believed to be true. She tried to think what he would say next, tried to see the pattern in his speech. Patterns. That was what she had mastered as a child. That was what had brought her power as a merchant, as a trader.
Mind your caste. That was the lesson that she had learned so long ago. She had been wrong to think that she could leave it behind forever. She had mastered the text, after all. It had once brought her safety and security, growth and power.
Think as a trader. Think in patterns.
She could see nothing but boiling red clouds as Crestman tightened his noose again. She forced herself to listen, forced herself to hear the soldier say, “This woman kneeling before you holds the key. She holds power over the king of Morenia, a dark power, an unholy bond. She has manipulated Halaravilli ben-Jair since the first day that she met him, shaping his reign, changing the way that he has administered his beloved kingdom.
“Rani Trader kneels before you as a merchant. Ranita Glasswright kneels before you as a guildswoman. By neither of those titles should she control the king, and yet she does.”
Rani wanted to respond. She wanted to tell the Fellowship that Crestman was a jealous man. She wanted to explain that he had lost in love, and he had carried his bitterness into other battles. She wanted to say.… The crimson clouds hovered closer, and she heard her breath rattle in her throat.
“Halaravilli ben-Jair has permitted himself to be poisoned by this one, to depend on her, to rely on her beyond all logic. There is a reason that kings are counseled to mind their castes. There is a reason that kings are told to marry queens, that royalty is meant to be with royalty.”
Could they not hear him? Even past her own choking gasps, even past her pounding heart, she could hear the rage in Crestman’s voice. She could hear the loss, the frustration, the jagged edge of sorrow that cut through every one of his words.
The Fellowship, though, was bewitched. They had longed for the Royal Pilgrim for so long, yearned for the one who would bring them ultimate power, ultimate prestige. They would do anything to gain the prize that they had trained for, waited for, hoped for all these endless years.
Crestman tugged on her rope, angling the noose toward the floor. Rani’s hands splayed in front of her; her palms lay flat against the dais. Her belly heaved as she struggled to draw breath, and one small corner of her mind wondered how Crestman could continue to have so much power in his broken body. How strong he might have been! How great he might have proven, if he had not been eaten away by the worm of jealousy, jealousy and octolaris poison.
“And so, Fellows, it is time for us to embrace the truth. It is time for us to acknowledge that Halaravilli ben-Jair is too weak to hold his crown, too weak to do the business of a king.
“When Brianta and Liantine attacked fair Moren, what did Halaravilli do? He fled! We tested him; we tested his dedication to his men and to his kingdom. We tested his ability to maneuver from our one last challenge, from our last true measurement of his skill as king. And how did Halaravilli respond? He decamped to Sarmonia and hid with his lords in a forest. He did not try to free his city. He did not try to save his people.”
That is not fair, Rani wanted to cry. Hal was regrouping. He was building his strength. He was mustering his forces so that he could free his kingdom.
She gathered her own strength, desperate to fight to her feet, but Crestman must have sensed her intention. He twisted the rope one more time, sawing the hemp into her flesh. He forced her head to the dais, forced her cheek to the rough stone. He planted his foot on her neck, using his leather sole to grind the rope further in.
“He did not try to save his people,” Crestman repeated. “Only one thing remains, one last show to prove how weak a king Halaravilli ben-Jair truly is.
“For all these years, he has hidden behind this one. He has relied on Rani Trader, on Ranita Glasswright. He has ignored his caste, betrayed his caste. He has taken the advice of a merchant, a guildswoman. And now, today, he will feel the full weight of that folly. He will recognize that he was wrong
to abandon the requirements of the crown. He was wrong to abdicate responsibility.”
Rani’s ears were ringing. The crimson behind her eyes had darkened like drying blood, had faded to black. Her tongue was swollen in her mouth; she could barely sneak half a breath past the rope.
And yet, she could still hear Crestman. She could still make out his bitter, angry words. She could still feel the hopelessness of her sorrow, the depth of her despair as the man who had once loved her said, “Halaravilli ben-Jair will collapse without this prop. He will fall over like an infant child when he is left on his own. Morenia and Amanthia and Sarmonia all will tumble, willingly, desperately, utterly, utterly completely into the arms of the joined forces of Brianta and Liantine. All the kingdoms will be united. All will be ripe for one strong leader, for one guiding force. All will be ready for the Fellowship to take charge, to take control, to lead for all the future. The Royal Pilgrim will have done her deed.”
And then Rani knew the full pattern. She could see the final pieces snapping into place. She could see the direction all of them had flowed; she could read the scrolls that they had written together, through Morenia and Amanthia, in Liantine and Brianta, in the forests of Sarmonia. If she could have found the breath, she would have laughed at the simplicity of it, at the perfect, crystal balance.
Crestman completed his explanation for the Fellowship, laying out the end to any who had not yet understood. “Halaravilli ben-Jair is nothing without Rani Trader. Kill her and he will fall. Present her body to him, and he will collapse with no more struggle than a burned out log falling to ash upon a fire. And so, in the name of our Fellowship, I will act!”
Rani heard the whisper of metal on metal, of a sword sliding from its sheath. “By Jair, I will kill Rani Trader!” Crestman lifted his foot from her neck; she felt the momentary easing of pressure against her windpipe. “By Jair, I will slay the Royal Pilgrim, and we will gain the world!” She heard the sword whip through the air as Crestman raised his blade for the final stroke.
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