The Shadow Throne: Book Two of the Shadow Campaigns

by Wexler, Django

  “The concept was a sound one,” the Black rasped.

  “Placing a demon on the throne of one of the great powers of the world?” said the White. “A considerable risk to the souls of every one of her subjects, as I believe I said at the time. This is a sound concept?”

  “As I said at the time,” the Black returned, “those souls are in grave danger, cut off from the true Church as they are. A compliant monarch, who might lead her people back to the faith—”

  “Enough,” the Red snapped. “It is done, and there is no undoing it now.”

  The Black inclined his head. “Indeed. And our problem stems not from the girl, but from . . . unanticipated factors.”

  “Vhalnich,” said the Red.

  “Vhalnich.” The Black’s rasping voice turned the name into a wet, ugly cough, as though he wanted to spit. “He is the most dangerous heretic we have faced since ancient days.”

  “So you say,” said the White, querulously. “I have seen only slim evidence to that effect. You say he is the Demon King come again, but all we have is a single vague report.”

  “Vhalnich returns victorious from Khandar,” the Black said. “He sets this child queen on the throne. And now we find her protected by the enemy.”

  “Vhalnich may simply be a pawn,” the Red said.

  “Not Vhalnich. He has studied the arts. And now he has control of Vordan.” The Black crossed his arms. “We must move against him, or face the greatest loss since the Schism. No simple heresy, but a true apostate, a whole nation under the sway of the enemy such as we have not seen since the Demon King. Such a step backward might threaten the Grace itself, and unleash the final judgment.”

  The White’s lip twisted, unconvinced. “Or Vhalnich may be a man like any other. He should simply be eliminated.”

  “Difficult,” said the Red, “under the present circumstances.”

  “I have set events in motion toward that end,” the Black said. “But careful preparation is required. And, regardless, broader action will be necessary. Even if Vhalnich is removed, we cannot allow Raesinia to rule . . . unguided.”

  “True,” the Red said. “It may be that this represents an opportunity.”

  “It is a great risk,” said the White. “But if the prize is the restoration of the true faith to Vordan . . .”

  “Then we are agreed?” the Black said.

  The White nodded, and the two of them turned to the Red. He shrugged, crimson robes rustling.

  “I will make the arrangements,” he said.

  —

  The hand of the Church moved slowly, almost invisibly. It tightened its grip in easy stages, as messengers rode to and fro, and news of what had happened in Vordan spread through the civilized world.

  The agents of the pontificate knew their business. In Holy Korslavl, capital of Imperial Murnsk, the Priests of the White began to whisper of the opportunity presented by a girl queen and a popular revolution. The chance to stamp out the heresy of the Schism, after so many years. And darker rumors spread, apparently without a source, hinting of demonic forces at work at the heart of the new government and the so-called deputies.

  In Viadre, seat of the Borelgai Court and the pulsing heart of world commerce, the Priests of the Red met with nervous bankers in their tall houses along the market streets. Vordan’s debt to Borel was great, and the queen had left her financial policy in the hands of demagogues and rabble-rousers. If they took it in their heads to repudiate the loans, heads would roll in the Exchange.

  And in Hamvelt, high in its mountain fastness, angry currents among the burghers started to come together. Sworn Priests were banned there, but the agents of the Pontifex of the Black still moved in secret, spreading Elysian gold where it would do the most good. They spoke of the long-disputed border between Vordan and the League, the coastal counties over which so much blood had been spilled over the centuries. And to Hamvelt’s ancient nobility, ever jealous of its privileges, they spread the word that the queen intended to finally dissolve the Duchy of Orlanko, just across the mountains, and subordinate the old families of Vordan to the new “representatives of the people.”

  At length, couriers set out from these three great cities, hastening by stagecoach and riverboat across the length and breadth of the continent. In their diplomatic bags, secured by the wax seals of the world’s most powerful men, they carried messages addressed to the new Queen of Vordan. The letters were in three different languages, couched in elaborate diplomatic circumlocutions, citing ancient legal precedents and disputes generations old. But when all the curlicues and embellishments were stripped away, they all carried the same deadly simple meaning:

  War.