Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  “Of course,” Silvertree assured him.

  Theuderic heard a noise from the corridor, and then the door opened into the sitting room in which they were seated.

  It was the elf who had first greeted them at the door when they’d arrived, and although he looked as indifferent as ever, his words were alarming.

  “There appear to be a large number of soldiers gathering outside the residence, Ambassador. Someone was knocking on the door, but I presumed we do not wish to permit them to enter, so I refrained from answering it. However, I expect it will not be long before they apply more vigorous measures.”

  Theuderic and Lithriel looked at each other in dismay.

  Silvertree rose to his feet, though not hastily.

  “What sort of soldiers, Miroglas?”

  “Most are wearing white armor with red cloaks. I saw some wearing legionary-style armor with gold cloaks too.”

  “The Curian Guard and the Order of Saint Michael,” Silvertree commented. “It appears I may have miscalculated how eager the Church is to retain your company, magician.”

  “Or the Watcher within it.”

  “As you say. Do you find yourself now more willing to credit my concerns?”

  “Somewhat,” Theuderic allowed. The presence of the Michaelines was particularly troubling. It indicated an expectation of resistance by someone with magical abilities. But was it his resistance or the high elf’s that they were anticipating? “I will admit that the level of interest appears excessive.”

  “I suggest we see what they want. Miroglas, I assume you barred the door.”

  “Indeed, Lord Ambassador.”

  “Then let us go and see what the good priestlings have to say to us.”

  “Are you mad?” Theuderic protested. “You can’t simply open the door and go out to them!”

  “Whoever said anything of the kind?” The elf lord winked at Lithriel. “I had in mind we should address them from the roof. As for the door, I have already raised the wards. They will not be entering that way.”

  As he spoke, there was a loud explosion and a barely audible cry from the gathering crowd outside.

  “You see? I imagine our visitors are already learning the foolishness of attempting to force the door. No doubt the windows will be next. Come, follow me, and let us learn the reason for this most undiplomatic intrusion.”

  FJOTRA

  The walk with Donzeau took considerably longer than Fjotra was expecting. Finally, they slowed. They neared a mansion with eight or nine young nobles lounging about the stairs that led to the front door, several of whom appeared to be drunk already. She assumed they had reached their destination. There were fewer catcalls than she expected, and none of the men grabbed at her or the other two girls despite the sudden and hungry interest with which they viewed them. The duc’s companions were either uncommonly well-behaved, or as was more likely the case, aware of Donzeau’s dangerous talents.

  The troldmand led them through the sumptuous, high-ceilinged house without even glancing at the paintings and expensive furniture that filled it.

  They found the duc upstairs, in the library, standing in front of a desk with his back to them and examining a painting of a man on a horse surrounded by a pack of dogs. The duc was taller than his brother the Red Prince had been. He had broader shoulders, but his build was slighter, and his black hair was cropped very short.

  When he heard them enter the room and turned around toward her, Fjotra stifled her instinctive gasp. Prince Karl had been handsome, but his younger brother nearly took her breath away. His black eyes were like pools of dark radiance, drawing her in even as they threatened to burn the flesh from her bones. Unlike his brother, he wore no mustache, exposing a mouth that was arrogant to the point of cruelty. He would, she thought, more easily sneer or snarl than smile.

  But she was wrong. He looked her over with indifference, then sniffed dismissively.

  “Interesting. You are indeed a pretty thing, as savages go.”

  “I…my…th-thank you,” she finally managed to stammer, not knowing what she should say. “I am sorry, I do not know how you are called.”

  “My name is Etienne Henri, second in line to the throne of Savondir and the Seven Seats, the Duc de Chenevin. And soon, if you are amenable, your husband. Until then, you may address me as ‘Your Royal Highness.’”

  Her heart raced. What an impossible man! And yet, a girl who had fled from her homeland only one week hence could do considerably worse than to marry the heir to the throne of a king whose good will was vital to the survival of her people. In fact, any girl, any woman, could do considerably worse than to marry such a rich and powerful man. Such an attractive one too! But it was too much. And too fast.

  “This is very soon, Your Royal Highness. I meet you only now. How can you want to marry me before you even introduce me?”

  “That barbarian accent is downright charming on her, is it not, Guilhem?” The duc addressed the troldmand as if she was not even there, which bothered her until he flashed that brilliant smile at her again. “And I want to marry you—I am going to marry you—because I will be damned if I let my brother obtain a second crown through you. It is bad enough that he is the heir by virtue of having been born before me, but he has no more right to the Iles de Loup than any other man.

  “So, today we shall be betrothed, and I congratulate you on your forethought in bringing along your attendants to share in our mutual joy. As for the actual marriage, that will take place as soon as my father’s temper cools sufficiently to accept the fait accompli and recall that, regardless of which of his sons it may be, in either case there will be a de Mirid ruling over the Iles.”

  “But you know my brother will be heir after my father, not me,” said Fjotra, a little suspiciously. Surely no man, not even a prince, would be so arrogant as to think he could deny her brother his birthright, not if he expected to survive a single night sleeping in her bed.

  “Your father can’t hold the Iles now. Can your brother win them back with nothing more than refugees in rags?” The prince raised a skeptical eyebrow and grinned. “You wear your doubts on your face, Your Highness. But I bear your brother no ill will, none at all. In fact, I have even gifted him his own comte, which will provide him with a secure income. It’s not much but enough to allow him a place at court. When he is willing to cede his claim to the Iles in your favor, you and I shall raise an army and return to them as their king and queen.”

  “Why you think he do that?” she asked him. “Why he give you the crown of our father?”

  “Because two bobs of silver in the hand are worth more than four ulfin-occupied islands in the north to a man without an army.”

  He had a point, particularly since this game of crowns and kings was foreign to the Dalarn anyhow. She and Brynjolf were aware they had to play at it, but they didn’t understand it in the same way the nobles of Savondir did. The duc didn’t realize it yet, but he had no real need to play that game himself since his brother was now dead. She didn’t wish to tell him the terrible news, but she didn’t see that she had any choice in the matter, as it appeared to be the only way to dissuade him from forcing her into a betrothal.”

  “Prince Etienne, I must say you, you do not need to marry me. You do not need to buy crown from my brother to be a king.”

  That perplexed him, as for the first time he did not appear to have a ready response. His eyes narrowed, with a predatory focus that made her shiver inside. “What do you mean?” he asked her, putting particular emphasis on the first word.

  “I am sorry to say you, but your brother, Prince Karl, he is dead. He die eight days before. His body now go to Lutaisse, to your father.”

  The prince froze, struck dumb by her words. He stared at her without betraying any sign of grief or any other emotion beyond the sheer incredulity in his dark eyes. Then he did the very last thing she expected.

  He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her. It was brutal. There was nothing loving or sensual about it
, and yet the force of it all but made her knees buckle. She would have fallen, she thought, had he not gripped her so firmly.

  “You are absolutely sure?” he demanded. “You swear this upon the name of every pagan god and demon you savages worship? Charles-Philippe is dead?”

  “I swear, by Tordenfader and Dodsherre, by Hyppemoder and Skaermsoster, I was with him when he die. The ship bring him back, and Patrice take him right to Lutaisse as soon as ship land today.”

  He shook his head and leaned back upon the desk behind him, looking thoughtful. Then he flashed that beautiful smile at her and made her heart leap again, as if on command.

  “That is the best news anyone has ever given me! My deepest and most heartfelt thanks, Fjotra Skulisdattir.” He stepped forward to kiss her again, and this time she was ready. He crushed her lips with exuberance and her entire body responded as she pressed herself against him.

  Svanhvit tried to protest, but the trolmand lifted a finger, and that was enough to dissuade her.

  But when the duc stepped back, it was as if she was not even there. His eyes were not for her but were caught up in some distant vision somewhere beyond the ceiling at which he was staring in a sort of rapture. “You cannot know what this means,” he said in a voice full of barely repressed exultation.”

  “I think it mean you do not need to marry me,” she pointed out in an attempt to be helpful. She found his reaction more than a little alarming. What sort of man didn’t even feel the smallest sense of loss at the death of his brother?

  “Surely you jest,” he said, returning his attention to her and smiling broadly as he squeezed both her hands. “I daresay I would be willing to marry the woman who brought me such news were she eighty years old, blind, and toothless! How did he die? In battle with the wolf-demons?”

  She recounted an abbreviated story of that terrible night to him. She had just reached the part about when she’d noticed the second aalvarg, when two men burst into the library.

  “My lord, we are under attack!”

  The smile disappeared instantly from his face, and he pulled her to the side with surprising ease as Donzeau pushed Geirrid and Svanhvit toward her. “Attack? By whom?” the duc demanded.

  “By me, myself, and I,” announced a voice from behind the prince’s men that sounded strangely familiar. “Tell your men to get out of my way, give me the girl, and get yourself to the royal palace with all due haste, Etienne Henri. If you ride hard, you can still beat your brother’s body there.”

  At a gesture from the duc, the two young nobles retreated, revealing the short, slender figure of the Comtesse de Domdidier’s friend, the Comte de Saint-Aglie, standing in the doorway.

  His pale face was slightly flushed, but his sword was still in its scabbard, so it appeared he must have men with him, following in his wake. He glanced at Fjotra, as if to confirm that she was actually there, then glared at the duc.

  “The reaver maiden is not for you, Etienne. There are affairs of which you know nothing, and this is one of them. You needn’t scheme and whisper in the ears of the royal conseilleurs anymore, or attempt to carve out a kingdom of your own. The realm will be yours, and likely sooner than you think!”

  “This borders on treason, Saint-Aglie. And if you know my brother is dead, then surely you know that raising your sword against the heir to the crown is lese majeste. As for my betrothed, I demand that you apologize for speaking of her in such a crude and vulgar manner. Do so again, and I shall have you whipped and paraded through the streets of Lutece before being returned to your petty Ecarlatean shithole.”

  The comte laughed, genuinely amused. “You have the makings of a proper monster in you, Etienne Henri. Power will go to your head faster than champagne to a maiden’s. And I see no priest here. She is not your betrothed, and she will never be!”

  The duc glanced at her, and Fjotra, not knowing what to do or what was expected at her, simply stared at the two men, her mouth hanging open.

  The duc seemed to take this as a sign of encouragement, because he flashed her a confident smile, then pointed at the comte.

  “Courrat, Loys, do kill me this man.”

  The two young nobles obediently drew their swords and spread out as they approached Saint-Aglie. The comte didn’t appear concerned, nor did he draw his own blade. Instead he spread his arms and bent his knees, keeping his eyes on both men as they came closer to him.

  As one, they thrust, and it didn’t seem possible that he could avoid either blade from where he was standing. But somehow, a moment later, there was a loud snap, he was unscathed, and the noble with the blond hair fell to the floor screaming with his arm broken.

  Donzeau clapped slowly. The duc swore. He was angry, but he didn’t move from the desk. Instead, he called out encouragement to his remaining champion. “Come now, Loys, mind his trickeries!”

  The tall, dark-haired young noble slashed his sword down vertically to prevent the comte from either drawing his sword or ducking beneath another thrust, then he followed it with another diagonal slash that forced the comte to step backward, away from Courrat’s sword now lying on the patterned rug that covered the wooden library floor.

  But on his third slash, the comte hurled himself forward just as the blade swept down and crashed his body into the arm and shoulder of his attacker.

  Loys stumbled backward before recovering his balance and his guard, but too late to stop the comte from smoothly stepping away and drawing his sword. Now the young noble was on the defense, and even to Fjotra’s untrained eye, it was clear that the comte was the better bladesman by far. Loys was sweating, and his desperate eyes bulged with fear, as it was all he could do to fend off the comte’s rapid thrusts and sweeping slashes that filled the air with the ringing clash of steel on steel. And when Loys finally managed a single hapless thrust of his own, the comte used it to expertly disarm him with a twist of his wrist, followed by a savage slash that opened up Loys’s cheek.

  The comte looked at the prince and smiled as he held the point of his sword to the throat of the young man. “What will it be, Etienne? Do I take your man’s life or the reaver girl?”

  “Neither,” answered the prince, glancing at the last man still able to fight for him.

  Faster than the eye could follow, there was a silver flash. The comte grunted and lurched to the left as Courrat’s sword slammed into his right side. Geirrid screamed and Loys leaped backward, his breeches wet and his eyes wide with terror. At first, Fjotra thought Courrat had thrown the blade, but he was still down, being comforted by Svanhvit.

  The prince only laughed. “Well done, Guilhem,” the prince praised the troldmand, who was staring coolly at the mortally wounded comte as he tried to hold himself upright by clinging to a marble-topped dresser. “You see, my dear Saint-Aglie, there are also things of which you know nothing.”

  “You truly think I know nothing of his kind?” The comte’s face was screwed up with pain as he supported himself with one arm on the dresser despite the sword that had pierced him all the way through. “Dear God, Etienne, what depths of foolishness have you gotten yourself into now?”

  “How are you doing that!” The prince looked to his sorcerer in confusion. “Donzeau, how is he doing that? Shouldn’t he be dying now?”

  For the first time since she’d met him, Fjotra saw uncertainty on the face of the troldmand.

  “One would certainly think so, your highness.”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid that is not in the cards,” the comte hissed. As the prince and everyone else watched in utter astonishment, he gritted his teeth, grasped the hilt in his right hand, and began pulling the bloody blade out of his body. He managed to pull it about halfway out before his arm had reached its full extent, and he groaned with what sounded more like exasperation than pain. “Fjotra, would you be so kind as to help me with this?”

  “You’re not a man!” Donzeau declared, his voice full of wonder. He raised his hand, and the sword slid itself the rest of the way out of the wound
with a dreadful, sucking sound before falling with a dull thump to the carpeted floor. “You’re not a man at all! What are you, my lord comte? Some sort of demon?”

  “I should think you, of all men, would be aware that I am nothing of the sort, Guilhem Donzeau.”

  The pounding noise of a number of men rushing up the stairs precluded a response and was rapidly followed by a group of armed men in Saint-Aglie’s black-and-green livery. Several of their swords were bloodied and two appeared to be wounded, but their concern was solely for their lord.

  “You are injured, my lord!” exclaimed the leader, looking distressed.

  “It’s nothing, Arnaud,” the comte assured him. “Merely an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “That must have been one hell of a misunderstanding!” Arnaud looked around the room, first at his master’s torn and bloody chemise, then at Courrat’s sword, blood-stained to the hilt, and finally, at its unfortunate owner and the unnatural shape of his arm. Then he did a double-take. “Sweet Lady of Sorrows, is that the Duc de Chenevin?”

  “I fear so,” admitted Saint-Aglie. “Now, if you will excuse me, Your Royal Highness, I believe my carriages are waiting, so I will be on my way to my castle. Arnaud, Sebastien, if you would be so kind as to escort the three ladies outside, I would appreciate it. Please be at ease, my lady Fjotra. Your very good friend the comtesse already awaits you there.”

  “How dare you take my betrothed from my very side?” the prince snarled. “What makes you think I won’t expose you and have you hunted down like a dog, Saint-Aglie, or whatever you are?”

  “Expose what?” The comte airily waved his bloody right hand. “Expose yourself as a lunatic? By all means, do the realm the inestimable service of convincing everyone that you are insane, preferably before you succeed your father. Though I admit that ‘King Etienne Henri the Mad’ has a certain ring to it. But any sooner and you’ll see the crown pass to Comte d’Ainme instead. So have a care, my dear duc, and think before you speak. There are those who are far more fearsome than me who shall soon, very soon, stride openly across the world. Before them, kings and empires will tremble. Count yourself fortunate indeed if I am the worst creature you find yourself facing.”