The Road to Hell - eARC

by David Weber

  Still, he would probably have dared Zindel’s wrath—no, he told himself, he would certainly have shown his steel by defying the Calirath tyrant—if not for the message from Chava Busar.

  The Seneschal knew that at least half of Tajvana was waiting, agog to see how Chava would react to the Coronation now that he’d had thirty-six hours to recover from the shock of that oversized cutcha’s scandalous, bizarre betrothal and wedding. However pleasant he might have forced himself to appear in the Chancellery, no one could doubt the bitter bile he’d swallowed as Zindel and his daughter brazenly circumvented the clear intent of the Articles of Unification. He was a proud man, Chava Busar, and one who had agreed to subordinate his own empire to this worlds-wide monstrosity the Conclave had forged only after the interests of his own dynasty had been safeguarded. Whatever he might have chosen to show on the surface, the abrupt destruction of those safeguards in a flagrant reading of the treaty’s literal language rather than its obvious intent, must have struck him like the cut of a whip.

  The Order’s ears were everywhere, and the Seneschal knew the betting was over three-to-one that Chava would change his tune here at the Coronation. That he would denounce the entire proceedings, denounce the treaty itself, and storm back to Uromathia. After all, he had scores—hundreds—of Uromathian jurists who could provide him with any number of precedents to base that defiance upon. And if they couldn’t find the precedents they needed, they could certainly have manufactured them in the ensuing day and a half.

  But the betting was wrong. The Seneschal’s new friend hadn’t shared all of his reasoning with him, but the Uromathian Emperor had suggested—rather more forcefully than the Seneschal was accustomed to—that it was essential the Coronation proceed. Personally, Faroayn Raynarg considered it anything but essential, and he’d been very strongly tempted to tell Chava that. But only tempted. Given the last day or so’s events, the necessity of an alliance with someone like Chava, someone with the wherewithal and…intestinal fortitude to defy even the fabled Calirath Dynasty, had reasserted itself in the clearest possible way.

  And it was obvious from Chava’s message that whatever position he might adopt for public consumption this day he had no intention of acquiescing in the Calirath tyranny. In the fullness of time, he would take back what was rightfully his, and in the process the Seneschal and Order of Bergahl would take back what was rightfully theirs, as well. But for now, for today, they must bend their necks and bear the unbearable—with a smile, gods damn it!—if they would preserve the freedom of maneuver to strike back when the time was ripe.

  At least his part in the proceedings would be relatively brief. Of course, he’d have to stand here, lending his official countenance and blessing to the travesty, for hours before he would be able to escape. But despite his prestige as the senior prelate of Bergahl, and despite the fact that Tajvana was Bergahl’s own city, he would have no active part in the coronation itself. He would simply join all of the other senior priests and priestesses in bestowing a final, parting blessing upon the newly crowned and consecrated Emperor of Sharona.

  He was grateful for that, and yet the reason for it was simply one more insult delivered to both himself and Chava, for the Articles of Unification specified that the ancient Ternathian coronation rites would be extended to the Empire of Sharona. It was preposterous! Outrageous! Yet Zindel had been inflexible upon that point. He’d flatly refused to accept the planetary crown the fawning fools of the Conclave were so eager to place upon his head unless everyone else on the entire planet accepted the Ternathian ceremony. And under the terms of that ceremony, only the clergy of the Double Triad would be permitted to officiate in the coronation itself.

  Ecumenicalism stretched only so far as suited the Caliraths, it would seem.

  He felt his teeth grinding together and made himself stop, then stiffened as the temple’s massive, magnificently sculpted portals swung open at last to admit His Imperial Majesty Zindel XXIV, Duke of Ternathia, Grand Duke of Farnalia, Warlord of the West, Protector of the Peace, Wing-Crowned, and by the gods’ grace, Emperor of Ternathia.

  Zindel chan Calirath was a tall, powerfully built man, with the sheer force of Calirath personality even the Seneschal had to admit was formidable. Yet in that moment, as he walked slowly down the temple’s long nave, between the packed pews, his appearance was shockingly at odds with the magnificently garbed onlookers crowded shoulder to shoulder to witness this pivotal moment in history.

  He wore a plain shirt of white linen, its full sleeves gathered at the wrists by cuff bands of Calirath green. His breeches were of the same green, yet they were also starkly, almost brutally plain, and instead of the elegant court shoes every other occupant of that temple wore, his feet were encased not in shoes, not even in boots, but in plain, calf-high rawhide sandals, and more rawhide served as a belt. He was bareheaded, with no attendants, no servants. The golden-stranded black hair of his dynasty gleamed in the sunlight pouring through the temple dome, his only diadem, and he carried no dress sword, no dagger, no jewelry beyond the golden marriage bracelet around his left wrist and the emerald signet of the House of Calirath on the second finger of his right hand.

  The music had stilled as the temple doors opened. There was no magnificent fanfare to play Zindel down the nave. There was only silence, and the quiet, clear slap of the soles of his sandals on the polished marble floor of the temple.

  The Seneschal curled a mental lip of scorn. Why, Zindel might have been any menial, a mere servant. For that matter, the staff of Tajvana Palace was better garbed than he! But did he show any awareness of that? Of course not! And yet, Raynarg reflected, was that not the ultimate statement of arrogance? It said, as clearly as if he had shouted it into the witnesses’ faces, that he—a Calirath!—had no need for mere finery, no need for the trappings of power. He could come before them dressed like this, and still they would bow their heads before him and submit to his mastery.

  Zindel walked alone through the ringing silence to the rail about the temple sanctuary, passing his watching wife and daughters, seated in the temple’s front puke, without even acknowledging their presence. He bent his head reverently, raising his hands, the first three fingers of each spread to signify the presence of the Double Triad, then folded those hands—fingers still spread—across his breast, fingertips touching each shoulder, and sank to his knees before Chezdahn Myrkosah, High Priest of Vothan and the senior cleric of the Ternathian Empire.

  Myrkosah was an old, old man, yet his spine was straight, his silver hair still thick, his beard immaculately clipped. His robes were far less ornate than the Seneschal’s splendor, cut in a style which was—literally—thousands of years old, yet he wore them with an assurance that, like the plainness of Zindel’s clothing, was its own form of arrogance, Raynarg thought bitterly.

  “Who comes before the gods to seek their blessing?” Myrkosah intoned. Like every Ternathian cleric, he possessed a rolling, powerful voice that filled the temple like a living thing.

  “My name,” the kneeling emperor replied, “is Zindel.”

  “And why are you here, Zindel?” Myrkosah asked.

  “To take up my burden.”

  “What burden?”

  “The burden of service,” Zindel said, his deep voice even more powerful than the high priest’s, and yet somehow hushed, almost humble.

  “And who calls you to assume that burden?”

  “The people of Sharona.”

  “And by what right do you answer that call?”

  “I am the son of the House of Calirath, descendent of Halian and Erthain the Great.”

  “And what service do you offer to the people of Sharona?”

  “The service of heart, of mind, of body, of spirit, and of Talent,” Zindel replied unflinchingly, lifting his head to meet the priest’s searching gaze.

  “And what is your duty to the people of Sharona?”

  “To stand between.” The words came out levelly, almost softly, yet they reached ever
y ear in that temple. “To stand between evil and its victims, between darkness and light. Between right and wrong. Between my people and their enemies…and between the people I am sworn to protect and death.”

  “And will you meet that duty?” Myrkosah’s level voice was the very balance scale of the gods, and Zindel chan Calirath’s nostrils flared.

  “With my life. Chunika s’hari, Halian. Sho warak.”

  “Will you pledge that upon the Winged Crown? Upon the Sword of Erthain? Upon the altar of the Double Triad and under the eye of the gods themselves?”

  “I will so pledge.”

  “Then we will hear your oath, Zindel,” Myrkosah said, and the High Priestess of Shalana and the High Priestess of Marnilay joined him.

  They formed a triangle about the kneeling Emperor, reaching out their arms, fingers spread in the presence of the Double Triad as they held the Winged Crown of Celaryon above his head. It was over forty-eight hundred years old, that crown—a heavy, angular thing of thick gold plaques and the outstretched wings of a falcon, forged by the goldsmiths of Farnalia to commemorate the treaty binding their land to Ternathia. It had been used in every coronation of every Ternathian emperor or empress in all those long, dusty millennia, and now—as they held it above his head—their fingers hummed with a silent vibration only they could perceive.

  They stood a moment, and then Myrkosah said, “The gods are listening.”

  Zindel drew a deep breath. This was an oath he’d sworn before, and unlike the watching Seneschal, or Chava Busar, or anyone beyond the House of Calirath and the high priest and high priestesses standing about him at this moment, he knew what that both truly meant. It was not a simple formality, not a mere promise.

  Much of Sharona—perhaps most of it—believed that Erthain the Great was mere legend, a figure of myth created by the Calirath Dynasty to justify its claim upon the imperial power. But the emperors and empresses of Ternathia knew better than that. Zindel knew better than that, and he remembered every time he’d cursed that “legendary” ancestor, for Erthain had been the very first Calirath to possess the Calirath Talent, and his Talent had been a tsunami. The secret records of the House of Calirath had not recorded what Erthain had Glimpsed in the moment his Talent awoke, but they did record what he’d done about it, and five thousand years of Caliraths had bound themselves to that same unforgiving, merciless oath.

  Not all of them had lived up to the totality of its harsh, unyielding demands. Some had broken under its weight…and under the weight of their Talent. But the compulsion Erthain had set, the compulsion with which Celaryon had imbued his crown, held them all. They must take that oath willingly, but once taken, it could never be untaken. Perhaps some of them hadn’t realized that before they swore it, but afterward…afterward they knew.

  And now, the oath, the compulsion—the Talent—which had bound all those countless generations of Caliraths to the service and protection of Ternathia would henceforth bind them to the service and protection of all Sharona. They might make mistakes, they might be guilty of misjudgment, they might misunderstand a crisis, they might be unequal to the task, but they would meet that crisis…or die in the trying.

  And so Zindel chan Calirath looked into the eyes of the High Priest of Vothan and opened his mouth.

  “I, Zindel, son of Kairnos, descendent of Halian, descendent of Celaryon, descendent of Erthain, do pledge myself and my House unto the end of time to the service, the guidance, and the protection of the people of Sharona. I will bear true service to them all the days of my life. I will stand between them and the darkness, between them and danger, between them and death. I will offer to them the very best that I have of heart and soul and Talent, and made the gods themselves deal with me as I deal with them.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  January 2

  The elegant crowd assembled at the Seneschal of Othmaliz’s new private residence swirled around Darcel Kinlafia in a deceptively accepting and supportive murmur. Alazon Yanamar watched them and they watched her with the wariness the polls deserved. The latest numbers from New Farnal were excellent, and the powerbrokers had all accepted that her fiancé would be elected to the House of Talents in two weeks time. So had she, and while she wasn’t going to allow herself—or Darcel—any premature victory laps, the pressure of the election itself had definitely eased. That meant it was time to begin looking beyond the election to the pragmatics of wielding power, and that meant finding potential parliamentary allies. With that in mind, the amount of publicity this event was drawing—especially combined with those New Farnalian numbers—had been enough to warrant a return trip to Tajvana.

  Just yesterday Darcel’s last remaining serious competitor had formally withdrawn his candidacy and appeared in a Uromathian-station Voicecast personally endorsing Darcel. The SUNN correspondents following the campaign had been unable to reach the man for follow-up interviews.

  Alazon didn’t trust it. Her work as Zindel’s Privy Voice had always involved more political interactions than she cared for, yet that did have its benefits. The job alone didn’t make her good at politics, but it gave her the instincts to know no one was ever elected to these levels of political power without some kind of fight.

  Certainly the emperor’s support had been a significant aid, especially with setting up a campaign staff and getting the relatively quiet and unassuming man she loved ready for the invasive personal questions SUNN reporters asked in hopes of getting interesting answers to amuse and engage their viewers.

  But even the least astute observer could tell the Seneschal considered himself no friend of the Emperor. This gala, for instance, was nominally in memory of the late Crown Prince Janaki, but the guest list quite noticeably omitted the Emperor, the Empress, Crown Princess Andrin, the Prince Consort, either of the younger Grand Princesses, or any other blood relative of Janaki’s. Pretending to honor Janaki the Platoon-Captain who’d died in combat—probably through his own ineptitude…or that of his superiors—instead of Janaki the Crown Prince of Ternathia who’d used his Talent to intentionally place himself in mortal peril to stop the Arcanan invasion was…foul.

  Of course, Alazon hadn’t been given an opportunity to peruse the guess list when they accepted Darcel’s own invitation. She supposed that should have raised warning flags, but it hadn’t.

  She’d wanted to wring the Seneschal’s neck when she figured it out. Instead, she walked politely around the room on Darcel’s arm greeting recognized supporters and being friendly with the rest of the crowd of faces. Being the candidate’s wife was harder than she’d expected.

  Relatives of the soldiers from Fort Salby and other forts farther down the chain dotted the crowd, recognizable by their red eyes and obvious discomfort. They’d been trickling in throughout the evening, with honor bells rung for each new group while the Order of Bergahl’s musicians played variations of the Mother’s lament for her children.

  Needing a few minutes away from the pressing throng, she let go of Darcel. The crowd drew him away.

  Alazon wondered if the invitations for the guests of honor had been timed for quarter hour arrivals or if the Seneschal had all the bereaved sequestered in a side room to arrive a few at a time as pleased his sense of political blood theater.

  The next one to enter was dressed as elegantly as any of the local powerbrokers, but Alazon nearly lost the light supper she’d worked so hard to glean from passing hors d’oeuvres trays when she heard the majordomo’s announcement.

  Dr. Shalassar Kolmayr-Brintal kissed the Seneschal of Othmaliz’s cheeks as warmly as if she were merely a dowager socialite. Shaylar Nargra-Kolmayr’s mother, the whispers swept the crowd immediately, but the longtime ambassador slipped into the crowd with much the same ease as the cetaceans she normally Spoke with slid below the waves.

  …and with much the same smiling menace as the black and white whales, Shalassar emerged from the crowd not by Darcel Kinlafia but just in front of Alazon. The Voice barely avoided snapping the stem of her w
ine glass.

  * * *

  The finger marks on Alazon Yanamar forearm were likely to bruise by morning and despite her frantic looks at the assigned imperial security not one of them had come to rescue her. Looking for physical threats, they dismissed Dr. Kolmayr-Brintal entirely, but at this range Alazon wondered why the Calirath line hadn’t been exterminated already if the guards couldn’t recognize the raw menace in Shalassar’s expression. Only Kelahm, the intern newly assigned as Darcel’s personal aide, had even looked her way.

  “Sit.” Shalassar pointed at the chairs in the little alcove she’d led them into. “I’m not going to bite, Ms. Yanamar.”

  Alazon sat.

  “My daughter is dead,” the woman said, watching her intently. “Your husband received her last transmission. I Saw it myself half a dozen times, until it burned into my nightmares and I couldn’t watch anymore. But would you believe the tales I’ve been receiving about what those Arcanan negotiators said and didn’t say?”

  As former Privy Voice, Alazon Yanamar did, actually, and she froze. There were bits and pieces which had led to guesses about Arcanan military capability, but most of that had been rendered thoroughly obsolete by the much less theoretical experience of fighting Arcana to a stop at Fort Salby. The rest were guesses about how Arcana was politically organized, the rare details with which Emperor Zindel might arm future negotiators at another peace table, but only if Sharona could be convinced to attempt another peace.

  Ambassador Kolmayr-Brintal didn’t look like a woman willing to countenance any peace with her daughter’s killers, and if this woman wanted to unite Sharona’s will, Alazon was afraid she might very well be able to do it—even if Emperor Zindel threw all his own power into stopping her. But surely she had to understand negotiation had to happen again sometime, or did—?