The vote was unanimous. As Graissa’s eyes roamed over each in turn, their hands raised, her heart started to hammer. There was a part of her that did not want to Read the recesses of the Chancellor’s mind. Who knew what she would find? But the options were limited.
“I protest!” Rypen stood to his feet, Mangan stepping forward where he had been sitting behind him. “I will leave this Council until you all begin to see reason. This is an egregious trampling of my rights. And you all know it!”
No one disagreed with him. Mangan’s hand lay on the hilt of his blade. General Forde stepped forward, arms still crossed, glaring at Mangan full in the face. “Step aside, soldier.”
“He does not answer to you!” Rypen moved to meet the General nose to nose. “You cannot supersede my authority to my own guard!”
“It wasn’t a request.” Forde looked over Rypen’s shoulder to gaze at Mangan, who stood far enough away to be able to pull his blade if necessary.
Graissa stood up once again. “This is silly. The Stewards are beholden to no one. We answer only to ourselves and will be held accountable for our actions directly to the Creator.”
“You know what is silly? This girl being allowed to intervene whenever she feels like it!” Rypen turned back to Forde. “You know I speak the truth, General. Back off.”
Graissa pulled in the Deep and dove into Rypen’s mind.
Best to do it when he didn't know and couldn’t hide his true thoughts. The vote was already cast, but guilt warred within her. It was much too easy to break her rule when it suited her.
The Chancellor’s mind was convoluted. Each thought flashed by with dizzying speed. Graissa had a hard time keeping up, for not only was his mind unfamiliar territory, but there were layers upon layers of plots.
It took only a moment for her to unravel several of them. The knowledge she gleaned was helpful, yes, but also disconcerting. He was a clever man, and for all his angry protests, she could decipher straight away that everything he did was duplicitous. There was a part of him that truly wanted what was best for the Bright Lands. But the core of who he was as a human being was dark. His thoughts were centered on self-preservation at all costs. Flashes of insight into his inner self nearly tore Graissa’s mind from its hinges. His spirit was strong, and without her continued growth in how to control the Deep, she was certain she would have been sucked in to become him, to lose herself in who he was and what made him his identity.
She gasped and let go of the Deep. It had happened in the span of a few seconds, but her mind was filled with his thoughts, hundreds of them.
Rypen was still glaring at Forde, Mangan behind him.
“There is no good way this will end,” Forde said calmly.
“Back down, both of you!” Uttred declared. “Act like the civilized gentlemen you purport to be!”
Forde reached for his blade, and the rest of the soldiers ringing the room did the same. Graissa nodded at Vivian. It was all the Sister needed.
Mangan’s blade was wrenched from his grasp and went flying across the room, end over end, as did Forde’s. Both men cried out in surprise as the blades crashed against the wall. The other soldiers hesitated.
“I agree. Enough is enough.” Vivian stepped forward. “I must say, I’m surprised at you all.”
“You have no right!” Forde yelled, but then he must have realized the significance of what had just happened. “You break your vow, Sister!”
“She didn’t use violence,” Graissa laughed, shaking her head. “She prevented it.”
Not to mention the vows were almost obsolete. But there was no need to say that out loud.
“Indeed,” Kole responded. “Everyone, sit down. Sister, if there is any more threatening, yelling, or blades drawn, I for one would not protest if you threw the perpetrators through the window and into the rose bush.”
Graissa coughed to cover another laugh. The soldiers looked to Forde, who gestured for them to sheath their blades. They obliged, much to Graissa’s relief.
“Now then. I say we hear what Graissa has to say.” Franc smiled at her. “You have been saying for several days now that you have a plan. So far, it has been centered on the freeing of the Mools, equal wages for the common man if they are willing to work, and something else you have hinted at but never fully explained. Is it true that Rypen cheated the system and got himself elected?”
“I protest –” Rypen started.
“Sit!” Vivian spat out, and for the first time that Graissa had ever seen, the Chancellor obeyed someone else’s command. It looked as if he would choke on his own anger, but he remained silent.
Graissa nodded at the assembled Council. “I Read him the day he wanted to hang my father and Price. As soon as I brought up the word ‘voted’, his mind raced to the election, and how he had cheated. He paid off the Administrator of Voting. The reality was that Franc,” she glanced at him, “had won. By an overwhelming majority.”
“There is no proof!” Rypen bellowed, but then he shut up as he glanced nervously at Vivian. “There is no proof,” he said, quietly.
“I will look into it personally,” Uttred declared. “Of, if you prefer, we could bring the Administrator in here for Graissa to Read?” He looked directly at Rypen.
“That won’t be necessary,” he managed to respond. As the seconds ticked on, he wilted further and further into his chair.
“If it is proven true, then del’Niope is the true Chancellor of the Bright Lands,” Jorkin said, shaking his head. Dislike for the councilman surged in Graissa, but she pushed it down.
“I would suggest we hold another election, as Price has been calling for all along,” Franc said, shooting his gaze to her. “Not that this means I agree with her rebellion.”
“A free election. Everyone, in all of the Bright Lands, should be allowed to vote. Including the Mools.” Price crossed her arms, Jule glowering at her side.
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Uttred said, coughing into his hand. Sweat pooled on his forehead and dripped down his face. “Small improvements at a time, right?”
“That has led nowhere,” Price growled.
“You can’t change an entire system in just one election,” Kole told her, and her face softened. “I’ve told you all along, even if the elections are limited to everyone but the Mools, we have done a good thing. The rich won’t be the only ones with any say.”
“And the other cities’ mayors will have to agree,” Jorkin reminded them. “But enough, we can deal with that later –”
The door to the chamber burst open. A man bowed, then ran to the General. “Word from the border, General!” He thrust a piece of parchment into Forde’s hand. “Most urgent.”
Graissa’s heart climbed to her throat. What could be so urgent, except that the Triumphant King had decided not to wait any longer?
“The King’s forces are gathering,” Forde said after he read the note. “Not far from the border. Word is that he intends to head for Vale.”
“What does that mean?” Kole asked, tone even. “Peacefully?”
“Uncertain,” Forde responded in a clipped manner, all precision. “We must prepare for the worst.”
Chapter Thirteen
Polbine Voltaire
“A Summit?” Branson asked. “Tomorrow?”
“Surely they mean to ambush us,” Sir Winston snorted from across the room. Insolent bastard. Pol turned a glare his way, and the knight wilted. If things were at the point that anyone thought they could shout out their opinion, something needed to be done. Yet uncertainty tainted his confidence. Liar’s teeth, Truman wasn’t here to temper his anger. What if he made an example of the knight, but it was a bad idea?
Damn Branson and his notion to send Rafe and Truman back home. Pol would have to deal with Winston later.
“If they will be convinced to join our cause, now is the time,” General Ungold commented.
“The time was when Rafe was there,” Pol snapped. “I am done with their political maneuverings
. There will be no Summit.” He stood and stalked from the room, brushing past the guards at the door. The leopard followed as Branson hastened to catch up.
“What other recourse do we have?” the young warlock asked.
Pol grit his teeth and whirled to face him. “Please. Tell me what other brilliant ideas you have. I should probably just turn the throne over to you!”
Branson blinked, face turning red. “I apologize, my King.” He lowered his eyes to stare at his feet.
Good. Humility looked well on a man.
“I would hear your thoughts,” Pol said, tone softer. He turned to walk, slower, back to his rooms. They weren’t as comfortable as his quarters in the Forest City, naturally, but they would do for now. Kreen waited on his bed, but when she caught sight of Branson, she pulled the coverlet to hide her frame. Branson didn’t seem put off at her presence, but he had the decency to not look at her.
He stood stiff at the doorway. “The border is well protected, but they won’t dare to meet us in open battle. Surely they fear you more than they fear those who pay them.”
Pol stopped to pour himself a shot of firedrink. He had been drinking it more, lately. Too much. Still, he threw his head back, the burning to his stomach helping calm his anger. He wiped his mouth and turned to Branson. “Tell me more.”
Branson’s eyes shifted to Kreen before he looked back at Pol.
“You can trust her,” Pol said, sitting on the edge of his bed and nodding at him.
“The vast majority of the soldiers are paid by the wealthiest of the Midlands. Your reputation precedes you. They won’t engage, risking their lives for something they don’t think they will win.” Branson shifted his feet. “I know I didn’t walk the halls of the Chancellor’s Estates directly. But my friend was one of the –”
“The Reader. Yes, I know.” Pol waved a hand. Thinking of her irked him. The stupid demon never reported on her whereabouts. Crafty creatures, not nearly as reliable as the mindwalkers. But there was a dwindling supply, ever since the last one had died a fiery death.
Branson’s expression stayed blank. “She would tell me what she heard, when she was paying attention to that sort of thing. We won’t face a hard time at the border, but at Vale itself.”
“So you think we should refuse a Summit?”
“Yes. Show yourself unafraid. More than likely, the forces at the border are a bluff to begin with. When it becomes apparent you will march through, they will draw back to defend Vale herself.”
Fear. A useful motivator. Pol’s favorite, in fact.
Branson shifted on his feet yet again, and Pol raised an eyebrow. “What else?”
“These are my people.” Branson took a deep breath as if to steady his nerves. “I would ask to go and make a case before them. Maybe they will listen to me, since I am Midlandian.”
He thought to accomplish what Rafe could not? Still, it wasn’t a bad idea.
“Very well. Make haste; if I do not hear from you in two days’ time, we will march.”
Branson left, and Pol lazed on the bed beside Kreen. She ran a hand across his scalp, massaging. The ache dissipated.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“I like your pet warlock.” She laughed. “He speaks sense; he would know their customs.”
“But he was no soldier. A rich boy, he would have no need to enlist.” Still, she had a point. Would Branson know better than his own Generals? Perhaps. Or perhaps not.
***
Branson de’Gaius
As Vale came into view, Branson’s heart beat a solid rhythm. Had it only been a few short months ago that he had volunteered at the Temple, thinking of nothing except the desire to woo Graissa yet again?
Much had happened since then. He was no longer the same man. He was better, in some ways. In others? His mind flashed to the night in the gardens, leaving Mistress Blaine to the clutches of Rayford Blackship, doing nothing.
Nothing. Like a coward.
Sometimes her fearful face invaded his dreams. In others, he was the perpetrator instead of Rafe. More often than not, he awoke with a belly full of acid and a mind full of darkness. Only the morning light could dispel the demons wracking him. Demons of his own making.
Branson shook his head, willing the thoughts to flee. He was not responsible for another man’s sin. In the end, he did what he thought he must to maintain his credibility with King Voltaire. That mighty, conflicted, mysterious man who somehow had a hold on Branson’s heart and affections.
The pounding of the horse’s hooves faltered. He raised his eyes as a retinue broke from the city gates to meet him. Branson was alone but wore the colors of the King’s court. A white flag waved from the saddle to trail out behind him.
This was it, then. If he couldn’t convince them to join the King, they would pay the price. He hated to see his countrymen fall, but he had chosen his side. His lot was cast.
Ten armed soldiers halted on the road in front of Vale, faces covered by helmets hiding all but their eyes. Most carried poleblades, but one broke formation and thundered toward him, a blade strapped at his side. Their steel meant little to him. He was a warlock, after all.
The soldier pulled his horse to a halt, and Branson rode to meet him. Blood pounded in his head, hands slick with sweat. Gripping the reins tight, he halted and sat silent, eyes fixed on the soldier. The man’s eyes were dark behind the slit that allowed him to see. He was powerful, alert, his stallion pounding a hoof on the road and stirring up dust.
“You wear the colors of the Triumphant King,” the man said. “Yet you carry the white flag and come alone. What is your business?”
“I am Branson de’Gaius, son of Bruil de’Gaius, returning son of Vale. I would speak with the Council.”
The soldier raised his helmet, revealing a hard face sliced by a scar from forehead to jaw. It appeared as if his entire face had met the sharp edge of an ax. Branson tried not to stare, forcing himself to gaze steadfast into the man’s eyes. “If you are a son of Vale, why do you wear the colors of a foreign king?”
“I speak on his behalf, bringing an offer for the Council.”
“The Council sent the last Westlandian emissary scuttling back to his liege. What makes you think you will be any different?”
Branson clenched his jaw. The soldier was being purposeful in his hardened resolve to make this difficult. Perhaps things weren’t going to be as smooth as he had hoped. “Because I have insight that might change their minds.”
“Insight?” The soldier scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s supposed to convince me to let you through?”
“No, you will let me through because I am Midlandian, and because it is my right to enter the city where I was born and raised. If you give me more trouble, I would speak with the constable.” Branson waved a hand toward the gates. “I have as much of a right to be there as you do.”
The soldier’s eyes hardened even more than they already were. “I say you lost that right when you donned the colors of a despot.”
“Despot?” Branson asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know little of what you speak, soldier. Perhaps you should leave the decision up to the Council and go back to your barracks. As I said, you are a soldier. I am a son of Vale. Step aside or draw your blade and we can settle this here and now.”
Branson embraced the Deep, prepared for anything. After a moment of further scrutiny, the soldier finally gave a curt nod. “Pass through, traitor. You will be escorted to the constable, where you can make your case.”
“I’m not sure the Council will take kindly to your delaying the audience. The longer you prohibit me from speaking with them, the direr their situation becomes. The King will not wait.”
“Wait for what?” The soldier settled his stamping mount with a heavy hand on its side. “Do you make a threat?”
“You can’t be oblivious to the army amassed at your border. They grow impatient with the politicking of the Council. The King would march through or enlist the help of the Ch
ancellor’s armies.”
“All things Blackship communicated.” The man shook his head. “You waste the Council’s time.”
Branson stifled growing anger, trying to maintain his calm. It wasn’t easy. “You would stop me, then?”
“You may see the constable, as I said.” The soldier gestured toward the city. “We will see you through safely, since you ride with the colors of the King. The people might think to attack you on the streets.”
Branson almost laughed at the useless threat. If Rafe was correct, the people were fed up with the Chancellor and would be happy to see a change of leadership. But he didn’t call the man’s bluff. Very well. It would only go worse for this buffoon when the Council learned he was wasting precious time.
***
The constable took one look at Branson and then glared at the escort. Forde would no doubt have some words for the soldier, later. But that wasn’t Branson’s problem.
“Why do you bring him here, Captain? Do you want to waste all of our time?” Vernstice, as Branson recalled, was little more than a puppet of Rypen del’Barron.
“I saw little need to bother the Council, considering...” the Captain trailed off.
Considering what? He looked at the man from the corner of his eye. But he didn’t elaborate, although the constable seemed to know what he meant.
“All the more reason for this man to say what he needs to say and then leave. Take him to the Council immediately, Captain.”
That was that. Branson did little to hide the smug smile enveloping his face as the Captain turned a dark shade of red, saluted, and then huffed from the room.
By the time they made it to the Council Hall, afternoon was shifting to dusk. He tried to still the racing of his heart as he was escorted through the corridors, in vain masking the awe sweeping through him and shifted his face from smugness to open amazement. The only time he had been here was on his Heirday, when he was of age and the estate of his father was officially recognized as his once his father passed into death. But even on Heirday he had never traversed the deep corridors winding into the stone monolith, illuminated by high windows, skylights, and art of such beauty that Branson nearly stopped in his tracks to stare.
The Last Steward Page 13