Sacrifice (Book 4)

by Brian Fuller

  “He is still wavering, I’m afraid,” the Chalaine answered. “We’ve worked at him all afternoon, but he fears repercussions to his estate since a Portal to Tenswater is nearby, and I can’t blame him.”

  Mirelle sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. If I fail, then a personal visit from Aldradan Mikmir may be in order. Now, let’s leave Gen and the Lady Alumira together, since I don’t believe the marriage proposal has been properly made yet. I have given Gen my consent to marry my daughter earlier.”

  The party broke up, the Chalaine hanging onto Gen until they left. Gen tried to calm his mind. Impersonating a legend would prove taxing, and he hardly knew where to start. But he tried to push his concerns aside as a beaming Chalaine lifted her veil and greeted him properly as she promised. During all the planning with Mirelle, he had failed to even consider that he would need to ask the Chalaine to marry him in some proper manner. Since her first marriage was forced upon her, it would be doubly important to impress her.

  “Well?” she asked, face expectant. “Don’t you have something to ask me?”

  “Lady Alumira. . .”

  “You know,” she interrupted, “the Lady on the front of the name makes it much too stuffy. Just call me Alumira like you did back in our canyon days together.”

  “Very well. Alumira, when I look back over the past two years of our acquaintance. . .”

  “And I don’t want some long, sloppy speech, either. Your actions toward me have said a thousand times more than words ever could about your feelings.”

  He knelt before her. “Alumira. . .”

  “Stand up for pity’s sake!” she said, this time without mirth. “You will never kneel before me. Ever.”

  A little flummoxed, he stood and took her hands. “Will you marry. . .”

  “Yes, of course I will. What took you so long?” she joked, greeting him properly several more times. “I’ve waited so long! This will be the best night of my life.”

  “Just a few more days, Alumira, and you’ll be back home and be a proper Queen, just as it should be.”

  “Not exactly correct,” she said, lowering her veil and guiding him away from the pavilion. “I will be home in a few days and a proper Queen in a few days, but I will be a married woman tonight.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” she said. “That wedding will be a big show for the world. The wedding tonight will be just for us. Regent Feldebrinne’s Pureman lives just behind the manor, and I’m sure we can persuade him.”

  “Are you sure?” Gen asked.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I just thought that since things turned out so miserably for your first marriage that you would want something glorious this time, with a procession of knights and trumpets and screaming celebrants and a cake and good food and everyone telling you how beautiful your dress is.”

  She laughed. “No. I just want you. You ride off to war in a week, and I will not spend another night alone dreaming of how I want it to be. If I dream of you, I want to wake up and make the dreams real. I have sacrificed, and I have been patient, and I have stifled my feelings, and I am done with it all. I have longed for you for what seems like an age, and I will have my way tonight.”

  “You’re going to have to tell Dason,” he warned her.

  “Nothing says, ‘I don’t love you’ like marrying someone else.”

  “I just hope he takes it honorably.”

  “I really don’t care,” the Chalaine said. “I have suffered a great deal these last few days with all his fawning and bald-faced hints. The best mercy I can afford him is not to let him know how small he has become in my heart.”

  “This will be a poor wedding night,” Gen said. “I have a lot of work to do before morning.”

  “I know. Let’s fetch the Pureman quickly and be wed. I will retire to my chambers. You do what work you need to with Maewen. When you are finished, come to me. I will wait for you. I promise tonight will be memorable, even if there is no cake.”

  Gen smiled to himself as he and the Chalaine descended the hill into the woods and worked their way around the manor house toward the small Chapel at the rear. Few people frequented the estate, though Embriss’s soldiers still patrolled the grounds thickly. The ancient Pureman was still at work cleaning the inside of the small stonework Chapel. Lanterns bathed the ancient interior with a cheery light, revealing the marks of age on the old edifice and its furnishings. The Pureman eyed them both with a friendly smile and straightened himself with some effort.

  “Good evening, Chalaine,” he said. “I received word that you were with us. I am honored that you have come to see me. And who is this that you bring with you?”

  “His identity is a great secret for now, but you may call him Amos,” she answered. “And what is your name?”

  “Pureman Talis,” he answered.

  “We have a favor to ask you,” she continued. “We wish to be wed immediately.”

  He blinked, the unexpected request requiring some time to grind through his brain. “To be married?”

  “That is correct,” the Chalaine continued. “This instant, if you would.”

  “But aren’t you just widowed?” he asked.

  “It is true, but I assure you that what I ask of you now is the sincerest wish of my heart.”

  “And mine,” Gen added.

  Talis appeared stuck, his aged visage registering confusion. After sorting through his mind for an objection, he shrugged his shoulders. “I am a poor country Pureman for such an honor as this.”

  “We seek no other gift than your power to bind us,” Gen added. “Will you do this?”

  “If you wish it,” he answered. “Though it seems a hasty thing to me. Let me fetch the ribbon to bind you.”

  He shuffled off through a door, and they walked forward to the altar. There they waited for some time, the sounds of rummaging and muttering echoing through the empty Chapel. At last he returned, a frustrated look on his face.

  “I’m afraid I can’t find it. I think that Haddis boy took it after his wedding two days ago.”

  Gen created one in his hand. “Will this do?”

  Talis regarded it with surprise. “Yes, it will. Put your hands on the altar and I’ll bind them together.”

  The old, shaking hands took some time to get it right, and Gen smiled at the Chalaine who was unconsciously tapping her foot in impatience. At length, Talis finished and stood behind the altar.

  “This is most unusual,” he said. “No one’s even here to witness it.”

  “The two most important ones are here. Please proceed,” the Chalaine instructed. “And my name now is Lady Alumira Se’ Ellenwei.”

  “Alumira what?”

  It took a few tries to get it right, but at last Talis seemed to get the hang of the unusual moniker.

  “Since you are determined to proceed, let us do so promptly.”

  “Yes, please,” the Chalaine said, Gen stifling a chuckle.

  “I, Talis, Pureman of the Church of the One stand before you duly authorized to bind you together as husband and wife. The tie which binds your hands represents the binding between your hearts that can only be broken when love is betrayed by a heart unfaithful or starved by a heart neglectful. It is a bond that should be so soft as to afford peace and comfort, but of such strength to resist every hammer blow of life’s afflictions. Are you prepared now to enjoy every pleasure, to endure every hardship, and to resist every evil as husband and wife?”

  “Yes,” the Chalaine answered.

  “Yes,” Gen added.

  “Then I, Talis, pronounce you, Amos, and you Alumira Se’ Ellenwei, man and wife.”

  The Chalaine leaped into Gens arms. “I am married! And there were no demons, and no one died or anything.”

  “The night is still young,” Gen quipped.

  The door creaking behind them turned their gaze, where they found it slightly ajar. No one was there.

  “The wind does that from time to time,” Talis s
aid. “Now, let me go get my book and record this. Amos and Alumira, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Talis wandered off, and Gen lifted the veil and kissed the Chalaine, who returned it passionately.

  “Now,” she said, voice teasing as she played her fingers over his chest, “do not be overly long with the half-elven hussy. I will retire, and when you are ready, use one of your little tricks to come up to my window. I’ll show you the correct one. If you’re very polite, I’ll let you in.”

  “I will be sure to say please,” he said.

  He led her back to the manor house where Maewen loitered outside. She fetched Gerand to take over her protection.

  “Remember,” the Chalaine said, “don’t stay out too late. And be polite.”

  “Yes, Alumira. I will remember and obey all your instructions.”

  She left, and Maewen gave him a quizzical look before speaking with him in Elvish.

  “It is good to see her happy again,” Maewen commented. “She is an interesting girl. She is so young and simple, but has been thrust into such complex circumstances. Her protected life kept her naive, but hardships have tested and hardened her. I am glad that you will marry. It will be good for you both.”

  “It will.”

  “I do sorrow for Mirelle, though. She loves you just as much, as I think you are well aware.”

  Gen felt his hear sink. “I’m trying not to think of it just now. I hope she can find love.”

  Maewen nodded. “As do I. Many men would marry her, but I think she will go to her grave alone.”

  “Let’s get to work,” Gen suggested, not wanting to revisit his feelings for Mirelle.

  Maewen led him into the trees, and they found a small clearing away from the stone wall. The moonlight was strong in the hazy light, the night birds singing softly in the still air. Maewen sat on a stump.

  “I assume you will use Trysmagic to create the armor and sword you need?”

  “Yes.”

  “The detail of the sword you have seen. The armor of Aldradan’s later years was extremely ornate with a filigreed eagle on the breastplate and greaves. The shield had one too. You may find this exhausting.”

  “It must be done.”

  “Before we begin, do you know what errand Dason is about?”

  “I’ve been with the Chalaine. Perhaps the First Mother sent him somewhere. Why do you ask?”

  “He rode away from the manor not long before you came. He appeared angry, and I wondered if he’d been dismissed or sent on an unwanted quest. I just found it peculiar that one so pegged to the Chalaine’s side would leave her. I’ll ask Mirelle about it tomorrow. Let’s begin. I’ll try to be as descriptive as possible so you don’t need to do many alterations. We need to get you to bed. You’ve had a long journey and will need your rest tonight.”

  “Yes, I would like to retire as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER 83 - ALDRADAN MIKMIR

  Pontiff Athan sat upon the throne of Echo Hold in Eldaloth’s absence. He rubbed the rough, stony edges of the arm rests with his hands and grinned with satisfaction. While not a king, he fancied that at this moment he held more power than Chertanne ever had, and he certainly used it with more skill than the dimwitted, cowardly, and tragically short-lived monarch.

  The Ha’Ulrich had played his part badly, but in the end Eldaloth’s purposes had been served. Athan took comfort in Eldaloth’s mercy. If one such as Chertanne with all his fumbling and stumbling could earn Eldaloth’s rest, then surely the man who had succeeded in facilitating his healing by bringing him the deluded Chalaine would earn splendorous rewards untold. That Eldaloth had chosen him to use the Sword of the Chalaine to restore Ki’Hal to its former glory was an unexpected and humbling assignment that thrilled him.

  Today he sat in audience in the ascetic Great Hall, a place that suited his notion of propriety. The lack of frippery and fashion pleased him, the hard, earthy nature suiting the simplicity and strength he had always wished to project. The entire edifice had been carved directly from the stone, a building born from nature itself. Its heavy ceiling exuded a sense of dangerous weight that had been properly subdued for the use of man.

  Today Athan hoped to hear the first reports of those accepting the invitation to join the Procession of Glory. Busy days awaited to prepare for such a momentous journey, but all the pieces were in place. His Padras ruled the nations, the people danced in the streets in adulation, and whatever Eldaloth needed was freely given. Their God had left to prepare the way east to Elde Luri Mora.

  Athan scoffed at the fools that had arranged the first, disastrous caravan. So many mistakes. So little discipline and control. Only Eldaloth’s merciful care had spared them from utter ruin. I will do better, he promised himself. He would honor Eldaloth with a caravan that would praise his name and protect his subjects with orderliness and efficiency. He had prepared for every contingency, from weather, to the still-troublesome Uyumaak, to some desperate attempt by Mirelle and her allies to stop them.

  The door to the hall swung open, admitting the first visitor of the morning. Athan corrected his posture, gripping the Pontiff’s staff and sitting erect even though the guest was his longtime friend and confidant, Padra Nolan. Pontiff Athan regarded him with a friendly expression until Nolan’s quick gait and anxious face prompted concern. The man, long used to difficult news and hard decisions, appeared genuinely alarmed. He didn’t even bother to properly genuflect as he should have done.

  “It is most extraordinary,” Padra Nolan began.

  “Be easy, Padra Nolan,” Pontiff Athan said as his friend stopped before him. The poor man was out of breath.

  “I don’t think we can be easy about this, Padra Athan. We are in danger of losing control of Rhugoth.”

  Athan stood. “What? Mirelle?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Who would do this? The Regents?”

  Padra Nolan took a moment to collect himself, and Athan slid back on the throne, bracing his back and bracing for news. We cannot lose control of Rhugoth so easily, he reassured himself. I placed enough soldiers there to crush any rebellion!

  “It is not Mirelle or the Regents, though they surely lend their support and their men. Rhugoth has its king again. Aldradan Mikmir has returned.”

  Athan reeled. “Impossible! Church scholars have confirmed his death. This is some trick!”

  “It may be, Pontiff,” Padra Nolan agreed, “but he comes with mighty power! We’ve wondered who it was that rescued Mirelle with that display of magic, especially with Ethris dead. Aldradan claims that responsibility, saying that Mirelle’s need pulled him away from his rest and into the world again. He wields a sword that can cleave anything, as he amply demonstrated in Embriss, dismantling the Eldephaere with the telltale blade. It was his first appearance as Aldradan, apparently.

  “If the stories are to be believed, he rode into the city practically glowing, sword drawn and calling for the pilgrims to hear his words. Our Eldephaere went to stop him, but just as he did on the streets of Echo Hold, he destroyed them with little effort. By the time he left, even the Eldephaere who remained believed he was the King of Mikmir returned, and the word is spreading quickly through Tenswater—and hence the world.”

  Pontiff Athan calmed himself. “We have an army in Rhugoth, and there is no way they could. . .”

  The door to the Great Hall opened again and an acolyte jogged forward. Athan called for silence from Padra Nolan. There was no need to start rumors and create panic. The acolyte handed Nolan a letter and withdrew quickly. Nolan read it and turned as white as a sheet.

  “It is confirmed. Mikmir is out of our hands.”

  “No! So quickly?”

  “Padra Madred is dead. It says that Aldradan came into the city, accompanied by the Chalaine, after having gathered a mighty mob of people along the way. The gates were shut, but he opened them with a word of command. Our soldiers simply fled. Apparently Madred tried to confront Aldradan but fell dead without so much
as a whimper. From all reports, King Mikmir looks and acts the part. Mirelle is with them, and Aldradan is preaching her belief that Eldaloth is indeed Mikkik.”

  “This is some scheme of hers,” Athan said, face livid. “I should have killed that woman a hundred times by now! Where she conjured up an Aldradan Mikmir, I cannot guess. But this is the true fraud. I must inform Eldaloth at once. He will know how to act to stop this treachery.”

  “There’s more,” Padra Nolan continued. “Aldradan Mikmir will wed the Chalaine in Mikmir in three days and has invited everyone of importance to attend—the same list we sent to join the Procession of Glory, I assume.”

  Athan tried to keep his boiling anger under control for the sake of Padra Nolan. “She is just spitting in my face, now,” he ranted. “They must all be punished. We must expose this fake King for whoever he really is and quell these doubts. I can’t believe this. Please keep me informed of any further developments. I will call a council this afternoon. Please get all the Padras here who can attend. We have some holes in our ranks to fill, and quickly.”

  “I will, Pontiff,” Nolan said, bowing. “But there is more. We have a very unexpected visitor. Do you remember Dason, Lord Kildan’s son?”

  “Yes. His father was just executed.”

  “He wishes an audience with you.”

  Athan’s eyes widened. “He left the Chalaine? Is this some further device of Mirelle’s?”

  “I do not think so,” Padra Athan said. “I have him under guard outside. Will you see him?”

  “This is indeed strange. Yes, see him in and stay with me to ward against any treachery.”

  Athan resumed a formal posture on his throne as Padra Nolan returned with their unlooked for guest. Dason had sided with the Ha’Ulrich, Athan remembered, when Gen had turned everyone against him. He was Tolnorian, a skilled fighter, and every inch a courtier. When he entered, his handsome face was twisted in an unhappy scowl, though Athan thought the cause might be the binds and escort, both an affront to his honor.