Thus troubled, Phinneas Crowe fell asleep at last, only to be haunted by visions of an all-consuming fire and an ocean of indigo energy washing over all he knew.
Chapter 10
Audiences
Sarad waited impatiently for his familiar to materialize. He could sense the imp’s presence, but his servant was nothing if not impetuous, and enjoyed taxing Sarad’s forbearance whenever possible.
“What have you discovered, Talinus?” It took a supreme force of will for Sarad not to turn his head and actively look for the imp. Demonic familiars did not enjoy a reputation for being the most loyal of agents, but their unique skills more than made up for this singular failing.
“Much is afoot my Master,” Talinus hissed from alarmingly close, his pronunciation of Master derisive at best.
The imp remained invisible, much to his own amusement, until he glided over Sarad’s shoulder and materialized. Talinus alighted on the floor. Standing, he could look the Prelate, who sat, in the eye without needing to tilt his head.
“I’m all ears,” Sarad said.
“The queen has received a correspondence from Baruch Rachman, king of Ittamar.”
“Yes, Talinus, I know who the king of Ittamar is.”
“Of course, my Master.” The imp grinned around a mouthful of needlelike teeth. “He wishes to engage in trade with Galacia—ore in exchange for grain. He offers to send an emissary to discuss a lasting peace and open trade.”
Talinus yawned.
“And...” said Sarad, who failed to keep his ire from slipping into his voice, “what did the queen decide?”
“After much deliberation she decided to allow the emissary to come.”
“Indeed.” Sarad leaned back and pointedly ignored Talinus as he mulled the news over. The false Prelate’s scheming mind had already begun to generate new plots from this unexpected turn of events. “This bodes well for us. We can turn this into quite the advantage, my little friend. How does the council feel about the queen’s choice?”
“The Five Houses are not pleased, with the exception of Antares, who supports his niece as usual. Although, Rabidine, while he regards the Ittamar with distaste, doesn’t seem to care overly much one way or the other. As long as the flow of wine from Phyra is not interrupted, he’ll take anything in stride. Even though the queen holds firm in her decision, the council continues to argue their point and bicker amongst themselves.”
“Excellent. Division only breeds a more fertile ground for the seed of our rising.”
“Brilliant metaphor, Master.”
Sarad snorted a laugh despite himself. He loosed Talinus’s leash with a thought, emancipating the imp slightly from the geas that kept him bound in servitude. “You have done well. Why don’t you go enjoy yourself a vestal virgin or some other such delicacy. Just be careful to cover your tracks.”
Talinus all but purred. He didn’t even attempt a trademark quip, for his eyes had already glazed over in anticipation of the grisly sating of his demonic appetites.
Talinus flew from Sarad’s chambers atop the central tower of the Keep of the One God and into the dusk.
A toothy grin erupted on Sarad’s face. Everything was falling into place without so much as a hitch. Soon the throne would be under his control, and the reward for his tireless efforts on the behalf of his Lords would come due.
The Prelate’s smug indulgence, however, proved short lived.
The heat drained from the room in the span of a breath. Sarad’s breath steamed in the frigid air and goose-bumps sprouted on his forearms and the nape of his neck. He turned from the window, pulse thundering in apprehension of what awaited him.
A shade stood before him, its visage contorted into a mask of rage. The shadowy form wavered and pulsed in waves of indigo energy shot through with scarlet veins. Sarad composed himself and addressed his fallen compatriot.
“Slade, what has befallen you?”
“The Marshal rides. Beware. Sleeping lions have woken. From the south they rise.”
With that cryptic remark the specter of Slade burned out in a cataclysm of fell energy and a lashing of gales, leaving an atypically uneasy Sarad Mirengi in its wake.
†
“It is not my wish to belabor the point, my Queen,” said Lord Geoffrey Oberon, voice of House Oberon on the council, “but the House of Oberon cannot condone an audience with this Ittamar emissary.” He all but spat the last the word, as if uttering a curse. “Who can guess at the intent of such a mission? Perhaps their motives are noble. However, it might be an insidious plot to scout our defenses, and learn the layout of Peidra and Lucerne Palace. Worse yet, it could be a cleverly concealed assassination attempt under the guise of diplomacy.”
Eithne took a deep breath before responding to the reedy Lord Oberon. “Firstly, Oberon, it is not your place to condone my choices or mandates. Your role, if your memory must be refreshed, is to offer counsel, not approval. Now, it does not seem likely that Ittamar would send spies or assassins in the open. It would only initiate another conflict, and all of our intelligence suggests that they are as ill equipped to fight another war as we. If it is foul play they intend, they would send covert agents, not diplomats under a flag of truce.”
“Your reasoning, Majesty, is of course quite sound,” said Lord Vachel Ogressa, who had missed the council’s last session due to his meeting with the Prelate. “Be that as it may, if Baruch bears you ill will he may count on us thinking he wouldn’t dare to send an assassin or spy out in the open. While searching for the snake in the long grass, one may overlook the one underfoot.”
Eithne clenched her teeth so hard she feared they would break, although she knew she shouldn’t be surprised that Vachel had jumped to Oberon’s side. House Ogressa and Oberon had ever been eager bedfellows. Aside from being the wealthiest and most influential of the five houses, they both enjoyed a long standing rapport with decadent Phyra. The big Os as Eithne called them, made ideal candidates for diplomatic missions to that carefree monarchy, for they shared not only blood ties but a love of all things opulent. She supposed Oberon and Ogressa were sore that they had been born to an agrarian kingdom and not their neighbors to the west, who were known for their rich deposits of marble, precious ores, and poetry.
“It pleases me, Lord Ogressa, that you are so concerned for my welfare, but I assure you that we will take all necessary precautions,” Eithne said. “Captain Blackwell has the situation well under control. The emissaries from Ittamar will never go unescorted in our lands.”
“If it is your will, My Lady, the council will see it done,” said Josua Antares, Eithne’s one steadfast ally on the council.
Known for his even temper, the mature yet vibrant Lord of House Antares always supported the interests of his niece. Never having known her Mother, who died in childbirth, Eithne had the love of two fathers. Some twenty-odd years later, when aged King Peregrine succumbed to the consumption and followed his bride to the afterlife, Josua and faithful Ogden were all she had left of her parents, and of affection.
“I think we owe it to the children of the war,” Josua continued, “and the veterans that gave their lives, to give peace a chance.”
“We owe it to the soldiers and knights that spilled their blood in the frost-lands not to roll out the red carpet and treat these heathen butchers like an old acquaintance we had an unfortunate spat with!” said Dekel Mycrum, voice of the militant House Mycrum.
“Lord Mycrum, no one is asking you to befriend these men from the North, but merely listen to what they have to say,” Eithne said. “I know the Quarter Century War is still fresh in our minds, and the wounds yet tender, but believe me when I say House Denar will never allow that bitter campaign to become a footnote, forgotten to the scribes and bards. We will honor the past, but we must also honor the future. This is the will of the crown.”
Mycrum bowed his head. “Yes, my Queen,” he said, a little stiffly, but not without deference.
“Let them come,” said Lord Winthrop
Rabidine with a shrug. “The northmen may be brutes and savages, but I think the sting has gone from their bite. Their mountain halls are teeming with gold and workable ore in abundance, and they are doubtlessly little aware how valuable the resources they take for granted are. Also, selling grain to the Ittamar may drive up the market price, which could further line our pockets. The less grain we have, the more we can charge to our other buyers.”
“Yes, Winthrop” said Mycrum dryly, “we all understand the basics of supply and demand.”
The House of Rabidine long enjoyed a reputation as the most flippant of the high houses—a reputation that Winthrop, the youngest member of the queen’s Council, certainly lived up to. Of Winthrop, rumor held that he inherited his father’s excessive appetite for wine and other more exotic intoxicants, and also an indolent approach to life, taking great pleasure in reveling into the early hours of the morning. Thus, this was a typical response from House Rabidine who, having its hands in many of the prominent merchant houses, adopted a more lenient attitude when issues of trade were involved.
Still, Eithne needed the support of House Rabidine, and she was glad to have it despite Winthrop’s myriad failings—or his motives.
“If I may,” said Vachel with a demure clearing of his throat, “bring up another subject for debate?”
“By all means, Lord Ogressa,” said Eithne, who was thankful to leave the subject of the Ittamarian emissary behind. “What do you have on your mind?”
“I wish to speak of Prelate.”
“Oh?” Eithne said, taken aback. “What has the Prelate to do with matters of council?”
“Not a thing, your Majesty,” Vachel answered, “which is precisely my point.”
“Vachel,” Eithne sighed, “I permiss you to be blunt.”
Vachel favored his queen with a smile. “The Prelate has made quite a reputation for himself, as you know. He is the youngest man to be appointed to his venerable office. He is wise and has the ear of God himself. Some say that he has the ability to perform divine miracles, like the prophets of old!”
“I’m not sure I like where this is headed,” Mycrum growled, frowning at the cheerful Vachel Ogressa.
“Yes, what exactly are you getting at?” said Josua, his hawk-like eyes narrowing.
Oberon threw his hands up. “Let the man finish!”
The queen nodded and Vachel continued. “I propose that we think about inviting the Prelate to be an advisor to the council.”
“That is preposterous,” Josua said flatly. “The Church has no involvement in the rule of Galacia. Hell, the Church has already spread its faith through the lands and practically has a temple in every town. It’s a moral center not a governing body, and has more than enough power if you ask me.”
“I must agree with Lord Antares,” Eithne said, troubled. “What would behoove you to suggest this?”
Vachel shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Only that I recently had an audience with the Prelate, and discovered a deep admiration for his wisdom and candor. I feel his counsel would prove most valuable.”
“Actually, it may not be that bad an idea,” mused Oberon, as he rubbed at the side of his prominent nose. “Such a move could win favor with the more conservative members of the court and citizenry. It may demonstrate to your critics that wonder why you refuse to take a husband that you are in fact a God-fearing woman, with an intact moral compass.”
Eithne fumed. The council and a host of other advisors, with the exception of Josua, had been beleaguering her, both implicitly and explicitly, about marriage since her father’s death. Just last week, she had been paid a diplomatic visit from Prince Nigel of Erastes whose circumspect attempts at wooing and flirtation were as laughable as they were infuriating. She could only guess at which one of her incorrigible counselors or advisors it had been that planted the seed in the Prince’s mind.
Eithne refused to wed. Her position as monarch was precarious enough without forging an alliance through marriage with a foreign power that might attempt to subvert her will and the well-being of her people. The court, of course, hungered for the wealth such a marriage would bring, but Eithne’s concern was in maintaining the autonomy of the crown. Worse yet, marrying inside the country would jeopardize the delicate balance of power between the Five Houses, and the other members of the court might defer to a male sovereign, who would have the interests of his own house and progeny in the foreground of his thoughts.
Eithne knew she had to consolidate her own power as queen before taking a husband. She swore to herself and her father when she took the crown that the House of Denar would keep the throne. She was young and healthy yet, and if some scheming courtier happened to slide a dagger in her back, well she had her Uncle Vance and then Bryn to succeed her.
Eithne’s thoughts briefly turned to her cousin. Considering Bryn’s ravishing beauty, it was something of a mystery that she remained unwed, but it suited the queen just fine. Bryn’s unique skills served Galacia far better in her current capacity than as a mother of potential monarchs, at least for now.
“Lord Ogressa,” the queen said at last, manufacturing her most winning smile, “I respect the spirit of your proposition, but for now five of you are as much as I can handle. That being said, if there is nothing else...” She waited a moment, pointedly looking Geoffrey Oberon in the eye, daring him to goad her further. “This session of the Council of the Six Houses has come to a end.”
†
The witch looked up at Agnar Vundi with murky, pupilless eyes. Despite the clouds that rolled across her irises, like a foreboding storm front predicting calamity, the ancient woman didn’t seem to have any trouble seeing him. She held an opaque skull sized orb in both hands.
“What do you see?” asked Agnar who crouched uneasily on his haunches.
“There is a storm coming.”
Agnar laughed. “Funny, those were my sentiments exactly.”
“Not the kind you smell in the wind, champion of arms. Nay, but a storm nevertheless rises far to the south in the parched heat of a blasted wasteland. It will rise far from our borders and spread first through Galacia, but after consuming our foes of yore it will turn its hunger upon us.”
Agnar rubbed at his clean-shaven face as he pondered the import of the witch’s words. It felt strange to be beardless, but Baruch thought that the Galacians, who saw only savages in the men of the north, would take an emissary more seriously if he presented himself in southern fashion. “I came here, seer,” he said, “to seek what my future held.”
“That,” she said with a narrowing of her tempestuous eyes, “is your fate.”
“By the halls of our fathers,” Agnar cursed. “See you nothing else?”
“Only that your fate is intertwined with that of a Southlander—a brother in blood. To save him is to save yourself, and our nation.”
Agnar strode out of the witch’s tent with a heavier heart than when he had entered, which he hadn’t thought possible. As cousin to the King, his station as well as his prowess in battle had earned him the respect of many, and the honored mission of serving as diplomatic emissary to Galacia.
He, unlike most of his brethren, did not relish in the thrill of the fight, despite his reputation for getting out of tight spots. Truth be told, Agnar loathed battle, although one of the prime tenets of the Ittamar way of life said that glory and honor came to those who fell beneath the sword. Nevertheless, with his unorthodox style of fighting with dual short blades he cut his way to victory time and again.
While this current mission did not entail force of arms, it promised to be his most deadly and challenging trial yet.
A son of Ittamar had not set foot on Galacian soil, save the field of battle, for nigh two centuries. The Gods alone knew what dangers awaited in the court of his ancient foe. What he did know for certain was that without southern grain many of his kin would not survive the next winter.
Agnar adjusted the swords he wore at his waist in the Galacian fashion and pulled his cloak
tight. The wind nibbled at his face and hands, and in that ghostly promise of winter he fancied he heard the whisper of malignant voices crooning for his blood.
Chapter 11
Marshal Rising
Elias watched as the wilting sun painted Macallister’s fields of grain scarlet. He stood stock-still, biding his time for the better part of an hour. A careless observer might have taken him for a scarecrow, save for the Marshal’s duster and the exotic blade strapped to his back.
Elias suppressed a burning desire to spring into action, to take a torch to Macallister’s fields, barns, and outbuildings, laying waste to everything he had, as the rancher had done to him. His heart punched against his breastbone and he breathed heavily, as if caught in a dead run—but still he waited.
Phinneas, naturally, had thought his plan to take Macallister in foolhardy at best. “These things must go through the proper channels,” he had said. “But what’s more, Macallister may have hired swords, and at the least you’ll have Cormik to deal with. Elias, you could get yourself killed.”
He had to concede that point to the doctor. The brash young noble would doubtlessly be eager to take the opportunity to seek requital for his humiliation in the fencing circle. Elias, however, had reasoned that while Macallister likely had armed men to protect his lands and riches, they were probably local men and none too eager to cross steel in mortal combat. The two men posted at Macallister’s front gates, though, looked anything but, and had the hardened, grizzled look of professional mercenaries.
Despite the pause that gave him, it had been easy enough to avoid the sell-swords by scaling an unattended portion the wall that protected Macallister’s manor and slip around the back of the estate proper. His main worry at that point had been leaving Comet grazing in the open, which, aside from being a clue as to the presence of an unexpected guest, denied him the possibility of a quick getaway if things went south. Or, Elias amended, it had been his main worry until he discovered that Macallister had also posted a pair of guards at the rear entrance of the manor by the gardens.
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