***
Amidst the sound of pounding hammers, Regent Maurice Saldur strode through the palace reception hall where artisans were busy at work. A year ago this was King Ethelred's castle, the stark stone fortress of Avryn's most powerful monarch. Since the coronation of the empress, it became the Imperial Palace of the Nyphron Empire and the home of the Daughter of Maribor. Saldur insisted on the renovations: A grand new foyer complete with the crown seal etched in white marble on the floor, several massive chandeliers to lighten the dark interior, a wider ornate balcony from which her eminence could wave to her adoring people, and of course a complete rework of the throne room.
Ethelred and the chancellor balked at the expense. The new throne cost almost as much as a warship, but they did not understand the importance of impressions the way he did. He had an illiterate, nearly comatose child for an empress, and the only thing preventing disaster was that no one knew. How much silk, gold, and marble did it take to blind the world? More than he had access to he was certain, but he would do what he could.
These last few weeks, Saldur felt as if he were balancing on his head while standing on a stool with one leg missing, strapped to the back of a runaway horse. The Empire went up practically overnight like a barn-raising. Centuries of planning had finally coalesced, but as with everything, there were mistakes, errors, and circumstances for which they could not possibly account.
The whole fiasco in Dahlgren was only the start. The moment they declared the establishment of the New Empire, Glouston went into open revolt. Alburn decided to haggle over terms, and, of course, there was Melengar. The humiliation was beyond words. Every other Avryn kingdom fell in step as planned, all except his. He was Bishop of Melengar and close personal adviser to the king and later his son, and yet Melengar remained independent. It was only Saldur's clever solution to the Dahlgren problem that kept him from fading into obscurity. He drew victory from ashes, and for that the Patriarch appointed him the church's representative, making him co-regent alongside Ethelred.
The old king of Warric maintained the existing systems, but Saldur was the architect of the new world order. His vision would define the lives of thousands for centuries to come. It was a tremendous opportunity, yet he felt as if he was rolling a massive boulder up a hill. If he should trip or stumble, the rock would roll back and crush him and everything else with it.
When he reached his office, he found Luis Guy waiting. The church sentinel had just arrived, hopefully with good news. The Knight of Nyphron waited near the window, as straight and impeccable as ever. He stood looking out at some distant point with his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he wore the black and scarlet of his order, each line clean, his beard neatly trimmed.
"I assume you've heard," Saldur said, closing the door behind him and ignoring any greeting. Guy was not the type to bother with pleasantries—something Saldur appreciated about the man. Over the last several months, he had seen little of Guy, who the Patriarch kept occupied searching for the real Heir of Novron and the wizard Esrahaddon. This was also to his liking, as Guy could be a formidable rival and his travels kept the sentinel from the center of power. Strangely, Guy appeared to have little interest in carving out a place for himself in the New Empire—something else to be grateful for.
"About the Nationalists? Of course," Guy responded, turning away from the window.
"And?"
"And what?"
"And I would like to know what—" Saldur halted when he noticed another man in the room.
The office was comfortable in size, large enough to accommodate a desk, bookshelves, and a table with a chessboard between two soft chairs where the stranger sat.
"Oh, yes." Guy motioned to the man. "This is Merrick Marius. Merrick meet Bishop—forgive me—Regent Saldur."
"So this is him," Saldur muttered annoyed the man did not rise.
He remained sitting comfortably, leaning back with casual indifference, staring in a manner too direct, too brazen. Merrick wore a thigh-length coat of dark red suede—an awful shade Saldur thought—the color of dried blood. His hair was short; his face pale, and aside from his coat, his attire was simple and unadorned.
"Not very impressive, are you?" Saldur observed.
The man smiled at this. "Do you play chess, your grace?"
Saldur's eyebrows rose and he glanced at Guy. This was his man after all. Guy was the one who dug him up, unearthing him from the fetid streets, and praised his talents. The sentinel said nothing and showed no outward sign of outrage or discontent with his pet.
"I am running an Empire, young man," Saldur replied, dismissively. "I don't have time for games."
"How strange," Merrick said. "I've never thought of chess as a game. To me it is more of a religion really. Every aspect of life, distilled into sixteen pieces within sixty-four black and white squares, which from a distance actually appear gray. Of course, there are more than a mere sixty-four squares. The smaller squares taken in even numbers form larger ones, creating a total of two-hundred and four. Most people miss that. They see only the obvious. Few have the intelligence to look deeper to see the patterns hidden within patterns. That's part of the beauty of chess—it is much more than it first appears, more complicated, more complex. I've heard how some bishops base sermons on it, explaining the hierarchy of pieces and how they represent the classes of society, and the rules of movement depict the individual duties ordained by Maribor.
"Have you ever done that, your grace?" Merrick asked but did not wait for an answer. "Amazing idea, isn't it?" He looked down at the board. "The world at your fingertips, so manageable, so defined. It has such simple rules, a near infinite number of possible paths, but only three outcomes." He leaned forward over the board, his eyes searching the field of black and white.
"The bishop is an interesting piece." He plucked one off the board and held it in his hand, rolling the polished stone figure back and forth across his open palm. "It is not a very well-designed piece, not as pretty perhaps as say the knight. It is often overlooked, hiding along the corners of the board appearing so innocent, so disarming. But it is able to sweep the length of the board at sharp unexpected angles, often with devastating results. I've always thought that bishops were underutilized through a lack of appreciation for their talents. I suppose I am unusual in this respect, but then I'm not the type of person to judge the value of a piece based on how it looks."
"You think you're a very clever fellow, don't you?" Saldur challenged.
"No, your grace," Merrick replied. "Clever is the man who makes a fortune selling dried up cows, explaining how it saves the farmers the trouble of getting up every morning to milk them. I am not clever—I'm a genius."
At this, Guy decided to interject, "Regent, at our last meeting I mentioned a solution to the Nationalist problem. He sits before you. Mister Marius has everything worked out. He merely needs approval from the regents."
"And certain assurances of payment," Merrick added.
"You can't be serious." Saldur whirled on Guy. "The Nationalists are sweeping north on a rampage. They've taken Kilnar. They are only miles from Ratibor. They will be marching on this palace by Wintertide. What I need are ideas, alternatives, solutions—not some irreverent popinjay!"
"You have some interesting ideas, your grace," Merrick told Saldur, his voice calm and casual as if he had not heard a word. "I like your views on a central government. The benefits of standardizations in trade, laws, farming, even the widths of roads are excellent. It shows clarity of thought that I would not expect from an elderly church bishop."
"How do you know anything of my—"
Merrick raised his hand to halt the regent. "I should explain right away that how I obtain information is confidential and not open for discussion. The fact is, I know it—what's more, I like it. I can see the potential in this New Empire you are struggling to erect. It may well be exactly what the world needs to get beyond the petty warfare that weakens our nations and mires the common man in hopeless
poverty. At present, however, this is still a dream. That is where I come in. I only wish you came to me earlier. I could have saved you that embarrassing and now burdensome problem of her eminence."
"That was the result of an unfortunate error on the part of my predecessor, the archbishop. Something he paid for with his life. I was the one who salvaged the situation."
"Yes, I know. Some idiot named Rufus was supposed to slay the mythical beast and thereby prove he was the fabled Heir of Novron, the descendent of the god Maribor himself. Only instead, Rufus was devoured and the beast laid waste to everything in the vicinity. Everything, except a young girl who somehow managed to slay it, and in front of a church deacon no less—oops. But you're right. That wasn't your fault. You were the smart one with the brilliant idea to use her as a puppet—a girl so bereft from losing everything and everyone that she went mad. Your solution to this is to hide her in the depths of the palace and hope no one notices. In the meantime, you and Ethelred run a military campaign to take over all of Avryn, sending your best troops north to invade Melengar just as the Nationalists invade from the south. Brilliant. I must say, with things so well in hand it is a wonder I was contacted at all."
"I am not amused," Saldur told him.
"Nor should you be, for at this moment King Alric of Melengar is setting into motion plans to form an alliance with the Nationalists, trapping you in a two-front war, and bringing Trent into the conflict on their side."
"You know this?"
"It is what I would do. And with the wealth of Delgos and the might of Trent, your fledgling Empire, with its insane empress, will crumble as quickly as it rose."
"More impressed now?" Guy asked.
"And what would you have us do to stave off this impending cataclysm?"
Merrick smiled. "Pay me."
***
The grand exalted Empress Modina Novronian, ruler of Avryn, and high priestess of the Church of Nyphron, sat sprawled on the floor feeding her bowl of soup to Red, who expressed his gratitude by drooling on her dress. He rested his head on her lap and slapped his tail against the stone, his tongue sliding lazily in and out. The empress curled up beside the dog and laid her head on the animal's side. Amilia smiled, it was encouraging to see Modina interact with something, anything.
"Get that disgusting animal out of here and get her off the floor!"
Amilia jumped and looked up horrified to see Regent Saldur enter the kitchen with Edith Mon at his side, wearing a sinister smile. Amilia could not move. Several scullery maids rushed to the empress' side and gently pulled her to her feet.
"The very idea," he continued to shout as the maids busied themselves smoothing out Modina's dress. "You," the regent growled pointing at Amilia, "this is your doing. I should have known. What was I expecting when I put a common street urchin in charge of…of…" he trailed off, looking at Modina with an exasperated expression. "At least your predecessors didn't have her groveling with animals!"
"Your grace, Amilia was—" Ibis Thinly began.
"Shut up, you oaf!" Saldur snapped at the stocky cook, and then returned his attention to Amilia. "Your service to the empress has ended, as well as your employment at this palace."
Saldur motioned to the empress' guard, and then said, "Take her out of my sight." The guard approached Amilia, unable to meet her eyes.
Amilia breathed in short, stifled gasps and realized she was trembling as the soldier approached. Not normally given to crying, Amilia could not help it, and tears began streaming down her cheeks.
"No," Modina said.
Spoken with no force, barely above a whisper, the single word cast a spell on the room. One of the cooking staff dropped a metal pot that rang loudly on the stone floor. They all stared. The regent turned in surprise, and then began to circle the empress, studying her with interest. The girl had a focused, challenging look as she glared at Saldur. The regent glanced from Amilia to Modina several times. He cocked his head from side to side as if trying to work out a puzzle. The guard stood by awkwardly.
At length, Saldur put him at ease. "As the empress commands," Saldur said without taking his eyes off Modina. "It seems that I may have been a bit premature in my assessment of…" Saldur glance at Amilia, annoyed. "What's your name?"
"A—Amilia."
He nodded as if approving the correct answer. "Your techniques are unusual, but certainly one can't argue with results."
Saldur looked back at Modina as she stood within the circle of maids who parted at his approach. He circled her. "She does look better, doesn't she? Color's improved. There's…" he motioned toward her face, "a fullness to her cheeks." His head was nodding. He crossed his arms and with a final nod of approval said, "Very well, you can keep the position, as it seems to please her eminence."
The regent turned and headed out of the scullery. He paused at the doorway to look over his shoulder saying, "You know—I was really starting to believe she was mute."
Chapter 7
The Jewel
Arista always thought of herself as an experienced equestrian. Most ladies never even sat in a saddle, but she had ridden since childhood. The nobles mocked, and her father scolded, but nothing could dissuade her. She loved the freedom of the wind in her hair and her heart pounding with the beat of the hooves. Before setting out, she looked forward to impressing the thieves with her vast knowledge in horsemanship. She knew they would be awed by her skill.
She was wrong.
In Sheridan, Royce found her a spirited brown bay mare to replace her exquisite palfrey. Since setting out he forced them over rough ground, fording streams, jumping logs, and dodging low branches—often at a trot. Clutching white-knuckled to the saddle, she used all her skills and strength just to remain on the horse's back. Gone were her illusions of being praised as a skilled rider, and all that remained was the hope of making it through the day without the humiliation—not to mention the physical pain of falling.
They rode south after leaving the university, following trails only Royce could find. Before dawn they crossed the narrow headwaters of the Galewyr and proceeded up the embankment on the far side. Briars and thickets lashed at them. Unseen dips caught the horses by surprise, and Arista cried out once when her mount made an unexpected lunge across a washed-out gap. Their silence added to her humiliation. If she were a man they would have laughed.
They climbed steadily, reaching such a steep angle that their mounts panted for air in loud snorts and on occasion uttered deep grunts as they struggled to scramble up the dewy slope. At last they crested the hill, and Arista found herself greeting a chilly dawn atop the wind-swept Senon Upland.
The Senon was a high, barren plateau of exposed rock and scrub bushes with expansive views on all sides. The horses' hooves clacked loudly on the barefaced granite until Royce brought them to a stop. His cloak fluttered with the morning breeze. To the east, the sunrise peered at them over the mist-covered forests of Dunmore. From this height, the vast wood appeared like a hazy blue lake as it fell away below them, racing toward the dazzling sun. Arista knew that beyond it lay the Nidwalden River, the Parthalorenon Falls, and the tower of Avempartha. Royce stared east for several minutes, and she wondered if his elven eyes could see that tiny pinnacle of his people in the distance.
In front of them and to the southwest lay the Warric province of Chadwick. Like everything else west of the ridge, it remained submerged in darkness. Down in the deep rolling valley, the predawn sky would only now be separating from the dark horizon. It would have appeared peaceful, a world tucked in bed before the first cock's crow, except for the hundreds of lights flickering like tiny fireflies.
"Breckton's camp," Hadrian said. "The Northern Imperial Army is not making very good time it seems."
"We'll descend before Amber Heights and rejoin the road well past Breckton," Royce explained. "How long do you figure before they reach Colnora?"
Hadrian rubbed the growing stubble of his beard. "Another three, maybe four, days. An army that size moves at
a snail's pace, and I am guessing Breckton isn't pleased with his orders. He's likely dragging his feet hoping they'll be rescinded."
"You sound as if you know him," she said.
"I never met the man, but I fought under his father's banner. I've also fought against him when I served in the ranks of King Armand's army in Alburn."
"How many armies have you served in?"
Hadrian shrugged. "Too many."
They pushed on, traversing the crest into the face of a fierce wind that tugged at her clothes and caused her eyes to water. Arista kept her head down and watched her horse's hooves pick a path across the cracked slabs of lichen-covered rock. She clutched her cloak tight about her neck as the damp of the previous day's rain and sweat conspired with the wind to make her shiver. When they plunged back into the trees the slow descent began. Once more the animals struggled. This time Arista bent backward, nearly to her horse's flanks to keep her balance.
It was mercifully cooler than the day before, though the pace was faster. Finally, several hours after midday they stopped on the bank of a small stream, where the horses gorged themselves on cool water and river grass. Royce and Hadrian grabbed packs and gathered wood. Exhausted, Arista as much fell as sat down. Her legs and backside ached. There were insects and twigs in her hair and a dusting of dirt covering her gown. Her eyes stared at nothing, losing their focus as her mind stalled, numb from fatigue.
What have I gotten myself into? Am I up to this?
They were below the Galewyr, in imperial territory. She had thrown herself into the fire, perhaps foolishly. Alric would be furious when he found her missing, and she could just imagine what Ecton would say. If they caught her—she stopped herself.
This is not helping.
She turned her attention to her escorts.
Like the hours on horseback, Royce and Hadrian remained quiet. Hadrian unsaddled the horses and gave them a light brushing while Royce set up a small cook fire. It was entertaining to watch. Without a word, they would toss tools and bags back and forth. Hadrian blindly threw a hatchet over his shoulder and Royce caught it just in time to begin breaking up branches for the fire. Just as Royce finished the fire, Hadrian had a pot of water ready to place on it. For Arista, who lived her life in public among squabbling nobles and chattering castle staffs, such silence was strange.
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