by Glen Cook
All this Brother Candle heard on the road from Sant Peyre de Mileage. It piled emotion atop emotion, luring him ever farther from Perfection.
He might yet have avoided Khaurene had he not needed to dodge Arnhander scouts that afternoon. They roamed unchallenged. Regard himself was tied up harassing the gentle folk of the Maysalean-tolerant communities of the Altai but did have strong recon patrols surveying the countryside around the Connec’s greatest city. He was, at least, making a grand show.
A show was the best Anne of Menand had yet gotten from most of the men she bullied into going after the Connec’s heretics. Only the fanatics of the Society were enthusiastic. And their captains were notoriously incompetent as warriors.
Brother Candle entered Khaurene just before the gates shut. When he was young the gates never closed. Often they went unguarded because the old men charged with the task failed to show up for work. Now everyone who entered Khaurene enjoyed a personal chat with a young, fit, and suspicious soldier, usually Direcian. The soldiers were practiced and efficient and familiar with the local dialect. They asked quick questions while their comrades watched. Society infiltrators usually betrayed themselves by the lies they told.
One soldier murmured, “Take care in the streets, Master. We still haven’t controlled all the gangs.” Religious violence had become part of city life.
“I’ve been here before. I know which streets to avoid. But thank you for reminding me.”
“Fair weather and good fortune, then.” Since he could not wish a Seeker “Godspeed.”
“And you as well, young man. And you as well.”
King Peter had chosen his soldiers well. Or, more likely, Queen Isabeth had done.
Sometimes the Perfect thought Isabeth loved Khaurene more than did her brother. Duke Tormond seemed to find his role an oppressive burden.
So Brother Candle entered the capital city of the End of Connec, that had stood since before men began keeping records. He had no specific plan but knew he would have to reveal himself to the local Seeker community. He could not survive here, otherwise. He had no money. He had no family here. He had left those things behind to become Perfect.
No choice seen, he made his way toward where the weavers, dyers, tanners, and leatherworkers dwelt. Those trades found the Maysalean philosophy congenial. That area was where he stayed regularly. If those people had recovered from the siege and defeat Khaurene had suffered he should find hospitality there again.
He arrived shortly before nightfall.
Grim news. Brother Candle was too well known. He had been recognized. News of his coming had raced ahead. Raulet Archimbault, the tanner, intercepted him as he turned into a street where all the tanners, spinners, and weavers were Seekers After Light. A plump Madam Archimbault hurried after her husband. Both brought the reek of the tannery with them. The entire neighborhood shared that stench. Weather could only make that worse, never weaken it.
Archimbault definitely showed the consequences of life in a time of stress, having regained few of the pounds he had lost during a grim winter spent hiding in the Altai. His wife had been eating well, though, and actually seemed younger than the Perfect remembered.
Archimbault swept Brother Candle into a great embrace. “We feared you had gone on, Master. No one knew what had become of you.”
“I went into isolation. To find my way back to Perfection. But the world wouldn’t let me be.”
“Come. Come. You’ll stay with us, of course.”
The wife said, “And you’re just in time to eat.”
By the time they reached the Archimbault home the whole neighborhood knew that Brother Candle had returned. Scores came out to see. It would be hard to slip away again.
He observed, “The house seems bigger and quieter.” Madam Archimbault scurried about, winkling out bread, cheese, wine, olives, and pickles of a dozen sorts.
Archimbault said, “It’s awfully quiet with the children gone. Empty, too.”
Brother Candle held his tongue, afraid he might open a wound. Every family in Khaurene had lost someone the past couple years, either to crusaders, or to disease and hunger after the fighting stopped.
Madam Archimbault expanded: “Archimbault doesn’t like to talk about it. He doesn’t like to admit error.”
Her husband muttered but did not argue. Equality of the sexes was one of the great heresies of the Seekers After Light.
“Soames turned up. After we started looking for a new husband for Kedle.” Kedle being their daughter. “The story he told is a barrel of dung. He wouldn’t say where he’d been or what he’d done. The men from his company say he ran away before the fighting started. Some think he surrendered without a fight and might be a spy for the Society, now. He has no explanation for why he didn’t join us in the mountains. He knew Kedle was near her time.” Madam Archimbault had a huge anger against her son-in-law, rigidly controlled. “He’s already got her with child again.”
Archimbault made a noise like a hissing pot. His anger was larger than his wife’s. He would say nothing because he did not want to look bad to the Perfect. These were the sorts of cares a Seeker was supposed to put aside.
Madam Archimbault confessed, “I blame myself. It’s all my fault. I urged the boy on Kedle. She wasn’t really interested. I bullied Archimbault into approaching his family.”
Brother Candle had been surprised by the match, back when. Though then it had been a coup for the Archimbaults because Soames’s family was so prominent.
The woman said, “Soames has all the family property, now. Which must be the real reason he came back. Only his grandfather was still living when he did. Soames had become the only heir.”
Archimbault grumbled, “That family suffered so much misfortune in so short a time. People said it was because of Soames’s bad behavior. And Soames is the one who benefited.”
Madam said, “He insisted that Kedle and baby Raulet go live with him.” Angrily. As an afterthought, she admitted, “Kedle doesn’t mind.”
“It lets her put on airs. Master, the child has strayed from the Path. She may never find her way back. We need your help. Desperately.”
“The times try the faith of the best of us.” The Perfect tried recalling Kedle’s age. Still under eighteen, he thought. Of an age to sway in every philosophical breeze.
Visitors began to arrive. Domestic talk ended. Brother Candle was always a favorite with the local Seekers.
Khaurenese stayed up late, seldom sitting down to the last meal till the tenth or eleventh hour. They rose with the sun but took an extended nap during the heat of the afternoon. Spirited talk continued till well after the Perfect fell victim to exhaustion.
A different breed of visitor appeared next morning. Early, but not wickedly so. His appearance demonstrated the speed with which news spread in the tight environs of the city.
A groggy Brother Candle found himself face-to-face with Bicot Hodier, Duke Tormond’s chief herald. The old man was too sleepy to manage his manners perfectly. “Hodier? That’s you? I thought you died in the fight with the Captain-General. You were with Sir Eardale Dunn.”
“No doubt there were people who hoped that was true. As ever, I continue to disappoint. The Duke wants you to come up to Metrelieux. Please don’t frustrate him.”
“No.” Though Tormond was another reason he had wanted to pass Khaurene by. “I can’t.”
“It would be disrespectful of you to visit these friends but not him.”
“I know. I know.” And Tormond was a friend. Or had been, when they were boys. After a fashion. Now they were just two tired old men.
***
Brother Candle had not visited the fortress Metrelieux for some time. “Improvements have been made, I see.”
“Isabeth’s Direcians are pushy. Though it’s only the gate.” Hodier shrugged. “The rest is cosmetic. Militarily, the Direcians are more interested in upgrading the city gates and walls.”
Brother Candle had noted the physical improvements where
he had entered the city. He had seen patrols in the street, mixed Direcian and native. “Do you think a siege is a sure thing?”
“That decision will be made by King Regard. Meaning, by his mother. King Peter will make sure the city resists.”
“His soldiers seem to be everywhere. How many are they?”
“Fewer than some like, more than make the Patriarch’s friends happy.”
“Meaning you don’t know.”
“Clever, Master. But the question can’t be answered. By me. Perhaps by Principaté de Herve or Count Alplicova. The garrison turns over constantly. Nor do they want spies being able to establish anything certain. The soldiers are here to teach our people to defend themselves. Most seem willing to learn.”
A member of the Collegium was in Khaurene representing interests opposed to the Father of the Church? “So the debacle when they met the Captain-General convinced the survivors that they have some shortcomings.”
“Indeedy do, Brother. Indeedy do. Wait in here. I’ll find out how soon the Duke can receive you.”
Brother Candle settled in one of Metrelieux’s quiet rooms. He had waited there on other occasions. Usually someone turned up wanting a private word before he saw Tormond. Which seemed to be the point of the delay.
This time was different. Hodier was gone a half hour but no whisperer materialized during the wait.
“He’s ready, Brother. You’ll understand the delay once you see him. Be prepared for changes. For the worse.”
The worse? And Tormond was still alive?
“Sorry, Brother. I don’t mean to sound dramatic. But, as I said, you’ll understand.”
He would. Almost. But, more, the Perfect was tempted to decline into despair.
The Great Vacillator, Tormond IV, last of his line because he had no surviving issue, had become a drooling ruin. He was confined to a wheeled chair. He stank. He could not lift his chin off his chest, so weak had he become. He was little more than a stick figurine.
Hodier said, “This time there’s no sorcery and no poison. This time it’s just age and poor health.”
This, Brother Candle suspected, would be the last time he saw his friend among the living. His resentment over having been dragged up to Metrelieux faded. “Has he made a religious commitment? Will he take Church rites or the consolamentum?” The latter being the final ritual for the dying Seeker After Light.
“He’s the Great Vacillator. Unto the extremity itself. Bishop Clayto, Bishop LeCroes, and the Perfect Brother Purify have been standing by. His Lordship won’t choose among them.”
Brother Candle thought that must be Brother Purify’s fault. One of Brother Candle’s most persistent failings was his inability to think a single charitable thought about Brother Purify. They were flint and steel. But he also started at the mention of Bishop LeCroes. His onetime friend had been caught giving Tormond slow poison at the behest of Sublime V. His reward was to be exalted status once the Church gained control in Khaurene.
Publicly, Bries LeCroes had been the senior local supporter of the Anti-Patriarchs, not a Brothe man.
Bicot Hodier noted his response. “One thing the Duke does do is forgive. Sublime is dead. The threat of Patriarchal troops is gone. So he pardoned everybody. Including every noble who worked with the Captain-General during the time of the crusade. And for that we’re paying already. Now they’re conspiring with Arnhand.”
Knees grinding in protest, Brother Candle sank down in front of Tormond. He considered the healing brother behind the wheeled chair, saw nothing to indicate that the man was anything but what he pretended.
The Perfect thought he would see the serpent of darkness lurking behind the priest’s eyes if he was a Society tool.
Tormond’s eyes glittered. He was as aware and alert as could be, trapped inside that deteriorating flesh. But he could not communicate easily.
The meeting took place in an audience where Brother Candle had conferred with Tormond and his councilors before. Tormond had asked his opinions about everything, always, but never took them to heart. This morning the room was damp, chill, gloomy, barren, and almost unpopulated. Hodier was there. The healing brother was there. The Duke and the Perfect were there. Where twenty to thirty usually gathered, raucously, with fires roaring in the fireplaces.
Brother Candle observed, “Between us we have over two centuries of experience. And the priest is just a boy.”
The healing brother said, “I can give him an infusion that will restore his control of his body briefly. We seldom use it. It sucks up what resources he has left. Is now a good time?”
The priest had bent to ask that question beside Tormond’s ear.
Brother Candle caught a flash of mischief in Tormond’s rheumy eye as he managed a tiny nod.
The priest hustled away.
Hodier said, “This infusion does work wonders. But the cost is cruel. Hours like this, or worse, after barely a quarter hour of creeping over just this side of the far frontiers of normal. Don’t waste what time you get.”
Brother Candle could think of no appropriate response. He shifted the Duke’s chair so they could face one another once he parked himself on a bench so he did not have to grind his knees into the hard oak floor.
“We’ve all enjoyed several seasons since last we met.”
Tormond offered a gurgled grunt.
The healing brother rematerialized. “This won’t look good. But it’s how the job has to be done.” He seized Tormond’s wispy hair and forced his head back. Tormond’s mouth opened as his head tilted. The priest gave him five heartbeats to clear his windpipe, then dumped a small clay cup into his mouth. The contents looked like dark tea. Brother Candle smelled nothing. That meant little. His own senses were not what they used to be.
The priest pinched the Duke’s nose, forced a swallow response.
Tormond downed his medicine without choking or aspirating.
His response was not long coming. And was dramatic.
“Almost magical,” Hodier opined, perhaps tongue in cheek.
Color came to Tormond. His slight palsy stopped. His drooling ceased. Then, laboriously, his chin came up off his chest. “Charde ande Clairs. My most faithful friend.”
There was a pathetic indictment of relations between Tormond IV and his world. And the Duke’s own fault. He never took charge. He let himself be managed and manipulated and got stubborn over the wrong things at the wrong times. Everyone tried to take advantage, excepting Sir Eardale Dunn, who had died defending Khaurene. And Brother Candle, who had been Charde ande Clairs in an earlier life, when he and the Duke-to-be had shared childhood adventures in contravention of the rules of station.
“I’m here.”
“But, almost certainly, had to be dragged.” Tormond could not overcome a slur and a lisp, nor did he rattle on as was once his wont. He could, however, be understood. And it was clear that he wanted to speak directly to Brother Candle. “Bicot, find Isabeth. Bring her. No excuses. Fornier, go get coffee. That was supposed to be here by now.”
The priest inclined his head. “As you wish, Your Lordship.”
“He took that gracefully,” Brother Candle said. While searching the room for shadows that did not fit.
“He’s a good man, Charde. Unlike most of his tribe. We have little time. I need you to listen.” Tormond beckoned the Perfect closer. “Among my many ills, lately I’m cursed with glimpses of what the Instrumentalities of the Night see when they look into the face of tomorrow. Usually while this drug infusion is fading.”
“Uhm?” Carefully neutral.
“Charde, the future is not a friendly place.”
Not exactly an epiphany.
Tormond took Brother Candle’s hands into his own. He eased something out of his sleeve into that of his guest. The Perfect concealed his surprise.
“Not friendly at all. Great sorrow is coming. Fire will scourge the Connec. There is no way to avoid it. Tell Count Raymone that I regret everything. Though I don’t see what I could ha
ve done to make things come out better. Give him my blessing. Tell him to salvage what he can.”
A wisp of darkness stirred behind the Duke’s eyes. The effect of the infusion was approaching its peak already.
Fornier returned with coffee service so fast Brother Candle had to believe coffee preparation had been in progress after all.
Queen Isabeth and several Direcians blew in moments later, all frowns. As Tormond failed his demesne became, ever more, an extension of Navaya. King Peter’s men would not be pleased with random old contacts who wandered in and caused distress.
Brother Candle recognized none of the Queen’s men.
He eased the packet in his sleeve to an inside pocket.
Brother Candle had known Isabeth since birth, though never familiarly. For reasons he never understood there was more warmth on her part than his. Bright with concern, she demanded, “What’s going on?”
The Perfect gestured. “Your brother sent for you. Not I.”
“Sit, Isabeth,” Tormond told his sister. “Listen. This may be the last chance I get to speak.”
The Duke rattled along as though there was more in need of saying than he possibly had time to say. He had been having apocalyptic visions. Disaster could not be avoided but its harsher details were not yet fixed.
Twice Isabeth started to interrupt. Twice Brother Candle stopped her with a gesture. This would be a grim race. Tormond had no time for interruptions.
He did not get as specific as anyone wanted. Always the trouble with sibyls, though Brother Candle did concede that all futures were fluid as long as they still lay ahead. The Night saw possibilities and probabilities but could fix nothing to its place or temporal point before it happened.
Still, some things verged upon certainties. None of Tormond’s futures boded well for Khaurene.
Tormond’s flirtation with lucidity degenerated into a gurgling mumble. The Duke vainly trying to communicate, still.
Isabeth eyed the Perfect. He stared back. She said, “It will start before we’re ready.”
“The future always arrives before we’re ready. Whatever you do, the ambush comes when you don’t expect it. But he did tell you a lot that you can use.” In a way. The personalities set to dance in the coming storm thought too much of themselves to deliberate what might be best in the long term.