The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  Grefin howled. His fingers loosened on the dagger. Balfre spun again, snatched it from Grefin with his other hand and sank the short blade up to the hilt in his brother’s belly. Without thinking, shifted and twisted it. Made it a killing blow.

  A choked cry. A startled gasp. Grefin sagged, then folded to the granite floor. Balfre went down with him, not letting go of dagger or sword. Kneeling, he looked at his brother, and Grefin looked back. Puzzled. Regretful. A bleeding away of pain. Two men breathing. Two men breathing. Two men breathing.

  One.

  Balfre stood, awkwardly, and limped to the door. Cracked it open, called for the guard, and sent him to fetch Lord Waymon. Then he waited, holding his slashed forearm, wondering if he was going to weep.

  “Fuck,” Waymon said, when he saw Grefin’s body. “Should I be sorry?”

  He didn’t know. “Gather our men-at-arms, Waymon. I want Curteis, Kerric, the leech who treated Aimery, that bitch Mazelina, her son and her daughter and my useless wife and her daughter taken into custody–discreetly–and locked in a cell. Then assemble the barons in the Great Hall. Come back when it’s done and bring the leather scroll-case from my saddlebag with you.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And make sure that fuck of a guard outside stays well away.”

  “I will.” Then a frown. “You’re bleeding, Balfre. How badly are you hurt?”

  “Badly enough to be useful. I’ll survive. Now go.”

  While he waited for Waymon’s return he used Benevolence to saw ragged strips of crimson velvet from the trestle-cover, so he could roughly bind his wounds. Then he picked up the kicked-over stool and with a stifled hiss of pain sat down. Glanced sideways. The sword-cut through Aimery’s face gaped bloodless, revealing a pustuled tongue, rotted teeth, and the ulcered inside of one withered cheek. Which answered his earlier question. The old bastard had suffered before he died.

  He was careful, while he waited, not to look at Grefin. Thought instead of Izusa and how, when she joined him, they’d fuck in Aimery’s bed.

  Eventually Waymon returned, carrying the scroll-case. Smiling fiercely. “It’s done, Balfre. And the barons attend at your pleasure.”

  “Good,” he said, standing. “Then let’s not keep them trembling on sword-point any longer.”

  When he limped into Tamwell castle’s Great Hall, his bloody, daggered forearm held close his chest, the gathered lords of Harcia gasped almost to a man. Joben, Paithan and Lowis, standing a little apart, startled to see him and would have rushed to his side. Waymon, like a watchdog, forestalled them with a frown and a shake of his head.

  The hall’s ceiling was hammer-beamed and lofty, the pennants of every noble Harcian house hanging proud and brightly coloured. Small wooden shields painted with noble house devices–dogs and spotted cats and boars and swords and stallions and oak trees and eagles and lions rampant and suchlike–decorated the walls between mighty spreading antlers of stags killed years before. Iron wheels crowded with burning candles dispelled shadow. It was a hall filled with history, intended to impress. At its far end a painted, gilded dais, upon which stood Aimery’s ducal seat with its bear-claw decorations. But the bear was dead. The wolf had taken his place.

  Balfre made his limping way foward, Waymon a half-pace to his side, carrying the scroll-case. At his back, the barons’ mumurs rose louder. He reached the dais. Ascended it. Stood before the throne. Waited for silence and then, when it didn’t fall, raised the arm Grefin hadn’t slashed wide with his dagger.

  “My lords! I’d have your attention!”

  The babbling faded until the only sound in the hall was the scrape of boots on the flagstoned floor, the creak of leather doublets and the faint chinking of mail as his Marcher men-at-arms quietly entered.

  “My lords,” he said, sweeping their bewildered faces with a sorrowful gaze. Paying special attention to Terriel and his one-armed son, from the Green Isle. He had to capture them first or see them lead the rest into doubt and disputation. “There is no kind way to break this news, so I shall simply tell you. My brother Grefin, Steward of the Green Isle, has been found in most foul treachery against our father, the late duke, and our beloved duchy of Harcia. These wounds I bear, which you can plainly see, were even now caused by him when I did confront him with the proof of his transgressions. Alas, my lords, Grefin–in an extremity of guilt, and fearing his deserved harsh punishment–made attempt upon my life and in defending myself I did slay him.”

  A stunned silence. And then uproar. Loudest shouting of all from Terriel, who bullied his way to the foot of the dais, his one-armed son at his heels, and brandished a clenched fist in defiance.

  “Grefin a traitor? Never! I’ve fought with him and bled with him and comforted the dying with him since the raid on Potterstown! Nothing you say, Balfre, will convince me his heart is black!”

  “Then, my lord, let Grefin himself convince you,” he replied. “For I have here the proof I showed him. Letters in his own hand between himself and a man I–to my great shame–trusted as a friend.”

  “Who?” Terriel demanded. His shout was echoed by the lords at his back, in mourning for Aimery and shocked to unseemly outcry. “Who is it you’d trust more than your own brother, my lord?”

  Balfre stared at Terriel until the man surrendered, shifting his gaze. “Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace,” Terriel muttered, as his son leaned close and touched his elbow. Then he rallied. Brought up his chin, looked around at his fellow lords. “We’ve a right to know who it is you claim Grefin’s conspired with.”

  It was said that in Agribia there lived men who tamed wild beasts and paraded them for entertainment. It was how he felt now, faced with Harcia’s volatile barons.

  “Claim?” he said, frowning. “Terriel. Do you think I’d speak if I weren’t certain? Or that you could be more dismayed and hurt than I? This matter touches my family to its heart. Were I not who I am I’d be weeping like a woman. My life is in ashes, everything I believed in proved a lie. You want to know who suborned my brother to treachery? It was Vidar of Clemen.”

  “Roric’s Marcher lord?”

  “The same. He came to me–he said–seeking shelter from Roric’s vengeance. Touched by his plight, and seeing in it some advantage for Harcia, I agreed.”

  “Did Aimery know?”

  And that was Joben. A hint of suspicion in his voice. Balfre smiled at his cousin, who was only now beginning to understand how many secrets had been kept from him. But let him be offended. Once he was gifted with, say, Coldspring manor, his hurt feelings would swiftly heal.

  “He did, cousin. And like me, he felt the rewards were worth the risk. Alas. My father and I were mistaken.”

  Another look around the hall, then Terriel snorted. “Vidar hoodwinked you?”

  The important thing was to seem contrite. “You’d chide me, my lord? Well. Doubtless I’ve earned it since, far from being disgraced, Vidar was deep in the bastard Roric’s confidence, conspiring with him–and then Grefin–to plunder our duchy, fatten ruined Clemen at our expense, and at the end of the day place Roric upon our ducal throne. To my great sorrow I didn’t suspect his duplicity till the damage was done. But then I took steps to uncover his plotting and had the truth from him–and Grefin’s letters–shortly before receiving word of Aimery’s death.”

  “And Vidar?” said Joben. “What of him?”

  “Dead by his own hand.”

  More consternation from Harcia’s nobles. Terriel turned to glare at his fellow lords, then waved a hand to silence them. As the noise died down again, he turned back.

  “I’ve no doubt Roric schemes to plunder Harcia. But why would Grefin betray us like this?”

  “Thwarted ambition,” he said, sorrowful. “Being Steward of the Green Isle wasn’t enough for my brother. He wanted to be duke after Aimery. And when our father refused to disavow me he turned elsewhere for the riches and power he craved.”

  Still, Terriel fought him. “Forgive me, Your
Grace, but there must be some mistake. I tell you I know Grefin. Vidar of Clemen was lying. Balfre, you killed an innocent man.”

  For all he’d lived all his life on the Green Isle, Terriel’s courage was legendary throughout Harcia. His opinion bore weight. And Aimery’s heir had a motley past. The duchy’s other barons, uneasy, muttered and exchanged doubting glances.

  Balfre eased his pain-throbbed daggered arm. “Waymon.” Waymon withdrew the forged letters from the scroll-case and handed them over. “Terriel, I take it you know my brother’s style with a quill? Then read the proof in his own hand and tell me again he was innocent.”

  As Terriel read the runed forgeries, Balfre took his place on the throne. Watched the pugnacious baron’s face change as the plausible lies and Izusa’s sorcery took hold.

  “Pass the letters on,” he said. “I want everyone to read them. I’d have no doubt among my barons that what I’ve said is the truth.”

  Hand to hand, the letters travelled around the Great Hall. Man by man, Harcia’s barons fell to Izusa’s power. The silence after was like the world’s hush at midnight.

  The letters returned, Balfre let them fall at his feet. Showed Harcia’s lords the grief and devastation they wanted–needed–to see.

  “This is a dark day for Harcia,” he said, his voice breaking. “And darker days are coming, for Clemen means to swallow us whole. But I say we don’t wait for the bastard Roric to strike us. I say Balfre of Harcia and his nobles strike first!”

  The roar of his barons’ approval was balm on an open wound.

  Grefin’s dead. I killed him. My little brother’s dead.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The bells of Carillon were ringing, sweet silver and bronze echoes sounding over the township and the harbour and rebounding off the steep, encircling hills. Catrain smiled to hear them. Carillon’s bells made her think of her mother. Sometimes, when she heard them, she thought she could hear Berardine singing. Feel the brisk stroke of a loving hand over her hair. Oh, how she hoped her mother knew that she’d never meant to fail. But she had failed. She was no more Ardenn’s true duchess than a candle could be called the sun. Baldwin’s palace was his daughter’s gilded cage… and, just like poor Gaël, she remained the regents’ prisoner. Their puppet, meekly dancing whenever they pulled a string.

  In the streets beyond the palace, Carillon’s exarchs would be gathering for their nightly sunset ritual–the walking of Baldwin Way, with their golden orbs full of incense perfuming the twilight air with cinnamon, cedarwood and amber. Their long grey robes would swish the cobbles, their leather sandals slap-slapping, as they chanted in counterpoint with the ringing, singing bells. She remembered, vividly, being taken to watch their stately, mysterious procession with her sisters. But now her sisters were gone, as though they’d never been born, and the breathlessly beautiful procession was denied her. All she had left were memories.

  And memories, no matter how sweet, must fade.

  Hands braced on the balcony parapet, Catrain closed her eyes and leaned into the fading light, into the rising breeze, into ageless silver music that helped her survive each lonely day. Helped her forget, for a few moments, the promises she’d made… and couldn’t keep.

  “Catrain.”

  An unfamiliar voice. She turned, thinking the regents, or the privy council they forced on her, had found yet another sour guardian to clip their prisoner’s wings a little closer to the bone. But the woman standing before her was no dragonish old hag. Dressed in a dark green wool gown, she was young and oddly beautiful. Creamy pale skin, depthless green eyes and wildly curling red hair.

  “Who are you?” She looked past the woman into her dayroom. Couldn’t see the keepers who counted her every breath. “How did you—”

  The woman smiled, a lazy curve of sculptured lips. “I am Izusa. I knew Baldwin, and Berardine.”

  Catrain felt the stone parapet hard against her back. Recalled Berardine’s frantic whispers at the end. Knew, without knowing how, who and what this woman was.

  “You’re the witch.”

  Izusa’s smile widened. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, lying. “Only curious. You say you knew my father. But Baldwin has been dead for years. Did you meet him when you were in your cradle?”

  “Catrain…” Izusa chuckled, a disarming sound. “I am a witch. And what woman doesn’t desire to smooth away time’s unkind touch?”

  She was in no mood for mockery. “What do you want?”

  “What do you want? Madam?”

  Madam. And there was a cruel taunting. “You must already know if you’re truly a witch.”

  “I have always known.” Izusa’s smile faded, leaving her beautifully austere. “But I need to know if you know. So I will ask again. What do you want?”

  She could feel a bead of sweat, trickling down her spine. Hear the echo of her mother’s voice, desolation mingled with the dregs of hope. Remembered the look on Master Corbert’s face when he told her Berardine was dead. Her chest tightened, and her fists.

  “Where have you been, Izusa? My mother needed you!”

  Izusa spread her slender hands, graceful. “Someone else needed me more.”

  Just like that. Without remorse or even a hinting of sympathy. No wonder witches were thought of unkindly. “Why do you come now?”

  “Because now you need me,” Izusa said, eyebrows raised. “Catrain, what do you want?”

  The simple complexity of the question almost made her laugh. What did she want? What didn’t she want? But the things she wanted most not even a witch could give her. So she’d have to settle for the things that might be within her grasp. Things that might, were she granted them, help her put right everything that was gone wrong and rotten in Cassinia.

  “Freedom. Power.” She swallowed, remembering more. A burning stable. A scented garden. A man with sad, tender, eyes. “Roric of Clemen.”

  “And you shall have him,” Izusa said, her voice shimmering with amusement. “And freedom. And power. But only if you trust me.”

  Carillon’s bells were singing. They sounded like Berardine. “My father trusted you, Izusa. And my mother. They’re both dead.”

  Izusa shrugged, indifferent. “Everyone dies. I never promised Baldwin or Berardine endless life.”

  And now the witch sounded like Regent Leofric. Cool, detached, embracing the impersonal like a lover. Her head was tipped a little to one side, her green gaze measured. Touched with arrogance. Gifted–or cursed–with unnatural powers. Staring at her, Catrain felt a wave of sickening disbelief. Her parents trusted this woman? Confided their hopes, their dreams, their secrets, to this witch? What had possessed them? Why would they do it?

  “Then what did you promise them, Izusa? Duke Baldwin and his duchess were unswerving in their obedience to the Exarch, who abhors all things supernatural and unclean. I can’t believe they would endanger their souls, not for—”

  “Catrain…” Izusa laughed. “You say you want power. But what use will it be if you fear to wield it? Fear to wield it and how can you call yourself Baldwin’s daughter? Hope to follow in his footsteps? Your father knew the truth of ruling. Do you?”

  The witch’s mockery set her teeth on edge. “Pretend I don’t.”

  “It’s simple,” Izusa said, her green eyes sharp. “There is nothing a duke abhors, should the having or using of it be necessary to protect his duchy and his people.”

  A sinking in her belly. Izusa was right. A duke–a duchess–unwilling to risk all in defence of Ardenn was no better than a murderer. To leave Baldwin’s people in bondage to the regents would be an act of gross cowardice. And for what? Her soul? What was her soul, compared to all the souls Baldwin and Berardine had placed in their daughter’s keeping? Every man, woman and child in the duchy waited for their duchess to free them from the regents’ dominion. Poor Gaël waited too, trapped in his palace. In his gilded cage of the mind. She was his only friend, his sole hope of justice. What would
Roric think of her, did she turn her back on Cassinia’s true prince? How could she save horses from a burning stable but abandon Ardenn’s people? Her people? And how could she claim a birthright she refused to fight for with every weapon she could lay her hand upon… even if one of those weapons was a witch?

  “Catrain.” Izusa’s smile was gentle again, all mockery muffled. “I can help you. I will help you. But you must trust me first.”

  Trust a witch.

  Despite knowing all the reasons why she should, every instinct rebelled against agreement. Instinct had served her well so far. Was it wise to abandon the inner voice that guided her? Most likely not. But this was what Berardine wanted. What her father had done before her. And in the end what choice did she have? She was a pale, powerless shadow drifting about a palace that once she’d called home. A daughter who made promises to her dying mother… and so far had failed to keep even one.

  Freedom. Power. Roric.

  Heart drubbing her ribs, Catrain lifted her chin. “When do we start?”

  Izusa laughed. “We already have.”

  “And what must I do?”

  “Nothing to alarm the regents or their council,” Izusa said, so calm, so confident. “Be what they think you are, Catrain. A meek, compliant mouse. As for the rest? Leave that to me. We are part of a living tapestry… and the colours are about to change.” She pointed to the darkening sky. “See how Abdiel shines? ’Tis an omen of good fortune. All will be well.”

  Catrain turned. Stared at the brilliant white star pulsing high above the bell tower of Carillon’s grand exarchite chapel. An omen? Truly? But that was superstitious nonsense… wasn’t it? She turned back to ask.

  But Izusa was gone.

  And then her haggish attendants were bustling into the dayroom, crying out that she must dress for dinner, or offend her privy councillors by keeping them waiting.