Ash and Ambition

by Ari Marmell

  The roars subsided into resentful growls at the command. The speaker was less animalistic but no less savage, a monstrous voice that somehow intertwined a guttural thunder and a shrill shriek together as one. As four of the unblinking eyes retracted into the shadowy cave, the third pair turned to look down, down, down upon the newcomer.

  “WHY HAVE YOU WOKEN US, LITTLE MAGUS? WE STILL TASTE THE HARVEST ON THE DISTANT AIR. IT CANNOT BE TIME YET.”

  “Indeed it is not, dread Vircingotirilux. With apologies, circumstances required that I rouse you ahead of schedule.”

  “CIRCUMSTANCES?”

  “My ally in the nation of Ktho Delios has learned—”

  “HUMAN CONCERNS! PRIMITIVE LANDS! SCURRYING INSECTS AND JABBERING PRIMATES! SUCH WORRIES ARE NOT OURS! HOW DARE YOU—!”

  “I dare because, in the process of studying my ally’s foes among the ‘scurrying insects and jabbering primates,’ I have found one that intrigued me. And in further study of him…”

  The young man, whose behavior and demeanor now were anything but youthful, craned his head upward as he leaned in, meeting the inhuman gaze with his own. “I think I have located an enemy you and I share. A rival of yours who may not be as dead as we believed.”

  Something lashed angrily at the cave wall, sending a cascade of earth and soil tumbling to the floor. Fearsome growls again echoed throughout the chamber. Clearly, Vircingotirilux, whatever it was, understood exactly of whom he spoke.

  “THIS NOTION DOES NOT MAKE US HAPPY, MAGUS!”

  “I’m not precisely celebrating, either. After all the effort I went to…”

  “TELL US WHERE! WE WILL LAY WASTE TO THEIR MONUMENTS, THROW DOWN THEIR RULERS, WIPE THEIR CIVILIZATION FROM—”

  “I was considering something perhaps a little more subtle, great wyrm.”

  Another twitch, another—albeit smaller—avalanche of earth. “WHAT DO YOU PROPOSE?”

  “Well.” The wizard leaned against a protruding root, half sitting in the wooden loop. “To begin with, I might like to borrow one of your pets.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The throne room, deep and broad as it was, and despite the fact that many of Kirresc’s lesser gentry had been barred from this particular gathering, was tightly, even stiflingly, packed.

  Almost decadently comfortable, richly upholstered chairs had been placed to either side of the dais, forming thin wings that curved around the hall’s farthest edge. In them were seated the highest nobles of Kirresc, many of whom had traveled weeks to be here. Over two dozen other chairs, smaller and less ornate, sat in the empty center, facing the throne, in which sat those of lower rank. Both walls were packed with those less important still, yet powerful or knowledgeable enough that their presence was deemed necessary. The assembled riches and finery could have purchased a small town in its entirety, and if anything catastrophic were to occur, the leadership and potential leadership of the whole kingdom would have been obliterated to the third or fourth generation.

  The veritable army currently occupying the grounds of Oztyerva—not merely the king’s soldiers, but those of every duchy, countship, and barony represented—stood steadfast to ensure that no such catastrophe occurred.

  Nycos—who, as one Kirresc’s knights and possible successors to Marshal Laszlan, was considered important enough to attend but didn’t rate a chair—stood against the leftmost wall and idly counted the many colorful banners, representing all those Kirresci territories, currently waving from the arched ceilings. Since he was required to take no particular position in the hall, and since Kortlaus’s rank entitled him to a seat, and thus wasn’t available to talk to, Nycos had chosen to station himself as near as he could to Silbeth Rasik. She, as a potential speaker at this gathering, stood near the dais but not upon it, and grumbled to herself at a volume only Nycos could hear. She was, he gathered, uncomfortable with the amount of attention she expected to receive, and that so many people would learn of her involvement in recent events.

  For all that, she’d never, in the weeks it had taken to orchestrate this extended court, made any effort to depart. Given that she owed no loyalty to Kirresc or King Hasyan, and her assignment had ended with the delivery of her intelligence—if not earlier, with the death of Lady Raczia—she’d have been within her rights to insist on leaving.

  A single horn sounded and those who were seated instantly rose. A curtain parted, revealing a smaller entrance near the dais, and through it entered his Majesty and the great leaders of the nation.

  Nycos knew most of them personally, of course, particularly those who dwelt here in the palace: the prince and princess; Orban Laszlan; Denuel Jarta; Amisco Valacos, Judge Royal; Prelate Domatir Matyas; Balmorra Zas, his Majesty’s astrologer. He knew, as well, Duke Ishmar of Hesztilna, Mariscal’s father, who hadn’t bothered to return home once he’d learned this assembly was coming.

  The others, he had never met, but recognized by description. Gostav, Duke of Janu-Vala; Matilya, Duchess of Dalgran; a small array of counts and countesses.

  And seated directly beside the king, in a position of power scarcely less than his own, an older woman, sharp of visage, black of hair, and so piercing of gaze that Nycos would have been only mildly surprised had she pointed his way and announced his true nature. She, he knew, could only be Pirosa, Archduchess of Vidirrad, Kirrsc’s most powerful ruler save Hasyan himself, and not incidentally the mother of Andarjin, Nycos’s most very favorite margrave.

  One other entered with them, though unlike the rest, she took her seat in the front row of the chairs facing the dais, rather than those set up alongside it. That Ambassador Leomyn Guldoell of Quindacra was the only foreign representative present amidst what was otherwise a purely Kirresci assembly did not escape attention. Many gazed her way, manners warring with intense curiosity, and Guldoell herself, though a consummate diplomat, couldn’t quite keep a worried moue from darting across her face.

  “Thank you,” Hasyan said simply. “We know many of you have traveled far in what is not a good season for travel, leaving your own affairs untended, at our call. We are grateful.”

  Jarta rose and gave a much more flowery speech of welcome on his Majesty’s behalf. More flowery and yet, for a gathering of this magnitude, still remarkably brief. Either the palatine had been ordered to keep it short, or he was as eager as anyone to get to the meat of things. Then it was Domatir Matyas’s turn. He offered up his usual prayer that the gods (and God, and the Vinnkasti) bless this gathering and their endeavors.

  “We are certain,” Hasyan resumed after the prelate, too, returned to his seat, “that some of you have already guessed, in part, at the reason for this assembly. You have heard some of the rumors, received some reports, of Ktho Delian troop movements near our borders, and those of our neighbors.”

  Rumbles of assent, anger, worry, in reply.

  “Many of you have also been informed that we recently rooted out a spy in our own midst, one we believe but cannot prove to have been Ktho Delian. And that his escape was aided by an operative they had placed within a Mahdreshan bandit gang.

  “In addition to that, our friends in Wenslir have been fretting over increased activity along the Ogre-Weald. We’ve had no confirmed reports, but even rumors of such horrors can prove damaging if they force the southern nations to split our attentions. It has been suggested,” and here his eyes flickered briefly toward Nycos, “that we consider the possibility of a Ktho Delian hand even in this. That they might deliberately stir up the beasts of Gronch—or spread tales of their activities, if you choose not to believe in things such as ogres—as a diversion.”

  Once more he waited for his audience’s questions, exclamations, and protests to die down. “Again, we’ve no proof of this. It’s but a hypothesis. Considering the timing, however, it’s one I believe worth considering.”

  “Your Majesty, if I may?” Archduchess Pirosa’s tone was crisp, cultured, razor-sharp—precisely what Nycos would have expected. “I agree with you completely that w
e ought to be concerned about the possibility of Ktho Delian activity. If the amount of movement we’ve heard about is accurate, and especially if they’re orchestrating other diversions or unrest, it would certainly appear to be more than their usual exercises or sabre-rattling. If you’ll forgive my bluntness, however, all this could have been conveyed via courier, or perhaps messenger pigeon.”

  The archduchess, Nycos saw, was a born politician. She must know Hasyan had more than this, that he would not have called for the nobles to travel across the kingdom to discuss mere rumors. He was leading up to something, and anyone with half a brain would recognize that fact. By demanding an explanation—and no matter how politely she’d couched it, that was precisely what she’d done—she’d flexed her authority before the assembled court, suggesting however subtly or slightly that even the king must answer to her. He wondered if she was even conscious she’d done it, and if that was how she approached all her interactions.

  No wonder Andarjin was so wrapped up in his own constant scheming, if that was what he’d been raised with, had to live up to. Nycos wished briefly that Smim was at his side. The goblin was more up to date on palace politics and personal gossip than he, could probably have answered whispered questions or pointed out other such maneuvers Nycos might have missed. Like many other trusted servants, however, Smim currently waited in the hall beyond the throne room doors, ready to respond if called but not permitted to attend the assembly itself.

  “Almost a year ago,” his Majesty continued, “we received a signal from a spy who had managed to attain a position in the ranks of high society within the walls of Tohl Delian itself.” His volume rose as he spoke over the next round of astonished comments and whispers throughout the court. “She’d discovered something of vital import and required aid in escaping without being discovered by the Deliant.”

  Pirosa was hardly the only accomplished political dancer present. By continuing without acknowledging the archduchess’s comment, Hasyan made it clear he would not be ordered about—while answering her query, thus giving her no room to claim any slight had been done her.

  “This,” the king said, gesturing for the waiting mercenary to step forward, “is Silbeth Rasik, of the Priory of Steel. It was to her we assigned the task of extricating our operative.”

  “Your Majesty!” One of the counts whose territory fell within the duchy of Janu-Vala, a slender and dusky fellow whose name Nycos hadn’t caught, raised his voice in protest. “How could you trust something so vital and so secretive to a—a sellsword? I understand the need to avoid implicating Kirresc in any official activity within the Ktho Delian interior, but—”

  “We said she was of the Priory, Count Lajos,” Hasyan interrupted, as though that ought to explain everything.

  “You did, Your Majesty. And…” Lajos took in the faces of those around him. “It’s clear that means something to most everyone that I’m apparently missing. I apologize for my outburst, but if I might request an explanation?”

  He was the only one to have spoken, but a smattering of others appeared equally confused, as well as relieved that someone had asked the question so they didn’t have to. Indeed, Nycos himself would have been equally bewildered, had he not read up on the organization in the weeks since he’d overheard Silbeth’s story.

  “We see. Mistress Rasik, would you care to edify the good count?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I…” She began, halted. “Actually, Your Majesty, this might sound self-serving and unconvincing coming from me. Perhaps Prelate Domatir? I’m sure he’s aware of the nature of the Priory, whether or not he takes us particularly seriously.”

  A brief exchange of expressions, then Domatir Matyas repressed a sigh and stood. “The Priory of Steel,” he intoned as though reciting from a text—whence, indeed, he’d most probably learned all of this, “isn’t a mercenary guild in the traditional sense, Count Lajos. As the name implies, it is a religious organization. Its members pay particular homage to the more martial gods of the Empyrean Choir. Inoleare, Alazir, Louros, Teslak, and so forth.”

  “Many of us,” Silbeth corrected politely. “Myself included. But some of our number revere Deiumulos, the One God.”

  “Yes, quite. Well, regardless, the point is that they consider their expertise and practice of martial prowess to be a religious observance. Prayer, essentially, a means of honoring the gods. Or God. Which, yes, makes them among the greatest warriors known to Galadras, but of equal import is the belief that those skills must be exercised only in causes that honor their faith. That may vary from member to member, depending on their own ethics, but the result is that their contracts take on the import of religious doctrine. A member of the Priory of Steel is as religiously faithful to an assignment as any true believer to scripture, or the most zealous patriots to their nation.

  “I take… some issue with the Priory’s notions of what a proper religious observance or organization ought to be,” the prelate admitted, “but I know from experience that they are true to their beliefs. For a mission such as this one, vital to Kirresc and yet one to which Kirresc must not be connected, his Majesty could not have made a wiser selection.” Then, with a bow to Hasyan and a brief bob of the head toward Silbeth, he sat.

  “Does that satisfy you, Count Lajos?” Hasyan asked.

  “I… Yes, Your Majesty.” He didn’t look entirely certain, but if nothing else the count recognized that further questioning, let alone protest, would accomplish little but to irritate some very powerful people.

  “Good. Then, Mistress Rasik, we invite you to tell your tale, precisely as you told it to us.”

  And so she did, repeating almost verbatim, albeit with less obvious emotion, what she had told the king’s council weeks before. Since he’d already heard it, Nycos allowed himself to focus on how the rest of the court reacted.

  He saw various degrees of shock, sympathy, doubt, even a bit of vague indifference, all as he’d have expected. That last, of course, would vanish once she revealed the intelligence for which she and Lady Raczia had struggled so hard, but as she’d done before, she was saving that particular revelation for the conclusion.

  It was an omission that many of the gathered nobles swiftly picked up on. Nycos watched as numerous lips frowned and brows furrowed, as several of them drew breath to interrupt and then decided against it. He saw the dukes and duchesses intently focused, waiting for the thunderbolt they knew must be coming. Archduchess Pirosa ran a fingernail across her lip in thought, theories and calculations whirling almost visibly behind her pupils. The chamber all but reeked with anticipation.

  As for Hasyan… Throughout Silbeth’s story, the king himself kept his gaze, subtly but squarely, upon Ambassador Guldoell. And that, Nycos realized, was precisely why his Majesty had instructed Silbeth to again save what she’d learned for the end, why Guldoell was the only foreign emissary present in this small sea of Kirresci nobility. He wanted to see her reaction, unplanned and unprepared, firsthand.

  As the recitation wound toward its inevitable end, Nycos chose to follow his king’s lead. When Silbeth reached her revelation, the knight’s attention was fixed on the Quindacran’s face.

  Silbeth leveled her accusation. The chamber erupted, with many present demanding answers, demanding proof, demanding Guldoell be clapped in chains, all depending on how readily inclined they were to believe. A few even moved as though to restrain her physically—or worse—but Hasyan’s bodyguards stepped forward to restore order, and to ensure no blood was shed, no international crime committed.

  Through it all, Guldoell sat, eyes closed in sorrow and a mounting despair, cheeks grown paler than the whitest of the moons.

  “Was it truly necessary, Your Majesty,” she asked with shaking breath when the furor had subsided, “to spring this on me? In public, no less?”

  “Our apologies, Ambassador,” Hasyan replied, every word firm but not unkind. “We couldn’t allow even the appearance of secrecy in this matter, and we had to—”

 
“Had to see my reaction. Yes, I understand. I suppose I might have done the same.”

  If she’d been at her best, or anywhere near it, she’d never have interrupted the king, but he chose to let it pass. “As it was, it took the whole weight of the crown for me to forbid any of the other ambassadors from attending. They know something’s amiss. But I wanted to have a better understanding before I bring this to them.”

  Nycos noted Pirosa nodding to herself, as were the other dukes, presumably in approval of Hasyan’s decisions.

  “We’ve known you for many years, Ambassador Guldoell,” he continued, “and we’ve worked well together. Your expression at Mistress Rasik’s news, as well as the fact that you didn’t immediately leap to your feet to accuse her of lying, tells me you are as surprised to hear this as we were.”

  “I am. For the most part. Your Majesty…” Guldoell started to rise and all but collapsed back into the seat, her whole body visibly trembling. “We have, as you say, worked side by side for a long time. You have been a friend, to Quindacra and to me, most of that time, and where we clashed, you have always been reasonable and honorable in your dealings. I couldn’t live with myself if I did any less now.”

  Again she stood to address the dais and the assembled nobles, this time forcing herself to remain upright, though it required she turn the chair about and maintain a tight grip on it.

  “I know nothing of any such communications, any such schemes, on the part of King Boruden or any other party of influence in Quindacra. But in complete candor Your Majesty, my Lords and Ladies, I would be among the last to hear of it were it true. The mere fact of my position here, my close ties to and respect for the Kirresci court, would make me… a risk to any such conspiracy, and everyone back home knows that. Some already worry if my loyalties are too deeply split.

  “They are not. I am loyal to my country. But that loyalty includes speaking out if I feel Quindacra is making a mistake.”