Lord of the Silent Kingdom

  Delari’s voice fell to a whisper. “Say nothing. Do nothing.”

  The old man turned his head slowly, side to side, listening intently. Eyes shut, he sniffed the air. He breathed, “It’s time to go.” He began to retrace their path carefully, straining for silence.

  Hecht asked no questions. His amulet had suddenly turned bitter cold.

  Something extremely unpleasant had begun to stir out in the darkness.

  The old man relaxed visibly once they entered the tunnel to the Chiaro Palace.

  “What happened?” Hecht finally asked.

  “We almost walked right into something very dark and very powerful. It was asleep, but suddenly restless. I didn’t want to waken it.” Soon afterward, he added, “It may be the thing responsible for those grotesque murders. Now we know where it dens up, we can go after it.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I’m one old man, by myself, all alone, and worn out from showing you this tiny slice of the world below.” A chuckle. “And because I’m unarmed and it felt like it might be nastier than anyone guessed before.”

  6. The Princess in Plemenza

  Princess Helspeth started angry. Algres Drear kept dragging his heels. She stayed angry. Drear persisted in his claim that waiting a few weeks would make for a dramatically easier journey. Weather was Drear’s determined ally in thwarting her desires. Her most fervent desire.

  She wanted to be in her city of Plemenza. Now.

  Weather be damned, just days after Lothar bestowed the Plemenza honors, Helspeth and those of her household hardy enough moved from Alten Weinberg to Hochwasser, on the Bleune. Hochwasser was a ghost town just beginning to show signs of life because the Emperor was expected. The Bleune was wide, filthy, and speckled with floes of ice, some the size of warships.

  The serious delays came at Hochwasser.

  Couriers reported only one pass even remotely usable. This was the worst winter on record. Only the toughest, most determined travelers had any hope of getting through. Helspeth was determined to try.

  And did, accompanied only by Captain Drear and two Braunsknechts who felt the eyes of Johannes Blackboots’s ghost crisping the backs of their necks. They refused to let Hansel’s baby girl go alone once it was clear she could not be dissuaded.

  Helspeth demonstrated a stubbornness the Braunsknechts found disturbing. Weather did not stop her.

  Cold did not stop her. The threat of frostbite did not intimidate her. The presence in the mountains of something abidingly awful did not frighten her into turning back, though it stalked them for days, singing in the wind. Algres Drear was both impressed and deeply concerned.

  That was a prince of the Night out there. Something remarkably wicked and cruel, a near god. You needed no mystic talent to sense it. Yet, this time, it was content to stay its evil. And the folk below the mountains were amazed and disturbed.

  This dread spirit had sown terror liberally for close to a year, its predations worsening dramatically with the weather. Those who claimed expertise in the forms assumed by the Night believed it must be some wind-stalking demon-thing somehow displaced from the realms of permanent ice now advancing from the north.

  Ignorant folk concluded that the Princess was favored by God. Or was about to become a bride of the Night. Each conclusion led to its special set of fears.

  Helspeth reached Plemenza two weeks before spring officially commenced. In a punishing sleet storm that coated men and animals with ice and left the footing so treacherous she thought she might die on the cobblestone street after having survived the worst handed her by the high Jagos.

  Other Braunsknechts and hangers-on dribbled in throughout the following month. Following an annoyingly dramatic change of weather that began almost as soon as she reached the Dimmel Palace.

  Ten days later there was no snow or ice to be seen on the Firaldian side of the Jago Mountains. Traffic through the range normalized quickly.

  Algres Drear never said a word.

  Which made Helspeth want to cane him with a bamboo flail till he puked up the smug “Told you so!”

  smiling behind his calm gray eyes.

  More galling still was an illness that claimed her for several weeks. Her cough became frighteningly fierce.

  Ferris Renfrow reentered Helspeth’s life at the height of her fever. She lay in bed, curtains drawn. She was always too hot or too cold, always exhausted from continuous coughing. She pretended sleep to evade her fussing women. Worst were Lady Chevra diNatale and Lady Delta va Kelgerberg. The former was an unpleasant old cow related to the former Counts of Plemenza. Lady Delta was just four years Helspeth’s senior but ancient in her perception of the way an Imperial Princess should comport herself.

  Lady Chevra was a devoted Brothen Episcopal and, probably, a tool of the Council Advisory. Va Kelgerberg was a devoted companion but tedious to the point of excruciation.

  The true, deep horror was that both women believed they knew best what was best for Princess Helspeth Ege.

  When Helspeth first heard Renfrow she thought it was the fever talking. Purely wishful thinking. He would not enter her personal quarters.

  Renfrow asked about her health.

  “She brought this on herself,” Lady Delta opined, with a superior sniff. “She’s a spoiled, willful child.

  Much too selfish and far too stubborn. She will have what she will, when she wills it, never mind the cost of her self-indulgence to others. It’s a miracle Algres Drear and those two sergeants …”

  Chuckling, Renfrow interjected, “It runs in the family.”

  “Johannes was willful but never petty. Nor was he particularly selfish. His stubbornness wasn’t about himself or his pleasures. It was always about what was best for the Empire. Sir, this child could become our Empress. In a moment, if God has a bad afternoon. Where will we be if she won’t grow up?”

  “She’s bright. She’ll learn.”

  “She hasn’t given us any reason to hope.”

  “Algres Drear is a good man.”

  “Who would make a lot more headway if he’d paddle her when she wants to do something as stupid as crossing the Jagos during the winter.”

  “I’ll talk to her. She took risks that make no sense. I suspect that she didn’t understand the dangers, then got lucky. There’s a baron of the Night on the prowl up there. Nothing as terrible has been seen since the early days of the Old Empire. Maybe she caught it napping. Maybe the cold slowed it down. It wasn’t as nasty as it should have been. I’m no expert. I can’t consult the people who are. They’re all Sublime’s lackeys. But I saw the monster’s handiwork. We can only thank God that it took no interest in the child.”

  Helspeth wanted to be angry with Delta. She did not indulge. Renfrow was much more critical. Renfrow had always been a demigod, the iron hammer that forged the Emperor’s finished will. If Renfrow found her lacking, then she needed to do some serious self-examination.

  Helspeth Ege’s circumstances compelled her to live inside herself but she did not do much introspection.

  Lady Delta’s remarks touched home. Renfrow’s criticism kicked the door of her soul wide open.

  She did not believe she would become Empress so saw no need to prepare. Others obviously did not concur.

  Eges seldom died of the complications of old age. And Lothar, of course, was not expected to survive the year again this year.

  Ferris Renfrow asked to be summoned when the princess could see him. He did not hint that she might not be so inclined.

  Helspeth was not so inclined. Who did Renfrow think he was, talking like that?

  It took time to sink in.

  Those nearest to her did not like her much. Her own behavior was the cause.

  She did get it. Katrin would not have done.

  It was not seemly that the Princess should entertain a man alone. There could be no hint of a possibility of a chance of a stain on her reputation. Not when she was on the marriage market. But she did not want the usual ladies ther
e, eavesdropping for the Council Advisory, the Patriarch, her brother or sister, or anyone else.

  She was sure her women were all spies.

  She told Renfrow as much.

  He nodded. “Of course. You’re an object of considerable value.” The Imperial spymaster accepted tea from one of the younger girls attending Helspeth this morning. She hoped these vacuous daughters and granddaughters would garble whatever they overheard. “You have no friends.”

  Helspeth crushed an angry retort. What others thought should not matter. But it did. Renfrow’s conversation with Delta and Chevra hurt.

  Renfrow revealed striking white teeth, smiling. He was enamored of the eastern custom of cleaning his teeth.

  Helspeth halfheartedly cared for her own teeth, only because it was fashionable.

  “You’re right. I have no friends. I’m more alone than I imagined it was possible to be when I came here.”

  Hurrying because most all of her happy memories included Plemenza.

  “You’re surrounded by people who could become your friends. If you’d let them. Most of these people do want the best for you.”

  She did not respond. She did not know what to say. Until, “My world ended when my father died.

  Before that, even though I never saw him much, I belonged. I had my place. Not much was demanded of me. Katrin and I spoiled Mushin. We played at being girl soldiers. Papa indulged us. Especially me.”

  “Because you were so much like him. It was a fantasy. Which he recognized for what it was. But he enjoyed letting you be the son that Lothar couldn’t. A cruel jest on God’s part.”

  Helspeth sipped her tea. “Must be a side-splitter. Look around. All the strong rulers have weak successors behind them.”

  “There are succession problems, here and there. But King Peter’s son — as much as can be told from an infant — should be a worthy successor. And Anne of Menand will, likely, prove forceful after she becomes King of Arnhand.”

  Helspeth overlooked the sharpness. “I wish my father hadn’t charged into al-Khazen like that.”

  “Excepting Grand Duke Omro and his cronies, most everyone would agree. We may never recover from the loss. But the Grail Empire doesn’t run on ‘what if?’ and wishful thinking. Most of the time.”

  “If he was alive I wouldn’t be here like this.”

  “Or you might be. With the same household. Your father was greatly concerned about what he started, letting you girls play at being boys. You in particular worried him. You kept throwing on armor and trying to get into fights. Al-Khazen would’ve been the last straw. You might’ve ended up in a nunnery.”

  “No.”

  “He considered it.”

  Helspeth was stunned. “But I thought … I thought that’s what he wanted. I thought he’d be hugely proud.”

  “He would’ve been, in his secret heart. But he was the Emperor. He had to consider appearances. And your welfare. And you did get into a situation where you had to be rescued by Patriarchals.”

  Again Helspeth stifled a sharp rejoinder. He was right.

  “All right. I did. The Captain-General himself saved me.”

  A small smile from Renfrow. “I saw him a few months ago.”

  She failed to mask her interest.

  He said, “He’s well.”

  “And?”

  “And ready to become a serious burr under the Imperial saddle. Clearenzas could keep happening now that Sublime can afford to build up his forces.”

  “What would Papa do?”

  “Probably summon the levies and march on Brothe. Stop it before it can get going.”

  “But that won’t happen.”

  “No. Lothar is a minor. And the people on the Council didn’t approve of Johannes’s policies when he was alive.”

  “What about Katrin?”

  “What will she do? I don’t know. No one does. Including Katrin.”

  “How much trouble will she have being Empress? She isn’t a man.”

  “Less than most people think. She’ll have the Braunsknechts.”

  “And you?”

  “Some. Yes.” The hard Renfrow shone through briefly. Helspeth shuddered. That was the Ferris Renfrow who had caused nightmares amongst Hansel’s enemies.

  “What?”

  “You aren’t going to just vacation here.”

  “Uh …”

  “Did you think you would? You’re the Emperor’s daughter. You’re on this side of the mountains.”

  “I didn’t …”

  “I know. Those people up at Alten Weinberg and Hochwasser didn’t think about that, either. But you’ll be the Empire’s proconsul in Firaldia. What with the mountain crossings being closed for half the year, now.” And the only way around required an overland journey through the Eastern Empire or Arnhand.

  Like it or not, Helspeth Ege had to be an adult. With responsibilities.

  “You’ll do fine,” Renfrow told her. “You are your father’s daughter. And you have Algres Drear. It’s no accident he was assigned to you. Your father chose him. Trust him.” Renfrow started to leave his seat, remembered he was in the presence of an Imperial princess.

  “You have something else to do?”

  “Always. I’m always behind and always running late.”

  “Maybe you need your own Algres Drear.”

  “I have a few. But you hit the mark. I could use more. Since your father died I’m a one-armed juggler with twelve balls in the air. It’s necessary to let some things slide. I sometimes decide wrong.”

  ***

  RENFROW FADED OUT OF PLEMENZA AS THOUGH HE HAD been but a wisp of imagination.

  Helspeth consciously tried to stop feeling sorry for herself. She had to concentrate on improving the standing of the Empire in northern Firaldia.

  She was less effective than Renfrow hoped. The Council Advisory sabotaged most of her efforts.

  She accepted what befell. She could do nothing else. But behind her cold, neutral eyes lurked the troubling, certain knowledge that Mushin’s frailties would take him soon and she would become second in succession.

  She wrote Katrin frequently, saying little of substance, trying to nurture and rebuild a family relationship.

  Katrin seldom replied. She was unpredictable when she did. She could be angry, petty, scolding, or demonstrate the warmest expressions of sisterly love. Helspeth suspected Katrin’s attitude shifted with the moods of those around her. Which did not augur well for the reign of the Empress Katrin.

  Every letter, however grim or cheerful, left Helspeth more frightened.

  During her appearance at a religious procession, in the course of one of Plemenza’s festivals, Algres Drear warned, “It’s time to take more care what you say and who hears you say it.” He chose a moment when no one would overhear.

  ‘What do you mean?”

  “I get letters from north of the Jagos, too. Be careful, Princess.”

  He had no chance to say anything more.

  Helspeth worried for hours. The Council Advisory must be poisoning Lothar’s mind. She could not defend herself. She had to shut up and make sure she offended no one.

  Being an Imperial princess, even in her wonderful city of Plemenza, held no joy now that Johannes was gone.

  7. A Fire in the End of Connec

  Tormond IV, being the Great Vacillator, kept Count Raymone Garete, Seuir Brock Rault, Brother Candle, and their companions in Khaurene all winter. And a hard wintef it was, out where the nobility squabbled. Hungry peasants flooded Khaurene. Serfs deserted estates where men were bonded to the soil. Their masters were too busy to hunt them down. They joined the bandits in the hills, became low-grade mercenaries, or drifted into the cities where they lived by their wits. Meaning many became wood to be hewn by the heads-man’s ax.

  Count Raymone chafed. He pleaded. He received letters almost daily begging him to come home. The best he could do in the face of Tormond’s intransigence was issue a patent to his cousin Bernardin Amberchelle authorizing
him to take all steps necessary to maintain order and defend Antieux.

  Brother Candle was appalled. Bernardin Amberchelle was an animal. He was stupid, vicious, and a stranger to conscience. “Your Lordship! You can’t … Anyone but Bernardin!”

  “Because he’s an atheist? Or because he’s a murderous lunatic?”

  “Yes. That.”

  “But that makes him perfect.”

  “What?”

  “He’ll only kill people he doesn’t like.”

  “Your Lordship, it isn’t a joke.”

  “He’ll be savage but he’ll do more good than harm. And I’ll look grand by comparison when I get back.

  Even my enemies will be glad to see me.”

  Brother Candle shook his head at the sheer cruel cynicism of the man.

  “Bernardin won’t be out of control. He has a certain low craft. And he does listen when I explain clearly.

  Nobody will take it in the neck who didn’t ask for it.”

  Brother Candle was not mollified.

  Brother Candle met Sir Eardale in the silencing room the day before he left Khaurene. The knight from Santerin did nothing to hide this meeting. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he explained. “The cause is lost.”

  “No cause is lost while we don’t despair.”

  “Despair has found a roost, Brother. With all its brothers and sisters.”

  “Then go home.”

  “I am home. I want your final thoughts before you leave.”

  Tormond had been adamant. Brother Candle was to stick to Count Raymone Garete like a rash. A rash of conscience.

  “You’ve heard them, Sir Eardale. The Duke won’t listen. There isn’t much more that can be done.”

  The old knight grunted. “And our traitor?”

  “Excuse me?” Stalling.

  “Sublime’s inside man. Who is he?”

  The answer placed the Perfect Master squarely in the jaws of a fierce quandary. He had wrestled it for months. Pursuing the example set by the Great Vacillator.

  Any action meant making a choice between friends.

  Sir Eardale observed, “There are issues larger than the fates of a few men, Brother.”

  “Intellectually, yes.” Emotionally, it remained a choice between men.