A heavy silence fell, echoing through the library, as the holy men and regents looked at each other. Finally Tristan Steward spoke.
“Have no fear, Cedric. Madeleine and I will see to the child’s needs and education as if it were Andrew’s right-born heir.”
Canderre’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. Stephen Navarne felt his fists unconsciously clench in anger at Tristan’s words; the Lord Roland had just named the child as Andrew’s bastard. The implication was lost on none of the men present: by right of succession Madeleine, and by extension, upon their marriage, Tristan, was now heir to Canderre, not Andrew’s unborn child.
Quentin Baldasarre, Andrew’s cousin, already furious at Tristan, stepped forward angrily again, only to have his arm caught by Lanacan Orlando, his benison.
“The child will be Sir Andrew’s right-born heir, my son,” Orlando said calmly to Tristan, his voice no longer quaking as it had the moment before. He turned to the clergy and the provincial leaders. “I presided over the marriage of Sir Andrew and Lady Jecelyn in secret last summer. Their union was blessed; the Unification ritual was performed. As result, any child of their union is legitimate, and the right-born heir of Cedric Canderre.” The firelight glinted off the chain around his neck, which bore no talisman in representation of the wind.
Stephen glanced at Llauron, but the Invoker showed no sign of surprise, or even interest; rather, he inhaled the bouquet of his brandy and took a sip from the snifter. Andrew had said nothing of his marriage to Stephen.
Tristan seemed shocked, while his brother, Ian, normally placid, grew red in the face. The spiral of red jewels in the sun-shaped talisman around his neck flashed angrily in the firelight as well.
“Why did he come to you, Your Grace?” Ian Steward demanded. “He is a member of my See, not yours.”
The benison of Bethe Corbair opened his hands mildly in a gesture of reconciliation. “And Lady Jecelyn is a member of mine. It was a romantic impulse, no doubt. It seemed too long for them to wait to be together, though they both looked forward to the more important, formal ceremony over which you would have presided next month, Your Grace. I imagine they did not wish to impose on you twice.”
The dukes exchanged a glance. It was apparent to them that Lanacan Orlando was probably offering a gracious cover for Andrew Canderre’s difficult situation, though the benison maintained a steady gaze. Tristan Steward exhaled deeply, but otherwise betrayed no annoyance that his attempt to place himself in Canderre’s line of succession had been thwarted. Finally Cedric spoke.
“I am grateful to you, Your Grace, for whatever blessings you have afforded my son.” He turned to his fellow regents. “I will take my leave of you now. I have dead to bury, as do you all.”
“You’ll have more, unless you listen a moment longer,” said Tristan Steward.
The curt tone drew the attention of all present in the room. The Lord Roland’s blue eyes burned with fire that smoldered within a fragile control. He regarded them seriously, almost contemptuously, then lingered for a moment, staring at Nielash Mousa.
“Take your leave now, Your Grace,” he said, his tone barely civil. “Return to His Highness, the Crown Prince, and tell him what has occurred. Inform him that I will be contacting him shortly. My retinue will see you to the border.”
The Blesser of Sorbold stared at him for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. He turned to the dukes.
“I do apologize most deeply on behalf of my countrymen for what has befallen your subjects,” he said, then looked to his fellow benisons. “I pray you remember, my brothers in grace, that we are all children of the All-God, sons of the Creator. Whatever evil has been causing this tragic violence amongst Orlandan citizens and the Lirin of Tyrian has now spread to Sorbold, but it is not in any way condoned by the Crown. Please keep this in mind, and keep cool heads. I assure you, the prince will make restitution for this, and do everything he can to see that it does not occur again.”
He waited for a response, but the dukes and benisons of Roland stood silent in the wake of his words. After a few moments of awkwardness he bowed and left the library.
Tristan Steward waited until the door had closed behind Mousa, then turned back with barely disguised wrath to confront the regents and the clergymen.
“I have been warning you all for some time that this was coming, that we needed to take action, but you spurned those warnings, every last one of you.” He glared pointedly at Stephen. “Now the winter solstice has been cursed, stained with the blood of citizens from each of our provinces, and even from the realm of Sorbold. I will tolerate this reckless lack of preparedness no longer. If you wish to remain blind to what is happening around you, fine. But I will no longer stand by while Orlandan subjects are slaughtered.
“Therefore, I invoke my rights as high regent and prince of the capital province. I declare sovereignty over the all the armies of Roland, and am assuming command thereof. It is high time to end this madness and combine our forces under a sole leadership—my leadership. Any province who opposes me will be cast out of the Orlandan alliance, and will no longer be under the protection of Bethany.”
“You are declaring yourself king, then?” demanded Ihrman Karsrick.
“Not yet, though that may follow as the natural progression.” Tristan’s gaze went from face to face, assessing the reactions of the various dukes and benisons. “My title is not important. The survival of Roland is. The Cymrian War fragmented this land into a ridiculous arrangement of egos and agendas, teetering on a precipice of disaster. No more! Too long we have bowed and scraped to each other, dancing gingerly around this issue to salve your fragile self-importance. My army protects your regions now. It has been Bethany’s soldiers, Bethany’s supply troops, that have maintained the peace throughout Roland for years now—”
“—with the aid of a considerable amount of taxes,” finished Martin Ivenstrand, the Duke of Avonderre. “Any one of us could have built the forces that you have had they been given the assessments from which you have benefited.”
“Be that as it may, none of you have had the stomach, or the loin-pouch, to do so,” retorted Tristan angrily. “It is my right, as high regent, to claim command, and I do so now. Those who oppose me will no longer be under my protection. I will end all trade agreements with renegade provinces, and will sever any and all diplomatic ties as well.”
“You can’t be serious,” sputtered Quentin Baldasarre.
“I am completely serious. I will strip your provinces from the mail caravan, tear up your grain treaties, ostracize you so completely that you will be for all intents a foreign land. I have had enough—more than enough—of this nightmare. It has cost me far more than I am willing to continue paying.” His words faltered as he thought of Prudence, her dismembered corpse strewn about the grass of Gwylliam’s Great Moot in Ylorc. “Now decide—are you with me? Or are you out?”
The other dukes stared at each other in dismay. Tristan’s voice was deep with power; his shoulders trembled with rage. The air in the room had gone as dry as a Yarim summer. Stephen thought he could taste blood in the back of his mouth.
The silence thudded heavily through the library, punctuated by the threat of the fire’s crackle, the accusatory ticking of the clock.
Finally Colin Abernathy, the Blesser of the Nonaligned States, turned to Tristan.
“I will take my leave now, my son,” he said pleasantly. “It is not fitting that I be privy to these discussions, as my See is not within the realm of Roland. Let me say, for what it is worth, however, that your plan seems the right one to me. It is high time, in my opinion, that Roland sort out its lines of succession, and unify behind one royal house. As a foreign national I can assure you the clarity will benefit both Roland and its allies.”
For the first time since he had entered the room, Tristan smiled slightly.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Abernathy bowed shakily to Stephen Navarne. “I will make arrangements to collect the rema
ins of our people who have died this day on your soil with your chamberlain, my son.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Stephen replied. “He has been told to stand ready.”
“Very good. Well, then, farewell, my brothers in grace, and m’lord regents. I wish you wisdom in your discussions, and in your decisions.” Abernathy stood tall as he bowed to the clergy and the nobility, then crossed the library and closed the door soundly behind him.
Tristan turned back to the other regents of Roland.
“Sometimes it is easier to see the wisdom of an undertaking from the outside,” he said. He turned to Stephen Navarne, waving his hand to silence the other dukes as they prepared to speak.
“Let us cut to the chase. You, Stephen—you, my own cousin—you opposed me when I made a call for unity before. See where your folly has led? Four hundred dead, maybe twice that by the time the injured succumb. At your hands, Stephen—their blood is on your hands, because you failed to heed my warnings. You thought your pathetic wall could save you—it couldn’t even protect your keep against the peasant revolt last spring from which I had to rescue you. What is it going to take to convince you? Wasn’t the decapitation of your own wife enough?”
A collective gasp echoed through the room.
“M’lord!” Philabet Griswold choked.
“Your tongue is flapping dangerously, Tristan,” said Quentin Baldasarre acidly, pulling free from Lanacan Orlando’s nervous clutches and interposing himself between Stephen and the Lord Roland. “Best batten it down before you swallow it.”
“If you wish to call him out, Stephen, I will happily stand as your second,” added Martin Ivenstrand angrily.
“No,” Stephen said, pushing Quentin out of the way and locking his gaze on to Tristan’s. Silence fell over the room again.
“No,” Stephen repeated. “He’s right.”
Tristan’s nostrils flared, and he exhaled deeply. His fists unclenched at his sides.
“Will you stand with me now, then?” he demanded.
Stephen could feel the eyes of the others trained on him. Tristan had confronted him first deliberately, he knew, because the other dukes would align themselves with Stephen either way. Finally he nodded, still holding Tristan’s gaze.
“Yes,” he said.
The collective intake of breath swallowed the air in the room, making it difficult for Stephen to breathe.
“You would support him as king?” Ivenstrand asked Stephen incredulously.
“Not as yet,” Stephen said, watching Tristan’s face. “But it is not the crown he is claiming, at least not at this time.” He turned to the others, whose faces were frozen in various expressions ranging from dismay to horror. “How can I deny the truth of what he says? Twenty years ago Gwydion of Manosse, the best among us, the best hope for a new age and my best friend, had the life ripped out of him near the House of Remembrance—in my own lands. My wife—” His voice faltered, and his gaze fell to the floor. “My wife, the children of my province, now these, the invited guests of my festival, Dunstin, Andrew—countless others—how can I deny that Tristan is right? How can any of us?”
“You would return us to the hand of one lord, one king?” Ihrman Karsrick asked skeptically. “Have you, the Cymrian historian, forgotten what that led to the last time—the full-scale genocide waged by the last power-hungry maniacs who insisted on having ‘sole leadership’?” His eye caught that of Llauron, who was standing next to him, and Karsrick’s voice disappeared as he realized that he was insulting the Invoker’s parents. Llauron merely smiled, saluted him with the last of the brandy in his snifter, and took a sip.
“I would see us at peace,” Stephen said heavily. “I would see this madness at an end. Obviously whatever is causing this bloody mayhem has grown too powerful, too ever-present. It is only getting stronger. It is now beyond my abilities to protect even my own people. And we still don’t even know what it is. It is long past time that we found out.” He turned and looked back at his cousin. “Tristan believes he can do it if we unite in support of him. I say we let him try.”
The other regents of Roland, Cedric Canderre, Quentin Baldasarre, Martin Ivenstrand, and Ihrman Karsrick, looked one to another as Stephen and Tristan continued their joint stare. Finally Cedric lowered his eyes and shook his head.
“All right, then, Tristan. I shall send my knight marshal to you upon my return to High Tower. You can work out the arrangements with him.” Tristan nodded appreciatively, breaking his glance for the first time from Stephen’s. Cedric turned to Quentin Baldasarre.
“I hope you will choose to follow my lead, nephew, and end this acrimonious exchange. This has been a tragic day for our family; now all I desire is to bury my son and grieve. I suggest you commit your forces to Tristan’s command, and tend to your brother as well.”
Baldasarre stared at Tristan for a moment, then nodded reluctantly, looking suddenly older and ashen.
“I will, Tristan, but be warned: do not misuse them. If you commit this new army to another foolish undertaking, like the Spring Cleaning exercise wherein you fed two thousand of your own soldiers to the Bolg, you will surely be sentencing Roland to certain death. Understand this.”
“I do,” said Tristan testily. “And I will not have you questioning my command, Quentin. Either you acknowledge my authority, or Bethe Corbair will be forced to secede from the kingdom and defend itself. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Baldasarre spat.
“Good. Now, what say you, Ihrman? Martin? Are you with me, or are you out?”
Martin Ivenstrand looked to Philabet Griswold, who nodded reluctantly, then to Stephen Navarne. He let loose a deep sigh.
“Avonderre is with you, Tristan. I will yield you command of my army, but not of the naval forces. I am the only province with a coastline and a shipping interest to protect.”
“That will suffice, for now,” Tristan said, walking to the sideboard and picking up the brandy decanter, which he found to be empty. He set it down again. “And you, Ihrman? Are you casting Yarim’s lot in with Roland?”
“Yes,” said Karsrick icily.
“Good. Then go home to your own lands, all of you, and send me your commanders forthwith after the state funerals. Please schedule those ceremonies so that I may attend both, as both Andrew and Dunstin were Madeleine’s kinsmen.” Cedric Canderre and Quentin Baldasarre, already numbly gathering their belongings, merely nodded.
Tristan waved his hand in the direction of the benisons.
“I’d be grateful, Your Graces, if you would be so kind as to offer up some prayers to the Patriarch on my behalf, that I might lead with the All-God’s granted wisdom.”
“And, of course, for the souls of the deceased as well,” said Llauron.
The Lord Roland caught the gaze of the Invoker of the Filids, and cleared his throat.
“Of course,” he said hastily. He looked into the Invoker’s blue eyes and found a mild expression in them. “Thank you for your assistance today, Your Grace. How fortunate it was for us that the chief priest of nature was among us at this time.” Llauron nodded casually, then took a final sip of brandy, draining his glass. “I imagine this must be a poignant moment for you,” Tristan said.
Llauron smiled slightly. “It has been a more than poignant day, my son,” he said pleasantly.
“No doubt. There was a time when we all thought that Gwydion might be the one to unite Roland into one realm again. I’m sure this brings back painful memories.”
Llauron turned so that Tristan could not see his face as he answered and set his brandy snifter on the sideboard.
“Indeed,” he said.
Hours later, within the depths of his carriage as it traveled rockily over the frozen roads back to his lands, the holy man smiled.
All in all, things had gone rather well.
17
Krevensfield Plain, South of Sepulvarta
Achmed had judged his mount to be capable of a long steady canter since the last time it had reste
d, and so rode steadily east through the frozen grasslands of the Krevensfield Plain, bending slightly over the horse’s neck to avoid the buffeting currents of air, sprinkled occasionally with crystals of ice that whipped through from time to time from the south.
The wind had grown noticeably colder since he and Rhapsody had parted at the northern edge of the Forest of Tyrian. Perhaps that was due to winter’s deepening, or maybe it was only that her fire lore made her a warm presence, even in its depth.
Nine of the demon-spawn had been successfully obtained. The information that the mad Seer of the Present had provided had been only partially helpful, and only slightly accurate; by the time they had located every child, three of them, including the Liringlas named Aric, had moved from where they had been on the day they had visited Rhonwyn in her crumbling abbey tower. Nonetheless, they had chased all of them down and caught them, some easily, some with more bloodshed, but finally each that could be had was theirs.
It had been almost painful tracking them; his Dhracian blood lore screamed in his veins each time he had caught the whiff of the Rakshas’s blood, burning him as he matched the beat of his heart to the beat of the heart pumping in the demon-spawn. It had been a battle each time to disengage from his inbred command to destroy, to rid the Earth of any trace of F’dor, but he managed each time to remind himself that his prey were needed alive, so that the pure, primordial blood of the demon within their veins could be harvested and used to find it. Rhapsody’s admonitions that the prey were only children had meant less than nothing to him.
Finally, with all but the last in hand, they had said goodbye at the forest’s edge, Rhapsody with the remaining two children to take to Oelendra, and he on his way back to his kingdom.
It had been a difficult parting. He had made one final attempt to get her to see the folly in going after the eldest, the gladiator named Constantin, especially now that the winter carnival in Navarne was over; the visitors from Sorbold had no doubt returned to their lands, and the gladiator to the security of the arena compound in Jakar where he lived. She had refused, as always, in her maddeningly resolute manner, and so he had become resigned to the fact that they might be parting for the last time as he bade her goodbye on the doorstep of Tyrian.