“ ’Ere,” he said roughly, “let me.” Swiftly and effortlessly he lifted the dying Patriarch and moved him from the floor to a table several steps away where gifts of state had been set. With a sweeping action of his elbow the table was cleared and the old man settled on the surface like a feather coming to rest, the heavy dart from the back of his neck removed without a trace. As Grunthor had hoped, all of the benisons followed, praying for and ministering to their fallen leader as soon as they arrived, several of them in tears.
Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, was the first there, whispering words of comfort. He began immediately ministering to the dying man, checking his heart and wrists. Philabet Griswold and Nielash Mousa were next; both shoved the first benison aside and began immediately whispering in either of the dying man’s ears, pleading with him to come to consciousness long enough to name his successor. Abernathy and Ian Steward stared blindly at the commotion, Abernathy muttering prayers under his breath.
Orlando angrily moved Mousa out of the way and went back to his ministrations. Frustration seemed to hamper his movements; his famed power of healing was not working. He checked the old man’s breast, opened the robe particularly wide, felt his wrist, and became more agitated and irritated than resigned as the fact of imminent death became obvious.
“Stand back.” The voice, as clear as a bell, rang through the courtyard, sending the crowd into stunned silence. Rhapsody used Anborn to push through the benisons and moved directly to the Patriarch’s side as he rested on the table. Grunthor quickly cut off any approach from the other side. She looked to her chamberlain.
“Sylvia, get my harp immediately.”
The chamberlain tapped a page on the shoulder and pointed; the young boy ran off at breakneck speed. The new queen bent over the frail man, who was curled like a baby bird fallen out of the nest, and took his hand.
“Your Grace, have you anything to say to these men?” She nodded at the benisons. The old man blinked his eyes; with great effort he shook his head. He reached shakily inside his robe and felt around awkwardly, then pulled out a parchment scroll and placed it in her hand. “Very well; Anborn, please escort the various benisons to a place they can pray undisturbed.”
The Cymrian warrior stepped in front of the table and herded the benisons into a close, protesting mass. He walked forward, moving them out of the way, ignoring their arguments for access to their dying leader.
The Patriarch gestured wordlessly at the scroll in Rhapsody’s hand. She held it up before his eyes.
“Do you want me to read this aloud?” she asked quietly. The Patriarch nodded.
“Very well,” she said. She gently released his hand that was clutching her own in the rictus of impending death and unrolled the scroll.
“Hear me,” she said; her voice carried the timbre of a Namer. “I hereby herald the last missive of the Patriarch of Sepulvarta. It states: in the matter of succession, let the Ring and the Scales decide.”
The crowd began to murmur as the benisons, to a one, stood in shocked silence, turning alternate shades of angry red or ghostly pale. A moment later the page returned with Rhapsody’s harp; he held it aloft and it was passed from hand to hand until it reached Anborn, who gave it to the queen.
“Grunthor, can you help me up here?” she asked, pointing to the table. The Bolg lifted her easily off the ground and onto the tabletop, where she sat and drew the Patriarch’s head and shoulders into her lap. She made him as comfortable as she could and began to play softly, struggling to keep the tears out of her eyes. The old man smiled at her. At last he spoke.
“I—I’m sorry, my child,” he rasped, struggling to breathe. “I didn’t know it would—come now. I didn’t—mean to ruin—”
“You’ve ruined nothing,” Rhapsody said reassuringly. “Singing your dirge and witnessing your Last Words is an honor for me. I will herald them, and add them to the lore, so that they will live forever, and your memory through them. That we are together as you leave for the light is the best gift you could give me. Rest.” She stopped playing long enough to brush the shock of silver hair out of the eyes that were clouding over, reflecting the sun. Then she began plucking the strings of the harp again, crooning a sweet, wordless melody.
The Patriarch’s breathing became labored. Rhapsody had seen enough death to know that it was at hand; she bent down to his ear and one tear fell from her glistening green eyes onto his face.
“My Last Words—speak them for me,” he whispered. “You—know them.”
“Yes,” she said in return. She put her hand on the dying man’s chest, and let his voice sound through her own, deep, rich and resonant as it must have sounded in his youth.
“Above all else, may you know joy.”
A blissful smile came over the cleric’s face, and he closed his eyes. Rhapsody’s song became stronger, and when he drew his last breath she began the Lirin Song of Passage, singing as sweetly as she could for the old man who loved the sound of the harp.
The cloudy day became slightly brighter as the bonds of the Earth loosened, just for a moment, long enough to allow the soul of the Patriarch to pass easily through. Except for the tiny surge of sunlight, the crowd was unaware of its passage, but Rhapsody could see it, and she blew a kiss skyward. Then she looked over at the benisons, standing in stunned silence off in the corner. Ian Steward and Colin Abernathy were clutching each other’s hands, trembling and pale; Lanacan Orlando stood silent, his face a stoic mask, while Philabet Griswold and Nielash Mousa were barely in control of their rage.
“Your Graces, one and all, perhaps this would be a good time to lead us all in prayer.”
Achmed poured himself an extra-large glass of Canderian whiskey, and passed the bottle to Grunthor. The Sergeant looked at his king for a moment, then put the bottle to his bulbous lips and took a swig.
The day had been a nightmarish one. Rhapsody’s skills as a Namer had served to keep the frightened assemblage calm, and she had stayed in the courtyard well past midnight, comforting those in mourning and greeting each of the well-wishers who had come to witness her coronation. Now she was taking a bath, hoping to wash away the effects of the chaos that had been her coronation ceremony. Her Firbolg friends sat before the fire in her chambers, discussing the next move before she came out again.
“You don’t think she noticed the dart?” Achmed took another deep swallow, clenching his teeth as the burning liquid ripped down his gullet.
“Definitely not,” said Grunthor, taking another swig. “She thinks the old goat dropped dead on ’is own, as ’e said ’e was gonna months ago.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. I doubt she would appreciate it if she knew her friend’s death was a diversion.” He saw a scowl cross Grunthor’s face, but the giant said nothing.
A moment later Rhapsody came into the main chamber in her dressing gown, her hair wet, with a drying cloth in her hand. She went to the fire, which crackled as she approached, and bent over before it, drying her hair with the drying cloth. Finally she shook her head, the semi-dry tresses falling around her face, rosy from the bath and the firelight. Then she came to Grunthor and took the bottle out of his hands, taking a swig and handing it back to him. She sat on his knee.
“Soon no one is going to want to come to any party I give,” she said. Grunthor chuckled; Achmed merely smiled. Her eyes darkened. “Thank you both for all your help today. I would never have made it through without you.”
“It was a little worse than you think,” Achmed said, swallowing the rest of his whiskey and pouring himself another splash. “Our friend from the Vault of the Underworld decided to come to your party.” Rhapsody looked at him questioningly. “I discovered who the F’dor is today.”
Rhapsody sat straight up, almost falling off Grunthor’s knee. “Who?”
Achmed set his glass down. His face grew solemn in the firelight. “Lanacan Orlando, the Blesser of Bethe Corbair.”
“Are you certain?” she asked, her eyes widen
ing.
“Absolutely. I could smell him when the Patriarch’s contingent got out of the carriage. I traced him and caught his heartbeat; it’s him, the demonic knob.”
Rhapsody leaned back against Grunthor’s shoulder, deep in thought. “Well, that makes some sense. The Patriarch said Lanacan was the priest he would send to heal the injured and bless the armies; that gave him access to them when they were completely open to him. He could bind them as he was blessing them, planting the seed for them to erupt in murder later on, that bastard. Oelendra suspected Anborn because he had the very same kind of access.”
“ ’E’s been on our bloody doorstep all this time,” muttered Grunthor as Achmed took the whiskey bottle and poured another glass. “No wonder ’e volunteered to be our personal cleric. Thank goodness we Bolg are godless pagans on our way to eternal damnation in the Afterlife.”
Achmed nodded. “Well, the good news is that I don’t believe he knows we’re on to him. The Patriarch’s timely, er, untimely demise covered my finding out, so we didn’t have to move against him.”
“Yeah, what a coincidence,” muttered Grunthor. Achmed shot him an acid glance.
Rhapsody was looking puzzled. “Something still doesn’t make sense to me,” she said, taking another sip from the bottle. “I know that the benison holds services every week in the basilica in Bethe Corbair. All the benisons do, each in his own See., except for Colin Abernathy, because the Nonaligned States don’t have a basilica. Those basilicas are sanctified ground, blessed by the elements themselves; I can’t believe it is within the power of even the mightiest demon to circumvent something like that. If he were to desecrate the holy ground in some way to allow himself to be able to even stand on it would be resanctified immediately by whatever element it is consecrated to.”
“Do you remember what element the basilica in Bethe Corbair is dedicated to?”
Rhapsody thought for a moment, retracing her conversation with Lord Stephen. “I think it’s the wind,” she said at last. “Of course it is. Remember the sound of all those beautiful bells? You could hear them everywhere in the town.”
“It’s ’ard to get around that,” Grunthor said. “But, o’ course, nothin’ is impossible.”
“Right,” said Rhapsody. “So what do we do now?”
“Well, Grunthor and I are leaving tonight or tomorrow to follow his caravan back,” said Achmed, downing his remaining whiskey. “I asked Sylvia to let you know when and if the benisons take their leave; they should be easy to track.”
“What about me?” the new queen asked indignantly.
“You’re to stay here for the moment and get established in your new kingdom. If you leave immediately after being coronated it will arouse suspicion. We will scout to see what is going on; then we’ll come back here and plan the sortie to kill it. It should give you a few weeks to get things in order. Fair enough?”
“I suppose,” Rhapsody said, looking out the window. “Let’s not wait too long, though, all right? I don’t want the body count of innocents to be any higher than it already is.”
Grunthor and Achmed exchanged a glance. It was one higher than she realized.
62
At the Eastern Edge of the Krevensfield Plain
The Blesser of Bethe Corbair was a patient man.
He had always been so. Even in the days before the Taking, in the time prior to becoming the host of the demon, Lanacan Orlando had been a patient man. Not suited by temperament or position to fight for dominance with Mousa or Griswold, he had instead chosen the path of long-suffering, humble service in the hope that the Patriarch would see the depth of his commitment to the All-God and to the Patriarch himself. Instead, the years passed; he repeatedly accepted the Patriarch’s sincere thanks for taking on the most onerous of tasks, loyally serving as the healer to the festering wounded of the armies, the low-life populations of Bethe Corbair and the farming villages of the Krevensfield Plain, while the power and prestige were routinely reserved for the more assertive and combative benisons. Lanacan waited for the Patriarch, a soft-spoken man with a distaste for strife, to ultimately reward him for all his good works, his mild manner, but it never came to pass. His only thanks for all that patience was the Patriarch’s good opinion.
When finally Lanacan Orlando made his deal with the demon, he discovered that it, too, was patient. Unlike most of the others of its race, intent on mayhem and chaos at all costs, lusting for power and the friction of destruction, the F’dor that took him on, came into him like breath, remaining in his lungs like heavy vapor, clinging thickly to his blood, had a long worldview, a plan it was willing to wait to implement until all the pieces were in place. Over the years, as he grew more and more demonic, it seemed as if the F’dor’s avarice might have even been tempered somewhat by the patience he had possessed before it possessed him.
Now, spring was coming. He stood in the thin snow of the Krevensfield Plain, the anger from being thwarted at such an important juncture still unabated, growing more fierce and furious, like a spreading fire, by the moment.
The Patriarch had died in Tyrian, not in Sepulvarta. He had died without a successor, and, more important, without the Ring. Had he remained in Sepulvarta, where he had spent his entire life since investiture, the benison would have been the one to comfort him in his remaining days. To ease his transition from life to death, in Orlando’s own time. To make sure all the pieces were in place for Orlando’s ascension as the new Patriarch, which would give him the chance to crown his thrall King of Roland.
Well, no matter, he thought, trying to quell the screaming voice that burned in his ear. He has the armies.
Now, Tristan Steward, he whispered into the wind. Begin.
He waited until the command caught the west wind, then turned to his livery driver and the soldiers who served as his escort and smiled beneficently.
“Well, gentlemen, we are but a day from home. I can almost hear the sweet music of the bells of Bethe Corbair on the wind; shall we saddle up, then, and be off?”
Bethany
Cristan Steward swung open the door just as McVickers, the new knight marshal of the united army of Roland, was preparing to knock.
“Come in, McVickers,” he said thickly. The soldier stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He stood at attention, waiting for the prince to speak, but Tristan merely returned to his desk and the enormous pile of parchment documents he had been paging through. After a few moments, McVickers spoke.
“What can I do to be of service, m’lord?”
“You can stand there quietly while I get the maps together, McVickers.” The prince’s voice dripped with venom. The soldier inhaled deeply and remained at attention.
Finally Tristan found what he wanted. He spread the sheets out on the long table near the window and gestured impatiently to McVickers. The soldier came and stood by his side. He stared down at the maps that the prince was arranging on the table. Finally he spoke.
“Canrif, m’lord?”
“Yes,” Tristan answered, smoothing the corner of an ancient map that was attempting to reroll itself. “The Bolglands.”
“Sir?”
Steward’s eyes glittered impatiently. “What is it you don’t understand, McVickers? I’ve summoned Stephen Navarne and asked him to bring from his museum the drawings of the internal tunnels and mountain passes that were built in the Cymrian times; I doubt there has been much structural revision. Most of the changes will have been to the outer defenses, to the outposts and perhaps in the field tunnels known as the breastworks.”
“I—I don’t understand, m’lord.” McVickers stammered as the enormity of what the prince was contemplating began to dawn on him. “You—you aren’t planning to—attack the Bolglands, are you, sir?”
The madness in Tristan’s eyes shone brighter than the morning light outside the library window. He had been in a rage of sick disappointment ever since the coronation, when the Patriarch’s untimely demise had caused a panic, and thereby preve
nted him from the private audience with the new Lirin queen he had been craving with anticipation. He had been forced to leave immediately with the benisons and the other provincial leaders, to return to Sepulvarta for the funeral. Rhapsody had not attended; she had already said her goodbyes.
But at least she was now ensconced in Tyrian.
Out of the Bolglands.
Out of harm’s way.
“Yes, McVickers,” he said darkly. “Yes, I am. It’s only a shell at this point, anyway; a plague of some sort has destroyed the army and most of the populace. Those Bolg that remain must be contained to ensure that the disease does not spread to Roland. Now gather your generals, and begin a muster. I want to leave as soon as all the provinces have sent their soldiers, when the last troops arrive from Yarim two months hence.”
McVickers nodded, feeling the weight of an executioner on his neck as he did.
“Yes, m’lord.”
Lianta’ar, the Basilica of the Star, Sepulvarta
The sheer scope of the cathedral, its massive domed ceiling overarching a hall the length and breadth of several city streets, only served to unnerve Achmed even more.
He had surprised Grunthor to the point of speechlessness when the Bolg king announced that he wanted to stay near the basilica of the Star for a few moments after the benisons had left, along with the weeping faithful, as night fell on the conclusion of the funeral rites for the Patriarch. Lanacan Orlando, who had passed up the service itself to remain behind in the Patriarch’s manse, comforting the grief-stricken abbot and ordinates, had already departed to return to Bethe Corbair. His coterie had headed north toward the crossroads of the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, the roadway built in Cymrian times bisecting Roland from the seacoast to the edge of the Teeth. Achmed reasoned they could catch up with him easily by traveling overland.
You know why he stayed in the rectory? Achmed had asked.