Her boots and the hem of her skirt were heavy with drying mud. Vincen held out a bit of salt pork he’d been boiling over their little fire, and she took it, bit off an end, and chewed slowly. She was aware that it tasted much better than it should have. Either she was desperately hungry or any sensation that proved her still alive had become precious. Perhaps both.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I will be.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I am.”
He lapsed back into silence. The stars came out, scattered across the sky like a snowstorm. Clara drew her writing kit out, dropped another knot on the fire, and turned her back to it so that the light fell on the page and didn’t blind her. She took the pen in her hand, paused, and put it back. If ever in her life it had been time for a good pipe, the time was now. She packed the little clay bowl with leaf, lit it with a burning twig, and took the pen out again. She drew it across the ink brick, let the nib hover for a moment over the page. There had been some other thought she’d had before, some strategy for undermining Geder’s army. It was no longer foremost in her mind. She let it go.
Today I stood witness as the forces of Antea won their first battle against the defenders of Birancour. I presume, though I do not know, that we will turn south tomorrow for Porte Oliva. I hope to find a courier whom I may send north to Carse, and so to you. I will post to you what information I can in hopes that it will be of use in bringing this ongoing tragedy to an end.
It is important, as we consider our present conflict, that we understand it for what it is. The war now being fought is not with the people of Imperial Antea. Nor is it against the citizens of Birancour. These are the weapons that greater forces use against each other. Put two boys to fighting each other with sticks, and the boys may come away well or poorly, but the sticks will always be shattered. The enemy is within Antea, it has bored to the center of the empire, but it is not the farmers or the bakers or the beggars in the streets of Camnipol, nor even the court itself. This war is not fought against Birancour or the Timzinae or your colleague who has earned the Lord Regent’s particular wrath.
A cult of death has taken root in my kingdom, Geder Palliako at its center. And our present struggle is not how to defeat Antea, but how we may best rip out this weed and burn it before all that was once noble there is lost.
Geder
Geder woke on a low divan, his head aching. He had a knot low in his back from sitting too long without moving, and his shirt felt oily against his skin. He rose, stretched, looked out the window. In the north, the light of the rising sun was working its way down the Kingspire. The red banner of the goddess hanging from the temple at its height glowed like a fire. The rooms Lady Skestinin’s house master had given him were the best in the mansion. The bed was large, the mattress soft. Geder’s servants from the Kingspire had brought him his bedclothes. He couldn’t face the idea of sleep. Of rest. It had no place for him.
Neither did the rising flood of reports and letters, demands and imprecations that were the Lord Regent’s problem. Today, and for the past week, he had not been the Lord Regent. He’d been Jorey’s freind. And Sabiha’s. There was nothing he could do here. He wasn’t a midwife or a cunning man. All he could do, he’d done. All that was left was to be present. The empire wouldn’t fall just because he took his eyes off it for a few days.
Sabiha and the baby had had a rough week of it. The cunning men worked in groups, each taking turn over Sabiha’s distended belly. Some times were better, and Sabiha was able to sleep or eat, make little jokes through gritted teeth or hold Lady Skestinin’s hand as the older woman wept. Some times were worse, and Sabiha’s cries sounded like she was being beaten. The sunlight came down the great tower and flooded the city. Geder tugged at his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair. His chin needed shaving, and he was hungry. But later. That was all for later.
His guard waited outside the room, and Geder gestured that if they had to follow, they should at least follow quietly. The main stair was carved marble, and the echoes of their footsteps seemed thunderous to Geder. He heard the scuttle of servants in the passageway, fleeing before him like rats before a fire, and he strained his ears for the sound of Sabiha’s cries. He heard nothing, and a weary kind of relief passed through him. Today might be a good one after all. But the nearer he drew to her rooms, the more the silence followed him. There were no voices of servants. No clanking of dishes or closings of doors. Geder plucked at his sleeve, pinching cloth between thumb and forefinger. His heart rose to his throat. The constant murmur of cunning men easing mother and child was also gone. The quiet was terrible.
At the door to her chamber, he lifted his hand, afraid to go on and afraid not to. It swung open under the lightest pressure.
Sabiha lay on the bed where she’d been since the day Geder had come to see her. No cunning man stood over her, and she was curled on her side, knees draw in. Her eyes were closed, and so dark that the lids seemed blue. Her breath was deep and slow, and her hair clung to her forehead and neck like ivy against a wall. Beyond her, at the window, Lady Skestinin sat in a straight-backed chair, looking out at the garden. One of Geder’s cunning men—the Kurtadam with the greying fur—stood at her side. In her lap was a bundle of soft cloth. It was perfectly still. Geder put a hand up behind him, ordering his guards to stay back. He walked forward with the sense of being in a nightmare. His gaze was fixed on the little bundle. The baby. Her skin was wrinkled and yellow where it wasn’t an angry pink. Tiny stumps of hands curled against her chest. Geder felt himself start to tremble.
“What happened?” he asked. “What went wrong?”
“Nothing,” the Kurtadam said softly. “They all look like this at first.”
“They… they do?”
“She only needs a bit of sunlight to clear the jaundice away,” Lady Skestinin said in a gentle voice. “Her mother was just the same, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she, love?”
The baby’s eyes opened. Colorless grey and amazed. The tiny arms flailed in and out, and the vague unfocused gaze passed by Geder. Through him. The horror in his breast cracked, gave way, and an oceanic sense of relief flowed through him. The Kurtadam put a hand on his shoulder, smiling benignly.
“Give the child a bit of time and a bit more milk. She’s strong, only very new. The birth was less than an hour ago.”
“I didn’t know,” Geder said.
“I didn’t imagine you’d want to watch,” Lady Skestinin said.
“You were right,” Geder said. “Very right. I was only… Oh God. She’s all right. And Sabiha?”
“Resting,” the cunning man said. “The baby must nurse, and the mother must rest. The danger has passed, though. So much as it ever does.”
Geder reached down to the baby, thinking she might perhaps reach up and grab his finger with her own. Her tiny mouth opened and closed, and she made a small mewling sound. Behind them, Sabiha stirred.
“Where is she?”
“Here, daughter,” Lady Skestinin said. “She’s right here.”
“Bring her to me.”
“My lord, perhaps…” the cunning man said.
“One moment,” Geder said as Sabiha took her new daughter into her arms. The woman looked so tired and so pleased. I did this, Geder thought. I brought the cunning men. I made them care that they both lived. This moment is because of me. The tears in his eyes felt like pride. Sabiha tugged at the neck of her gown, preparing to bare her breast to the child. “Yes. All right. We should go.”
In the corridor, a Tralgu servant waited, her ears folded back against her skull in distress. “Lord Regent? There’s… there’s a man asking for you. Baron Watermarch?”
Geder patted her arm reassuringly. “It’s fine. I told Lord Daskellin he could find me here if he needed me. It’s not a problem. Nothing’s a problem.”
The servant bobbed her head. “Then, if you’ll… This way, my lord.”
Canl Daskellin sat in the withdrawing room, a c
up of strong coffee in his hand. He wore a black leather traveling cloak of generous cut. It was a style Geder had started back when he’d returned as a hero from Vanai, and it suited Daskellin better than it did him. The baron looked older than Geder usually thought of him. Flecks of white dotted his temples and the stubble of beard like ice on dark water, and his smile was weary.
“Lord Regent,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Sit, sit, sit. No need to get up. It’s only us here, after all.”
Daskellin smiled, but it seemed halfhearted. “As you say, my lord.”
“So you’ve met with your counterparts from Northcoast?” Geder asked, sitting on a divan. He felt tired and relaxed. He’d known Sabiha’s situation had made him anxious, but he hadn’t known how much so until now. His body felt like he was being lowered into a warm and soothing bath.
“Unofficially, of course. But—”
“Are they standing back? They aren’t going to interfere in Birancour, are they?”
“There are no immediate plans to,” Daskellin said. “But they are paying a great deal of attention.”
“You explained that we aren’t upset with the crown there, only that the conspiracy has its roots in Porte Oliva?”
“At the Medean bank in Porte Oliva. And since the bank’s holding company is in Carse, King Tracian is feeling it might come closer to him than he’d like. He’s only the second generation on the throne there, and there are people even in Camnipol who still talk about his mother as an usurper. Threats to the stability of his kingdom strike him hard. But that isn’t what brought me this morning. There’s news of the war.”
“Oh,” Geder said, sitting up a little straighter. He was suddenly very aware of being in another man’s house, unbathed, unshaved, and poorly slept. He wiped his palms against his thighs. “Then, yes. All right. We should go to the Kingspire. Find Aster and Basrahip. Whatever needs to be looked at—”
“Actually, my lord, it may be best that we’re here. The news isn’t only for you.”
Geder’s worst fears—that the army had collapsed or that Jorey had been hurt or killed—were so vivid that when it came out that the blockade had been broken by a rogue fleet and Lord Skestinin taken hostage by the governor of Porte Oliva, it was almost a relief. Lady Skestinin received the news with less calm. Her countenance, so recently softened by the arrival of her new granddaughter, went grey and craggy as a cliff face. She gripped her hands so tightly Geder expected to hear her bones creak. When she spoke, her voice was tight and controlled. Had there been ransom demands? No, there had not. Was there reason to think his lordship still lived? There was no certain information one way or the other, but the governor of Porte Olive had a reputation as a cautious and shrewd fellow, more in love with the world’s luxuries than the glory of battle. The expectation was that Lord Skestinin would be held as a bargaining point when the time came to sue for peace. How would the capture of the commander of the fleet affect the campaign on land? It was only when Daskellin lifted his brows that Geder realized this last was something only he could answer.
“Ah… yes, well,” he said, twisting his index finger with his off hand. “We can’t let the enemy see us as weak. I mean, can we? It wouldn’t be good or prudent. And with Jorey already in enemy territory, and the dragons, and I just… I mean, I don’t know. I don’t see how…”
“I understand,” Lady Skestinin said, to Geder’s surprise. The deeper he’d been into the answer, the less he’d felt he knew what he was getting at. Her hard eyes were on him, and then perhaps he did understand. He had just told her that he would not stop the war to save her husband’s life. If he had to be sacrificed, he would be. Geder wanted to take that back, to assure her that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her family.
Except that wasn’t true.
“I will do what I can,” Geder said, aware as he did how weak and equivocal he sounded.
“Use your best judgment, Lord Regent,” Lady Skestinin said. “Please excuse me.”
She sailed from the room, her spine straight as a mast. Geder blew his breath out. Daskellin nodded sympathetically.
“Hard day,” he said. “She’s added one to her family, and lost another.”
“Not yet,” Geder said. “Nothing’s lost yet.”
“I hope that you’re right, my lord,” Daskellin said, but he didn’t sound convinced. In truth, neither was Geder.
Stepping back from his duties as the protector of the Severed Throne, even for just the time it had taken to resolve Sabiha’s illness, meant a massive wave of tasks awaited him. There were invitations to a dozen different events, some given merely for the sake of form, but others that he was expected to attend. Petitions waited for him, and arrangements that needed to be made before the general audience. Reports had come from Dar Cinlama in the back roads of Hallskar and young Sir Essian from the north coast of Lyoneia outlining the progress of their explorations. Letters asking for direction and advice had arrived from the protectors of Nus and Asinport, reminding him of what he’d known since Vanai: taking a city was often simpler than managing it after. And Jorey’s reports on the army’s progress. And the analysis of the assaults inspired by the shadowy enemy Callon Cane and his system of bounties and rewards for attacking Antea. And arrangements to be made for Aster’s birthday celebrations—there would be several. And his own father’s notes from Rivenhalm about the small doings at what the old man still called Geder’s home.
Geder sat at a large table, the papers that had accrued while he was worrying over Sabiha arrayed before him like an inedible feast. Polished stones kept the breeze from the narrow windows from disarranging things. He sat with his head in his hands and wondered what would happen if he accidentally lit the whole lot of them afire. The idea of starting again with a cleaned slate was powerfully attractive. But…
“May I get you some tea, Lord Regent?”
“Yes,” Geder said, picking up the first of the reports. “And some food to go with it. Something sweet, with butter.”
“Yes, my lord,” the servant said and bowed his way out of the room.
Fallon Broot, his protector in Suddapal, was seeing a rash of suspicious fires in the fivefold city. He had sent out patrols with a spider priest assigned to each of them, but thus far hadn’t discovered the arsonists. There was at least one incident when an arrow had struck the street near enough that it seemed the attackers were aiming for the priests. Ernst Mecelli, one of Geder’s closest advisors along with Canl Daskellin and Cyr Emming, had paused in his review of the previous year’s conquests, stopping in Inentai. He didn’t say anything directly, but Geder had the sense he was worried that the temple being built there might not have enough common soldiery to support it. It probably would have been a meaningful concern if the temple hadn’t also been under the protection of the goddess. But Mecelli didn’t have as much inside knowledge as Geder did.
The tea and sweet cakes arrived while Geder was paging through a lengthy report from Essian about the various household rumors among the Southlings of Lyoneia. Maps of ancient treasure were apparently something of an industry down there, but the adventurer—with the help, of course, of the spider priest who had accompanied him—had discovered the name of some sort of holy woman among the Drowned who lived off the eastern coast, and he was now trying to arrange an audience with her. Sir Ammen Cersillian, presently in charge of the siege at Kiaria, reported little change. The Timzinae forces showed no signs of capitulation, and even the greatest speaking trumpets seemed unable to carry the voices of the priesthood to them. It was a pity, because the convincing gifts of the goddess were so much more efficient than those of troops. With the body of the army in Birancour, an outright assault on the Timzinae stronghold would have to wait. Keeping the enemies of Antea contained would be enough for now, Geder thought. He paused to eat his cakes before the tea went cool.
When Basrahip lumbered in, Geder felt a profound relief. Something to distract him from the papers. And he’d only barely started wi
th them. It was going to take days just to catch up. An hour or two of friendly conversation with the priest wouldn’t cost him much.
“Basrahip! Good to see you.”
“My thanks, Prince Geder,” the massive priest said, bowing his head.
“Things went very well at Lord Skestinin’s. With Sabiha, I mean. It was all a bit dour once the news came about his lordship’s being captured. But I think he’s likely going to be kept safe, don’t you?”
Basrahip pulled a chair out from the table and sat in it, his fingers laced together on the table. Geder was so used to seeing calm, amusement, and certainty. Now the man’s wide face could have been an allegorical painting of sorrow. “I cannot say, Prince Geder. I have heard no voices. Though if you bring them here, I shall—”
“No, no, no. It’s all right. Jorey’s on his way to Porte Oliva. He’ll find a way. What’s… Is there something the matter?”
“I fear, my prince, that I must leave you for a time.”
Geder’s chest ached suddenly, and the coppery taste of fear flooded his mouth. “You’re going? You’re leaving me here, but I need you. Without you—”
Basrahip raised his hand in gesture equal parts reassurance and a command of silence. “You will not be abandoned. Neither by the goddess nor me. I will have another take my place at your side. You will be well. Listen to my voice, and know this to be true. You will be well. She will not abandon you.”
Geder felt his fear grow a degree lower. It did not vanish. “What’s happened? Is there something I can do to help?”
“A darkness has risen in the temple at Kaltfel. We will bring the light to it. The goddess is perfect, as you know. Most of those who fight against us do so because they are creatures of lies, and they flee from her truth because they fear what they will become within her. Once they know her, those battles can be seen as the birth pangs of her coming world. Nothing more.”