Destiny: Child Of Sky (16 page)

Now he was caught amid a great mass of carriages, wagons, and foot traffic. The braying of animals being brought to the carnival along with the clamor of human voices raised in excitement was enough to make him gulp his brandy in the hope that it would drown out the cacophony of merriment all around him. Patience.

Soon all things would be set in motion. Soon his wait would be over.

Soon his patience would be rewarded.

Stephen Navarne squinted in the sun, then shielded his eyes and followed the outstretched finger of Quentin Baldasarre, the Duke of Bethe Corbair. Baldasarre was pointing from where they stood at the hillside height of the castle gates down the vast lines of sight to the road below.

'There! I think I see Tristan's coach—it's logjammed in the middle there, right between your two bell towers out front,“ Quentin said, dropping his arm when Stephen nodded in agreement. "Poor bastard—I'll wager he's trapped in there with Madeleine."

'Gods. Poor Tristan," said Dunstin Baldasarre, Quentin's younger brother.

Stephen suppressed a smile. “Shame on you both. Isn't Madeleine your cousin?"

Dunstin sighed comically. “Too true, I'm afraid to say," he said, shielding his face in feigned shame. “But please, gentle lord, do not judge our family too harshly for producing her. No one save the All-God is perfect."

'Though some of us are less so than others," said Quentin, draining his mug of spiced rum.

The carriages were discharging their passengers slowly now to keep them from being trampled by the wagons of townsfolk. Stephen motioned to Gerald Owen, his chamberlain.

'Owen, send the third regiment to see if they can direct some of the wagon traffic to the forest road and through the western gates," he said. He waited until Owen had nodded his understanding and departed, then turned to the Baldasarre brothers.

'If Tristan has his way, one day Madeleine will be our queen," he said seriously.

“Perhaps it is best not to joke so much at her expense."

'My, we're a grumpy old sod today, Navarne,“ said Dunstin thickly. "You apparently haven't had enough of this lovely mulled wine."

'That's because you finished off a legion's worth all by your rotten self and there's none left for another living soul,“ Quentin retorted before Stephen could say anything. "Next time perhaps we should just fill a trough with it and let you guzzle with your snout in the trench. Souse."

'Well, Cedric is here, at last,“ said Stephen hastily as Dunstin gave Quentin an angry shove. "His carriage is unloading now, along with the ale wagons of the count."

'Huzzah!“ bellowed Dunstin. "Can you see which one is Andrew's?"

Stephen looked into the sun again and spied a tall young man, lean and darkly bearded, directing a quartet of wagons loaded with wooden barrels. “The one in the front, taking to the forest road now—there, can you see him?" He waved to the man, and received a quick wave in return. Lord Stephen smiled.

Cedric Canderre, the Baldasarres' uncle and father of Madeleine Canderre, the Lord Roland's intended, was duke and regent of the province that bore his name.

Though his lands were not as politically powerful as most of the other provinces, Cedric's arrival was always anticipated greatly at the winter carnival.

The reason for this was twofold. First, Cedric Canderre was a merrymaker of great reputation, a portly, jolly man with an appetite for all of the finer things in life and the excesses they could lead to. When Madeleine's mother was alive, some of those appetites had been a source of great consternation and occasional embarrassment to the family. Her untimely death had left the door open for Cedric to delight in his indulgences, and he did so now with a vigor that was enjoyable to be around, especially at a festival.

The second, and probably more pressing, reason was the bounty of his province that came with him in the wagons. Canderre was a realm that produced luxury items, amenities that were known throughout the world for their unsurpassed quality, in particular various types of alcohol, wines, cordials, brandies, and other distillations. Cedric's merchants charged high prices for these goods, and paid no tariffs to his interprovincial trading partners, so the free distribution of these rare and pricey treasures at Stephen's carnival was always anticipated with great excitement.

Sir Andrew Canderre, the Viscount of Paige, the northeastern region of Canderre that lay at the borders of Yarim and the Hintervold, was Cedric's eldest son and primary councilor, and a good friend of Stephen Navarne.

Count Andrew was the diametric opposite of his father; where Cedric was stout and moved with a portly man's gait, Andrew was lean and nimble, often working long hours beside the merchants and carters of his province. He was also known to participate in the manual labor that sustained his holdings; the stables and barns of the nobleman were legendary for their cleanliness. Where Cedric was self-indulgent, humorous, and quick-tempered, Andrew was wry, generous, and patient.

Between them the House of Canderre was well regarded, in Roland, across the sea, and around much of the sea-trading world. Stephen shielded his eyes again as his smile broadened; Sir Andrew was making his way toward them, having arranged his caravan's passage through the keep's gates.

'Looks to be another good one, Stephen,“ he said, extending his hand. "Well met, Andrew,“ Lord Stephen answered, shaking it. "Well, there he is, the Ale Count, the Baron of the Brewery, the Lord of Libations,“ slurred Dunstin, extending a tankard to him. "Impeccable timing, as always, Sir Jrew. You're just in time to spare us from this inferior swill of Stephen's. Have a swig and you'll see what I mean."

'As always, a pleasure to see you as well, Dunstin," said Sir Andrew dryly.

“Quentin."

'Jrew, you're looking well; good winter to you,“ said Quentin. "How's your intended, Lady Jecelyn of Bethe Corbair?"

'Good health to you, sir, and may next year's solstice find you the same,“ replied Andrew. "Jecelyn is well, thank you. Stephen, may I impose on your time for a moment? I want to make certain the carters deliver the casks to where you want them."

'Of course. Gentlemen, please excuse us." Stephen bowed politely to the Baldasarre brothers, took Andrew's elbow, and led him down the path to the buttery of the keep where the forest road entered.

'Thank you,“ he said to Andrew as soon as they were out of earshot. "My pleasure."

, the Invoker of the Filids, smiled as he watched the Patriarch's benisons exit their carriages to the lilting strains of Stephen's court orchestra carried on the wind. The various Blessers had arrived as much as five hours apart, yet some had remained in their carriages all that time in order to ensure that they made a proper entrance.

Word from Sepulvarta had indicated that the Patriarch was in his last days, and rumors were flying hot and fierce among the nobility and the clergy alike as to who the successor would be.

The first to leave his carriage was Ian Steward, brother of Tristan Steward, the Lord Roland. He was the Blesser of the provinces of Canderre and Yarim, though his basilica, Vrackna, the ringed temple of elemental fire, was located in the province of Bethany. Bethany, the capital seat, sent some of its faithful to worship in the basilica of the Star, Lianta'ar, the Patriarch's own basilica in the holy city-state of Sepulvarta.

Despite Tristan's influence, it was unlikely in Llauron's opinion that the Patriarch would choose Ian as his successor. While a likable man of seemingly good heart, Ian Steward was fairly young and inexperienced to be given such a tremendous responsibility. Still, he might be the Patriarch's choice just for that youth. Several of the other benisons were almost as old as the Patriarch, and would bring an inescapable instability when they themselves passed on to their rewards in the Afterlife a few years hence.

Two of the best examples of this problem were the next to disembark, and they did so together, leaning on each other for support. Lanacan Orlando, the heartier of the two, was the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, and held services in his city beneath the holy bell tower in the beautiful basilica of Ryles Ced-elian, the cathedral dedicated to the wind. Quiet and unassuming, Lanacan was known as a talented healer, perhaps as talented as Khaddyr, but he was nervous around crowds and not particularly charismatic. Llauron did not judge him to be a likely successor, either, and was fairly certain that Lanacan would be relieved to see himself off the list as well.

Colin Abernathy, the Blesser of the Nonaligned States, to the south, who leaned on Lanacan as they made their way across the icy path, was older and frailer than his friend, but more politically powerful. He had no basilica in which to hold services, a fact that often occurred to Llauron as he ruminated on who the host of the F'dor might be. A demonic spirit would not be able to stand in a place of blessed ground, and each of the basilicas were the holiest of blessed ground. The five elements themselves consecrated the ground on which they were built. Even a F'dor of tremendous power should not be able to stand in such a place.

But Colin Abernathy didn't have to. His services were held in an enormous arena, an unblessed basilica, where he tended a congregation of many diverse groups of followers—Lirin from the plains, Sorbold citizens too far from their own cathedral to make the pilgrimage, seafarers in the fishing villages ever farther south, and a general population of malcontents.

Abernathy had been the second choice to succeed the last Patriarch, losing out to the current one, and so was long known to grumble about the leadership of the church. If he was the F'dor's host, he would be looking around to find a younger host body soon, Llauron knew. But the Invoker was more inclined to believe that the beast clung not to a member of the clergy, but to one of the provincial leaders, which opened the possibility of it even being his dear friend Stephen Navarne.

The fourth benison chose a moment of great fanfare to disembark from his carriage. Philabet Griswold, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, who held sway over the great water basilica Abbat Mythlinis, was younger than either of the two elderly benisons, while still old enough to claim the wisdom of advanced years. He was pompous and self-important; Llauron found his arrogance alternately infuriating and amusing. Griswold had made no secret of his desire to be Patriarch, and had waited until the holy anthem of Sepulvarta was being played to alight from his carriage. His timing was impeccable; it seemed as if the anthem were playing in his honor.

The dark face of Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, resembled a thundercloud as he stepped out of his coach a moment behind Griswold. Their rivalry for the Patriarchy, long kept secret for political purposes, was now all but an open contest for the clerical throne of Sepulvarta. Mousa had come up from his arid land, braving the snow and bad traveling conditions for the opportunity to gain exposure at the winter carnival. His basilica was the only one of the five elemental cathedrals not within the territory of Roland; Ter-reanfor, the temple of earth, lay deep within the southern Teeth in Sorbold, hidden within the Night Mountain. His candidacy for the Patriarchy was an uphill battle, and Llauron knew it. The contest between Mousa and Griswold was shaping up to be a bloody one.

'Ah, Your Grace, I see you've arrived safely! Welcome!" Stephen's voice carried tones of genuine pleasure, and Llauron turned, smiling, to greet the young duke.

'Good solstice, my son,“ he said, clasping Stephen's hand. He surveyed the festival grounds, with their bright pageantry set against the pristine field of virgin snow under a clear blue sky. "It looks to be a marvelous fete, as always. What is the official snow sculpture this year?"

'They've done a scale model of the Judiciary of Yarim, Your Grace.“ Llauron nodded approvingly. "A beautiful building, to be certain. I shall be fascinated to see how they managed to make the snow hold up in minarets."

'May I offer you a brandy? Count Andrew Canderre has brought a fine supply, and a special cask in particular.“ Stephen held out a silver snifter. "I saved you some of the reserve."

The Invoker's face lit up, and he took the brandy happily. “Bless him, and you, my son. Nothing like a little warmth in the depth of winter."

'I see your chiefs are here as well; very good,“ said Stephen, waving to Khaddyr as the healer came into sight from behind the white guest tents. "Is it possible that I actually see Gavin among them?"

Llauron laughed. “Yes, indeed, the planets must be aligned this solstice, and Gavin's schedule allows him to be here; amazing, isn't it?"

'Indeed! There he is, behind Lark. And Ilyana, there with Brother Aldo. I'm so glad you all could make it."

Llauron leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially into Stephen's ear. “Well, the place is crawling with benisons. I had to bring all the Filidic leaders just to prevent a possible mass conversion away from the True Faith."

C,'ristan Steward extended his hand to his fiancee and assisted her gently down from their carriage, struggling to keep from losing control and tossing her, face-first, into the deepest snowbank he could find.

I've died, and the Underworld looks exactly like this one, only I am doomed to spend Eternity in the constant presence of this soul-sucking witch, he thought wearily. What damnable evils could I have possibly committed to deserve this? He had learned a new skill, the skill of half-listening, on the trip from Bethany to Stephen's keep, and since Madeleine's endless nattering had shown no sign of abating, even as she descended the steps of the coach, he employed it now.

He glanced about the ground of Haguefort and the fields beyond, glistening in the fair light of midmorning. Nature and Stephen had done well by each other.

Sparkling jewels of ice, left over from the storm of the previous night, adorned the branches of the trees that lined the pathways of the keep, frosted with cottony clouds of fresh snow. Stephen, in turn, had decorated Haguefort's twin guardian bell towers with shining white and silver banners proclaiming the symbol of his House, and had dressed the tall lampposts that were carefully placed throughout the keep's courtyard and walkways with long spirals of white ribbons, which spun slowly like sedate maypoles in the stiff breeze. The effect was enchanting.