Prophecy, Child of Earth (54 page)

'All right," she said, trying to keep her shaking voice from betraying her utter panic. "All right, then. But not like this, Gwydion. Give me a moment to collect myself, and I promise you I will make it worth your while. I am quite experienced in pleasuring a man. But please, not here. I swear to you—

'Don't be ridiculous," he said, amusement in his voice. "With all due deference to your charms, that was never my intention. I'm really not myself these days, Prudence. I only take a woman in that manner if she serves a different purpose than I intend for you. It's really not my call, anyway; I have no free will, I only follow orders."

Prudence could no longer summon control over any of her limbs. Numbness was taking her over.

'What are you going to do with me?"

The cloaked man laughed again, then drew her into a warm embrace, and bent his lips to her ear again.

'Why, Prudence, I'm going to eat you, of course; what else is a strawberry for?

Then I'll carry your carcass back to Ylorc and toss it in the Moot. And if you don't cause me any trouble, for the sake of our old friendship, I'll try to make sure that you're dead before I begin."

Stephen Navarne nodded to the captain of his guard, then stepped out of the carriage. The coachman shut the door behind him, bowing deferentially to Philabet Griswold, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, as he did. The benison's face molded automatically into the beneficent smile he bestowed on the faithful, then withered back to the grim expression he had worn the moment before as the soldier turned away. The two leaders exchanged a glance, then made their way up the palace steps that led to Tristan Steward's offices.

His cousin's missive had been terse and direct, and Stephen reflected on the words as he climbed the stairs.
The Nonaggression pact with the Bolg has been
broached in a grievous violation resulting in the gruesome and totally
unwarranted execution of three Bethanian subjects, two of them soldiers in the
royal guard
, it read. ,'
therefore declare the peace agreement to be void
. Simple words that foretold the death of the continent.

When he reached the great elevated courtyard at the top of the stairs Stephen turned for a moment. From this vantage point, the tallest in Bethany except for the towers and balconies of the palace, he could see much of the city proper. Within the white stone rings of the great circular basilica of Fire next to the palace he could make out a number of clergymen, huddling together in apparent fear of the clamorous muster that was taking place within Bethany's walls.

He had seen signs of it on his way in from Navarne with the benison, and had been greatly disturbed at Tristan's ability to raise such a large army in such a short time. The air in the lower courtyard crackled with the electricity of conflict amid shouted orders and the clashing of the smithy's anvils. Soldiers streamed through the streets. He could see no townspeople.

'Sweet All-God," he murmured, watching the ferocity with which the Lord Roland was making ready for war.

"
•Rine mirtinex"
intoned the benison in agreement, the holy response in Old Cymrian. "Let's get in there before he's half-way across the continent."

'Tarry a moment, Your Grace," Lord Stephen said, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. In the streets that bordered the Fire basilica a morass of soldiers was surrounding what appeared to be the coach of a high-ranking clergyman. The guards accompanying the carriage were taking exception to the scrutiny, and ugly sounds were beginning to make their way into the air.

The armor of the retinue accompanying the coach was not that of guards from any Orlandan province, but the scarlet and brown uniform of Sorboldian soldiers.

The sun glinted off the many small hinged plates of their mail, woven in intricate meshwork to keep out the heat of their arid, mountainous home. The Sorbolds were used to a harsher clime, and a harsher mentality; they were grievously outnumbered in their dispute, whatever it was, and did not seem bothered by that fact at all.

'It must be Mousa," said Griswold disdainfully. Nielash Mousa was the Blesser of Sorbold, and his chief rival. It had long been assumed that one of the two men would be the Creator's choice to replace the Patriarch upon his demise. Stephen said nothing, but moved closer to the edge of the stairs. His own contingent of guards was logjammed in the crowded streets, near the brewing conflict.

His eyes moved quickly to the streets near the city gate where his coach had entered. Llauron and his contingent had been following them, and would be entangled in the imbroglio themselves in a moment. He felt his stomach twist into an even tighter knot than had been there since Tristan's urgent summons had arrived.

As if reading his mind, the benison touched his arm. "The Invoker and his retinue were right behind us," Griswold said. "There will be a far worse incident if some harm befalls them even before they reach Tristan's hold. Between Mousa and Llauron, war is about to break out on every border Roland has." Stephen nodded in dismay.

A flash of scarlet caught his eye, and Stephen looked down to the steps of the Fire basilica. Standing there on the tallest rise was a man in the gleaming red robes of the benisonship of Bethany, wearing a great horned helmet. The man stood silent, the amulet around his neck reflecting the sun which it had been designed to resemble. Ian Steward, the Blesser of the See of Canderre-Yarim, Tristan's younger brother.

As Lord Stephen and Griswold watched, the youngest of the Patriarch's benisons raised his hands to command the attention of the throng swirling below his feet, but the soldiers paid him no heed. In a abrupt violent scuffle the door of the Sorboldian carriage was torn open. The Sorbold guards began slashing with their weapons as the tide of Orlandan guards surged forward toward the carriage. Ian Steward's shouts for calm were swallowed in the chaos that erupted.

Suddenly, with a infernal roar, the fire from the wellspring in the center of the basilica thundered out of its brazier, sending flames of pure heat and light soaring into the sky above the temple. Ablaze with the intense colors that burned in the inferno at the center of the Earth, from which the firewell sprang, the flames reached to the clouds above, showering the area around the basilica with ash.

The commotion screeched into silence. The soldiers in the streets, both Orlandan and Sorbold, froze where they stood, staring at the conflagration in the sky. The flames billowed over the clouds and then receded in a heartbeat, leaving nothing in their wake but silence.

Stephen was aware of the trembling of Griswold's hand, still resting on his forearm. "Sweet Creator, what was that?" the benison asked in a shaking voice. "I had no idea Ian Steward could command the element of fire." The symbol around his own neck, fashioned to evoke a drop of water, clinked against its chain.

Lord Stephen cast a glance at the benison on the temple steps below, who was standing as rigid as Griswold. For a moment he seemed as shocked by the sudden eruption as the soldiers had been. Then he gathered his robes and walked purposefully down the steps of the basilica into the sea of humanity.

The crowd parted immediately before him, forming a wide river in the human sea. The scarlet-robed cleric strode to the carriage in the center of the fray and gestured at a Sorbold soldier to open the door. The man leaned in at the window, then obeyed. The bension reached in and drew back, assisting another man clothed in clerical robes fashioned in rich shades of vermilion and green, brown and purple. Philabet Griswold's face twisted into a scowl.

'Mousa. I knew it."

'Tristan undoubtedly summoned him as well," Stephen said, watching a second man alight from the carriage. From this distance it was impossible to recognize his face, but he could tell by his manner of dress that it was not the Prince of Sorbold himself; he had apparently sent an emissary. "I think it's wise that Sorbold is represented in these discussions. Perhaps their presence will have a tempering effect on Tristan."

Griswold nodded curtly, then turned and made his way across the courtyard to the heavily guarded doors leading to the Lord Roland's offices. Stephen watched a moment longer to be certain the two Sorboldian dignitaries and Ian Steward made it safely to the lower courtyard, then turned and followed Griswold.

As soon as the palace gates closed behind the Blesser of Canderre-Yarim, the street erupted again into the frenetic preparations for war.

U'Wlords, Your Graces: His Grace, Llauron, the Invoker of the Filids, has arrived."

The chamberlain stepped away from the door and bowed politely. Lord Stephen, standing at the sideboard by the window, looked up and smiled wanly at his old friend. Llauron stood in the entryway, attired in his simple gray robe cinched with a rope belt, his blue-gray eyes twinkling in an otherwise solemn face.

Despite his modest vestments, in marked contrast to the rich robes of state worn by the benisons of the Patriarch, he cut a royal figure among all the nobility and high clergy clustered in the room around him.

For a moment the conversation in the room died away. Then Tristan gestured impatiently at the Invoker, waving him into the room. Llauron smiled and nodded to the chamberlain to close the door behind him.

Stephen refilled the brandy snifter he had drained the moment before and poured a second glass, then crossed the thickly carpeted room and handed the second snifter to Llauron.

'Well met, Your Grace," he said.

'Thank you, my son," Llauron answered, still smiling. He took the glass Stephen proffered, saluted the duke of Navarne, and took a sip. He chuckled and leaned closer to Stephen. "Canderian brandy. I see that Tristan does not limit himself to the fruits of his own province out of a selfless loyalty to his merchants and vintners. Bethany boasts its own credible brandy, though of course it cannot compete with that of Canderre."

'Tristan has never done anything selfless in his life," Stephen answered, casting a glance at the group of dukes and benisons engaged in heated discussion around the Regent. "And he is about to prove my words ringingly true yet again."

Tristan's hands were in the air, gesturing toward the immense table in the center of his library. "If you will all be seated, we can begin," he said. His voice was thick and strained, matching the exhaustion on his face and the obvious pain in his eyes.

Stephen had yet to make it to his side for a private word, but could see that Tristan was more than deeply troubled by whatever had transpired that now brought them together. It was not a good sign.

As the assembled nobility and clergy took seats around the table Tristan dismissed the servants, then signaled for silence.

'The time for tolerance is long past," he intoned gravely. "As I believe each of you know from the missive I sent you, the Bolg have broken the peace accord and murdered three of my citizens, two of them soldiers. The pact is forfeit. It is time to end this insanity once and for all. The muster of my troops will be complete in three days' time, at which point I will be calling for the marshaling of all of Roland's forces. Our purpose today is to determine a time and meeting place for the assemblage of that joint army."

The dukes and benisons immediately broke into a soft cacophony of mut terings and exclamations, but were brought to silence again by Tristan's upraised hand.

'I have asked Anborn to serve as Lord Marshal for the Orlandan forces in this campaign," he said. He turned to Llauron. "I hope this invitation to your brother is not displeasing to you, Your Grace."

Llauron looked amused. "Whether it is or not, my son, it appears to have been displeasing to Anborn."

Tristan and the others cast a glance about the table. Anborn was not there.

'Where is he?" Tristan demanded.

'With Anborn, who's to say?" said Griswold. "Are you certain he planned to attend, my son?"

'I'm certain he received my missive. If he was unable to attend I expect he would have had the courtesy to reply thus."

Llauron chuckled. "Actually, my son, not to reply was uncharacteristically courteous for Anborn. I shudder to think what he would have said if he had."

'Probably something rudely similar to what I have to say," said Quentin Baldassarre, the duke of Bethe Corbair. "Tristan, are you out of your mind? Go to war with the Bolg?"

A wave of agreement broke over the gathering, as voices were raised in simultaneous assent. Martin Ivenstrand, the duke of the coastal province of Avonderre, could be heard above the others, the fury in his tone apparent.

'My citizens have been dying in these unexplained border incursions for the last two decades," he said angrily, "as have many innocent victims in the other provinces and Tyrian. We have heard nothing from you in all this time, even when you, yourself, Tristan, were suffering casualties. So why now do the deaths of three Bethanian citizens suddenly constitute a need for war?"

'I cannot believe you would even consider taking on the Bolg, especially over something like this," agreed Ihrman Karsrick, the duke of Yarim. "If An-wyn could not defeat Gwylliam, in the land she ruled for three centuries, what in the name of the gods makes you think
you
could wrest the mountain from the Bolg? You'd be slaughtered in a heartbeat, just like your forces were during Spring Cleaning. And ours as well, if we were foolish enough to stand with you. Where is this madness coming from?"

The look of utter shock on the Lord Roland's face caused the group to dissolve into silence. After a moment, Lanacan Orlando, the gentle Blesser of Bethe Corbair, cleared his throat nervously.

'My son, what makes you think the Bolg are responsible for your loss?"

'Indeed," Baldassarre chimed in, "to my knowledge they have stayed within their own lands, within the mountains. We have not even seen them in Bethe Corbair, which borders Ylorc. How did they make it all the way to Bethany?"

Tristan slammed his fist down on the heavy table, causing the crystal goblets to shudder and clink threateningly. "The victims weren't in Bethany," he snarled.

"They were within the borders of Ylorc. The third-week mail caravan found them, torn limb from limb and partially
eaten
, for gods' sake, strewn across what used to be Gwylliam's Great Moot." His face went pale. Stephen Navarne began to rise, but Tristan glared at him and he sat back down.