Authors: Tim Akers
“When they sacked Galleydeep and the Burning Coast, you mean. When their steel-prowed warships trawled through the canals of Heartsbridge. When Halverdt and his allies didn’t have a bloody choice, you mean?” The high elector cracked another rib of pork, but didn’t eat it. He seemed genuinely upset.
“When the Suhdrin Circle of Lords realized the depth of the problem, yes. I was given my freedom,” Malcolm agreed, “and the opportunity to prove my worth.”
“Yes. Not bitter about that, I trust.”
It was Master Tavvish who spoke. “We all made sacrifices in that war. House Blakley more than most.”
“As you say—but look, it made a hero of you! You enjoy the love of all of Tenumbra, those who remember that far back.”
“I do not like to think of the death of my father as something to be celebrated. I wasn’t prepared to ascend to his throne, any more than I was ready to bury him,” Malcolm said tightly. “That war is behind us. If people think well of me, simply because I fought when others ran, then so be it.” He stood, taking a glass of wine from the tray and walking around the yard to stretch his aching legs. “People are quick to forget details. It’s the grand gestures they remember.”
“Which can be good, and can also be bad,” Beaunair said. He settled back on his stool, the wood creaking under his bulk. “It is a grand gesture we ask of you now, Duke.”
The two priests at his side shifted awkwardly. They hadn’t spoken a word since the high elector introduced them as Frair Momet and Frair Freu, and named them as trusted advisors to the celestriarch. They were unremarkable men, men who looked perpetually uncomfortable in their skin and with their station. Their presence at the side of the jovial high elector was as drab as rain clouds gathering around a sunrise. They pushed a little closer to the table, leaning forward to take over the conversation.
“Duke,” Frair Momet said, “we understand that things have sometimes been difficult along the border. Relations between your house and that of Halverdt can be fragile, and even those difficulties pale when compared to the troubles between Greenhall and Lord Adair.” He was an extraordinarily thin man, his voice delicate and precise, each word formed with all the care of a master craftsman, their sound light in the air. “There is a history of misunderstanding. Mistrust.”
“Death,” Malcolm said. “Murder. A history of war and crusade and pogrom, often incited by members of your church.”
“
Our
church, Houndhallow,” Momet said carefully.
“Our church,” Malcolm agreed. “But when the crusade came north, the lands that comprise the duke of Greenhall’s demesne belonged to Tenerran tribes. They were awarded to the newly established House Halverdt in recognition of Yves Verdt’s service (by which I mean his hand in the murder of those tribesmen). So you can see how there would be some lingering feelings of mistrust.”
“History that has passed,” Freu said. “The wound only weeps because certain members of your blood keep picking at it.” Unlike Momet, his voice was like a rushing wind clattering through dry weeds, a tumult that barely contained meaning.
“Or perhaps the wound is infected, and threatens to take the flesh with it,” Master Tavvish said stiffly. “Our complaints against Gabriel Halverdt are nothing new. Generations of Tenerran people have suffered under his family.”
“Which is why this current trouble is so dangerous,” Momet broke in. “There is already a sickness in the land. The fields of Suhdra are consumed with blight. The forests of the south are bare of game, and the waters off the Burning Coast are more treacherous with each season. Tenumbra has fallen ill. We cannot let the patient become… agitated.”
“You are reaching for metaphors,” Malcolm said. He was tired, and a little drunk. The cranking aches and pains in his legs were making him restless. He walked over to the table and set down his glass. “Say what you mean, as clearly as you are able.”
“You are a hero. A man recognized in Suhdra, and loved in Tener.” Momet spread his hands in the air. “Heroes can be helpful.”
“Gods!” Dugan hissed. “Never go to the church for clear words or peaceful nights.”
“What my brothers are trying to say,” Beaunair said, reentering the conversation, brushing Momet and Freu aside, “is that the church has need of you. Specifically you, because of your history. You are a man who has opposed Gabriel Halverdt in the past, but you have also made peace with him. The other Tenerran lords respect you. Admire you. I would go so far as to say that they trust you.”
“And in Suhdra?” Malcolm asked. “What do they think of me there? Am I their favorite tame barbarian?”
“You have earned their honor. Not all of them feel that way, surely, but enough to make a difference.”
“A difference in what?” Malcolm asked. He settled into his chair, suppressing a grimace as his legs and back groaned in protest.
“If things do not improve between the duke of Greenhall and Lord Adair,” Momet said, “the church is worried it could lead to a larger conflict.”
“Another war,” Malcolm said.
“Let’s not use such a term,” Momet said stiffly. “Not until banners are called. But we are worried.”
“This sounds like the business of diplomats and soldiers, high elector. Why is the church getting involved?”
“When Gaspard Bassion, king of Suhdra and last of that title, drew his lances together and started the War of Three Crowns, it was the church that stepped in. When Lord Martiniere broke his pledge to the Circle of Lords and cut the Pilgrim’s Road with his tolls, it fell to the church to break his gates and drag the gold from his coffers,” Momet said. Warming to his subject, the frail priest gestured grandly to Malcolm’s banner. “And when the reavers descended on Heartsbridge, it was the church that commanded Halverdt to release its hostages and band together with Tener to repel the invasion.”
Malcolm sat quietly, chewing the dry, flaky bread that the servant had brought. There was more wine on the table, but he had lost his taste for it. When the priest had finished his declaration, Malcolm dusted his fingers over the grass and sat back.
“Gaspard was last of his name because the church broke the throne beneath his back and hung his royal head over the Celestial dome. You ended Suhdrin kingship for time eternal, formed the Circle of Lords, and gave them just enough power to have something to argue about among themselves—enough to keep them biting each other rather than defying the church’s power.”
“The north has never had a king. What do you care if we destroyed a royal line in the south?” Beaunair asked with a laugh.
“Just this—that the church intervenes when it pleases the church.”
“And so it pleases us now,” Beaunair answered. “Is that not enough for you, Duke?”
“It would have been, if you had been pleased to intervene earlier. Gabriel Halverdt sits upon his throne like a tyrant. His people die, not from pox or hunger or the gheist’s ravaging, but because Greenhall wills it. This is not news. He and I have argued more than once. His peace with Lord Adair is half as safe, and twice as bloody. So something has changed.” Malcolm folded his arms and stared a nail through Beaunair’s forehead. “Why are you involved now?”
The priests on either side of the high elector glanced at each other and at their leader, looking flighty and nervous. Only Beaunair seemed calm.
“There is movement in the Circle, Malcolm,” the high elector said. “Suhdra is stirring.”
“Bassion or Marchand or Galleux are always clattering on about something,” Malcolm said dismissively. “They are no concern…”
“Not in the chamber,” Momet said quietly. “In the corridors beyond. In hallways and bedrooms.” He paused, weighing his words carefully. “Among the shadows.”
“They are making plans,” Beaunair rushed in, “and searching for excuses. Cinder has claimed another crop from Strife’s bounty. The farmers in the field are tilling dust and reaping blight. Not even Halverdt has escaped this time around.”
“You can’t be asking for more donations,” Dugan hissed. “Our own harvests have been shallow. It’s better the farther north you go, but there the season is so short, the lack of blight matters little.”
“Peace,” Beaunair said. “This cannot be solved with food. The fever of the land will burn out, but in the meantime, the people are mad, and madness leads to war.”
“You are a priest of Strife, my frair,” Malcolm said carefully. “Surely war would please you.”
“War pleases none of us—not in this case—but if the north lets itself be bullied into a fight, they will pay dearly. Especially along the border. Especially the houses of Adair and Blakley.”
“So we line our border with steel, and our banners with Suhdrin blood,” Dugan said sharply. “If that is what they seek, they will have it.”
“I am not asking you for war,” Beaunair said. He plucked an apple from the table, admiring its shine before eating half of it in one bite. His teeth snapped like a trap into the flesh. “I am asking you for peace, and leave the madness to us.”
Malcolm nodded slowly. He watched the high elector finish the apple and begin another, drumming his fingers on the table. His masters sat beside him, tense, waiting for the response.
“Peace, then,” Malcolm said. “What must I do?”
* * *
As soon as the procession ceremonies were over and the high elector’s lesser staff was all that remained, Ian left his sister in the care of one of the ladies-in-waiting and went to find his father. The lord of Houndhallow had disappeared into the council yard, along with the high elector and everyone else who was important or interesting in the castle. Ian wanted an ear in that meeting.
Ian followed the cloister wall around the doma, away from the droning voice of Frair Daxter as he guided the lesser priests through the shrine’s many icons and dusty artifacts of the faith. The castle servants had descended on the high elector’s train of carriages, and was quickly dissecting his luggage and carrying it off into the waiting chambers of the guest tower. For only staying a night, Frair Beaunair carried a lot of clothes. Ian dodged around that procession, afraid of being wrangled into helping, sneaking around the stable yard to reach the keep beyond.
He watched the passing of the guard from gate to garrison. Dugan had left the guard in some lesser sergeant’s care, meaning that even he was in council. Surely if Dugan were included, the matter was important enough to include Houndhallow’s heir.
The great hall was as busy as a honeyed apple dropped on an anthill. The kitchen servants were swarming through the room, adjusting place settings and straightening tables. The air smelled like smoked sausage and stew, and a cauldron squatted over the fire pit, bubbling deliciously. On the dais above, the family table had been shoved to the side to make room for the visitors and their retinue. The wall behind was hung with the Blakley seal, flanked on one side by the smaller tapestry of his mother’s family and on the other by the holy banner of celestial Tener, the cluster of stars beneath a slivered moon, all swallowed by the sun’s embrace. It harkened back to the land’s icons from before the crusades, subsumed into the symbolism of the twin deities of Cinder and Strife. The hound of Blakley, standing rampant against the field of white and crowned in the holy symbols of the sun and moon, loomed over the hall like an angry god.
“Are they coming?” a startled voice behind him asked. “Is it time? It can’t be time, we’re not finished! We haven’t even
begun
to be finished. We’ve barely started!”
Ian turned to greet the master of the chamber, Phillipe Castagne, one of the few Suhdrin in his father’s service. The man stood nervously beside the stew, his hands clutching an ink-stained parchment and the remnants of a quill.
“Not yet, Phillipe. I have stepped away early, to monitor the situation with my father. The others will be along in due time.”
“You skipped out early, you mean,” Phillipe said sharply. “First your father packs himself away in the council yard, and then you slip away because you’re bored.” He made some notes on his parchment, as though he was calculating the degree of insult that had been done, and what he would have to do to balance the account. “The duchess will be in a fine mood, after that.”
“She’ll be in a fine mood once she sees what a grand job you’ve done with the feast, Phillipe.” Ian snatched an apple from a passing tray and smiled. “And I’m sure the high elector will just be glad to be off the road and at a proper meal.”
“You set the standards so high, my lord. How can I fail when the alternative is gruel, cooked beneath a wagon in the pouring rain? Honestly. As for the high elector…”
“As for the high elector,” Ian said, biting into the apple. He immediately made a harsh face as the juice, thick and sweet as syrup, dribbled down his chin. “What is wrong with these apples?”
“They have been infused with hartlife and sugar,” Phillipe answered without looking up from his ledger. “They were a specialty of my father, handed down to him by his father, and on down the line. Very popular in the court of King Bassion, in his day.”
“Well, his day is long past.” Ian dropped the apple into the fire, where it hissed and burst, filling the air with the pungent smell of burning sugar. “I hope we’re able to find some regular apples, as well, or I may starve to death.”
“You should really broaden your tastes, my lord. There is more to being the lord of Houndhallow than hunting elk and eating cheese pie. Your father has done much to edify himself in the ways of his wife’s family.” Phillipe finished with his calculation, then sniffed at the stew and gave it a stir. “You should do the same.”
“Speaking of my father…”
“The duke is not to be disturbed. He is discussing a matter of some importance in the privacy of his council yard.” Phillipe looked down his thin nose at Ian. “I believe I already mentioned that.”
“Yes, but if it’s a matter of the realm, don’t you think I should be informed?”
“It doesn’t matter one jot what I think. You’ve all made that perfectly clear in my time in this…” He paused, fixing a smile on his face. “What matters is that your father has not chosen to include you in his council. If you have trouble with that, you should take it up with him.”