Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  Dedication

  To Rebecca and James,

  This book is dedicated to the start of your great adventure together.

  Love,

  Dad

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1: Hunting and an Unexpected Encounter

  2: An Unplanned Event and a Surprise Reunion

  3: More Mysteries and a Short Journey

  4: Reflections and Bloodshed

  5: Celebration and Murder

  6: Destruction, Abduction, and Rage

  7: Loss and Determination

  8: Recovery and Resolve

  9: Disasters and Questions

  10: Captives and Mysteries

  11: Investigations, Discoveries, and the Unexpected

  12: Changes on Fate’s Tides

  13: Plans and Consequences

  14: Reversals and the Unexpected

  15: Appraisals, Guesswork, and Repurposing

  16: Revelations and Secrets

  17: Voyages and Disasters

  18: Choices, Chaos, and Change

  19: Betrayal, Acceptance, and Piracy

  20: Planning and Resolutions

  21: Triumph and Escape

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Raymond E. Feist

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  A Voice from Within Shadows

  He was known as Bernardo Delnocio of Poberto, which was the first of many lies about him. His birth name had not been Bernardo, nor was he from a family named Delnocio. That family had been famous and powerful until a war took the last son; he claimed to be a distant cousin, from a lesser branch of the family, with no claim to any legacy but a once-noble name. Nor had he been born in Poberto, a prosperous town surrounded by the villas of the wealthy and powerful. That notable community rested just outside Brojues, the capital city of the Kingdom of Fondrak, home to the Church of the One. Instead, he had come from the poorest squalor of Aliestes, a minor city on the far continent of Enast many miles from the splendor of Brojues.

  As a boy, the man calling himself Bernardo had been an abandoned guttersnipe, raised by a gang of urchins. He had grown up roaming the streets, surviving in a vicious world that provided few respites from struggle, living by his wits and a brutal determination to survive, until he had been recruited by the Church.

  His natural combativeness and will to survive had been recognized and his early training had been channeled effectively into serving the Church. He had spent nearly ten years as a member of the Order of the Church Adamant, the martial arm of the Servants of the One, soldiers willing to die unquestioningly to defend the faith and, more important, attack its enemies without hesitation.

  His will to survive had elevated him above the other soldiers, first by avoiding duty that would have trapped him in a permanent role as a pioneer, engineer, or gynour, though he had been clever enough to learn a bit about building advanced entrenchments, rigging bridges, repairing roads, and operating siege engines, so he became as well-rounded as possible.

  He had a knack for accents and quickly improved his speech so that his common origins faded as he learned to adopt more refined rhetoric and behavior. He soon became the youngest minor officer in the Church Adamant.

  After only three years as a unit commander, he realized the true power wasn’t in the army, but being a cleric in the Church, and that was when his urge to survive had been transformed into a desire to thrive, rise, and become more powerful at every turn. He had surprised, even shocked, his companions when, as a rising young officer, he had announced he was leaving the Church Adamant to take holy vows and become the lowest of the clergy.

  He did not remain a minor priest for long. Bernardo was not the most overtly aggressive player in the deadly internal politics of the Church of the One, but he had an intuitive grasp of something few did: he could quickly recognize the true organization of any group, where the power actually resided as opposed to ostensible ranks and titles. He identified those who were public figures and those who moved quietly in the background. Above all, he had a lethal instinct for when an opponent was vulnerable and no hesitation in taking advantage of that recognition.

  He immediately understood that while the Council of the Episkopos was the governing body of the Church of the One, there was a handful of men within the Council who controlled every aspect of the Church. The Church priesthood had as many barriers and dead ends as the army had, and picking a path to power had given him a challenge, but surviving in the streets had proved a harsh yet enlightening education.

  His natural skills and intuition meant he knew the right moment to act, and more than once he had managed to convince someone else to be responsible for the fall of one of his rivals. He merely suggested something and other people acted, and he made sure they believed it was their own brilliance that had led to the targeted rival’s downfall. Gang leader or powerful episkopos, he could apply his talents equally, discerning quickly who was truly loyal or easily manipulated or even bought, who might become an ally, and who must be neutralized or even destroyed.

  On the streets he had learned early which boys were bullies full of bluster. They came and went, often to an early grave or a slave gang, but the truly clever, gifted, and thoughtful—they endured. Those were the ones he observed and listened to, as he sought to survive.

  Over the years Bernardo had also found it convenient to shape the truth of his past to suit the fluid politics of the Church of the One. Those who knew the inconvenient facts of his early life were either his closest supporters or dead. Ridding himself of potential enemies had sharpened his naturally keen intellect and driven patience into the very fiber of his being. He had waited months, even years at times, to see a rival dead. His imperturbability was almost legendary within the higher echelons of the Church in Brojues. He was now counted among the wisest of the rulers of the Church and, by wide consensus, the most patient. Today, he was approaching the end of that patience.

  More than once he’d come close to death either in the name of the One or in establishing his place in the hierarchy of the Church, and right now he’d gladly return to those moments and embrace a quick death.

  He sat silently in a large bedchamber in the castle of Lodavico, Most Holy Majesty of Sandura, ruler of the single greatest power on the twin continents of North and South Tembria. Getting Lodavico to sit motionless for hours had proved impossible, but Bernardo had managed to get him to sit for minutes at a time, a small but necessary step in Bernardo establishing complete control over the king and, through him, the Kingdom of Sandura.

  The king sat as still as he could while a painter attempted to capture his magnificence on a treated board of cured wood. The artist was a captive from the city of Ithra, taken by one of Lodavico’s oathmen. He had managed to survive the destruction of Ithrace’s capital, avoiding death and slavery but not captivity. His name was Bantiago.

  Bernardo watched closely as Bantiago deftly applied color to the wood and, through some artistic magic, created a likeness of Lodavico that was flattering but not overtly false. Bernardo understood how the painter had survived the destruction of Ithrace. His superb talents had kept him from death.

  Bantiago painted so well that he had been passed from one noble to another over the years, building a reputation and eventually living well by painting brilliant portraits of his captors. Despite still being considered a captive, Bantiago traveled with servants, most of whom were strikingly handsome young men; an apprentice, also handsome to the point of being pretty; and a token guard. It was a captivity to be envied by most citizens of Sandura, thought Bernardo.

  These
portraits were an Ithraci thing, a vanity that rather offended Lodavico, but gradually Bernardo had convinced him to sit for a portrait to commemorate his glory. Bernardo had studied Lodavico for more than a year before they met, and he had now been a member of the king’s court, his most trusted adviser, for a decade. He knew the monarch of Sandura had hated the way he looked his entire life.

  The king knew he was often mocked for his appearance behind his back. His nose was slightly bent to the right, his left eye was marginally higher than the right, and his rare smile was noticeably lopsided. This asymmetrical visage, while not ugly, gave him an odd appearance that put people ill at ease for reasons they couldn’t quite fathom. Coupled with his gaunt frame and a certain coiled energy that made it look as if he were on the verge of sudden violence, it meant few people were ever comfortable in his presence.

  He had taken advantage of that discomfort his entire life, bullying his young siblings to the point of terror long before he took his father’s throne. All of them gladly accepted distant fiefs or convenient marriages to be as far from the court in Sandura as possible.

  He had agreed to a portrait only at Bernardo’s quiet persistence. In all his life, Lodavico had not met anyone he felt more at ease with than Bernardo. This had been achieved over years of Bernardo’s clever manipulation and the building of trust. There had been nights when Bernardo had simply wished to kill Lodavico, or possibly move to the other side of Garn, but in the end, he knew his persistence in winning Lodavico’s trust would win out. Now that trust was almost absolute.

  Something about his manner, his solid presence, calmed Lodavico no matter how stressful the situation that faced him. He counted the episkopos’s counsel as vital, and after many years of having the cleric at his side in the king’s chamber, it was clear that Lodavico couldn’t imagine making important decisions without Bernardo’s advice.

  For Bernardo, persuading Lodavico to sit for a portrait was just one more tedious, tiny step in completely controlling the king without him being aware of it. The episkopos knew that by the time this portrait hung in the great gallery of the castle, amid the banners and crests of Lodavico’s ancestors, the king would be convinced the portrait had been his idea, not Bernardo’s, which was exactly what Bernardo wanted.

  Growing tired of posing, Lodavico said, “That’s enough.” He stood and indicated for a servant to remove the heavy red cape with the ermine collar. He hated the vanity of the thing but had agreed with the artist that it made him look “regal.” Lodavico had finally relented and seemed to be growing fonder of the pomp, which was also in keeping with Bernardo’s plans.

  Bernardo rose, feeling his joints protest slightly, reminding him that at his age, approximately fifty years (his exact date of birth was unknown), he needed to spend more time exercising. He had been lean and fit his entire life, adding muscle and sinew as a soldier, and had seen too many others of his rank let themselves run to fat. He would engage one of his retinue to spar with him early tomorrow morning; he was an episkopos, but he had been a soldier long enough to prefer dueling and wrestling to other forms of exercise. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and his dark hair was shot through with grey. He still looked as vital and energetic as a man half his age.

  He wore the less formal clothing of his office, a black cassock with no trim, with black buttons down the front. His feet were clad in ankle-high boots of soft leather, and his only ornamentations were a silver circle brooch identifying him as a follower of the One and a ring of office that adorned his left hand, another simple circle of silver, though set in the center with a small ruby.

  Vanity was not part of Bernardo’s nature, so his appearance was not designed to please himself but to project an image he wished others to see. He wanted less to be noticed than to be a presence. More often than not it was a difficult feat.

  He waited for servants to take away the heavy cloak Lodavico wore and for the king to move toward the door before falling in a half step behind, on his left, a position of slight deference. Bernardo remained silent, for he could see the king’s mood was darker than usual for this time of the morning, even after one spent posing for his portrait.

  Lodavico headed for his council chamber. As they approached down the long, gloomy hall, bereft of any windows as it had been cut through the heart of Lodavico’s castle, shadows from torches in sconces flickered in grotesque parody of the king’s naturally awkward walk. Bernardo was aware of the shadows annoying the king, even though he had endured it since he came to the throne thirty years before. He occasionally wondered why Lodavico hadn’t ordered his architect to design some other type of lighting, but he didn’t linger long on the question; it was possible that Lodavico endured the daily passage as a reminder of his own self-loathing.

  Entering the chamber, they found a tray laden with fruit, cold meats and cheese, a loaf of warm bread, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of cool water.

  “Good,” said Lodavico. “I’m famished.”

  “Anticipating Your Majesty’s needs is always my aim,” said the episkopos.

  Lodavico indicated that Bernardo should sit in the chair to his right hand at the end of the council table. The Privy Council had consisted of up to a dozen nobles of the kingdom from dim antiquity right up to his father’s rule. Lodavico had named several nobles to various positions, but rarely convened the entire council, having done so only once after the war against Ithrace, just for public show. Most of the time he preferred to be in consultation with a few advisers, and lately with just one of them: Bernardo. The truth now was, for a little over ten years, the episkopos and the king made every decision in Sandura.

  Lodavico said, “What news?”

  Bernardo unfolded a leather portfolio he carried. He knew the king expected him not to discuss matters of state while his portrait was being painted, but now that they were alone, Lodavico was anxious to hear the day’s reports.

  Bernardo had long since come to understand the king’s preferred order of reporting, and the usual accounts of trade, taxes, and other mundane matters were always subordinate to intelligence, news, and even rumors about anyone Lodavico considered a threat.

  “Little new to report on, Majesty. Some of the companies of mercenaries who’ve been employed in the north are taking ship to come and join your campaigns.” He paused. A tightening around Lodavico’s eyes communicated clearly what the king desired to hear.

  “No news from Marquensas, Majesty. Our agents report . . . everything is calm.”

  “What about that . . . company Daylon assembled in that town . . .”

  “Beran’s Hill,” supplied Bernardo. “Not really a company, sire, rather a local militia of sheriff’s men, though there is no proper sheriff. A young smith has been given command, a fellow named Declan.”

  Lodavico waved away the detail. “Beran’s Hill is an invitation of sorts, I’m certain.”

  Bernardo had listened to this conjecture countless times, but knew his best course was to simply let the king continue his speculation without interruption and to reassure him that everything that could be done was being done.

  “Daylon Dumarch has magnificent defenses in every port, garrisons of size in key locations, cities, trade route intersections, and active patrols everywhere but in the north, along one particular trade route. Why?”

  Bernardo hesitated, waiting to see if the question was rhetorical. Seeing that the king expected an answer, he shrugged. “He faces very little real threat from the north. His only neighbor of consequence is Rodrigo of Copper Hills, and he is one of Baron Daylon’s closest friends. Dumarch would as soon expect a brother to turn on him as Rodrigo Bavangine.” He paused, gauging the king’s reaction.

  Lodavico nodded. “The governors and rulers of the northern ports are scattered and more prone to welcoming smugglers and traders than armies. Besides, none of the ports are large enough to accommodate a flotilla that could put a substantial force at Marquensas’s rear. Port Colos is the largest, and it is so close to Marquensas�
��s border it might as well belong to Daylon.” He stroked his chin, a habit Bernardo had seen countless times when the king was lost in thought. “Daylon is . . .” He looked at the episkopos as if at a loss.

  Gently, the cleric said, “I think he is taking care of what is his and guarding it.”

  Lodavico shook his head. “No, I know he is planning something. He’s amassed wealth and has sway over many of the barons. He’s making Marquensas the new Ithrace. I’ve read the reports . . .”

  Seeing that the conversation was taking a familiar turn, the cleric sat back, keeping his features a mask as he resigned himself to another pointless harangue about Daylon Dumarch’s close friendship with the dead king Steveren Langene, the ruler of Ithrace, real intelligence commingled with imagined slights and insults, turning into a rant invoking every possible reason to hate the most powerful baron in the twin continents.

  When at last the king’s ramblings tailed off, Bernardo gladly turned the conversation to other matters the king needed to consider, not urgent, but important, and called in a scribe to record the king’s decision. As the meeting came to a close, the episkopos waited for the king’s permission to rise—they had worked together so often, this amounted to the cleric inclining his head slightly and the king nodding—and as he stood, Bernardo said, “Majesty, I shall have the edicts recopied and returned before nightfall for your seal.”

  “I expect I should return to sit for that wretched artist. The sooner I’m done with this exercise in vanity, the better I’ll like it.”

  Bernardo bowed slightly, and the king departed.

  After the monarch was gone, the episkopos waved the scribe away, then lingered, enjoying the silence and solitude, if only for a few moments.

  He refused to wallow in his transitory frustrations over dealing with a monarch who by any reasonable measure was on the fringe of madness. Bernardo Delnocio of Poberto had quickly recognized that Lodavico was a truly lonely man, hated even by his own family, surrounded by those who feigned loyalty and affection for him only out of fear. Rather than be another attention seeker, Bernardo had patiently provided counsel and the Church’s support, ensuring that Lodavico became more dependent on him over each passing year.