A Path to Coldness of Heart

by Glen Cook

  The room was furnished sparsely but not cheaply. He had a bed, large and comfortable. He had a table for eating, chairs, several quality rugs, and another table where he could sit and read or write. That came equipped with several books, a stock of pens, paper, and ink in three colors. His captors allowed him a penknife.

  There was a luxury garderobe. The waste went away when staff removed dirty dishes and cutlery. Meals were regular and adequate.

  There were pitchers and porcelain bowls at opposite ends of the room, with ladles. There was a metal tub that could be dragged out and, once a week, filled with warm water so he could bathe. A specialist servant would deal with fleas and lice. His captors had an aversion to parasites.

  There was an area for dressing. He had a choice of apparel. Like dirty dishes, soiled clothing went away, then came back clean.

  He could shave if he wanted. The tools were available.

  Not a hard life. But he could not leave.

  So mostly he paced, like the caged tiger, and he raged. Hour after hour, day after day, back and forth, paying little heed to his surroundings, fantasizing about what the world would suffer once he escaped.

  Little thought went toward actually accomplishing that. That was work for the rational side of his mind. And the rational side had to operate in the realm of reality.

  Rationally, it was obvious that there would be no leaving without outside contrivance.

  Rationally, he could do nothing but wait.

  The prisoner’s routine was rigid. Food arrived at predictable times, virtually taunting him: construct an escape plan around this, fool! So when the door in the flat wall opened at an unorthodox hour Ragnarson was so surprised he actually retreated.

  He gawked. He failed to recognize Mist for several seconds. She was radiantly gorgeous. He had not been near any woman for so long that his response was instantaneous and embarrassing.

  Then his mind clicked.

  Mist, aged in spirit but not in that timelessly beautiful flesh.

  He arranged himself so as to conceal his arousal.

  She smiled. “Hello. The war has eased up. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

  Off guard, disturbed by his response, he was flustered. Neither fight nor flight were options.

  “Bragi! It’s me! Good gracious. You aren’t very good at being a noble prisoner, are you?”

  Her tone, the amusement edging her voice, dispelled the intellectual murk. “I got it made,” he croaked. “Relatively speaking.”

  They could have shoved him down an oubliette and fed him spoiled pig manure for the rest of a very short life.

  He drew no cheer from the thought.

  He glared at the achingly beautiful woman.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re more than just a man, Bragi Ragnarson. You’re maybe an elemental who is no longer sane and still headed downhill.”

  Ragnarson said nothing. He did not disagree.

  A face came to mind. Sherilee. That sweet child, younger than his oldest boy. Their liaison, brief as it had been, had reminded him that he was still alive.

  He shook like a dog fresh in from the rain. “I’m sane right now but it won’t last.”

  “I’m pleased. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is trying to communicate with someone who can’t see that they’re caught in reality’s trap.”

  “You have me for now. It may not last. Something shook me off my foundations.”

  “We weren’t responsible.”

  He got no sense that she was lying.

  She said, “I came for several reasons. First, to see how you’re doing. We were friends. You helped me.”

  He kept his expression neutral.

  “I tried to support you, too. I failed. Then you put yourself into a position where this was the best I could do.”

  He thought this was more the work of Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.

  “Cynical response noted.”

  Ragnarson betrayed a smile.

  “I’ve brought news from home. Which is hard to come by, these days.”

  “I’ve known you a long time…”

  She stopped him. She knew he never believed much that she said. “It would be more kind to leave you ignorant. The heart I found while I was in exile disagrees.”

  Ragnarson focused. Time to be careful. The Empress of Shinsan was going to give him something because she wanted something. “Do tell.”

  “Last month your grandson Bragi seemed certain to become king of Kavelin, instead of Fulk. It was just a matter of time. The Itaskians were being neutralized. Inger was losing support fast. The Nordmen were distancing themselves from her and Greyfells. Your cronies were dead or fled, but that wasn’t hampering Kristen.”

  “But?” That required no genius to see.

  “Credence Abaca died. And everything began to fall apart.”

  Ragnarson resumed pacing. “Abaca died? Really?”

  “He’d been ill for some time, apparently. Once he went the tribes had no recognized chief of chiefs. With them out of it Kristen’s Wessons began to waver. There have been massive desertions. The men who haven’t yet left the regiments have no good reason to stay. They aren’t getting paid. They don’t want Inger but Kristen fled the kingdom once she no longer had the Marena Dimura to protect her. Kavelin seems ready to fall apart.”

  It looked like Shinsan had a fine opportunity—that Mist evidently did not view in that light.

  Why give her ideas? She had plenty of her own. And Kavelin’s torment was his fault.

  “I’m sorry. It’s a sad thing I caused. Aren’t there appropriate sayings about hubris?”

  “In almost every language. It’s a popular pastime, small men criticizing the stumbles of giants.”

  Ragnarson glanced out the nearest window. It would be time to eat, soon. What would it be? Outguessing the cooks was a favorite exercise.

  Derel Prataxis said men grew introspective with age. Ragnarson had tried it. He could not get interested in his own interior landscape, nor could he make himself care.

  Mist broke the protracted silence. “You have no response?”

  “Should I? It’s sad. My fault. I said that. It is what it is. I can’t do anything about it. Or is that why I’m honored with your presence?”

  “In a sense. It was.”

  “Sense me the sense, woman!”

  “Don’t make me hurt you, old friend.” To remind him who was the guest.

  “Sorry.” But he was not, and that was obvious.

  “I hoped confinement would erode that attitude. That given time you would find your way back to the Bragi Ragnarson who won friends easily and inspired people. But he seems to have gone missing permanently.”

  He did not respond. But he did pace.

  “You haven’t tried to figure out how you came to this?”

  “No figuring needed. I got too big for my britches, then I guessed wrong. My luck ran out.”

  “So you’ve spent all this time, with no other demands on you, doing what? Pacing and being angry?”

  The appalled way she said that tickled him. “Pretty much.”

  “You are an animal.”

  That did not please him. She seemed contemptuous now.

  “I was considering sending you back but the Bragi Ragnarson I see here looks no better than Dane of Greyfells, or take your pick of Nordmen.” She headed for the door, muttering, “How did he get from that to this in a year?”

  ...

  That same night witnessed an event the tower’s denizens considered impossible. There was an attack. It was a complete surprise.

  The raiders put a ladder up to the tower door. They broke through, spread out, and started killing. They would have succeeded completely had the Empress not been there, stealing a night’s rest.

  It was a close thing, still. Mist lost her bodyguards. Two of the kitchen crew survived only by hiding in the larder. Lein She made it, too, but was wounded badly defending the transfer chamber.

  He apologized for t
he disaster. “I should have anticipated an effort to free the prisoners.”

  The Empress touched the Candidate gently. “The fault was mine, Lein She. How many escaped?”

  “I don’t know.” He went to sleep.

  Mist studied her fingertips. Lein She might never waken if she could not summon a healing specialist. The portals were down.

  She had not taken stock of the full tragedy yet. There had been damage to the transfer portals despite Lein’s heroic stand. That may have been the thrust of the attack.

  Nine attackers had died trying to ruin them.

  The raid seemed too sophisticated for local malcontents.

  Her mind made a grand leap. Somewhere amongst the Tervola was a man who wanted to bring her down.

  Phsaw! Of course there was. But no Tervola would recruit, arm, and inform a band of guerrillas. It would be beneath his dignity. Nor would any Tervola believe that cat’s-paws like these stood a chance against her.

  Again, she was not supposed to have been here. The attack must have had another point.

  She bullied the surviving staff into securing the tower, starting with the ladder and door. A census of prisoners followed.

  There had been no escapes. Evidently, liberation had not been the intent. Three prisoners were dead. Another prisoner had been mauled. Three remained undisturbed, including Ragnarson, who had remained unaware of the attack.

  Mist focused on the transfer chamber.

  Her paranoia did not fade because she was occupied. She considered the possibility that Varthlokkur was behind the assault.

  Unlikely, though. Varthlokkur would be direct. He would send his familiar monster.

  The raiders had had a close knowledge of the inside of the tower but had lacked real-time intelligence. They had not been ready for her.

  She moved to the door of the staging chamber. “Bring the dead raiders to me here! Without damaging them!”

  None had gotten away and none had been taken alive. But the dead had not been dead for long. Some could still bear witness.

  First, though, she had to make contact with her headquarters.

  ...

  Ragnarson heard a click. He faced the door, uneasy. Neither breakfast nor lunch had come. Mist must be messing with him.

  The Empress came in carrying a tray. He stifled a rude remark. She did not look healthy. “Are you all right?”

  “No. I just spent three hours talking to the dead.”

  “What happened?” That she was still here and bringing him food told him it was something bad.

  “Persons as yet unidentified may be aware of your survival.”

  “What?” Was she frazzled enough to give something away?

  “There was an attack on the tower. By local people. Those I could make talk hoped news that our portals were out would encourage a general uprising. But there were hints that they wanted to free the prisoners held here, too. They expected to suffer heavy casualties. Someone here must have been worth it.”

  “Me?”

  “Maybe. There were other prisoners. Some of those got killed.”

  “You didn’t take any of the raiders alive.” Which explained her remark about talking to the dead.

  “No. And I didn’t get to the dead fast enough to squeeze out everything I wanted. But I can’t help thinking some clever soul with a different agenda conned some malcontents. I don’t know that. It’s intuition. Maybe somebody wanted to get you out.”

  Michael Trebilcock?

  He did not say the name. But no one else they knew had the connections. Or the gall.

  “Trebilcock does seem plausible,” she said. “Or maybe just someone who enjoys a good framing.”

  “Old Meddler? Why would he sink to that low a level?”

  “For the drama?”

  “With all the grand drama in this world, he wants to stir up skirmishes?”

  “The drama is fading. The war with Matayanga is guttering. I intend to avoid war afterward. It will take Shinsan a generation or two to recover. The Tervola see that. Whatever their feelings toward me, they want to nurture the Empire first. Even dedicated old troublemakers want a healing time.”

  “So you’re getting comfortable.”

  “Never while I’m a woman trying to control cruel men awed by nothing but superior power. My point is, Shinsan is headed for a time of peace. The whole world is exhausted. There was a battle in Hammad al Nakir recently. Yasmid routed Megelin. She could not follow up. Magden Norath is in Al Rhemish. He could become a tool of the Meddler again. Kavelin is chaotic and getting more so. If the Meddler was behind the raid here his intent might have been to inject you into that chaos to see the fur and blood fly.”

  “You said you were thinking that way yourself.”

  “I was. Because of my fondness for you and my fondness for Kavelin, which was my home for so long. And because it would be useful to me, as Empress, to have a stable, reliable, friendly monarch there.”

  “You walked out.”

  “I did. You’re no longer the Bragi Ragnarson who built Kavelin. You wouldn’t go back and make things right. You would work the Meddler’s mischief.”

  Ragnarson started pacing. He said nothing. He did not trust himself to control his rage.

  “As you will.” Mist moved to the exit. “Do try to use this time more fruitfully. This has to be a life sentence only if you insist.”

  Ragnarson’s lips pulled back in a snarl.

  ...

  Nepanthe, with Smyrena in her lap, leaned against her husband. “Why is Bragi that way?” The baby cooed and kicked. “What happened to him?”

  Varthlokkur knew a broader question was being asked. Identical stubbornness, on his part, had caused the breach with Ragnarson. That rift underlay all the evil that had befallen Kavelin since. “‘And the Wicked flee where none do pursue.’”

  “What?”

  “A not quite apposite quotation from a forgotten book. As to the question, I don’t know why Bragi changed. There’s always a temptation to think such shifts are sparked externally.”

  “Somebody cast a spell.”

  “Possibly. But it’s also possible that massive bad cess just twisted his mind.”

  Smyrena needed burping. Nepanthe moved the infant to her shoulder. She gave Varthlokkur a hard look as she did.

  He said, “When you’re the one behaving badly you blame outside forces. Unless you’re emotionally invested in being too strong-willed to be influenced.”

  “You’d then have an adventure justifying yourself.”

  “You would.” The wizard leaned in for a better view of what Ragnarson would do now that he was alone.

  Nepanthe said, “Ethrian had a good day. I think he’s starting to get better.”

  “Excellent. Excellent.”

  “I wish we could resurrect that Sahmaman. He really loved her.”

  “I’m sure he did. Her behavior showed that she loved him, too. But we can’t ignore one iron truth. The real Sahmaman died thousands of years ago. We saw a memory given flesh by godlike power.”

  “I know. I’m wishful-thinking. I just want Ethrian to heal.”

  “I understand.” The wizard would not dismay her by saying that the boy would never escape his raging insanity.

  †

  CHAPTER FIVE

  YEAR 1017 AFE:

  SPRING THREATENING

  The Queen’s liaison with the commander of her bodyguard was an open secret. Everyone inside Castle Krief knew. Everyone gossiped and almost everyone pretended complete ignorance to outsiders. Unaware, Inger and Josiah Gales kept going through the motions of a strictly professional relationship.

  Inger asked, “Is it time for Dane?”

  Gales, never entirely committed to anyone, said, “He could give up and go home. Family interests have suffered. Money is running short. Desertions and ambushes have his force down to three hundred.”

  “I admire your desire to keep faith with Dane. He doesn’t deserve you. Tell his soldiers they could c
ome here. I’d like more Itaskians around me.”

  ...

  Dane of Greyfells was not well. He was pallid in the extreme. Any movement caused pain. Gales had been cautioned against taking notice. He expressed strong gratitude when offered a chair beside the Duke, in front of the fire.

  “This is so much better than Castle Krief. Inger won’t waste fuel on heating.” Countless economies were under way. The Crown had a very limited income.

  “What news, Josiah? Is there any hope? If not, I should cut my losses. Go home with my tail tucked, to jeers and mockery. I cast the dice but they didn’t love me.”

  “Lord, they don’t love anyone here. Kavelin keeps right on heading downhill, taking everyone with it.”

  “So it seems. Answer my question. Any hope?”

  “She asked me to poll the soldiers to see if any would come work for her. Her Wessons are walking away, mainly because she can’t pay them. Her Nordmen become less supportive by the day, too. She’ll have lost all support outside Vorgreberg soon. Each town, each village, each lord, and each guild that deserts reduces her income further.”

  “So the enterprise is doomed from both directions. And still she won’t let me in.”

  “She remains adamant, My Lord. She will not trust you.”

  Greyfells remained quiet. His frame went rigid momentarily. Recovering, he asked, “Why, Josiah?” His voice had gone plaintive.

  “She has a touch of the illness that ruled Ragnarson, the Krief, and Fiana. She fears what you will do to Kavelin if you get control.”

  Greyfells tittered, startling Gales. His normal laugh was an all-out, full-bodied roar. Now the Duke ended up wracked by deep, sobbing coughs. Gales feared for the man’s life, briefly.

  “Sorry you had to see that, Josiah. No. Never mind. I’ll be all right. I’ve survived all this before. Go ahead. Poll the men. Tell them I’ll let them go if that’s what they want. Might as well let her not pay them as not pay them myself.” He contrived a small, controlled laugh. “Take her an honest answer.”

  ...

  “About eighty men are willing to come over, Highness,” Gales reported.

  “That’s all?”

  “Some wouldn’t give a straight answer. They thought the Duke was testing them. Others said that since they wouldn’t get paid either place they’d as soon stay put and save the walk. Most everyone said they intend to head home after the weather turns and the rivers go down.”