by Tony Roberts
Vosgaris stood behind the two women, watching down the table. At least he couldn’t be accused of staring inappropriately at either of them from where he was. He did steal a few glances at the necks of the two women. Not bad. He did however see Lalaas looking more than he should at Amne. Even more than Elas did. It appeared Lalaas was more interested in her than Elas was. Very interesting.
As the meal went on the conversations tended to coalesce into small talk. Elas said very little and what he did say was enough to kill any conversation there and then. Lalaas ignored him and exchanged words on hunting and food types with the Pelgion seniors, and to answer questions from Argan who was very interested in animals outside Kastan.
Istan said nothing. He sulked and glared across the table at Argan who was too busy with speaking to Lalaas or Amne to really notice his brother. Isbel and Amne both spoke to the Pelgion seniors at length on fashions, the Pelgion estate, trade and finances. Argan didn’t understand much of that so he tended to monopolise Lalaas at those times. Lalaas was happy to do so; he disliked this different world he was alien to, and the young boy’s curiosity was a refreshing distraction. Elas was as interesting as a rock wall.
When they finally rose from the table, much to Frendicus’ relief, they were given drinks and broke into small groups. Most of the minor diners kept to themselves, knowing this was an occasion that Amne and Elas were supposed to get to know one another. The windows were shut, it being too cold outside to allow egress to the balconies beyond, but Amne wandered over to a corner, Vosgaris and Lalaas standing a little distance away and gently encouraging anyone other than Elas to find another place in the chamber to stand and talk.
Argan was tired and noticed Istan had already gone. It was past his bed time and the sulking child had been quietly guided by Isbel out of the room and into the arms of his mentor and servants and taken to his room. Argan rubbed his eyes. He was full to bursting. He’d eaten loads. The meat course had been great and he’d left his vegetables. He’d been delighted to see his mother hadn’t for once insisted he ate them before the dessert dish. Maybe because so many had been there. So he’d left his brassicas and tubers and eagerly plunged into an enormous dish of a milk-based dessert with sweetened fruits. He’d eaten the lot even though he was nearly full before he’d attacked it.
“Argan, bed time,” Isbel said at his side. Argan looked up. He nodded, almost too tired to speak.
Vosgaris came up and took Argan by the hand and the boy meekly held onto it and trudged out of the warm and noisy room. He was sure Amne wouldn’t mind him going without saying goodnight. She was talking to the serious man anyway.
Amne was, indeed, speaking to Elas. The young nobleman had slowly made his way over to her and waited to say something. Amne guessed he was feeling awkward, so had spoken first. “What do you think of the room?”
Elas looked up at the ceiling. There were old paintings up there, some faded almost to obscurity, but they had been magnificent in their day. “Needs repair,” he said shortly. “A lot of the décor does. Does not reflect on the Koros well, this shabbiness.”
Amne felt piqued. “Funds are tight, Elas. Father has other concerns than spending it on ourselves.”
“Perhaps so, but you are judged on your appearances,” Elas countered. “When I marry you I shall commence a course of redecoration of the palace.”
“If you marry me, Elas,” Amne corrected him.
Elas cocked his head slightly. “If? I am led to believe it is a done deal. We are to be wed this coming summer here in Kastan.”
“What if I don’t appeal to you?”
“That is not important,” Elas said stiffly. “It has been arranged. We are to be man and wife. The gods have given their blessing. Your mother and father and my parents have agreed it. Whether we wish it so or not is unimportant. For the good of Kastan we must join in marriage.”
Amne’s face stained red. “You would accept anything without question, Elas?”
“If the gods ordain it, yes. Who are we to argue with the gods? Their wrath would be terrible! Kastania has clearly aroused their anger in the recent past and we are suffering as a result. As the leading House of the empire, the Koros would be wise to follow the wishes of the gods. Else what incentive is there for the rest of us to adhere to the teachings of the temples?”
“I wasn’t aware the gods had decided we marry; I thought it was the idea of our parents!”
“The gods spoke through them, Princess. We cannot ignore that.”
Amne set her lips in a tight line. What could she do to argue against someone who thought everything came through divine intervention?
Elas briefly indicated Amne’s dress. “But if I may make an observation. Your attire is not what I would see as appropriate to a leading member of our society. A little more sober dressing should be chosen.”
“You may make an observation, Elas, but I decide what I wear, not you or the gods.”
Elas’ face darkened. “Do not mock the gods or you shall incur their displeasure. And once you are my wife you shall obey my wishes.”
Amne’s eyes widened. “I am a princess! You dare to speak to me like that?”
“When I marry you I shall be a prince; my word will be obeyed. I shall not tolerate you dressing like a courtesan. Your flesh should be hidden from the rank and file. As your husband I will insist.”
“We shall see about that, Elas Pelgion!” Amne snapped. She held his gaze, daring him to violate social protocol for staring her down.
Reluctantly, almost, as if to make a point, he looked away. He turned and faced the chamber, studying the people milling about and talking. He stepped back so that he was by her side, his glass of wine in hand. “The empire needs more generals, ma’am.” He was correct, if cool, towards her now. Amne looked up at him. He was a good head taller than she. Elas continued. “Your father the emperor is busy in Bragal; the prince is far away in Lodria. The governors of both Niake and Turslenka have their hands full trying to keep those cities and their provinces in order, and from what I’ve heard they are having difficulties. There is nobody here organising Frasia and Kastan City. Your family does not trust anyone not connected by blood ties or marriage to run the capital. That is why they have pressed for this marriage to go ahead.”
“And you think you’re the perfect man for the job?”
Elas nodded. Amne looked hard into his face. There was no conceit there, or bluster. He was sincere in what he believed, as if it were a fact. “My father taught me how to run our estates. Our estates are in Frasia. We have supported the Koros publically, opposing the wishes of the Duras and the Fokis. Even now, the Koros are limited in their options as to who to trust. The Fokis and Duras are still powerful and the standard of revolt flutters yet in Makenia, and it is rising in Bathenia. Now is the time they need support. Now is the time they must secure an alliance with the noble houses of Kastania. Ma’am,” he turned to face Amne, “you may not approve of my sobriety. I certainly do not approve of your flighty manner, but our union is essential to the empire if it is not to slip into civil war once more. We stand on the edge of the abyss.”
Amne shivered. It wasn’t so much what he had said; it was more to do with the manner in which he had delivered it. She hadn’t realised the situation was so desperate.
And with that she knew that, despite her personal objections, her duty to the empire and her family outweighed her own wishes. She would have to marry the man.
The thought cast a shadow over her. Her father would certainly owe her enormously for this. She looked at the stern countenance of Elas, and slipped her arm though the crook of his. “Elas, I shall stand by my family against the enemies of our empire. If you are determined to help us, then a marriage between us is important, as you say. Do not fear about my – inappropriate behaviour or dress. I see you are not impressed by this style. I shall dress more to your tastes the next time you visit, be assured of that.”
Elas looked at her in surprise, then bowed in accep
tance. “You honour me, ma’am. Then is it to be understood we are formally betrothed?”
“You know what to do, Elas Pelgion,” Amne said. Elas didn’t see the wicked gleam that briefly lit up her eyes. It was gone as soon as it had appeared.
He nodded and disengaged his arm, turned to her and knelt on one knee before her. “Princess Amne Koros, please do me the honour of accepting my offer of marriage to you. I bring the full wealth and weight of the House of Pelgion with me.”
Amne was aware the entire chamber had gone quiet. She stole a glance over Elas’ head. Her mother was staring hard at her, and she could almost sense her willing her to say yes. Lalaas was inscrutable, looking at her intently. Dozens and dozens of pairs of eyes were all on her, and it was a little disconcerting for a moment, then she steeled herself. The next word she would utter would determine not only her future, but the whole empire’s.
It was a powerful, yet imprisoning moment.
“Yes, Elas Pelgion,” she smiled at him, “I do accept.”
He smiled briefly, a genuine one which had a touch of warmth, but not one that lit up the room. As he bent to kiss her hand, the room broke out into cheers and applause.
Isbel put her hands to her mouth and breathed out hard in relief and excitement. She felt the tears come to her eyes. Now they had a chance, a really good chance, of overcoming their current crisis.
____
The night had come to Bathenia but people still were outside the city of Niake. The gates had locked at dusk and now the walls and gates kept out anyone or anything that wished to enter, using the cover of the dark to their advantage.
A few leagues from the walls of the city, a group of riders made their way across the land, using little-used and less well known tracks. They carried torches to light the way. The wind-swept coastal plains of Bathenia were not a place to go riding in the dark without light, especially in winter. A cold wind knifed through clothing and the ground was hard with frost.
A camp lay ahead, guarded by quiet, dark men with bows and swords. Two torches flicked in the shelter of two rocks standing on either side of the track, and a voice challenged the riders to stop. The riders, seven in number, came to a halt and shapes materialised out of the dark on both sides and waited, bows strung. A single man came advancing from the rocks, his sword in his hand. “Who goes here?” he growled roughly, his rustic accent betraying his origins.
“Duras,” the leading rider answered, lowering his face cloth, revealing his features.
The guard looked up, recognising the face. He had served in Valsan Duras’ army in the last civil war that had ended in defeat. He bowed and waved the men to lower their weapons. “Follow me, sire,” he said, leading the riders on through the gap in between the rocks. Beyond a group of men waited to accept the equines and the riders all dismounted.
Two of them stayed with the beasts while the other five followed the guard through a narrow passageway then through a gate in a wicker fence. More guards could be half-seen here. Valsan Duras nodded in appreciation. This was a well-organised force. At the back was a hut, guarded by a dozen men, all holding pikes. An outdated weapon but still used for ceremonial or guard duties here and there. The men didn’t look like they were there for decorative purposes.
Two men barred the entrance until an officer snapped a curt command and the guards stepped back, allowing Duras and his four men into the long hut. It was long and spacious, and partitioned off on one side. What lay beyond the partition Duras didn’t know, but he was more interested in the man sitting at the end. As Valsan Duras approached, the man stood up and stepped towards him. “Well met, Lord Duras,” the man said in a deep voice. He was dark haired, possessed light blue coloured eyes and stood as tall as any man. Certainly a warrior.
“Well met, Lombert Soul,” Duras replied, appraising the man. He knew Lombert had served under him a few years ago, but couldn’t recall when, where or in what capacity. “You have an efficient force here, from what I have seen.”
“Yes I have,” Soul said matter-of-factly, and showed Lord Duras a seat. The others he left to stand. They were unimportant. Soul sat down opposite Duras and laced his fingers, his elbows on his table top. “I am honoured by your visit, Lord Duras. I take it you wish to speak to me of what my intentions are?”
Duras smiled coldly. “That is not in doubt. You intend to take Niake from the Koros. What I am interested in is what you intend doing once you achieve that. You are not a noble; you have no House to back you. Should you take Niake then Prince Jorqel will march up here from Lodria and smash your army. You will need allies. You will need a definite plan for the future.”
“Are you offering an alliance, Lord Duras?”
“Perhaps. But that is dependent on what you tell me about your future plans. If you merely wish to hold Niake for yourself, then I may recommend to my family to either lend our support to the Koros, or even to take Niake for ourselves. You will find out that you cannot hold a city by yourself, even with an army. How long will they stand by you when your money runs out? Or if someone offers them more than you are paying them?”
“I fought under the Duras banner before – and lost. I have little faith in either you or the Fokis in defeating the Koros. I intend taking both Bathenia and Lodria for myself and establishing a new kingdom. I shall consolidate my strength here before calling all Kastanians to my banners in a Holy War against the Tybar. Let the Koros sit in Kastan City; they are doing nothing to regain our lost lands. When I announce my call for a just war, then my ranks will swell.”
Lord Duras laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, how naïve of you, Soul. You honestly believe people will follow you, like some prophet? People need food. They need shelter. They need protection. They will not join you as long as Prince Jorqel lives. You will have to defeat him first. I also understand he’s sent out a call for you to disband and disarm?”
Lombert Soul sneered. “An empty gesture. He won’t leave Slenna. It’s a wreck. The province is only half in support of the Koros, and then only because he’s there with his army. If they leave Slenna would be ripe for the picking.”
“So you sit here and he sits there. Stalemate. You need to entice him out of his lair. You need to get him away from Slenna so a small force can sneak in behind him, take Slenna and hold it until you get there. You will need help. You will need money.”
Lombert studied Duras. “And what is it you’re offering?”
“Advice,” Duras spread his arms wide in a placatory and friendly manner. Soul was not deceived for one moment. “Money. We Duras have funds that can supplement your forces. We can even hire mercenaries for you. We can alert contacts within both Niake and Slenna to cause dissention and confusion there when the time is ripe. And I also have the right bait to lure Jorqel out of Slenna.”
Lombert thought for a moment. “So. You willingly offer all this. In return for what?”
“A share in the new kingdom. Generalship, maybe a governorship. All this will not come free. You need us, just as we have been waiting for someone like you to raise an army in revolt. Together we can topple the Koros.”
“Governorship of, say, Lodria?”
Duras beamed. “Perfect! Our estates are down there. We would, as the local House, be much more readily accepted as new rulers – under your banner of course – than yourself.”
Lombert Soul considered the options. He had few. “And so this great plan to get Jorqel out of Slenna – I take it you intend my army faces the Army of the West while you take Slenna.”
“Indeed. Once Jorqel is defeated, Niake will surrender to you. The Koros’ power will be broken on this side of the Aester. They will not be able to cross over without leaving the east defenceless. Their great ‘empire’ will consist of a few pathetic provinces. The loss of both Bathenia and Lodria in one swoop will cause a riot. With any luck Kastan will throw the pathetic Koros out, then we can negotiate from a position of strength. You could even enter Kastan as the new emperor and found a new dyna
sty, even if you are not of a noble House.”
“And would the Duras willingly back me in this enterprise? What of my Holy War?”
Duras waved an irritated hand. “The Holy War can wait. Maybe you use that as a bargaining tool to secure Kastan. A war against the Tybar would be popular. It may even unite Kastania. As long as the Koros are all put to death and utterly exterminated. What say you, General Soul?”
“It has promise. But what is this bait you speak of?”
Duras laughed. “Ah. The prince is besotted with a daughter of one of the minor nobles in Bathenia. A Sannia Nicate. He intends marrying the girl next summer. Take the girl prisoner and threaten to execute her. Jorqel will come running like a wild forest beast in rutting season. He will not be thinking straight. Take her when you have your army ready and a place to fight prepared. Then we will strike.”
Lombert Soul nodded. It was a good way to bring Jorqel out of Slenna. He was sure he could train his army through the winter, a force made up of disaffected elements of Kastanian society, ex-soldiers or unemployed mercenaries, and even renegades from Tybar. He had as many men as the Army of the West and by the spring, who knows? He may have more. He needed money, and allies, that was for certain. The cutting off of the money from Niake had been a blow and now he was desperate for a miracle. And now it seemed the Duras had landed one in his lap. He would be a fool not to take it.
But he did not trust the Duras one bit.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Amne was busy the next few days. It seemed that everyone wished to see her and speak of her travels, the Mazag, and of course her marriage. Isbel had gone berserk; she had been commanding Frendicus to set aside a portion of the imperial budget to pay for the wedding. Frendicus had prevaricated but Isbel had finally resorted to making it clear his position as treasurer depended on him finding the funds, so he had caved in, albeit with much muttering and shaking of his head.
For Amne, though, it was a non-stop storm of visits, appointments and discussions. Isbel had provided her with an office of her own and two people employed solely to carry out the administration. Amne was taken aback by the amount of work she was suddenly expected to do. The two office staff, a personal overseer and a liaison officer, were attendant upon her each and every day from morning until dusk.
