The Crown

by Deborah Chester

  “According to Barsin’s report,” the agent in charge of the investigation was saying, “the attack hit the head of the column approximately there.” He pointed.

  Caelan saw a veritable thicket of brambles and vines now outlined in snow.

  “In short, Excellency,” the agent said, “a perfect ambush site. Scant room for cavalry to maneuver because of the stream and that bank. They lost half their force in the opening strike.”

  Caelan abruptly reined his horse aside and crossed the stream to ride into the ruins of the village. By the look of the place, it had once been a large, thriving town. The buildings had fallen in, and dead vines had grown over the rest of the rubble. He could barely find evidence of streets among the crumbling foundations or occasional wall jutting up. The silence was eerie, with not a creature in evidence. Caelan saw no birds on the wing, spotted no tracks of snow hares, field mice, or their predators. Over the creak of saddle leather, his heart was drumming in his ears. His horse snorted and minced along, ready to shy.

  Riding at Caelan’s stirrup, his protector was breathing audibly, his gaze shifting back and forth. Two lieutenants, three centruins, his aides, and a decim of Imperial Guards rode bunched together, their hands close to their weapons. No one said a word.

  It was indeed, Caelan thought, a terrible place. Its bleak emptiness as oppressive as the worst sites of shadow magic, the very ground cursed. He could sense something foul here, as though hands were reaching from their graves for him. Whatever had gone wrong for the inhabitants of Falenthis, it was too terrible for even time to repair. Something wretched lingered here, its ancient misery overlaid by the recent events of Lea’s abduction and the slaughter of most of her entourage. A terrible sense of rage boiled up inside him. That Lea—his gentle, sweet sister—should have been brought to such a foul place, exposed to its heartbreak and violence . . .

  “Hervan was a fool,” he said curtly.

  The agent glanced at him without expression. “Yes, sir. That fire in Brondi was set by arson.”

  “You think he was bribed to turn onto this road?”

  “I found no definite evidence of that, Sire. He was in debt, but then most officers in the Crimsons are.”

  Caelan frowned. The Household Regiment was notorious for its high expenses. “What else have you to show me?”

  The agent cleared his throat and set his horse picking a careful path through the rubble lying half-concealed under the snow.

  Caelan was well aware of what they were all thinking. For the emperor to have left his palace and ridden all the way to the remote, and unimportant, province of Chanvez to inspect the capture site in person was extraordinary, especially given the press of the emperor’s other obligations and responsibilities. It did not bode well for the regiment’s future that His Excellency was unwilling to simply accept the official report, or the findings of his investigative agents.

  This agent, selected to conduct him out here, looked nervous enough, as though he feared his own work might next be held to close scrutiny.

  Let them all be afraid, Caelan thought angrily.

  “Magic has been done here,” Caelan said, pointing at the broken walls of a fallen hut. “Is this where they called the dead?”

  Looking startled, the agent shot Caelan an uneasy glance. He hesitated long enough to make the other officers stare at him, before he said hoarsely, “Yes, Sire. According to the testimony of the captain’s servant who followed him that night. You can see here, and here, my stakes marking the spot.”

  Caelan glowered at the wooden stakes that had been driven into the ground. Brightly hued scraps of cloth fluttered from the tops of the stakes. Evil on top of evil, he thought. A curse that goes on and on, regenerating itself with new victims. He knew he would never discover what had first befallen this valley so many years or perhaps centuries ago. It hardly mattered. Sometimes evil went so deep, remained so pervasive it could not be stamped out.

  Abruptly he wheeled his horse around and guided it out of the ruined village and back across the stream to the road. He reined up there, his men watching him anxiously, and squinted against the driving snow toward a dimly seen smudge of hills to the north. Some instinct told him the mercenaries had ridden that way with Lea. And yet . . . his gaze swung northwest. The evidence left behind, the scattered weapons of Thyrazene make, had not convinced him. He knew that trick as well. It was as old and shabby as the pre-Reform army.

  A feeling of despair surged through him, making him bow his head. He had indeed been foolishly impulsive to come here. He’d discovered nothing except confirmation of the reports. Leaving his palace exposed, leaving Elandra and their child without his protection, and for what? To punish himself? To feel that he was doing something worthwhile to recover Lea?

  She was not in Chanvez. He had known that before he came.

  The agent’s report in person had not deviated from the one he’d written and sent by courier to New Imperia. Meeting this investigator had confirmed for Caelan only one thing that he’d already suspected.

  There was deceit wrapped around the matter, layers and layers of deceit. They were all—from Lea and her call for help to this agent to the commander of the Crimsons—all, for whatever reason, lying to him.

  “A false report!” the agent sputtered that night, standing white faced and rigid. “Sire, I beg you not to believe such a thing. Every effort—”

  “False,” Caelan insisted.

  They were in the commander’s quarters at the outpost at Brondi, a wretched little provincial market town on the banks of an unremarkable river. The log-fenced fortress had the same weathered, weary look of similar remote outposts across the empire, too insignificant to be well supplied, too often overlooked in cases of merit, a mediocre posting for mediocre officers.

  Outside, a cold winter wind was howling around the corners of the cabin, worrying at the log chinking and rattling the shutters. Caelan heard the shrieking wail of wind spirits out there, sensed their furious hunt for some unwary soul foolish enough to venture unprotected into the night.

  Indoors, Choven warding keys shone above every shuttered window and bolted door. The firelight glowed brightly, casting uneven warmth and flickering shadows about the room. The agent and his assistant investigators stood before him as though too shocked to move. Caelan’s protector and guards were present, but no officers. This meeting was private.

  “Excellency, how have we erred?” the agent pleaded. His eyes shone wet and liquid in the firelight. “I realize the report is inconclusive, but—but until Captain Hervan is found and questioned, there can be no establishing whether he still searches for Lady Lea or has deserted.”

  Caelan drew a sharp breath, but he could almost hear Elandra’s calm voice, sensibly warning him to keep his temper.

  “You have also talked to an officer of the Crimsons, haven’t you?” Caelan said now, and watched the man squint involuntarily, then force his expression to one smooth and impossible to read. “Who came here?”

  “Excellency—”

  “Damn you, do you dare lie to your emperor?”

  Again the agent’s eyes shifted. He stared at the floor even as he said, “Please, Excellency, there is no lie—”

  “Name the officer!”

  “The Crimsons would not suborn an Imperial agent.”

  “Then who was the man? Speak up! Or do you want to be held on charges of complicity?”

  “Sire, it’s not like you think.” As though realizing what he’d just blurted out, the agent grimaced and fell silent. Behind him, his men exchanged worried glances.

  For a long moment the only sound in the room was the hissing crackle of the fire. Caelan stepped closer to the agent, looming head and shoulders over him, letting the firelight glint off his silver-hued eyes, using his physical size to intimidate in the way he’d learned during his years as a gladiator.

  With Lea’s survival at stake, Caelan burned to take action, whether right or wrong, burned to be doing something, anything to
help her. Gods, if only he had an enemy standing before him, one he could fight, then he would know what to do. But this slippery intrigue, this constant sifting for grains of truth within the sand of lies . . . he hated it.

  “You had better explain,” he said coldly, and watched the agent flinch. “And the truth this time! Do you think you can deceive Light Bringer?”

  The man turned ashen and sank to his knees. “Please, Sire. I—I didn’t change anything in my report that would jeopardize the lady. I swear it!”

  Caelan’s sigh came from the depths of his soul. “Talk.”

  Chapter 9

  The emperor’s return to New Imperia was as unexpected and sudden as his departure had been. On his first afternoon back in the palace, His Imperial Majesty had closeted himself with his privy council most of the day, messengers and couriers going in and out of the palace at a rapid clip.

  When Lord Tinel Hervan was seen entering the palace, bets were laid on whether the House of Hervan had fallen at last. When Colonel Dreseid of the Household Regiment entered the palace, grim faced and striding fast, rumors flew that the regiment was being disbanded.

  Spies skulked everywhere. Money changed hands in the galleries and behind columns and in corners. Whispers and lies, speculations and rumors, snippets of fact and complete supposition were all woven together in the palace gossip.

  The throne room, constructed in the shape of a nautili-cone, its walls and floors lined with porphyry, marble, and alabaster, was closed. His Imperial Majesty did not sit today on his emerald throne, an enormous jewel the size of a boulder, cut into innumerable facets by master Choven craftsmen and resting on a gold base stamped with symbols of wisdom and protection. According to clerks dourly revising their lists and schedules, no audience would be given.

  Palace officials stood about with grim faces. The pair of heavy doors leading to the privy chamber remained firmly shut. No one, not even the chamberlains, could listen at the keyhole. The doors were flanked by members of the Guard, standing rigidly at attention with drawn swords held across their chests to indicate that the emperor was still inside.

  Without warning, the heavy bronze doors crashed into the walls as though propelled open by an invisible force. Jinjas came pattering out, hissing and spinning about as though glad to be released, only to scatter as the emperor emerged.

  Wearing his Choven-made crown—an intricate web of finely spun gold, diamonds, and emeralds—Caelan strode out past his hastily saluting Guards while pages ran before him, shouting, “Make way for the emperor! Make way!”

  Although he always moved in a rush, his usual custom upon leaving the privy council was to pause in his progress to acknowledge those courtiers in favor or exchange a few words with minor officials.

  This time, however, his long legs carried him rapidly through the parting crowd. He spoke to no one. His brow was like thunder and the steely anger in his eyes forbade anyone to approach him.

  “Excellency!” It was Chancellor Brellit who called after him from the doorway of the private chamber. “Please, Sire! Excellency, I beg you to wait!”

  Fuming with every step, Caelan strode down the gallery as though he did not hear and went out through a set of tall doors into the shelter of a long loggia. The downpour had stopped, but the garden beyond was glistening with water, its plants drenched and the pathways full of puddles. Water being channeled through gutters and drains gurgled into the palace cisterns.

  Too furious to continue, Caelan halted. He had no intention of going into the session gallery, or seeking out the women’s pavilion where Elandra was supposed to be resting after her part in a morning ceremony. He had found it a hard journey home from Brondi, through snow, sleet, rain, and mud. He was tired and frustrated, and although today’s meeting had been necessary for the sake of procedure it had accomplished nothing.

  He wanted to strike out, to destroy something, even if it was only to childishly trample these flowers. He did not want to be soothed, or listen to reason. Above all, he wanted no more lies or empty assurances.

  A pair of gardeners, busy tying up leggy flowers now sodden with rain, stared at him in awe. A curt gesture from Caelan’s protector was enough for them to grab their tools and flee. The Guards secured the area to ensure the emperor’s privacy.

  Scowling, his thoughts confused and angry, Caelan paced out into the garden toward a bubbling fountain, turned abruptly to his right, and followed a flower-bordered path to a sundial. By the time he’d circled the tiny garden, Colonel Dreseid and Chancellor Brellit had managed to follow him. They stood beside the fountain. Brellit wore an expression of long-suffering patience, Dreseid a scowl of outrage.

  Dreseid, sunburned and tall with a fringe of white hair around his bald head at variance with his unlined face and athletic build, carried off the vivid uniform of the Crimsons with an air. From his short red cape trimmed in tawncat fur to his spotless white gauntlets held correctly in his left hand to his shining, immaculate boots, he epitomized the ideal of the most famous cavalry regiment in Caelan’s armed forces. Medals swung at his throat and glittered on his right breast. He carried his helmet, with its long horse-tail plume, tightly clamped under his left elbow. However handsomely attired, at the moment he looked less than confident. His brow was furrowed in a ferocious scowl, and his jaw muscle kept twitching.

  “Excellency,” he said, his voice brusque, “I protest this decision to throw out Adjutant Barsin’s testimony as invalid and to discharge him dishonorably from the Crimsons. He did his duty. He is not at fault for what occurred.”

  “Protest all you like,” Caelan said, equally curtly. “Your primary witness is useless.”

  “Excellency, the boy has been seriously shocked. He—”

  “Adjutant Barsin has been coached so carefully he might as well stand mute.”

  “Sire—”

  “The Crimsons,” Caelan broke in, not taking his gaze from the colonel, “are covering up a botched mess at the expense of my sister’s safety. It’s obvious Barsin has been got at.”

  Whatever his feelings, Dreseid had not become a senior commanding officer by losing his temper when provoked. He swallowed hard, his mouth tight-lipped. “There can be no question of this officer’s loyalty.”

  “No? Is it loyalty to me, or loyalty to preserving the honor of the Crimsons at any cost?”

  “Great Gault, Excellency! The poor judgment of Captain Hervan should not be blamed on—”

  “Do you think I am a fool!” Caelan shouted. “I do not blame the adjutant for Hervan’s misdeeds. I blame him—and you—for lying to me.”

  The colonel closed his mouth without a word. His face might have been carved from stone except for the anger blazing in his eyes.

  “Now, then,” Brellit said, stepping slightly in front of him. Portly, short of stature, afflicted with a nose far too large for his face, Brellit had proven himself to be a level-headed diplomat and a useful chancellor. “Now, then, let us keep our tempers. Let us think this through carefully.”

  “There’s been too much thinking,” Caelan said curtly. “Too much lying.”

  “Excellency—”

  “No!” Cutting off the chancellor, Caelan glared at Dreseid. “The time for worrying about your regiment’s reputation is over. I want real answers, and I want them now. Is Barsin lying on your orders?”

  “No, Sire!”

  “Then on whose?”

  “Barsin was not part of any plot,” Dreseid said. “I know the young man and his family. Barsin is an excellent young officer. I won’t have him broken in rank, blamed for what happened, simply because you can’t get at Captain Hervan or Lieutenant Rozer.”

  Caelan drew a sharp breath while Brellit watched them both with alarm. “You think I’m making a scapegoat of the adjutant?”

  “I fear it might happen, Sire.”

  Caelan snapped his fingers at an aide. “Bring Lord Tinel to me.”

  Looking startled, the colonel and Chancellor Brellit exchanged glances. Caelan res
umed his pacing. Dreseid stood stiff and motionless while Brellit tapped his fingertips together.

  “Dear me,” he muttered as though to himself. “Dear me. Dear me. This is a most serious charge. Most serious.”

  If his comment was meant as a warning, Caelan ignored it.

  “Excellency, I am at your disposal,” said a breathless voice.

  Caelan turned to see a man stopping to bow beneath the loggia. Lord Tinel Hervan looked flustered. He was a handsome man, middle-aged, his girth starting to thicken. Attired in the richest materials, he wore a heavy chain of plaited gold, and a jeweled pomander hung at his belt. His accent was soft and unquestionably patrici. He ruled one of the oldest, wealthiest, most prestigious houses in Itieria, yet as he ventured out into the dripping garden a light sheen of sweat could be seen on his upper lip and temples.

  Nervous? Caelan wondered. Or hurried too much by the Guard to answer his emperor’s summons?

  “Thank you, Sire, for receiving me.” The baron bent in a courtly bow. His tone was laced with gracious charm. By all accounts he’d been at court for weeks, attempting to gain an audience. “May I express the tremendous concern I and my family feel regarding Lady Lea? I have the utmost confidence that my son is doing everything he can to rescue her from whatever has befallen—”

  “No doubt,” Caelan broke in, ending his speech. “I have some questions for you.”

  Lord Tinel was an adroit courtier. Straightening, he gazed at his emperor with a look of utter compliance. “Whatever might please you, Excellency?”

  “How long did Adjutant Barsin serve with your son?”