by David Benem
“Very well,” said Fane. “Remember, though, this game must be played with subtlety, lest the High King’s council take action. I hold much sway, but great losses will breed impatience and distrust. There will need to be diversions.”
The other voice spoke. “We have a… friend on the council. You will be granted a lengthy leash.”
Bale took a step back and examined the door. It had been damaged, likely when Fane and his Scarlet Swords removed the governor and his staff. It rested cockeyed on its frame, and near its bottom was a gap from which light spilled. Bale dropped to a crouch, ignoring the complaints of his knees, and pressed his face close.
Within the opulent room—a well-stocked library—sat General Fane. Facing him, with its back to the door, was a figure robed in black, the back of its bald head crisscrossed with stitches.
Bale froze and his jaw fell agape, realizing his suspicions were true indeed. Dead gods, it is a Necrist!
“Be assured, General Fane, that what is told in the blood of the dead will come to pass. When the High King dies—and he will die—there will be none left of his line to protect the Godswell. That gate will be open to us, and we will pry from it the power of our dead master. And when we do, you will be rewarded beyond measure.”
Their master? Yrghul? Bale’s hands trembled and there came a clunk. He’d dropped the knife on the floor. Gnashing his teeth, he scrambled and retrieved it and then nervously returned his gaze to the library.
Fane was peering over the black-robed figure, eyes trained to the door. He shifted in his chair and moved to stand.
Just then there came the thuds of boots from the nearby staircase. Bale’s head wheeled but quickly he gathered himself and stood, tucking the knife up his sleeve and bolting down the hallway with footfalls as quiet as he could manage.
He pulled his door shut and turned the lock, his hands shaking. He slipped into bed and pulled his blanket to his chin, clutching close the knife and praying the Sanctum’s most secret, most powerful prayers to Illienne to plead for safety until dawn.
They set off at sunrise, navigating cramped streets and bridges strangled by fog and filth. It seemed every rustic and rogue from the Sullen Sea to the Southwalls had sought refuge in Riverweave, their few possessions lashed to their backs or heaped upon their withered animals. The door of every home and inn was barred, so they lay strewn along the roads or stuffed in the alleyways, ghostly shapes haunting the haze.
Bale was uneasy on horseback. The beast, a white stallion better suited to bearing great heroes rather than old spookers, obeyed none of his commands but adhered to Keln’s every grunt and gesture. It was an uncomfortable, lurching ride, and did nothing to settle his already queasy stomach. He swallowed thick spit and did his best to keep down his breakfast.
His nerves were still rattled from the previous night’s events, most particularly General Fane’s visitor. His head whirled with thought, wondering how deeply the Sanctum’s ancient enemy had infected Rune. He thought of the scullery maid and her note, which now seemed so very long ago. General Fane and Chamberlain Alamis, perhaps the two most powerful men in Rune, in league with our black foe. Fane soon to be in possession of an Auruch. A plot to draw Yrghul’s power from the Godswell.
These are indeed the darkest of times.
His horse lurched suddenly around a corner, threatening to toss him into a narrow canal that smelled distinctly of rot. Bale regained his balance and pulled his focus back to the task of remaining upright.
Keln rode ahead of him, his hair pulled back in a tight knot and matching in color the crimson cloak draped over his shoulders. He was a taciturn companion, which was a small measure of relief. He kept his eyes forward with the exception of the occasional backward glance to make certain Bale still followed. Their gazes locked more than once, and Keln’s stern glower conveyed a clear message: “To the letter.”
It was a long ride through the sprawling city and they arrived at the wall just as the belfries announced seven o’clock in the morning. The wall was a moss-covered jumble of old stones just taller than a man, and it seemed to Bale it would offer little protection if the Arranese horde made it this far north.
But then, who is the real enemy?
Two soldiers wordlessly unbarred the gate as they approached, throwing it wide to reveal a flat, misty expanse to the city’s south. Upon the wet plain beyond the wall was the encampment of the High King’s army, a collection of white tents so numerous it escaped calculation. There was the smoke of a thousand fires, the ring of blacksmiths’ hammers, and countless soldiers milling about in the mist, tending to armor and weapons and making ready to make war. Bale sensed the High King’s soldiers would be waging a devastating battle very soon, and reckoned there was a reasonable chance his journey would leave him caught in the battle’s throes.
This will be the death of me.
“Where to, spooker?” asked Keln gruffly.
Bale was quiet, the scope of the scene before him causing him to tremble. His heart thumped heavily in his chest and throat and he swallowed hard.
Keln turned about in his saddle to regard Bale, his jaw shifting as though chewing a gristly piece of meat. “I asked you a question, and I’ll not have you waste any more of my time than is necessary.”
“I-” Bale stammered. “I- I am sorry. South by southwest, several days at least.” As he put this distance into words it occurred to him again just how long and unpleasant his journey would be, and how very far away he was from home. He breathed deeply and tried to slow the rapid beats of his heart as they set out south upon a wide swath of road.
Prefect Gamghast awoke in the dead of night to a rapping on his door. He fumbled about for a moment before orienting himself and rising from bed. He grabbed a candlestick and breathed a word of power, one of the secrets given to the Sanctum by the Sentinel Castor, and a flame sprung to life upon the wick. He unlatched his door and cracked it open.
“Hullo, Prefect,” said the man at the door. It was Wit, a gangly simpleton to whom they’d given shelter and assigned more menial tasks including the night watch. “You, ah, have a visitor.”
“Who would call upon me at such an hour, Wit?” Gamghast asked. Every resident of the Abbey had been anxious since the Lector’s death, and nighttime visits from acolytes seeking counsel were not uncommon. An outsider, though, was.
Wit bowed his shaggy head. “S-sorry. I didn’t get a name.”
“No?” Gamghast pressed a hand to his brow. Alamis? Has the chamberlain decided to make good his threat? “A soldier? One of the High King’s guards? A tall man with pale eyes, perhaps?” he asked with urgency.
“Ah, no. A woman.”
“And she asked for me?”
“By name, sir. She’s waiting in the vestibule.”
Gamghast cursed as he drew his robes over his shoulder and grabbed his staff. “The next time there’s a visitor at the gates, identify them before throwing wide our door. These are troubled times, boy.”
“She smelled nice, Prefect. Like noble folk. I don’t think she means you harm.”
“So you are able to identify danger by smell alone? Imagine that. Perhaps your considerable talents are being wasted and we should advance your studies in spellcraft!” Gamghast huffed, shouldered Wit aside and trudged into the hallway.
“She didn’t seem like trouble, Prefect,” said Wit, walking close behind Gamghast.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “In peaceful times I would be comfortable with your instincts, Wit. But these are not peaceful times. Rune is besieged, both from without and within, and our enemies do not always choose to reveal themselves as such. Doubt your every instinct, and question all who claim to be your friend.”
The halls of the Abbey were quiet this time of night, though Gamghast noticed a number of doors with cracks aglow, betraying candlelight in the rooms beyond them. Few find sleep easily in these times. He’d told Prefects Borel and Kreer of the threats made by Alamis, and suspected Bore
l in particular had difficulty keeping the news to himself.
He shook his head and smoothed his robes, wondering at the identity of his caller. Ever since the news had reached Ironmoor of the Arranese crossing the Southwalls, the Sanctum had been beset by requests for prayers and exorcisms. Many claimed to see demons or hear the howls of haunting ghosts.
They arrived at last at the Abbey’s vestibule, a wide area of simple chairs and solemn statutes and artifacts, a place meant to convey the Sanctum’s longevity and reverence to all who entered its doors.
Seated in one of the chairs was, indeed, a woman. She was dressed in simple robes, but her proud bearing suggested she was accustomed to something more elegant. Her blue eyes rested above high cheekbones, all framed by long, flaxen hair just beginning to give way to gray. It took a moment, but Gamghast recognized her, and as he did he nearly swooned. He fell awkwardly to one knee and heard Wit doing likewise behind him.
“My queen!” he said, bowing his head low.
“Get up,” she said, her voice smooth and commanding. “Get up, you old fool! I’ll not have the whole of Ironmoor knowing I’m here!”
“B-But…” Gamghast stammered, “w-what may I do for you?” His head spun, wondering what would compel this woman to seek his company. He had been present at her wedding to High King Deragol, as had all the Sanctum fifteen years prior, but that was the only time he could recall being in her presence. What could she want of me?
She rose from her seat, again gesturing for him to rise. “Is there a place we might speak?” She gestured to Wit. “Somewhere private?”
Gamghast struggled upward, pressing upon his creaking knee for leverage and doing his best not to groan in discomfort. “Of course, of course. There is a sanctuary just over there. If you will but allow me to lead the way? Or, considering your station, is it proper for you to lead?”
She looked at him coolly.
“Very well,” Gamghast said, gesturing for her to follow. “This way.”
Thirty or so feet away he found the door to one of the Abbey’s many sanctuaries, quiet rooms reserved for prayer or study. There were chairs set at the room’s corners, and tapestries lining the walls. The room was lit, as always, by a fire in a stone cylinder at the room’s center, a symbol of the Bastion’s Godswell. He held the door open for Queen Reyis and then shut it quietly behind her.
Here, in her presence, Gamghast became aware of his disheveled appearance. He licked his hand and frantically tried to smooth the wild wisps of his beard. He smacked at the wrinkles of his robe but the exercise was futile. “I apologize, my queen. I am an old, simple man, unused to visitors of your stature. To what do I owe this most unexpected honor?”
She found one of the chairs and after pulling it closer to the fire she sat. “I am a keeper of the Old Faith, Prefect, as difficult as that has been of late.”
“I am honored to know that, my queen. We members of the Sanctum live to serve the Crown, and thereby Rune, and it is always inspiring to learn someone in the Bastion is praying with us.”
She nodded. “I may be the only one. The Bastion is not a place of devotion, Prefect, unless the devotion is to the throne. It is power that is worshipped there, not principle.”
Gamghast sank into a chair and adjusted his robes. He knew not how to address Queen Reyis, nor could he guess at why she would call upon him. He decided to remain quiet.
Queen Reyis was quiet as well, her blue eyes fixed upon the flame at the center of the room. Her shoulders slouched, and in this light Gamghast could see her face was creased with worry.
“Forgive me if I overreach, my queen, but something troubles you?”
She smiled, warmly and brilliantly, though Gamghast guessed that was from practice rather than genuine emotion. “Why ever do you ask, Prefect?”
He scratched his knee. It still ached from kneeling. “A midnight visit to the Abbey by Queen Reyis of Rune is not a common distraction for me. I am guessing there is some purpose behind it, some counsel sought here that is not found in the Bastion. I am here for you.”
“I was told you were a wise man, and your insight does not disappoint.” She leaned closer. “I was also told you were trustworthy. You understand no one can ever know I was here, nor can you ever speak of what I am about to tell you. My bodyguards are outside, Prefect, and they can be a most vicious lot.”
Always threats these days. Have people forgotten favors are asked, not demanded? His shoulders sagged. “You have my word.”
She looked at her hands twisted in her lap and her smile vanished. “You have heard of my… difficulties, yes?”
Gamghast nodded. “The health of the Crown is of utmost importance to us, my queen, even if High King Deragol does not call upon our services as often as the High Kings of old.” He cleared his throat. “The answer is yes, my queen. We know of the miscarriages.”
“Eight,” she said, looking away and holding her chin high. Gamghast thought there was the glint of a tear welling in her eye. “Eight miscarriages.”
Gamghast’s thoughts turned to the scullery maid’s note: “The King is being poisoned. That’s why he’s making no babies and he is in grave danger.”
“The pregnancies never lasted more than three months.” She scowled and shook her head. “Then I would burn with an unbearable pain, and bleed and bleed until I was near death. I learned to dread every pregnancy, to fight away tears when I missed my first cycle.”
He felt a sudden need to reach out, to comfort her, but withdrew. “I know it can be troubling, my queen. We have various things in our apothecary, roots and herbs and concoctions to place the mind at ease, to give a person a feeling of well-being.”
Queen Reyis turned back to regard him, a thin smile on her lips. “I am pregnant once again, Prefect. I am in my fourth month, further along than I have ever been.”
“This is most excellent news, my queen! I congratulate you!”
“Perhaps it is excellent news, but I have lost hope. I still check my bed sheets every morning for blood. I’m afraid, Prefect. I’m afraid I will prove a disappointment to my husband and my kingdom once more.”
“With prayer, with the grace of Illienne, anything is possible. You must not despair.”
She pressed her hands against her belly, smoothing the loose clothing to reveal a swell. “I cannot bear such a loss again, and everything we tried previously ended in failure. Thus, with your consent, I will call upon you regularly. You can monitor my progress and provide what ministrations you can. Yours is said to be an order of healers, and I ask for the application of your skills. As well as your earnest prayers.”
Gamghast nodded as earnestly as he could. If I am to help save Rune, it seems it will be as its most unlikely midwife. “I would be honored, my queen.”
“It is settled then,” she said, rising to stand. “We will be discrete, as I have not made this news public nor have I even told my husband. You will call upon me regularly at the Bastion, under other auspices.”
Gamghast remained in his seat, knotting his hands together. He breathed deeply. “That poses a concern, my queen. The last time I entered the Bastion, Chamberlain Alamis denied my request to call upon His Majesty.”
“Did he, now?” asked Queen Reyis, her expression one of genuine surprise. “Has he grown so bold?” She was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I will provide you means of visiting me secretly.”
“That would be useful. The chamberlain has threatened me with charges of treason.”
She frowned and her hands clenched into fists. “Worry not, Prefect. The royal family still has some sway within the walls of the Bastion. I will deliver word to the guards I trust most, and you will be granted a means of entry. And I have long been friends with the Magistrate-Examiner. If Alamis makes good on his threats, I’ll let the Magistrate-Examiner know what the Crown thinks of the charges.” She rose to leave.
“Thank you, my queen,” Gamghast said. “Just one more thing. Take none of the medicines or elixirs given to y
ou by members of your staff, or of the chamberlain’s. Be careful even with your food and drink. It is imperative you trust no one. I will arrive tomorrow with my ministrations.”
17
THE SHORT ODDS
FENCRESS FALLCROW CREPT in the darkness, her twin blades drawn. She moved softly between the trees, pressing her boots gently beneath her. She’d killed many this very way, quiet and quick. As shaken as she was by the events of the past few weeks, she reckoned she hadn’t lost the gifts of a true assassin. Quiet as the grave.
There ahead, no more than forty feet away, was the green-cloaked fellow, himself stalking in the darkness. Beyond him, perhaps another twenty feet distant, was Drenj, sleeping in the warmth of firelight. Fencress smiled, amazed at the Khaldisian’s recklessness in lighting a fire so close to the road and in the middle of a war.
The trees thinned and the brush grew heavier, stubborn stuff that was difficult to move through silently. Fencress breathed easy and found her rhythm, matching the man’s footfalls with impeccable timing. After escaping from slavery as a youth she’d trained as an acrobat and as a dancer—her steps were nimble and muted. I will be no more than an echo.
As the green-cloaked man approached Drenj’s campsite he slowed. Fencress noted the man’s longsword was slung upon his left hip, suggesting he was right-handed. She was surprised the blade remained in its scabbard, but then the Khaldisian showed no signs of stirring.
The man moved into the glow of the fire and stood, seeming to appraise Drenj and perhaps his belongings. He appeared utterly unaware of Fencress’s presence, but Fencress made certain to silence her stride, dancing on tiptoes through the brush while she found the quietest path. Careful, now.
She looked toward the road, searching for Paddyn. The youth was damned good with a bow, but downright clumsy when it came to more intimate murder. She’d directed the archer to find a spot opposite the camp, and to put an arrow through the green man’s throat if things got out of hand. She saw no sign of him, but figured the short odds were the boy hadn’t run off and left her. It was no guarantee, but then Fencress was used to taking chances.
