In the beginning Modina heard without listening as the words just flowed past. Over time, their constant presence filtered through the fog, settling like silt upon her mind. The day his name floated by was the first time she actually paid attention to what was being said.
The regents were toasting him for their success. Initially, Modina thought he was in Saldur’s study, sharing a glass of spirits with them, but eventually it became apparent they were mocking him. His efforts were instrumental to their rise, but he would not share in the rewards. They spoke of him as a mad lunatic who had served his purpose. Instead of execution, they locked him in the secret prison—that oubliette for refuse they wanted to forget.
He died alone in the darkness. The doctors said it was due to starvation, but Modina knew better. She was intimately familiar with the demons that visited prisoners trapped in that darkness: regret, hopelessness, and most of all fear. She knew how the fiends worked—entering in silence, filling a void, and growing until the soul was pushed out, until nothing remained. Like an old tree, the trunk can continue to stand while the core rots away, but when all strength is gone, the first breeze will snap the spirit.
She knelt down and felt the gritty texture of a cold clump of dirt in her hand. Her father had loved the soil. He would break it up with his huge leathery fingers and smell it. He even tasted it. Field and farm had been his whole world, but they would not be hers.
“I know you meant well,” she said. “I know you believed. You thought you were standing up for me, protecting me, saving me. In some ways, you succeeded. You might have saved my life, but you did not save me. What fate might we have had if you hadn’t championed my cause? If you hadn’t become a martyr? If we stayed in Dahlgren, you could have found us a new home. The Bothwicks would have raised me as their own daughter. I would have carried wounds, but perhaps I would have known happiness again. Eventually. I could have been the wife of a farmer. I would have spun wool, pulled weeds, cooked turnips, and raised children. I would have been strong for my family. I would have fought against wolves and thieves. Neighbors would say, ‘She got that strength from the hardships of her youth.’ I could have lived a small, quiet life. But you changed all that. I’m not an innocent maid anymore. You hardened and hammered me into a new thing. I know too much. I’ve seen too much. And now I’ve killed.”
Modina paused and glanced up at the sky. There were only a few clouds on the field of blue, the kind of clear blue only seen on a crisp winter day.
“Perhaps the two paths really aren’t so different. Ethelred was just a wolf who walked like a man, and the empire is my family now.”
Placing a hand on the grave, she softly said, “I forgive you.” Then Modina stood and walked away, leaving behind the mound with the marker bearing the name Deacon Thomas.
***
The candles had burned down to nubs and still they were not through the list. Amilia’s eyes drooped and she fought the urge to lay her head down on the desk. She sat wrapped in a blanket with part of it made into a hood.
“Should we stop here and come back to it tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.
The empress shook her head. She was wearing the robe Mince had given her. Amilia had not seen her wear anything else since Modina had taken control of the Empire. Other than the night of the hawking feast, the empress never donned the crown or mantle of her office. “I want to get through this last set tonight. I can’t afford to have these positions left vacant. Isn’t that right, Nimbus?”
“It would be best to settle on the remaining prefects, at least. If I may speak plainly, Your Eminence, you relieved over one third of all office holders. If new ones are not appointed soon, the resulting void might give warlords an opportunity to exert authority and fracture the Empire.”
“How many do we still have to go?” Modina asked.
Nimbus shuffled through parchments. “Ah, there are still forty-two vacant positions.”
“Too many. We have to finish this.”
“If only you hadn’t removed so many,” Amilia said in a tired voice.
Since taking power, Modina had worked tirelessly and demanded the same of her aides. The change in her was amazing. The once quiet, shy waif, who sat before a window each day, had transformed into an empress, commanding and strong. She organized meetings of state, judged the accused, appointed new officials, and even demanded Nimbus teach her letters and history.
Amilia admired her but regretted Modina’s dedication. With so much required of her, Amilia only had a few moments each day to spend with Sir Breckton. The secretary found herself strangely nostalgic for the hours they spent imprisoned together.
Each day the empress, Nimbus, and Amilia met in Saldur’s old office. Modina insisted on working there because it contained numerous charts, maps, and scrolls. These imperial records were meticulously organized and provided details on all aspects of the kingdom. Not being able to read, Modina had to rely on Nimbus and Amilia to sift through the documents and find answers to her questions. Nimbus was a greater help than Amilia, but still Modina insisted on her presence.
“I just wish I could remove some of the nobles as well,” Modina said. “There are several kings and dukes that are as bad as the regents. Saldur got King Armand of Alburn his throne through the assassination of King Reinhold, and I hate that he is rewarded for such treachery. Are you certain I can’t remove him?”
Nimbus cringed. “Technically you can. As empress and the descendent of Novron, you are semi-divine and your authority is absolute to all those who call Maribor god. However, such notions are fine in theory, but you must function based on reality. A ruler’s power comes from the support and loyalty of her nobles. Offend enough of them and not only will they not obey you, they will almost certainly raise armies against you. Unless you are prepared to govern by the strength of Maribor’s will alone, I suggest we keep the ruling nobles—if not happy—at least content.”
Nimbus shifted in his seat. “A number of Ethelred and Saldur supporters are most certainly preparing for a coup. Given the current situation, however, I am certain they are puzzled how best to proceed. For over a year the regents actively promoted you as empress and a goddess—supreme and infallible. Now that you actually wield power, it will take some creative manipulation to convince others to act against you. Finding allies won’t be easy, and they have some other advantages. For instance, you are inexperienced and they expect you to make mistakes, which they will hope to exploit. The key is to avoid making any.”
Modina thought for a moment and then asked, “So, although I am all powerful, I have to obey the nobles?”
“No, you merely have to keep them from wanting to get rid of you. You can do this in two ways. Keep them placated by providing things they want such as wealth, power, and prestige. Or make the idea of opposing you more distasteful than bowing to you. Personally, I suggest doing both. Feed their egos and coffers, but build your base around loyal leaders. Men like Alric of Melengar would be a good start. He’s proven himself to be trustworthy, and you’ve already won his gratitude by saving his kingdom. Bolster his position by providing income through preferential trade agreements. Grow that seed of an alienated monarchy into an economic, political, and military ally. With powerful supporters, the nobles will not be so quick to attack you.”
“But Melengar isn’t even in the Empire.”
“All the better. Those already inside will compete for power amongst themselves. Everyone on the ladder wants to be on a higher rung. Because Alric isn’t part of that ladder, no one will feel slighted when he receives preferential status. If you were to act similarly with one of your own nobles, you will generate resentment of that favoritism. You can proclaim aid to Melengar as prudent foreign affairs. By endorsing Alric, you’ll be building a supporter who won’t be easily assailable. And one who will be more grateful than those who consider it their due.”
“But won’t this be expensive? Where will I get the funds? The people are already suffering under a heavy tax,�
� the empress said.
“I would suggest meeting with the DeLurs. They generally operate outside official channels, but offering them legitimacy can provide mutual benefit. Given recent events with the Ba Ran Ghazel in Delgos, Cornelius DeLur in particular should be most receptive to a proposal of imperial protection.”
“I’ve been thinking about Cornelius DeLur quite a bit lately. Do you think I should appoint him as Trade Secretary?”
Nimbus smiled, started to speak, paused, and then eventually said, “I think that might be a little too much like placing a drunk in charge of a tavern, but you’re thinking along the proper lines. Perhaps a better choice might be to appoint him Prefect of Colnora. Until recently, it was a merchant-run city, so recognizing this officially would go a long way toward good relations with merchants in general and the DeLurs in particular. Best of all, it won’t cost you anything.”
“I like the idea of Cornelius as prefect,” Modina said and turned to Amilia. “Please summon him for an audience. We can present the idea and see what he says.” The empress returned her attention to Nimbus. “Is there anything else I need to be looking into at present?”
“I suggest creating sanctioned imperial representatives, trained here in Aquesta, to travel and relay instructions. They can be your eyes and ears to check up on local administrators. You might consider drawing these representatives from the monasteries. Monks are usually educated, used to living in poverty, and will be especially devoted because of your Novronian lineage. Religious fervor can often be more powerful than wealth, which will keep your agents bribe-resistant. Oh, one other thing, be certain to avoid appointing anyone to a province who is from that area, and be sure to rotate them often. This will prevent them from becoming too familiar with those they administer.”
“As if I didn’t have enough to do.” Modina sighed. “The best approach is to divide and conquer. Do you have a short list for the remainder of the prefects, Nimbus?”
“Yes.” He reached into his piles and pulled out a stack of parchments. “I’ve compiled what I think are the best candidates. Shall we go through them?”
“No, I trust your judgment.”
Nimbus looked disappointed.
“To save time, call in your top choices and interview them yourself. If you’re satisfied, I want you to go ahead and appoint them. What’s next?”
“What about Saldur?” Nimbus asked.
Modina sighed once more and slouched in her chair.
“Many of the others can be tried for treason, but he’s different,” Nimbus explained. “He wasn’t just the regent. He was also once a very powerful officer in the Nyphron Church. An execution would be…well…awkward. Saldur is too dangerous to let go and too dangerous to execute. I suppose we could keep him imprisoned indefinitely.”
“No!” Modina suddenly said. “I can’t do that. You’re right in that his situation is unique, but we must settle the matter one way or another. Even though he’s in the tower and not the dungeon, I won’t let anyone stay locked up forever. Even with adequate food, water, and light, the knowledge that you’ll never be free has a way of destroying you from the inside. I’ll not do that to anyone, not even him.”
“Well, the Patriarch hasn’t left for Ervanon, yet. He’s taken up residence in the cathedral. If we could convince him to denounce Saldur, that would make it possible to execute the ex-regent without fear of reprisal. Shall I set up a meeting?”
Modina nodded.
“Is that it?” Amilia asked. “Can we go to bed?”
“Yes, I think that will do for now,” Modina told them. “Thank you both for all of your assistance. I couldn’t hope to do any of this without you.”
“You’re most welcome, Your Eminence,” Nimbus replied.
“You know, Nimbus, you don’t have to be so formal. We are alone after all. You can call me Modina.”
“Don’t bother,” Amilia said. “You can’t stop him. Trust me. I’ve tried. I’ve badgered him for nearly a year, yet he still calls me ‘milady.’”
“My respect for you both prevents me from doing otherwise.”
“Honestly, Nimbus,” Modina told him. “You should be Chancellor permanently. You are already doing the job behind the scenes. I don’t know why you won’t officially take the position.”
“I am happy to serve now, in your time of need, but who is to say what the future might bring?”
Modina frowned.
“Oh, one more thing,” Nimbus said. “There have been some strange rumors from the north. The information is sketchy, but there appears to be some kind of trouble.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know exactly. All I’ve heard is that the roads from Dunmore are choked with refugees fleeing south.”
“You might want to send someone to find out what’s happening,” Modina told him.
“I already did. I asked Supreme General Breckton to investigate, and he has sent three separate patrols. Quite some time ago, in fact.”
“And?” the empress inquired.
“None of them have returned,” Nimbus replied.
“What do you make of it?”
Nimbus shrugged. “Perhaps they are delayed by bad weather or flooding. Although, to be honest, the most likely answer would point toward pestilence. If the patrols visited a plague-ridden city, they would remain rather than risk bringing the disease back with them. Even so, illnesses have a way of traveling on their own. It might be best to brace for an epidemic.”
Modina sighed. “Will it never end?”
“Wishing you were back at your window now, aren’t you?” Amilia asked.
***
Hadrian had found himself in the infirmary along with Arista Essendon and Degan Gaunt. For the first three days, he did little more than sleep and was only marginally aware that his wounds had been stitched and wrapped. Whenever he woke, Royce was beside the bed, enveloped in a cloak with the hood covering his face. With his feet propped up on a chair, the thief appeared to be sleeping, but Hadrian knew better.
As he regained enough strength to focus, Royce entertained him with current events. The good news was that Modina seemed to have matters concerning the Empire well in hand. The bad news was that Merrick Marius and Luis Guy managed to escape and had not been seen since Wintertide.
By the seventh day, Hadrian felt strong enough to try walking, and he had been moved out of the infirmary and into a bedroom on the third floor. Each day he walked down the corridor holding on to Royce, Albert, or Renwick. The squire and viscount were frequent visitors, but Hadrian did not have the opportunity to thank the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle for their help before they returned for home. Like the other nobles gathered for the wedding, they swore fealty to Modina before departing. Albert continued to stay in Genny and Leo’s suite, as the viscount was in no hurry to trade the luxurious palatial accommodations for his austere cell at the monastery. From time to time, Mauvin and Alric stopped by, usually on their way to visit Arista. Even Nimbus peeked in once or twice, but Royce and Renwick, who took turns as his steadfast sentries, tended to Hadrian day and night.
The princess rested two doors down. Though still thin and weak, Arista was recovering faster than Hadrian based on the pace of her strides past his door. At first Alric or Mauvin escorted her, but recently she started passing by unaided. Hadrian was disappointed that she never came to his room, and likewise he never visited hers.
Degan Gaunt had been at death’s door when first pulled from the dungeon, and few expected him to survive. At Hadrian’s insistence, Royce checked in on him and relayed updates on his condition. Even when given thin chicken broth, Gaunt had choked and vomited. One night the doctors had called in a priest of Nyphron, but somehow Gaunt pulled through. The latest reports indicated Degan was now eating solid foods and starting to regain weight.
“Ready for another walk?” Royce asked, handing Hadrian a cloak.
Recently woken, Hadrian was still rubbing his eyes. “Geez, you’re in a hurry. Mind if I relieve
myself first? Is somebody getting a bit anxious to get back to Gwen?”
“Yes, and you’re milking all the attention. Now get up.”
Royce helped Hadrian to his feet. Feeling the tug on his stitches, Hadrian grimaced as he slowly stood.
“How’s the head today?” Royce asked.
“Much better. Not dizzy at all. I think I can walk on my own.”
“Maybe so, but lean on me anyway. I don’t want you falling down the stairs and ripping your side open. If you do, I’ll be stuck here playing nursemaid another week.”
“Your compassion is overwhelming,” Hadrian said, wincing as he slipped on a tunic.
“Let’s just start by getting you down to the courtyard. If you’re still feeling okay after that, then you can try going on your own.”
“Oh, may I?” Hadrian replied.
Using Royce as a crutch, Hadrian limped out to the hallway.
He let his friend lead him toward the main landing. He expected pain but only felt a modest twinge.
“You know, I meant what I said in the dungeon. I appreciate you coming for me,” Hadrian said.
Royce laughed. “You do realize that I really didn’t do anything. Everything would have turned out exactly the same if I had stayed at Windermere with Gwen. She keeps insisting I’m needed to save you, but you seem pretty self-sufficient these days. Well, not right now, but you know what I mean.”
Wintertide: Book Five: the Riyria Revlations Page 26
