The Rose and the Thorn trc-2

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “As a result, we could see another flare-up in the trade war with Warric,” Braga was saying. “We have reason to believe that Chadwick will most certainly raise their import tax. Glouston might follow-they have been known to. If that happens, we will lose one hundred tenents for every two we make.”

  “And all this is because of the church?” King Amrath lay more than sat in his chair, drooping like so much wax facing heat.

  “It is because of the pressure they are applying in retaliation for you not adopting many of their policies here in Melengar. The church feels that-”

  “Don’t talk to me about the bloody church,” Amrath growled. “That’s all I hear now. I’m tired of it.”

  “Maybe you should take a nap, Your Majesty,” Simon Exeter said, “and leave the task of running the kingdom to those of us with a mind to do so.”

  Amrath focused his glare on Lord Exeter. If there was an image for trouble, he was looking at it. Even his choice of insisting on wearing the black and white colors of a sheriff’s uniform was designed to provoke-to remind everyone of his office as high constable. What bothered the king the most was that Simon was his cousin and their families’ resemblance was strong. But Simon was not an axe, nor a rapier like Leo and Braga. Simon was a broadsword, and a sharp one at that.

  The king had expected an outburst from him. This was the first formal meeting since the appointment of the new chancellor, and Amrath was surprised it took Simon this long. All the Lords of Exeter had been hard men. It was in their blood and the reason why they had always been chosen to defend East March. They made for ruthless guard dogs, but such an animal needed a firm hand lest it turn on its master. Amrath leaned forward so that his bushy beard brushed the table. “You want to try and put me to bed, Simon? Think you’re man enough, do you?”

  Simon allowed himself a smile before saying, “My point, Your Majesty, is that you need to be more concerned than you are of an Imperialist church turning your friendly neighbors into our enemies. Today it is an escalating trade war. Tomorrow there will be troops marching over the Gateway Bridge-very pious, very faithful troops no doubt, but just as intent on melting that crown of yours.”

  “I’m well aware of the possible dangers the church poses,” the king said.

  “All evidence to the contrary.” Simon glared not at the king but at the chancellor.

  Braga stiffened. “I can’t say I care for your implication.”

  “And I can’t say I care for you, Lord Chancellor.”

  “That’s enough, Simon,” Count Pickering snapped.

  Good old Leo. Amrath found himself smiling at his friend.

  Leo Pickering was the only face in the room Amrath trusted. The only one he could drink with and not worry how drunk he got. They had been friends since boyhood. In their youth they had nearly started a war with Glouston but in the end had won the hand of the fair Lady Belinda Lanaklin for Leo. Those were the days. Amrath had a knack for getting them in trouble, and it always fell to Leo to get them out. Even in the council room his friend was still watching Amrath’s back, still his king’s ever-ready sword.

  Simon turned to Leo with an expression of surprise that may have been authentic. “You of all people should side with me. The chain of chancellor should have gone to one of us-to me by virtue of lineage or to you by the king’s favoritism.”

  Leo rose to his feet, but Simon gestured for him to sit down. “No need to take offense. I’m not insulting you-not this time. Granted, I would have objected had His Majesty appointed you to the chancery rather than me, and I would have used your friendship with the king against you. But I would kiss your boots and personally place the chain of state on your shoulders rather than accept this import from southern Maranon-this third son of a wanting earl-as our chancellor.”

  “Lord Exeter!” Lord Valin exclaimed. The old revered warrior slammed his fist on the table before him.

  This did nothing to deter Simon. “The man was a Seret Knight.”

  “We know that, Simon,” Amrath said. His voice tired of repeating. “We knew that before he arrived. We knew it last week when you complained then.”

  “But did you also know he applied to be a sentinel? My recent investigations uncovered that little secret just yesterday.”

  Serets were the martial branch of the Nyphron Church, generally disliked by all except the most devout, as their claimed jurisdiction had no boundaries. Kings suffered their intrusion and tribunal judgments of their citizenry or faced sanctions imposed by the church. Sentinels, on the other hand, were despised, hated, and feared by everyone, including monarchs and even ranking church officials. They were the high officers of the seret army-only a handful ever appointed-and all known to be fanatics. Legend held that a sentinel once charged a king with heresy. No one dared to interfere when the sentinel carried out the death sentence by burning the king in the center of his own city. Likely it was only a fable, but the church never denied it.

  “It that true?” Amrath asked Braga.

  Heads turned toward the chancellor.

  “As Lord Exeter has so clearly pointed out,” Braga replied, “I am the third son of an earl. The church is the preferred refuge when you have no part to play in extending your family’s lineage, and my skills did not match those required for the priesthood. Being a knight of the Nyphron Church was one of the few options that suited my abilities. Seeking to be chief among them is merely the result of my desire to excel.”

  “But a sentinel is more than just a senior position,” Simon explained. “The sentinel’s sworn duty-besides keeping the faith pure-is to locate the descendant of the old imperial empire and return him to power. Such an event would require all the kings-including His Majesty-to be stripped of their crowns.” Simon turned to Amrath. “And yet this is the man you chose to put in the kingdom’s highest office. A man who actively sought the job of destroying your throne.”

  “Are you accusing me of treason?” Braga asked.

  Simon sneered, an expression complemented by his goat’s beard and the way he wore his hair pulled back.

  “Careful, Simon,” Leo warned. “You’re about to be challenged to a duel you can’t win.”

  Braga glared at Lord Exeter. “I will not stand here and-”

  “You will do as you’re commanded by your king-both of you.” Amrath stood up, as did everyone else. He let his voice drop to a growl, which along with his size, beard, and prowess at wrestling had earned him the nickname of the Bear. He wanted the argument to end. After a day of debate, his head was hurting. He paused a moment to see if any fight remained in either. In their silence, he resumed his seat. “I think I’ve had enough for one day. Braga and Leo remain. The rest of you … I’ll see you at the party.”

  “I was right about Exeter,” Amrath said.

  He was out of his chair now that there was only Braga and Leo. As monarch, whenever he rose so did everyone else, which was one of the reasons he felt trapped by the chair. But Leo ignored formality when the rest were gone, and Braga never sat. He was a strange man, darker skinned than most and possessing the thick black hair common to a southern native from Maranon. They were almost as dark as Calians down that way, especially along the coast. Braga was swarthy, handsome, and always moving. Just watching him tired the king. By contrast Leo was relaxed and comfortable. He rocked back in his seat and put his feet on the table, boots clicking to a tune in his head. Dear Maribor, how he loved Leo. Amrath would have gone insane by now if not for that man.

  “Are you speaking to me or Percy?” Leo asked.

  “Both of you.”

  “He wants my job,” Braga said.

  “If only that were the case,” Amrath replied. “The problem is that he wants my job. He just can’t figure a way to get it. You’re just this season’s target.”

  “Should I resign? It’s not like I have been in this position long. I’ve hardly-”

  “No!” Amrath and Leo responded together.

  “But Lord Exeter made a good point.”
Braga motioned toward Leo. “Count Pickering holds your confidence. He should be chancellor.”

  Amrath gazed out the window. He often wandered the room without thought or pattern but always found himself at the window, drawn by the fresh air and open sky. “That’s not possible. You see, that’s the problem with Simon-though he can be a piss pot, he’s also usually right. It’s what makes him such a problem.” Outside, the king spotted the apple merchant, wheeling his cart out the main gate and returning to Gentry Square. What must life be like for such a man? A man with no worries or concerns. A man whose cousins don’t conspire against him? “So, yes, I would love to make Leo chancellor, but I can’t because, as Simon pointed out, there is the little issue of favoritism. Everyone knows we’re close. Leo holds the wealthiest province in Melengar, and we aren’t related, not even by marriage. If I gave him an office, the nobles would-” Amrath threw his hands up in a frustration that he lacked words to express. Being king was supposed to mean-should mean-that he could do as he wished. The truth of the matter was that his life was just a little short of imprisoned servitude to power-hungry nobles. The emperor of the ancient Novronian Empire had it easy-he was a god and ruled without reproach. “Why, I can’t even name him treasurer or keeper of the privy seal, much less chancellor!”

  “So why didn’t you name Lord Exeter as chancellor? He is your cousin and, unless I’m wrong, next in line to the throne after your own children, yes?”

  Leo chuckled. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Two reasons,” Amrath said, turning and bending back a finger. “First is his obsessive hatred of Imperialists. The man thinks that anyone who believes in the Heir of Novron or supports the Nyphron Church is his mortal enemy. Being a reigning king, I’d like to see this fantasy of a restored empire fade away, too, and a man with Exeter’s views is good to have around. My forefathers waged wars to make Melengar a free and independent kingdom. My crown was won by spilling rivers of blood, and the idea that the Imperialists will one day find the lost heir and everyone will just take a knee to him is … well, it’s offensive, damn it! The church continues to promote this poisonous myth. Now it appears Warric is slipping into their twisted mentality. And if the most powerful kingdom in Avryn can succumb to this insanity, anyone can. Fact is, I agree with Simon. I just can’t afford to make enemies of Clovis or his son.”

  “And the other?” Braga asked.

  “The other what?” The king looked back and forth between the two.

  “The other reason you can’t appoint Simon as chancellor,” Leo reminded him.

  “Oh.” The king presented Braga with a wry smile. “Because I hate him. That’s why he’s such a pain. He really can’t get in any worse with his king. So he needles me and revels in his position of being one of the most powerful and disliked nobles in the realm. Worst thing about it is,” Amrath grumbled as he looked back out the window, “if I were to get into a scuffle with Warric, there are no two men I’d rather have at my side than Leo and Simon. It’s true that he hates me. Nothing personal-he just hates everyone, really. I’ve never met a more disagreeable codpiece. But he loves the kingdom. And while he may be misguided, arrogant, and ambitious beyond reason, he’s also tireless in his efforts to keep Melengar safe. That is why I appointed him lord high constable. I imagine there was a mass exodus of thieves and cutthroats the day of that announcement. But don’t worry, once you get to know Simon better, you’ll learn to truly despise him the way Leo and I do.”

  “I’m just not certain I’m right for this job,” Braga said. “I’m not native to the kingdom, and as he said, I was a knight of the Church of Nyphron.”

  “Which, if you take politics out of it, is a true achievement,” Leo pointed out. “The seret’s reputation for excellence is well known.”

  “Still, I’ve only been here a year-”

  “Percy,” the king said in a gentle voice. “When you married Clare, you became family.”

  “Blood is thicker than paper,” Braga challenged.

  “You’re assuming Simon has blood. We haven’t yet determined if he even has a heart,” Leo said. “But you’re right, and while I find you more appealing than Lord Exeter, it is because of his lineage that I, and the rest of the nobles, would back him should something happen to the Bear and his family.” Leo made a show of shivering. “Stay healthy, Your Majesty.”

  The king smirked. “Yeah, that’s why I won’t die, because I don’t wish to inconvenience you.”

  “I’ll take that as a promise.”

  Braga looked down at the chain as if it had gained weight.

  “If Clare had lived, at least…” Braga began. An awkward pause followed.

  Clare had been Amrath’s sister-in-law, the aging second daughter of Llewellyn Ethelred, Duke of Rise. The duke had taken too long finding her a proper husband and at the death of her father she asked to live with her sister Queen Ann in Melengar. Amrath could only guess at the state of the court in Aquesta that a granddaughter of the reigning king would choose to flee her own home for a neighboring kingdom. Amrath and Ann were happy to take her in, as she was a gentle soul. A bit bookish, living in exile, and over the age of thirty, they all expected her to remain unwed. Everyone thought she would grow old as the kindly spinster aunt to the royal children, but then Bishop Saldur introduced her to Percy Braga and everything changed. Clare found the dashing young swordsman charming. For months he and Ann commented at Clare’s brimming smile.

  “She loved you very much, and I never saw her happier than the day you took the oath of office. She believed in you, and so do I.” Amrath left the window and clapped his big hand on Braga’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You’re the only one for the job, Percy. I wouldn’t dare give Simon any more power. And I can’t give it to Leo. Being from Maranon actually has its benefits. Singling out any other noble would cause divisions and launch rumors that could lead to bigger problems than just a bruised ego. You have no ties, no known bias. You’ll be called to pass judgment over all of them in the chancery, to make laws and keep the rolls. And only a man with no affiliation can successfully do that.”

  “Yes,” Leo put in, “only a man as equally despised as you can hope to be effective as chancellor of our unruly mob of nobles. In that way you’re Simon’s equal. Being a source of universal hatred, you are free to act as your conscience dictates.”

  “Wonderful,” Braga said, but managed a smile.

  Amrath clapped him soundly on the back, staggering the smaller man forward a step.

  “Is it really true?” Leo asked. “Did you actually apply to be a sentinel?”

  Braga nodded.

  “Becoming a sentinel is no easy feat.”

  “Clearly I failed.” He folded his hands behind his back. “I didn’t have a lot of prospects, you understand. And the church is more dominant in Maranon than here. I felt that since I had won the Silver Shield, the Golden Laurel, as well as the Grand Circuit Tournament of Swords at Wintertide that I would be considered. After all, I had no problem with my induction into the Seret Knights, but…”

  “What happened?”

  “The Patriarch explained that I did not exhibit the necessary level of devotion to be a sentinel.”

  Amrath laughed. “That just means you’re not a lunatic. All of them are insane, you know.” Braga smiled at the king, but it was the same polite look Amrath often got from those unable to disagree because of his position.

  “Having failed, having been judged as inferior, I no longer felt comfortable in the black and red. After resigning from the order, I really didn’t know what to do. That’s when Bishop Saldur approached me about coming here. I think he felt I might be of some use to him at Mares Cathedral.”

  “Sauly means well,” Amrath said, “but anyone can tell you’re not deacon material.”

  “I just hope I’m chancellor material.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the king said. “If I were you, I’d be more concerned about how you’ll fare against Leo here in this y
ear’s Wintertide fencing match. I’m going to be in for a treat, aren’t I? I’ll get to see two men dance in public.”

  Leo scowled. “Just ignore him.”

  Braga raised his eyebrows. “But he’s the king.”

  “All the more reason.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE GHOST OF THE HIGH TOWER

  Reuben placed another log up on its end and, with a single stroke, split it. The trick was to cut the wood clean in one swing but not plant the head of the axe in the chopping block. Sinking the blade added work and chewed up the block. Sometimes the grain and knots made it impossible; then he was stuck with using wedges and the blunt face of the axe. While just brute work, he’d developed a skill that made his swing more likely to succeed on the first try, and he liked to think he was good at something. As if to prove him wrong, his last stroke had too much force and the axe went firmly into the block. He left it there and tossed the splits aside. When done, he reached out once more for the old worn handle and paused. This was the last day he would ever split wood. The thought surprised him. Looking at the chopping block and knowing he would never again swing that axe was the first bit of reality to invade his routine.

  Being a soldier would be a step up. Now he would receive a wage that he could spend as he saw fit. Although most of that salary he would never see, as it would go toward paying for his food, uniform, weapons, and living space-something his father’s pay had covered so far. He should have been excited at the impending promotion, at the recognition that he was a man at last, only he didn’t feel like one. The squires had beaten, and a child had bested, him both in the same day. He didn’t feel worthy to take the burgundy and gold. He was only fit to open doors, haul water, and split wood. These were the tasks he was good at, what he was comfortable with, and what was being taken from him.