“Doing the first only makes sense, if they’re to be our enemies,” Loaisa Damarind said. “Yet the second will take time to assess, and to implement, if we are to do any more than sack them, which will cost us manpower. I propose we agree to your demands—in truth we have little choice—but that we postpone the second until after the war is won.”
That was cunning, Torvul shared. She’s got little to risk, so far from the possible front. Yet she’s a point, Allystaire. Defeat Braech before y’destroy his temples, eh?
“We’ve venerated the Sea Dragon in Harlach as long as our annals recall,” Unseldt said, twisting his mouth and narrowing his eyes. “Why should we go throwing over his temples now?”
“You heard that man Arvid,” Allystaire said. “You heard what he said about their army, and what they mean to do. You have it from Varshyne, with his own minor seal upon it. To keep priests of Braech in your keeps is to harbor spies.”
“There are no priests of Braech left in Londray,” Landen put in. “I made sure of that when they stole the armory out of the Dunes and tried to bar entry to my keep. Their temple there is already sacked, and when this war is done I will distribute all of its wealth to Delondeur folk who’ve suffered from it, some of whom are already in my camp. If more proof is required of what treachery Braech’s faithful can wreak, I can’t imagine what it is.”
Unseldt still seemed unsettled, sipping at his wine and shaking his head slowly from side to side. Finally, Cerisia spoke.
“Think carefully on this, Unseldt Harlach. Yes, many have worshipped Braech for all the long years of history. Yet I ask you: did your father worship the same God? What happened to the Master of Accords overseeing peaceful trade to enrich seller and buyer both? What happened to the Father of Waves, guiding ships and sailors safely to harbor? They have been swallowed by the Sea Dragon, by the lust for blood, by the pride of strength; blood and battle seem to be the only thing Braech’s most devout think of now. When my father was young, there could not have been as many hundreds of Holy Berzerkers in the world as we know have gathered in Varshyne.”
As she spoke, Cerisia drew herself up to her full height, lifted her masked face imperiously. “The truth, Barons, is that the Sea Dragon our fathers may have worshipped is not the god we will face in battle. It is often a dark thing, when gods change, or when they come back into our memory. But can it be coincidence that now, when Braechsworn would wipe you from the earth if they could, a new Goddess has seen fit to give you a paladin to oppose Him? Once, I did not believe, but Fortune is nothing if not mutable. Allystaire Stillbright is the man who will save your people, if you will but give him the chance. I will do all that I can to aid you. Fortune and Her Temple, so far as I can speak for them, will stand behind you in this fight.”
“I was always,” Gilrayan Oyrwyn said slyly, his narrowed eyes leering at the Archioness, “more partial to Fortune than to Braech anyway. I will leave with all haste for the trails north to Wind’s Jaw, and there gather my troops to bring them to this war.” His smile became less a leer and more a smirk as he turned to Allystaire. “There to work in tandem with your command, of course.”
Silence reigned for another moment as eyes fell once more on Allystaire. Clever, he thought. Joins the war without putting his men at my disposal. He imagined smashing the smirk off the Baron’s face with his old leather-banded gloves.
“Arontis,” Baron Innadan said, “go now. Ride to the Vineyards and bring forward all the Thornriders that are mustered. Give orders,” he wheezed, “to gather spears and bows.”
Unseldt Harlach drained off his cup and tossed it haphazardly over one shoulder. “Never let it be said that the White Bear was slow to join battle. I’ve men camped just beyond the pass,” he roared. “Let me go to them and we’ll make haste to join you.”
“It will take some time for any word to reach Aldacren Keep,” Byronn Telmawr said, “but I brought all the knights of my household to this congress.”
“I believe,” Allystaire said, “that the Will of the Mother can immediately carry whatever word you need brought to your keeps or encampments if you will entrust him with the message.”
“Even so,” Loaisa said, “it will take weeks for all these troops to assemble. And then plans must be discussed and—”
“No,” Allystaire cut her off sharply. “They do not. I will tell you what my plans are and where the men are moving. I may not be able to control how long, especially for you,” he said, gesturing first at Loaisa and then at Ruprecht, “given that your lands lie across all the length of Innadan and the Vale of Kings.”
“Furthermore,” Allystaire said, “I do not plan to wait for a great host of foot to be assembled. I will leave in the morning with my own knights, with the Thornriders of Innadan, and the knights and retainers gathered here. I will make straight through the pass to Delondeur, across the plains to Thornhurst. There I will turn north, cross the Ash, and move into Varshyne to engage the Braechsworn.”
“You’ll have a little more than three hundred men, unless I miss my guess,” Ruprecht Machoryn stammered. “How do you expect to engage them till we’ve gathered more?”
“More will come,” Allystaire said, “when the rest of you march up to Oyrwyn along a separate track. We do not have the luxury of time, so I mean to keep the foot and the horse largely separate in order to retain speed, and we can overcome the traditional difficulties of communication and coordination. The Braechsworn host will be dangerous, and I do not mean to underestimate them. Yet what I can do with three hundred horse against a lot of untrained, uncontrollable warriors in the hills and valleys of Varshyne should not be underestimated either.”
“My knights are yours, Allystaire,” Landen said, “you know that. I may not have much more to offer, but what I do will be given totally.”
“Then we should not waste any more time talking about it,” Allystaire said. “We need to break down our camps and ready ourselves to move in the morning, as early as we can manage. Send what messages you need carried to our camp so that they may be carried where you please, and your men will begin moving immediately.”
When met with blank looks, Allystaire sighed and waved his hands. “Toasting to the peace you have agreed is all well and good, but now we must do the real work of ensuring it,” he all but shouted. “The Braechsworn are not going to defeat themselves.”
When he finished, Torvul cleared his throat. “I expect, even now, the berzerkers are tossing bones to apportion your gemmary, your daughters, your sons.”
Almost as one the Barons turned and hurried away, fear widening their eyes. Except for Hamadrian, who leaned heavily against the table.
“Peace,” he rasped, smiling for just a moment before falling heavily backwards onto his chair.
* * *
Allystaire was once more bent over his map and parchment, pen in hand, marking notes. He put the finishing stroke through a list.
Thornriders, two hundred
Innadan knights, sixteen
Telmawr Knights, eleven
Delondeur knights and lances, two score
Machoryn knights, fourteen
Damarind knights, twelve
The Order, nine
Torvul
Gideon
Me
“No matter how many times ya write it down or add it up, it’s not gettin’ any longer.” Idgen Marte lingered behind him as he wrote, making unasked-for comments and suggestions.
“Between your interruptions and the arrival of messengers bringing word to Gideon, it is a wonder I have even had the chance to write it once,” Allystaire said.
Behind them, Gideon lay prostrate on his cot, arms folded on his chest, sleeping as deeply as anyone ever had, it seemed.
Allystaire set his pen down and stood up. “The key,” he mused aloud, “will be to not allow them to engage us in too much space. Horse need the ground to mo
ve, yes, but terrain and speed will have to be our equalizers.”
“Or the boy,” Idgen Marte muttered.
Allystaire sighed. “I will not turn him into a weapon.”
“He can toss mountains at them. He already is.” She turned to look at him. “Why not simply ask him to reach into the Dragon Scales and pull their gifts from them?”
“In twos and threes, he might do exactly that,” Allystaire replied. “Yet en masse, he fears that the power he would draw out would be too great for him to channel. He spoke of overrun and blowback and flooding, and I did not understand a word of it any further than knowing that he meant it was dangerous.”
A slightly panicked voice drew their attention from outside the closed flaps of the tent. “Sir Stillbright?”
Frowning, Allystaire took a half-step forward and threw the flap open. A red-liveried servant stood with a lantern in his hand. Though night had not yet truly fallen, the lantern was lit behind its shutters, and by the light it cast upwards at the man’s face, Allystaire could see the tracks of tears. “M’lord?”
“Yes, goodman?”
“The Archioness asked me to fetch you. It’s the Baron, m’lord.”
Nodding, Allystaire didn’t bother to correct the man’s choice of title. “Watch him while I am gone, Idgen Marte, please?”
She nodded, her face grim as she let the tent fall closed.
Before he was out of his own camp, Allystaire heard a faint trickle of music coming from the tent he’d left behind.
As he’d expected, the servant led him straight to the large silk pavilion at the center of the Innadan camp. They walked past rows of hushed and downcast knights, soldiers, and servants. Allystaire was ushered quickly past the guards.
Inside, the number of braziers glowing with fire had increased to half a dozen, and the air was stifling. In the bed that dominated the room, Hamadrian lay a thin and wasted figure beneath a pile of blankets. His chiurgeon paced restlessly. Cerisia sat upon a stool at his side, holding his left hand.
Immediately, Allystaire went to his bedside, going heavily to one knee and taking up Hamadrian’s other hand. He found it cold and damp, then heard the awful rattle as the old Baron drew breath.
He closed his eyes and reached for the Goddess’s Gift, threaded a tiny bit of the power through his hands into Hamadrian’s. Drawing on his memories of the man, the tournament he had won at the first attempt at a peace congress, battles they had fought in together, the siege and fall of Aldacren keep, he tried to revive him, to pour life into his failing lungs.
He found it was like trying to pour water into a broken cup; it could hold only the smallest taste. Hamadrian cried out in pain and Allystaire eased, drawing his senses back from the other man.
With a great effort, Hamadrian lifted his head. Cerisia immediately leaned forward to seize a pillow and place it behind him. He turned to look at Allystaire.
“I know you can’t heal me any longer,” he rasped. “But I needed to speak to you.”
“I can,” Allystaire said, “little by little. I can see you through another night.”
Gasping, the Baron shook his head. “Not going t’make any difference, and we know it.” His voice was a ruined whisper, his face a mask of pain. Behind the grey of his beard all color had left his face, and his clouded eye lay slack and unmoving. “My wind is gone, and life is an agony. If you can ease my passing more than him and his potions,” he said, barely lifting a trembling finger to point at the chirurgeon, “do it.”
“I can,” Allystaire said quietly.
Hamadrian nodded very faintly, then sucked in a deep wheeze of breath that left him unable to speak for several moments. When he finally did, he had fallen back on his pillows and was looking straight up.
“I don’t know where the name Stillbright has come from, Allystaire,” he said, “but it likes you better than Coldbourne. I always thought you were trying too hard to live up to it. To be a hard man like your grandfather Gideon, or Anthelme.”
“It is what I thought I had to be,” Allystaire said slowly, uncertainly. Then, he stretched his left hand out over Hamadrian’s chest. “Do you at least wish to wait for Arontis?”
“No,” the old man said, shaking his head carefully. “I don’t want him here for what I’ve to say t’you. I need you to help him see this through. And not to let him follow a whim.”
“What do you mean?”
“The boy has half a mind to throw off his inheritance n’follow you. Join this Order of the Arm.”
The tent was silent, but for the gurgle in the Baron’s chest. Finally, Allystaire spoke.
“From what I have seen of him, I would be honored to have him,” Allystaire said. “And yet.”
“He’ll do more good as a Baron than as some sort of knight and monk in one,” Hamadrian said. “I mean no insult t’you, but no. His head is filled with tales, with the word paladin. But he can’t throw it over to follow you.”
“I understand. I agree with you, Hamadrian. He is a good man; he is his father’s son, and in his father’s place he can do more good for more people than in following me.”
Hamadrian nodded, then seemed to sink back into his cushions and bedding. His eyes closed, though he still breathed.
“You couldn’t…you couldn’t have found your goddess seven years ago?”
“I think it was She who found me, Hamadrian,” Allystaire murmured. “It will always shame me that it took me this long to see what you already had. They will call this Innadan’s Peace, Hamadrian. Generations yet to be born will know that you were the architect.”
The old head shook very slightly, side to side. “Paladin was here, that’s what they’ll remember. Don’t care,” he muttered. “Peace is peace, whoever’s credited.” A wet and evil sounding cough racked his body then, and Allystaire took his hand once more.
“Then rest easy knowing what you have done, Hamadrian,” he muttered, leaning forward so that the dying man would hear him. He found memories swirling in the man’s mind. There were battles there, yes, but they were always a chore of terror and misery. There were vineyards in the sun and the comfort of keeping his people safe and well-fed. There was the sorrow of death: two sons, one barely more than an infant, the other dead in battle before the first congress, eight summers past. There was the Baroness Innadan; Allystaire had known her as a regal and grey-haired matron, but in Hamadrian’s memory she was young, blonde, and lissome.
“You have given peace to your part of the world, Hamadrian,” Allystaire whispered. “You can leave it now and go into the next, where Ethrin, Dessen, and your Mathilde wait to greet you with their love once more. You have paid a heavy price of grief in this world. There is none in the next.”
The Baron Hamadrian Innadan gave a great shudder, exhaled, and then lay still upon the bed. Allystaire searched for the spark of life within him and found none. He lowered his head.
Guide his soul to those he loved and lost, Mother, he silently prayed. I beg you, let this man know their love again if it is in your power.
For a moment, Allystaire thought he saw a brief flash in his mind, a younger Hamadrian walking along a path between green vines that bowed heavily with grapes, with a child walking at his side, the father expounding upon some point to the boy, then plucking a grape and handing it to him. It disappeared as quickly as it came; it may have been one of the memories that had come to him at the end of his life, one of the many Allystaire had seen.
He lifted his head and saw Cerisia remove her mask, the corners of her eyes wet. Behind him, the servant who had brought him wept, though he tried to swallow the sounds, to remain unobtrusive.
Allystaire stood and turned to face the man, went to his side. “If any Baron gathered here is worth weeping for,” he said, “it was Hamadrian Innadan. Be not ashamed, goodman.”
The man nodded, shutting his eyes tightly and knucklin
g at his mouth with a fist, before he said, “No offense, m’lord, but I didn’t need you to tell me that to know it.”
Allystaire went from him to Cerisia. “I think,” he said, “the body should not wait for Arontis, but I do not want to interfere.”
“Are you still that cold of a man, Allystaire? You move so quickly from praying for the man to planning what to do with his remains.”
“I am as I have been made, Cerisia,” he replied. “The best way to honor him is to make certain that this peace becomes a reality, and to do that, we cannot lose time in grief. He will not be the last good man to die in the the weeks to come.”
Cerisia nodded and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “You…you’re right, damn you to the Cold,” she muttered. “I will see to the body. Arontis should return in a matter of turns. Will you wait for him here?”
“I cannot,” Allystaire replied. “There is work to be done. Send for me as soon as he arrives, and I will come.”
He watched Cerisia nod, then slip her mask back on. She bent at the waist, swept her hand over Hamadrian’s eyes to guide them closed, then started to pull the bedding back from his limbs. She issued quiet commands to both the chirurgeon and the servant. He saw the latter go to a heavy chest set against one wall of the pavilion and begin to pull clothing from it, while the chirurgeon dug into his case. He turned and left, trying to avoid the stares of the men who’d gathered outside, some distance from the pavilion itself.
Almost, Allystaire paused to speak to them, then thought better of it. Not my place to make an announcement.
As he walked back to his tent, his own eyes remained dry, despite the tightness in his chest, the grief he felt at the loss.
There is simply, he told himself, too much to be done, and no time for grief. His words to Cerisia came back to him.
He will not be the last good man to die in the weeks to come.
CHAPTER 43
Messages
Spring was still bone-chillingly cold at the heights where the Highgate crouched upon the flattened top of a mountain. The massive keep guarded the juncture of the northern and eastern roads in and out of Barony Oyrwyn, and had once been regarded as the last—or first, depending on the direction one traveled—sign of civilization this side of the wild lands that bordered the tundra. Beyond it now lay a few settlements, towns that ruled themselves outside of the reach of Baronial law, but it was still the only true mark of authority, of power, in its part of the world.
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