Exile's Gamble_The Chronicles of Shadow_Book II

by Lee Dunning

  “You two can go,” Foxfire said. “No need for all of us to suffer.”

  “You need us to port you out of here once you finish your task,” Lady Rimedeath said.

  “I don’t mind going,” Lord Silk said. “I’m not much of a portal mage.”

  “You’re not much of a soldier either,” the female countered, “but you’ll stay regardless. Lord Foxfire needs the cooperation of these people so we can avenge Second Home.”

  “But there’s vermin in her hair,” Lord Silk said.

  Lady Rimedeath hung her head. “Yes—yes, there is.”

  The old woman glared at the Sky Elves, her wrinkles pulling together in suspicion. “What do they chatter about?” she demanded of Foxfire.

  Foxfire forced a fake smile onto his face. “They’re pleased at the prospect of enjoying your hospitality,” he said.

  “Camel dung,” the old woman said. With a snort, she shuffled off toward the largest yurt, leaving the elves to snatch up their trade goods before following at a slow, reluctant pace.

  Chapter 10

  Chalice Renoir prowled down the hall to the throne room. His insides roiled as if a frenzy of sharp-clawed goblins waged war within his gut. This day marked the arrival, at long last, of the church’s delegation sent to determine King Oblund’s ultimate fate—and by extension, his own. Renoir hadn’t exaggerated when he told Lady Winterdawn he could find himself offered up as a scapegoat if it suited the church to do so. That he was the great-great-great-grandson of the church’s founder may have stood in his favor at one time, but in these days of upheaval, if the elders found it profitable to set his head on a pike alongside Oblund’s, they would.

  He arrived at a set of double doors leading to his destination. To either side stood the now familiar sight of First Born soldiers. “Chalice,” the one said, dipping his head in greeting.

  It occurred to Renoir he probably ought to know the guard. He might even be one of the individuals who had taken to shadowing him since Renoir’s meeting with Lady Winterdawn. To his embarrassment, the priest had no idea what name to put to the face. He settled for complete neutrality. “Soldier,” he said, returning the tilt of the head.

  The slight quirk to the elf’s mouth let Renoir know he’d fooled no one but the elf still appreciated the attempt. Perhaps he was starting to understand a few things about them after all. Even so, once the two soldiers pulled open the doors for him, Renoir swept past them before he could commit any further blunders.

  As such, he nearly plowed into the cluster of priests and priestesses congregating on the other side. He lurched back, eyes going wide as one of the women broke from the group to draw him into a warm embrace. “Husband,” she murmured in his ear. “It pleases me to hear you still have a knack for causing trouble.”

  “Tarako,” he said, pulling her close. A tightness he’d grown too comfortable with eased from his shoulders. He stood back from her and smiled fondly upon his trio of daughters. They had his wife’s tawny skin and strong features. As one, they gathered and hugged him. Renoir pushed his face into the black hair of the eldest. “You four shouldn’t have come. We have ugly decisions facing us these next few days.”

  “And we’ll face them as a family, as the Duality counsels,” Tarako said. As she spoke, she leveled a dark, almond-eyed glare at the two elders standing apart from the family reunion.

  “No need for such a tone, Sister Renoir,” the female elder said. She wore her coarse white hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her oval, box-like hat of office perched on top like a bird’s nest. A loose, matronly gown draped her ample figure but only a fool would mistake Mother of Devotions, Keeper of the Mysteries, High Matron DuBoi for a harmless granny. While no one need fear facing her on the battlefield, High Matron DuBoi wielded the law of the Duality as surely as Chalice Renoir hefted his mace.

  To the High Matron’s left the wizened priest who shared the church’s leadership with her, High Master Favre, chuckled. Renoir had never known Master Favre to possess anything resembling a sense of humor, so he took the soft rumble to mean Favre considered any chastisement of Renoir’s wife a waste of breath. Supposedly, Master Favre had once said any attempt to reign in a Renoir was akin to training goblins to bathe. Unless one relished the odor of wet goblin, there was little to gain.

  “Chalice Renoir,” Master Favre said, tilting his head in Renoir’s direction to indicate he addressed his male subordinate and not Tarako, “walk with me. We’ll leave the logistics of our arrival to our sisters.”

  Renoir shot Tarako a look of apology but she hardly noticed. She seemed intent on raising herself beyond her full six and a half feet so she might cast a longer shadow over the two elders she saw as a threat to her husband.

  Renoir sighed and swept an arm toward the double doors he had passed through moments before. He and Master Favre exited and started down the chill gray hall, the elder priest’s robes swishing along the stones. The elf Renoir had spoken to earlier left his post to follow a short distance behind the two humans.

  “I sent you to the Dragon Isles to convert the people there, not to marry one of them. She’s as troublesome as you,” Favre said.

  Renoir had lost track of how many times Master Favre had started a conversation with almost the exact same words. In reply, he answered in much the same way he had these past twenty-some years. “The only way to convert them is to marry them and the church forbids our taking of more than one spouse. I did what I could under such constraints.”

  “You’re a pain in the Duality’s collective ass, Renoir,” the old man said. He tried to adjust his own nest-like hat, and cursed softly when it skidded across his bald pate into what, on a less sour countenance, might be described as a jaunty angle. “If not for the debt the church owes your family I’d be tempted to come up with an unpleasant end for you. As it is, the Church of the Duality wouldn’t exist if not for your great-great-grandparents.”

  Renoir started to point out to Master Favre he’d dropped a great, but thought better of it. It sounded like the High Matron and Master had decided to forego making an example of him over the debacle involving Oblund, the elves and the demons. No point in giving master Favre reason to reconsider the decision.

  “I apologize for any part I played in embarrassing the church these last few months,” Renoir said.

  Favre grunted and fussed with his voluminous sleeves. “You warned us,” he admitted. Renoir nearly stumbled at so surprising an admission. The elder glared over his shoulder at the First Born following them before continuing. “The Oblund reign supported the church with generous donations though, and it was difficult to sway our brothers and sisters your known dislike of the man hadn’t tainted your reports.”

  “So what happens now?” Renoir asked.

  The elder shrugged. “We perform the nasty business of finding Oblund guilty of consorting with demonologists. Then we excommunicate him and remove his head. After all that, we do what we can to restore people’s faith in the church.” Master Favre let out a wet sigh. “It doesn’t help we proclaimed Oblund a blessed son of the Duality when he first took the crown. How can the small folk view us as infallible with such looming proof otherwise? And what about the queen? Are you certain she isn’t caught up in this?”

  Renoir silently chastised himself. He’d worried so much about his own welfare, he’d forgotten Queen Cherish might fall under the church’s scrutiny. The poor woman had suffered enough. He couldn’t allow her to take blame for her husband’s foul actions. “She had no idea the war funds she provided went to purchase the services of demonologists. She knew only her king wished to bolster the army with magical firepower. Once Queen Cherish learned of his plans, she objected most strenuously. He responded by beating her.”

  Master Favre dragged a hand across his spotted forehead. “Brother and Sister, the man’s a damned brute. It’s a wonder you didn’t put him down yourself.”

  “It was a close thing,” Renoir admitted. Owing allegiance to both church and king had te
sted him.

  The elder priest shot another sour look over his shoulder at their huge, golden shadow. “And now we’re infested with elves.” The soldier waved at the elder, and the old man turned his scowl on his subordinate. “Chase that creature off, will you?”

  “He’s my bodyguard,” Renoir said. “They’re very stubborn—I don’t think they’re chasable.”

  Master Favre muttered something under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, aside from your new heretic friends, what other headaches do I have to contend with?”

  “We’ve tried to devise a means of averting a disastrous winter for Teresland. I gave the queen our blessing to send a diplomat to speak with Kind Luccan. We just need to agree on the wording for the petition”

  “You’re quite the optimist,” Master Favre said. “At the best of times Luccan and Oblund mistrusted one another.”

  “Only due to Oblund’s paranoia,” the chalice replied. “With him removed from the throne, King Luccan may welcome the chance to mend fences.”

  “Luccan still mourns the loss of his wife, and without her presence at the negotiation table any chance of reconciliation is unlikely.” Favre drew his overgrown brows together. “It’s not like you to simply hope for the best. What are you up to, Renoir?”

  The younger priest gritted his teeth. He preferred presenting suggestions in a straightforward manner, but Master Favre didn’t always respond well to bold ideas. He’d absolutely spit teeth if he learned Councilor Foxfire, an elf, had masterminded the arrangement Queen Cherish planned to present to King Luccan. “Teresland faces the future without a king, and Renlin has lost its queen—surely, you can see a way past this? If not, thousands will starve come the first snow.”

  “Speak plainly, Chalice,” Favre snapped. “You have no skill at subtlety, and I’m too old to dredge up the patience needed to guess at your meaning.”

  Renoir frowned. He’d hoped to maneuver the old priest into coming up with the idea of a marriage between the two countries himself. He’d have to settle for something more direct. “Queen Cherish has agreed to offer herself in marriage to King Luccan. In exchange for Teresland, her people gain stable leadership, forest and food. Renlin gains a new queen, more arable land, a river, and Teresland’s mines.”

  “That’s all well and good but what does the church gain from such an arrangement?” Favre countered.

  There it was. Like any overgrown bureaucracy, the church worked tirelessly to sustain and grow itself. Fortunately, Renoir was prepared. He’d grown up within the church, and despite what many might assume based on his stagnant career, he understood well how things worked. “Several things, High Master,” he said. “First, in making a choice that saves many lives from starvation, we gain increased devotion from the masses. As you said, we need to blunt people’s ire over our part in raising Oblund to the throne. Second, if the Duality’s disciples prosper, we’re more likely to draw new converts, more so than by sending priests to lonely lands where the natives have no reason to trust or respect the doctrines presented to them.”

  Before Favre could react to the obvious criticism of the church’s heavy-handed attempts to convert the Dragon Isles, the Jungles of Mourn, and Badlands near the Sea of Glass, Renoir rushed on to his next argument. “Third, we both know the former queen of Renlin tithed the bare minimum to the church, while Queen Cherish has shown herself a true and generous friend of the Duality. Once she gains access to Renlin’s wealth, we can expect a larger portion to come our way. It’s common knowledge, King Luccan leaned heavily on his wife for advice in making policy. Queen Cherish will fill that role well and provide more favorable council on our behalf to King Luccan.”

  Favre pulled on his lower lip as Renoir spoke, obviously turning the whole plan over in his mind. “You’re right,” he said. “We could use an ally in Renlin. Queen Bane …”

  “Jane,” Renoir corrected.

  “I bloody know what her real name was—don’t interrupt me—especially when I’m agreeing with you. Insolent whelp.” Favre started to fuss with his hat again but his agitation sent it cockeyed. He yanked it off his head and threw it down the hall. “Who designed these damn things? I bet it was one of your ancestors!”

  A good thirty-five years had passed since Renoir actually qualified as a whelp but he’d already opened his mouth far too many times this day. As it was, he could hardly keep his face neutral in light of Master Favre’s tantrum. Behind them, the First Born soldier had no such qualms and the stone hallway echoed with the elf’s laughter.

  “Brilliant,” Favre muttered. “Now your new friends will think I’m soft in the head.” He sighed. “I’m not, you know. Soft in the head.”

  “Of course not, High Master,” Renoir said. “You’re merely passionate.”

  For the first time a smile tugged at Favre’s thin mouth. “Passionate. I like that. Luccan is passionate too, you know. He blames us for his wife’s death during the birth of their last child.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Renoir said.

  “So you think this arrangement might provide reconciliation?” Clearly, Master Favre wanted this to work. Although a political animal, the head priest wasn’t stupid. He might not like the idea came from Renoir but he wouldn’t dismiss it outright.

  Renoir nodded with stiff gravity. “It’s as ideal a situation as we could hope for. Queen Cherish has no children of her own and she enjoys the everyday duties of running a kingdom, which Queen Jane loathed. Queen Cherish has a strong core but a mild manner. The people of Teresland like her and the people of Renlin will love her all the more after abiding a queen with the bite of a cliff snake.”

  “Why can’t you call her a bitch like a normal man and be done with it, Renoir?”

  “She was a queen, a mother and a beloved wife,” Renoir said. “We found her difficult but clearly there was more to her than a waspish tongue.”

  They’d wandered close to where Favre’s hat lay in a crumpled lump. He kicked at it. “Fine! Just stop talking. I’ll present your idea to High Matron DuBoi and we’ll discuss the matter.”

  The High Master made a left at the next junction and headed toward the tombs and the long stairway, which eventually lead to an underground passage where the dungeons lay. Renoir made as if to follow down the steps but his superior’s raised hand brought him to a halt. “I’m heading down to speak with Oblund,” Master Favre said. “As the spiritual leader of all men, I should give him this one chance to speak his case.”

  Renoir tilted his head in acknowledgement. “They’ve imprisoned the surviving mercenary the king hired down there as well. Since Lord Icewind interrogated him, he’s decided to answer most any question posed to him.”

  At the mention of the elf who had essentially run Teresland for the past several weeks, Master Favre’s lips drew back in disgust. “The sooner we see the backs of those creatures, the better. They don’t understand the proper order of things. We met Lord Darson as we rode in and he informed us this Lord Icewind actually suggested the nobility work the fields to bring in the crop! Like peasants!”

  Color crept to Renoir’s face. When Lord Icewind hesitantly brought the matter up to him, Renoir agreed the elf should go through with the order, regardless of the fuss it would cause. Apparently bolstered by Renoir’s approval, the slim Sky Elf immediately issued a proclamation and provided soldiers to back up his words. The elves hadn’t acted simply as overseers, though. They’d leant their immense strength to the endeavor. They saw a job that needed doing and they did it. They had no comprehension of the human’s caste system. Granted, they looked down on humans but they did so as one people. A peasant and a king looked alike to them.

  “We all live or die depending on that crop,” Renoir said. “Noble and commoner alike need food. Disdaining work as beneath us doesn’t make us immune to starvation.”

  “This is why we keep sending you to places like the Dragon Isles, Renoir,” Favre said. “You should see the pile of complaints I have about you from Ob
lund.”

  The chalice couldn’t contain himself. “And yet, here I stand, while His Highness will soon lose his head.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Favre said. His arm waved, encompassing the chalice and the elf guard. “Be off. Go frolic with your new friends.”

  High Master Favre hobbled down the stairs, disappearing from sight. Renoir cocked an eyebrow at the elf as the soldier came to stand by him. “So, do you frolic?” he asked.

  The elf snorted. “Not hardly, Chalice. I do enjoy chess, though. You up for a thrashing?”

  “After that, I think I can handle anything.”

  Lady Swiftbrook started awake and blinked in confusion. She could have sworn she'd heard someone scream but she’d probably dreamt it as competing memories from her past danced through her sleeping mind. One memory in particular had bubbled up, the day of K’hul’s birth when he’d nearly eviscerated his mother tearing his way out of her. Quite a lot of screaming had echoed throughout the birthing chamber, not all of from his mother.

  She sighed and placed a hand on her taut belly with one hand while her other reached for the tome which had started to slip from her lap. She’d made a rash decision the night before the battle with Oblund. No doubt, her idiocy had prompted the dream. A pity the dream hadn’t come to her before she took K’hul to her bed that night. At least she hadn’t told K’hul. She had no desire to hand him an excuse to lay claim to her.

  She chided herself for dozing and dreaming while neglecting her job as guardian. She twisted her head, as she had a hundred times these last few weeks, to check on her comatose charge. The tome slipped from her grasp and thudded to the floor, forgotten in her shock.

  “Good morning, madam,” W’rath said.

  Chapter 11

  “I apologize for insulting your professional pride,” W’rath said, fending off another attempt by Lady Sera to lay hands upon him. Even sitting on a bed, newly roused, he relished in his ability to evade the healer.