“As you can see, we have gained significant ground in the last six months.” Ibarra used a slender cane to point to three valleys marked in blue. “Valleys one, seven and ten have been reclaimed for the Valleymen successfully. We have, of course, kept a presence in those areas to ensure the Alarians don’t try to push through them again.”
“Have you had any success in finding out why Queen Irania advanced into the Valley?” Sarabia asked.
“Not a great deal beyond what my initial diplomatic treaties discovered. Which was ‘we don’t have to tell you.’”
Sarabia turned to Caritina. “And you, my dear? Has any word about the war filtered through the merchants to you?”
Before the physical separation between Delaluz and Alarie, there had been a spiritual one. Luz, his origins a mystery, had first appeared in what was to become Giron, preaching of a power to rival that of the One God. He had been the first mage, possessing the four magics of Water, Air, Earth and Fire. His first followers had been seven students, learning the art of magic from him. Those seven became his closest companions, his confidantes, powerful mages in their own right. As Luz’s influence grew, as the might of his magic and that of his companions became known, Alarie’s Church of the One God named him heretic.
Then, so the stories went, demons began to appear. They looked human but showed no humanity. Emotionless, unable to feel pain, devastatingly hard to kill, they’d left death and despair in their wake. It was only fuel to the Church of the One God’s passionate denunciation of Luz and all mages. Anyone discovered to be a mage was burned to death. Bands of fanatical soldiers called themselves Crusaders and legends told of righteous rampages rivalling those of any demon. Historians on both sides of the border called that time the Black Years.
Luz and his companions cut down the numbers of demons greatly but Luz knew they would never defeat them all. So he performed his last and greatest work of magic. He created the borders and then closed them to demons. His act had saved the rest of the world from the Fuerza Oscura.
In the years following, the spiritual separation was only enforced by the physical until at last what was once Alarie became Alarie and Delaluz. The centuries since had dulled the sharp edges of history somewhat, but there would never be trust or complete understanding between the neighbours.
Sol had discovered that truth first hand during his time in Alarie. There were still Crusaders and some of them thought any Delaluzian was fair game.
Yet there was trade and it was thanks to the phlegmatic nature of most de Navarros. It took a lot to provoke a de Navarro merchant and they’d managed to create a beneficial relationship with the Alarian merchants across the Prideux River. It helped that both sides of the agreement had sworn to keep political and religious matters out of their dealings.
Duchess Caritina de Navarro shook her head. “Talk of the war would go against the merchants’ agreement. Nothing has been said...” She glanced at Alamar. “Openly. The deeper currents, however, have hinted that Irania’s reasons for advancing into the Valley are possibly to do with the Church of the One God.”
Alamar acknowledged it with a nod. “We’ve discovered some information to support that possibility as well.”
Sol snorted.
“You disagree, Duke Deleon?” Alamar asked mildly.
Realising too late he’d entered the discussion, Sol resigned himself to the subject. “Citing involvement of the Church of the One God isn’t a startling revelation. Saying that is like saying sex might lead to having babies.”
Galo snickered and Sarabia frowned in gentle rebuke.
Alamar smiled. “You’ll have to forgive us our postulations. None of us have quite the experience with Alarie as you do. How long were you there? Five years? And why did your brother send you there?”
Knowing he should have prepared for this turn in conversation, Sol nevertheless took a moment to compose a response that didn’t involve swearing and swords.
“It was three years and I wasn’t sent. I chose to study at the Royal College in Beaudry.”
“Why Beaudry?” Isabel asked, a fine eyebrow arched inquisitively. “We have several highly regarded Academies in Delaluz.”
“Precisely,” Sol said. “They’re in Delaluz. I decided to go to Beaudry because at the time I wanted to experience something completely new.” And escape the sibling rivalry their father’s death had ignited between him and Selestino. It was a decision he’d come to heartily regret after the first assassination attempt.
“Interesting,” Sarabia murmured. “Does your experience give you an insight into the current situation?”
Only that Alarians were doggedly persistent and didn’t like leaving things half done.
Sol shrugged. “As I said, it’s extremely likely the Church of the One God is behind Queen Irania’s motives. But what interest the Alarian church has in the Valley is beyond me.”
It had been clear from the first steps Irania’s forces had taken into the Valley that invading Delaluz from the south had not been her plan. There had been exploratory excursions into the Valley in the past, by both Delaluz and Alarie. Every couple of centuries, some scholar or another would decide to see if there was anything more than dust, poisonous animals and simple natives. The last such expedition, a hundred and fifty years prior, had been by an Alarian monk. He and his entire retinue had disappeared into the barren, dry vastness. The loss had prompted the then Alarian king to declare no more exploration of the Valley.
This had been one of the arguments Alamar had used to convince his Abbess to meet Alarie in the Valley now. What had changed to make Irania overturn her ancestor’s ruling?
In the last score of years, with the duchies of Delaluz no longer embroiled in constant internal feuding and the invention of dirigibles making long distance travel no more troublesome than a ride to a neighbouring duchy, there had been talk about exploring the Valley once more. Nothing had been done, however. The Council of the Second Estate was dubious it would be profitable, while that of the First Estate didn’t want to provoke Alarie—just as Alarie had now provoked, if not all of Delaluz, than Ibarra at least.
“It seems our thoughts it was to distract us from a northern invasion were wrong,” Bolivar said, giving Sol a quick nod as he directed talk away from Sol’s past.
“Indeed,” Alamar said, turning to Sol and Caritina. “Unless something has changed along your borders.”
“I’ve had no reports of anything suspicious across the river,” Caritina said. “Trade has continued despite the activity in the Valley. Relations may by a little more tense, but it’s nothing my merchants can’t work around.”
Sol stood so he could reach across the map and point out the stretch of ocean between Roque and Gan, the imperialistic continent several weeks sail to the north. “We’ve increased the range of our patrols of the Fallow Sea. I have dragon-ships running the trade routes between Roque and Gan. So far, there have only been three encounters with Alarian navy, two of the engagements abandoned by the Alarians before they’d even begun. The other claimed the Delaluzian merchant it was chasing had gone pirate. My people found no such evidence and the Alarian navy vessel was... encouraged to break off the chase.”
Alamar frowned thoughtfully. “I find it strange she’s leaving our merchant ships alone. Targeting our supplies of gunpowder should have been one of the first things she did.”
There were murmurs of agreement around the table, but as Sol sat back down, he realised he didn’t agree.
Since the Dark Years, Delaluz’s nature of bickering duchies had kept their attentions focused mainly inward, only peripherally aware of Alarie as a major threat. All those centuries consumed by duchy against duchy would have been an ideal time for Alarie to attack, yet the threat of Delaluz’s mages had been enough to hold Alarie in check.
Then, a hundred years ago, Gan had discovered a violently combustible concoction of powders. About the same time, several level-headed Abbots and Abbesses had decided it was time to stop the
fighting within Delaluz. The Council of the First Estate was created, followed quickly by that of the Second. Those first few decades had been traumatic for those involved in the newly cooperative society but eventually, after several generations had passed, Delaluz was finally peaceful.
Fearing what the cessation of internal hostilities within Delaluz would mean for Alarie, Irania’s father had begun importing new weapons from Gan. Weapons with the power and range to negate a lot of the advantages of Delaluz’s mages. Firearms made their first appearance in a small border skirmish between Alarie and Valdes. The de Valdes soldiers were killed to a person, shot by marksmen on the far side of the Fournier Chasm. The range of the new weapons was too great for the mages to compensate for.
Suddenly, the game was evenly matched. Even bringing firearms to Delaluzian armies hadn’t tipped the favour back toward them.
The art of crafting firearms had been learned by both Alarian and Delaluzian smiths. However, Gan kept control of the supply of the components of gunpowder, ensuring its neighbours were beholden to them, and encouraged not to turn against Gan.
Alamar was right. Irania should have been attacking their merchants if she wanted to hinder the war effort in the Valley.
“Irania can’t match us on the water. Roque’s dragon-ships are much faster than her clumsy tubs,” Isabel said confidently.
“We’re faster, yes.” Galo lounged in his chair as if talk of war was no more interesting than talk of the weather. “Her ships are larger and slower, but they’re also better armed. If any of Sol’s ships were to close with those of the Alarian navy, then their speed would mean nothing and the Alarian guns would tear a dragon-ship apart. Irania—”
“Isn’t dumb,” Sol said before he realised he was even going to speak.
Galo raised an eyebrow at Sol in polite rebuke for the interruption. Sol half shrugged in apology then leaned forward into the direct gazes of everyone at the table.
“She hasn’t attacked our merchant-captains or ceased trade with Navarro for a good reason.”
Alamar sat back, a faint frown pinching his brow. “Which is?”
“She knows that either of those things would mean we were at war.”
“But, son,” Sarabia said, “we are at war.”
“No, we’re not.” Sol looked at Isabel, Galo, Bolivar, Sarabia and Caritina in turn. “We are not at war with Alarie.” He turned to Alamar. “But he is. We know Alarie can field nearly two hundred thousand troops and yet only a quarter of that number have been committed to the Valley. If Irania’s goal was to invade Delaluz, she could easily push through Ibarra’s army and make for our southern border. But she hasn’t. She also hasn’t made any hostile moves against her direct neighbours, Leon, Valdes or Navarro. She hasn’t made any sort of advances against my navy. She doesn’t want to fight a united Delaluz. She knows she wouldn’t win.”
A contemplative silence followed his speech. Galo acknowledged Sol with a mildly impressed nod.
“A united Delaluz,” Alamar mused, eyeing Sol with an unreadable expression. “An interesting idea.”
“All I meant was if she should make a direct run at any Delaluz border, the rest of us wouldn’t abandon that duchy. We’ve come a long way in the last century. We’re not consumed with internal feuds anymore.”
As he spoke, Sol realised how true the words were. If anything should ever endanger Bolivar and Leon he would do all he could to help. He knew Bol would do the same for him and he hoped the others would feel the same. A bickering, divided Delaluz wasn’t the world he wanted his son growing up in. He wanted Sebastian to be able to trust his neighbours, to honour all duchies and respect his fellow dukes and duchesses.
Sol met Alamar’s gaze. Ever since his return from Alarie, and Selestino’s death, Sol had done his best to keep to himself. It had been the only way he could think of to keep the peace that had come to mean so much to him. But back then, fatherhood had just been an ideal, its life-changing impact not yet realised. Back then, Sol’s best friend had been safe in Roque. Now, everything beyond the borders of his duchy felt so much more real, more personal. He suddenly felt ashamed of the ignorance that had let Ibarra go to war unchallenged, of the reluctance to get involved that had let Gabe end up in so much trouble.
As if reading this thought in Sol’s eyes, Alamar nodded.
Unable to decide why Alarie had moved into the Valley, the discussion moved on to points of strategy. A healthy debate on tactics consumed the time until lunch and after the break, Alamar suggested they move on to other matters.
When the session ended and pages and aides were gathering up papers and making appointments, Alamar took Sol aside for a quiet word.
“Send your cousin and page back to your manor alone,” he said. “There are things we need to discuss privately. I’ll have another yacht take you home afterward.”
Sol agreed and went to tell Sergio. Eloisa didn’t bat an eyelash but Sol could tell she didn’t like leaving him. Sergio warned him to keep a calm head and to prepare himself for the news that perhaps Gabe hadn’t deported himself like a saint.
While the dukes and duchesses departed, Alamar guided Sol onto a walking path between the council hall and the palace proper.
“I hope you brought a spare dirigible with you,” Alamar said. “Beila has been amassing gifts and necessities for her aunt and baby cousin since you first told us Aracelle was pregnant.”
“We might have to send them to Roque by road.”
“Good idea. You can load them into the land-yacht I’m giving you.”
Sol grimaced. “Thank you, Alamar, but I don’t want a land-yacht. I’m happy with my horses.”
“The yacht is far more efficient than a horse. It’ll take you further for less. No grain, no tack, no colic.”
“Less explosive things go wrong with a horse, though.”
“I suppose so. But since Selestino, Roque has had no engine failures. Your Engineers are some of the finest in terms of maintenance and care.”
Sol opened his mouth to protest more, but Alamar held up a hand.
“All right. We’ll send the gifts to Roque in the yacht, and then it’ll turn around and come back. Though, I do insist, tomorrow afternoon, you take the yacht out and give it a run. It’s a new design. Quieter engine, sleeker, faster. I can almost guarantee you’ll be changing your mind when you get back.”
The path curved through the grounds of the council hall and over an arched bridge spanning a burbling brook. On the far side was a small forest of pine and birch, the light falling golden-green through the canopy to kiss the mossy ground. A spotted deer picked its way through the fallen pine needles, nosing the ground, unconcerned by the men walking by.
“I was surprised Ramiero wasn’t at the meeting today,” Sol said. “He seemed to relish attending the last two as your aide.”
Alamar grimaced. “I had wanted him here but he decided to make an extended devotion to Luz at the Covadonga chapel. I suspect it has more to do with bear season in the mountains than religious piety. At least that was the impression I got when I discovered several of his friends were going with him.”
“At least you still have two children at home. Beila not interested in the Council meetings?”
“Not in the least and Aden is too young yet. Now, tell me, what did Abbess Orellana tell you about your friend the Bone Mage?”
“That no one would tell her anything. While I suspect what he did to anger you and Abbess Morales was bad, I have to protest the punishment. He’s a civilian, Alamar. Working as a military mage takes special training and restraint. Neither of which Gabe has. Sending him into a highly active war, expecting him to heal grievous wounds every day, is a death sentence. Please, bring him back.”
Alamar walked in silence, hands clasped behind his back, gaze turned inward. He seemed to shrink in on himself, the huge personality, the dominating air, all vanishing, leaving him an aging, weary man.
They emerged from the forest into the fading, orange sunligh
t of late afternoon. The ground dipped toward a neat garden of flowerbeds, winding paths, a trickling fountain and pots of herbs combating with each other to be the most aromatic. The air was thick with rich, earthy scents and the buzz of bees hurrying from plant to flower in a final frenzy before returning to the hives stacked up like rows of fat, short soldiers beyond the edge of the garden. A lone woman tended the garden. She wore a dress the colour of marigolds, sunlight streaming through the material to highlight her slender legs. Light brown hair with golden streaks was pulled into a tidy braid, falling over her shoulder as she bent to trim leaves from a mint plant. The cuttings went into a basket by her bare feet.
“Pretty, isn’t she.” Alamar halted Sol at the top of the rise so they could watch her without interrupting.
“Yes.” Though he wondered what a servidor had to do with their current topic.
“Vibrant, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess. Does this have anything to do with Gabe?”
Alamar watched her for a moment longer, then said, “It has everything to do with your friend, because she was his lover and two months ago, she died.”
Chapter 8
David sat on the railing at the very front of the gondola, where the deck was exposed to the rushing wind. All that stopped him from falling a thousand yards to the ground were the stays holding the balloon to the gondola. He lounged back against several ropes, one booted foot up on the railing, the other dangling over the side. The wind caught in his long, black leather coat, flapping it out behind him like a wounded wing.
Far below the world rolled by at what seemed an agonisingly slow pace. Initially, he’d been convinced a fast horse would have served him better than this flying contraption. Yet, as the sun set on his first day awake in a hundred years, he’d seen the city of Torres, in southern Ibarra Duchy, slide under the dirigible and he’d realised how fast they were travelling. His stunned amazement had amused the crew for a short while, then, when he’d claimed his current position, they went back to being disturbed. It was too dangerous, they’d said. An unpredictable gust of wind, a patch of turbulent air currents, and he could fall. Plummet to his death. David had laughed at their fears, and it wasn’t a joyous laugh.
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