The Widow's House

by Daniel Abraham

  The priest shook his head in distress. “But I am certain in my faith. I would never—”

  “Stop. Just send word to Basrahip from me that I’d like him to come back as soon as he can.”

  “If that is your wish, Prince Geder,” the priest said, bowing. Geder had to restrain himself from punching the man in the neck.

  Geder dreamed that he was dead, and that Cithrin had killed him. His body was thick, his veins black with clotted blood, and he still had to rule the empire. In his dream, he was forcing himself down a long hallway, looking for the place he was meant to be. He could hear Cithrin, but every door he came to opened to the wrong rooms. If he could find her, she would be able to undo his death, but he had to find her first.

  At the dream’s end, he pushed open a door to find Cithrin naked in the arms of the dead King Simeon and woke up shouting. Afternoon light pressed in through the window. His shirt and hose were sticky with sweat and his body felt almost as upset and sluggish as it had before he’d laid down for his nap. He hadn’t made it as far as his bath. When he rose from his bed, his back ached. It seemed unfair that sitting for the better part of a day should make him ache as much as hard work would have. He blamed the throne.

  He called for fresh clothes and sent the servants away while he changed. Fresh talc soaked up the worst of the sweat, and the new robes were light. The wind had given way to cooler air, and he decided to wear a thin wool cloak along with it. He needed food and perhaps some light entertainment. Music, maybe. But when he stepped out of his rooms, Canl Daskellin was waiting for him.

  “Lord Regent,” he said, bowing.

  “Must we?” Geder asked.

  “I’m afraid there’s news,” Daskellin said. “If you’d prefer, I can come back in the morning, but it won’t be any better then than now.”

  “So it’s a choice of spending the evening fretting over what you’ve said or else fretting over what you’re going to say.”

  “That’s the shape of it, my lord.” Daskellin’s smile was rueful. It occured to Geder that he was the closest thing to a real friend Geder had in the city, and they barely knew one another outside the work of the court.

  “All right. Come with me.”

  Geder tramped down to the gardens, Daskellin at his side and the royal guard trailing behind them. The gardens were thick with the scent of flowers. The perfume seemed almost too sweet after the sewer-smell of the morning. Wide red blossoms nodded in the breeze and the setting sun pulled the shadows out across the green. Servants brought chairs and chilled wine and a platter of roasted walnuts and berries glazed with honey and salt. Geder pressed a handful into his mouth.

  “What’s happened?” he asked. “It’s Inentai, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Daskellin said. “The first reports have come from Porte Oliva. The city is ours. The weapons we sent made the difference. When the dragon attacked—and the dragon did attack—we brought it down. It got away again, but injured badly. The city fell, but Cithrin bel Sarcour escaped.”

  Geder sat with the words, waiting to feel something. Rage, disappointment, resolve. Something. Of course she was gone. Of course it hadn’t worked. Nothing went the way it should for him, not ever. He took a sip of the wine, curled his lip, and called the servant back to bring him water instead.

  “What does Jorey say about finding her?”

  “His first reports confirm that the dragon and the woman are in league. They left by ship, and we assume they’re heading west mostly because none of our ships in the Inner Sea have seen them. They may be going to Cabral or Herez or Princip C’Annaldé. Or they may be going farther north.”

  “We’ll have to find her,” Geder said. “She’s the key to it all. The Timzinae conspiracy. The dragon. Get her, and it cracks that nut. There won’t be peace while she’s free.”

  “I assumed you’d say as much, my lord,” Daskellin said. “I’ve drawn up orders for the Lord Marshal to make chase with as much speed as is possible without exhausting the troops.”

  That sounded like a backhanded way to give Jorey permission to rest in Porte Oliva, but what else was he supposed to do? And if they weren’t even certain where she’d gone…

  “Fine. That’s fine. Is there anything else?” Daskellin’s silence was alarming. Geder looked up. Daskellin’s expression was closed and empty. Dread tugged at his belly. “There’s more?”

  “The siege at Kiaria has broken,” Daskellin said. “There was a fever among the men, and the Timzinae forces inside the fortress took advantage of it to launch a night attack. We believe the enemy forces are small and ill-equipped, but there is an enemy army loose in Elassae.”

  “No,” Geder said. “That’s not possible.” Only maybe it was. They hadn’t taken Kiaria, hadn’t built a temple in it. Maybe the goddess wouldn’t let him hold places where he hadn’t kept his bargain.

  “Fallon Broot’s gathered his forces in Suddapal and preparing the attack.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s good. He has priests with him, yes?”

  “He does.”

  “That’s going to be fine, then. He’ll beat them back. Maybe we can even get soldiers inside Kiaria this time. Put an end to this.”

  “The force is smaller than it would have been,” Daskellin said. “He’d already transferred his spare blades to Inentai. The mercenaries in Suddapal are contracted for garrison duty, not field service.”

  “So renegotiate. Pay them more. We’ve got all of Suddapal we can sell off if we need to.”

  “That was my thought as well, but I wanted to consult with you.”

  “Yes, of course,” Geder said. “Whatever we need to do.”

  “And if it becomes clear that we can’t hold Suddapal, my lord?”

  A strange dread washed over Geder, carried by the memory of a woman’s silhouette against the flames of a burning city. Vanai, boarded tight and lit to keep it from ever falling into enemy hands again. That was the question Daskellin was asking. If Broot couldn’t hold back the Timzinae, would Suddapal burn? The answer should have been obvious. Geder had set precedent. This was war, after all. There was no room for sentiment. We burn it. If we can’t hold Suddapal, we burn it and everyone in it.

  “We’ll decide that if we need to,” Geder said. “Not something we have to worry about today. Broot’s good. He’ll beat them. He’s very good.”

  “If you say so, Lord Regent.”

  Geder nodded to himself more than the man beside him. Perhaps it was just the unpleasant weather and the uneasing dreams, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that it was all coming apart at the seams. The empire, the war. Even the goddess. In his mind, Cithrin smirked at him, pleased with herself. And why shouldn’t she be?

  She was winning.

  Clara

  I’ve taken worse beatings from my cousins back at Osterling Fells,” Vincen said from behind her.

  The square between the Governor’s Palace and the cathedral had been emptied and the platforms razed. The icons and trappings of half a dozen cults and mysteries, detritus of a century of political and religious fashion, had been hauled out of the cathedral and burned. In all, it had taken the better part of a week, and the ceremony of rededication was set to begin at dawn, followed by demonstrations of loyalty by the newest subjects of the Severed Throne. Clara sat on the highest dais in a gown of sea-green silk taken from someone. Vincen played the role of her personal guard and servant, standing behind her. All around them, the surviving great men and women of Porte Oliva sat on the ground in rags. Their humiliation was, after all, part of the celebration.

  “They had blades,” Clara said, pretending to consider the cathedral. In truth, given the morning mist, the glare of the torches, and her own imperfect eyesight, the building was little more than an indigo shadow below a dark blue sky. When she spoke, she kept her lips as near motionless as she could. Vincen, she presumed, would do the same.

  “They didn’t use them,” Vincen said.

  “They would have.”<
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  “Maybe, but they didn’t.”

  “One had a knife drawn.”

  Vincen cleared his throat. A fanfare sounded, and the men and women of Porte Oliva knelt. Jorey emerged from the Governor’s Palace, flanked by guards with bare blades. Clara watched him, but she could not help but see the fear and hatred of those he passed. For them, he was the conqueror of the city, the general who had brought them all low. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people in the city went to sleep at night wishing him dead or worse than dead. She wondered whether they would have had they known how little he’d wanted to come here. He was the puppet of necessity, as much as any of them. And almost against her will, it occurred to her how proud Dawson would have been of him.

  She glanced up at Vincen. His face was carefully empty, but his eyes slid down toward her and a faint, complicit smile touched his lips. She breathed in deeply and returned her gaze to her approaching son.

  “If we ever get back to Osterling Fells, Vincen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remind me to have your cousins whipped.”

  Clara rose as Jorey came to sit beside her on the dais. His guards arrayed themselves with Vincen. The sky had grown a shade lighter. The cathedral had begun to take on some detail. The darkness of the great doorway, the dragon’s jade figures worked into the stone. Two cunning men stepped up, both Firstbloods, and apparently trained together, because when they lifted their fists to the sky, a wide white radiance filled the square. The burning torches seemed to dim, and the world all around grew darker. The cathedral’s door swung open, and Vicarian stepped out. He’d traded his plain brown robes for a near-perfect white. His hair was pulled back, and his smile as he walked forward was beatific. Clara felt a knot in her throat.

  She expected the thing that had been her son to come to a dais of his own, to rise up and declare the greatness of Antea from a great height. Perhaps with cunning men pouring fire and blood from the air. Instead, he looked around at the kneeling masses with a vast amusement. When he spoke, his voice carried through the space without seeming to shout.

  “This is a hard day for many of you, but I’ve come to tell you that it is also a very, very good one. Today the goddess has come to Porte Oliva. Now, I know that isn’t something that many of you can celebrate. Not yet. When the goddess came to Camnipol, I was less than delighted myself, so I know how you feel.”

  Vicarian stepped forward, walking among the kneeling and debased like a tutor lecturing to an overlarge collection of students. As a demonstration of personal courage, it took Clara’s breath away. Any of these people might have a small blade hidden on their persons. Any of them might be desperate enough to kill the priest who had desecrated their temple, even though the punishment was death. They might all have been sheep and flowers for all the fear Vicarian showed.

  “Many of you have suffered terrible losses. I understand that too. When the goddess first came to us in Antea, I lost my father. The lies of low men had taken too much of him. When the truth came to burn those lies away, it was too much for him. I loved my father. I still do. I miss him. And if I could turn away from the goddess and have him back, I would not do it. That’s hard to understand now, but it will come clearer for you. For all of you. You have passed through terrible darkness and storm, and you may feel that you’ve lost. You haven’t lost. You have been ill, and I am here as the voice of the goddess to tell you that all will be well.”

  Clara leaned to Jorey, putting her hand on his arm.

  “This is a bit different than the way Basrahip presents himself.”

  “He’s not here,” Jorey said with a smile. “It’s exactly what Vicarian’s like.”

  For the better part of an hour, Vicarian paced among the citizens of the fallen city, explaining that the goddess was here to save the world. That all lies were clear to her, and that her voice as spoken through the mouths of her priests carried the truth with them that would shatter the false and reclaim those lost to the illusions of the world. Clara watched the people kneeling all around the square. The blankness of resentment and anger was not gone, but it was lessened. A few tried tentative, uncertain smiles. They heard his voice, but they didn’t believe. Not yet.

  They would.

  In the end, the dawn broke, the fiery disk of sunlight burning away the last of the mist. The cathedral stood revealed, a great red banner with the pale eightfold sigil in its center announcing to the world that only one deity was welcome here and that her claim was absolute.

  Afterward, Clara walked with Jorey back across the square and into the wide halls of the Governor’s Palace, Vincen taking his discreet place behind Jorey’s guard. They had been in the rooms so briefly, it was strange that they had become familiar. After so long following the army, sleeping in a new place every night, seeing the same rooms even twice lent a sense of permanence Clara hadn’t foreseen. A breakfast of eggs and fish waited in the garden at the palace’s center. Stone walls rose all around them, giving a sense of isolation and protection without going so far as to feel like a gaol. As she let a servant girl pour fresh coffee for her, Clara wondered about the people who had designed the palace, and the people who had lived in it. What they would make of her presence here.

  “That went gracefully,” Jorey said, lifting a poached egg into his mouth.

  “Don’t gulp, dear,” Clara said. “And yes, I suppose it did.”

  “The sack was… well, those are never pleasant. I was afraid in the aftermath that holding the city would be challenging. But the spider goddess works her magic again. It shouldn’t surprise me anymore.”

  “It always astonishes me,” Clara said.

  “Puts a premium on Vicarian’s time, though. We lost three priests in the fighting. One burned on the ships, one at the wall, and the last took a crossbow bolt and a sword in the street-by-street work at the end. I don’t know what we’re going to do when the time comes to move on.”

  Don’t ask, Clara thought. Don’t ask, and you will not be obligated to write it in a letter to anyone. Jorey shrugged and reached for a cup of coffee for himself. A finch the blue of a noonday sky sped past them as it no doubt had passed the governor of Porte Oliva when he lived. They would believe in the goddess. They would trust in her. They would follow her.

  “How long do you imagine it will be before you leave the city?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

  “As soon as I know which direction to march, I suppose,” Jorey said. “I want this done before we’re pulled into a second winter campaign. And there are fewer and fewer places for her to run to. Once we have this banker, I think we’ll have everything. The dragon. The Timzinae. Feldin Maas and the conspiracy in Asterilhold. It’s all connected, and that woman and her bank are at the center of it.”

  “Why would you think that?” Clara asked.

  Jorey frowned. “Everyone knows it, Mother.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I look at it, and I see… well, people. Humanity has been struggling for power and advantage since the last time a dragon flew. Perhaps before. I don’t see the need for a grand plot to explain what’s normal.”

  “That’s not how it is, Mother,” Jorey said. “I’ve talked with Vicarian about it all the way from Camnipol, and I tried every argument. Every angle. This is the only thing that feels right.”

  Oh, my boy, she thought. I should never have let you go.

  The conversation moved to safer territory, to Sabiha and Annalise, to her impressions of Birancouri food, to Jorey’s continual amazement that Clara had taken it on herself to follow him. It was easier without Vicarian there. She didn’t need to watch her words, or at least not so closely. It still wouldn’t have done to let Vincen’s name slip out in too familiar a context. She was Jorey’s mother, Dawson’s widow, a woman driven perhaps a bit off center by the tragedies she’d faced. Enough so, at any rate, to forgive her the occasional flight of fancy.

  Too soon, Jorey squinted up into the wide square of sky and pushed his plate away.

&nbs
p; “My talented brother’s likely done with his priestly duties by now. I suppose I have to get back to work.”

  “Does he consult on everything, then?” Clara asked, knowing it would be a sentence in the inevitable letter if he did.

  “No, it’s just we’re still questioning people who knew her, and he’s a useful man for that kind of thing.”

  “I remember,” Clara said. “Geder had me before a magistrate’s bench that way once myself.”

  “And he found beyond all doubt that you were innocent,” Jorey said. “It works, you see?”

  We are chasing an invention of our own fancy, and so I no longer believe that Palliako’s campaign can end except in an ever-broadening wave of fear and violence. Even I, who know better, find myself sometimes believing that agents of the Timzinae or the dragons or your own bank were instrumental in beginning this conflict and that Geder Palliako’s actions are understandable given those which came before them. When I remind myself of the truth it feels like waking from a dream into a nation of sleepwalkers. Even talented, intelligent, kind men like the new Lord Marshal have fallen into this dream.

  I began these letters in hopes of stopping the madness that has taken my kingdom and my people. I hope you will not think less of me that I now despair.

  “Clara,” Vincen said from the doorway, “we have to go now.”

  “Just a moment more,” she said.

  “Jorey’s already waited to call the march. He’ll have to start soon, and if we’re following along behind again, people will start thinking you prefer it there.”

  “Give me a moment to finish my letter.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. His footsteps did not recede. She felt better, having him standing guard this way when she was writing things that were so thoroughly dangerous for them all.