The Empire's Ghost

by Isabelle Steiger

  “I should be able to alert you or the captain once I’m close, yes, and I can lead you from there.” His hand drifted absently to the hilt of his sword. “I don’t sense any danger,” he said, once he noticed her watching him. “Just an old habit.”

  She understood that well enough. “I will tell Lady Margraine what you have said.” As soon as she decides to admit people into her presence again, she didn’t add. “But I’d venture you can tell your lord that all will proceed as he expects.”

  He flinched, and Seren raised an eyebrow. “Have I spoken amiss?”

  He hesitated. “No. It is only that he is not my lord.”

  Seren blinked. “And yet you serve—”

  “I do not serve him. We are working in concert for the time being, but only for the time being.” He shook his head. “A servant who really only does as he pleases is no true servant, is he?”

  “And does it please you to run about on King Kelken’s orders?”

  He looked up sharply. “Does it please you to do the same on Lady Margraine’s?”

  She smiled at that. “Perhaps it does. But either way, I don’t balk at being called a servant.”

  That deepened his frown, but he did not reply, only pushed himself away from the wall. “You’ll want to follow me back down.”

  “What did your opponent look like?” Seren asked, and hardly knew why.

  He’d been crouching to open the door, but he straightened again. “I’m sorry?”

  “Whoever gave you that scar,” she said. “What did you leave them with?”

  At first she was almost certain he was not going to answer, but then he lifted a hand to his face, tracing the scar with one fingertip. That looked like an old habit too. “She would have to be the one to answer that,” he said. “But if you’re talking about wounds, I wasn’t able to manage so much as a scratch.”

  “But she didn’t kill you.”

  His jaw worked for a couple of moments, his mouth tensing and relaxing. “Perhaps she intended to,” he said.

  He turned without waiting for a response, prying the door open once again and slipping back down the ladder. Seren followed without pressing him further, and once they were back in the corridor, she did not detain him—if any of Elgar’s roving spies caught them talking, all that caution would be for naught. Besides, she had been quite long enough away from her post.

  Gravis did not argue when she returned to relieve him, just nodded and moved away from the door so she could stand before it. “All is well?” he asked.

  “I should be asking you that.”

  He twitched his shoulders. “She will not admit anyone, but it has been quiet. I heard her move around once or twice, but nothing abrupt.”

  Seren did not like it at all. “What will you do now?”

  “I ought to see to the men,” he said, adding grimly, “what few we have. I don’t expect our hosts mean us foul play, but Elgar would massacre the lot of us if he could only figure out how to do it, and he’s a smart man. I wish she had not come here.” He walked a step and turned. “Now you. He wanted nothing suspicious?”

  Seren could almost have smiled. “Nothing suspicious, no, but better not to speak of it here.”

  Gravis nodded. It was strange how well they could get along, once everything else was set against them. “I can leave her to you?”

  “As always,” Seren said. He grunted at that, not quite acknowledging it, but he left.

  The air was still cold, but not so cold as it had been atop the tower, and the wood was still warm where he had leaned against it. Seren fixed her eyes on the opposite wall, straining her ears for any hint of sound from the room behind her. Arianrod couldn’t still be angry, surely? This wasn’t like her at all.

  There was finally a noise, but it was the softest rustle, like a bedsheet or the folds of a dress. What followed it was much more alarming: a half-stifled cry, not of surprise but of something like pain.

  Seren gripped the door handle and turned it. “My lady?” She would wait only a moment for an answer, she told herself.

  But Arianrod’s laughter was unforced and only a little weak, and the tension in Seren’s body eased. “You may as well come in,” she called. “I expect you were about to break the door down anyway.”

  Seren slipped into the room immediately, pulling the door shut behind her. But what she saw only brought back the concern she’d just been able to shake off: Arianrod was sitting on the bed, one fist pressed against her heart, the fingers of the other hand gripping the footboard so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her face was too pale and her eyes were too bright, and her breath came in short, shallow gasps, as if she couldn’t quite catch it.

  “What should I do?” Seren asked.

  Arianrod eyed her lazily, but neither hand relaxed, and her breathing didn’t steady. “There’s nothing you can do, I’m afraid. Do try not to look so aghast, if you would.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” She tried to laugh again, but it came out shaky and soon died away. “I have been foolish, that’s all. I overexerted—” She gritted her teeth, and a shudder passed through her, lowering her head almost to her outstretched arm. “It is nothing,” she insisted. “It will not last. There is no need to fret over me so.”

  “It will not get worse?” Seren asked.

  “No.”

  “You know that for certain?”

  “I do.” Still she smiled. “I was often like this when I was a child. I learned myself better as I grew up, as we all do. It will pass. It always passes.”

  “So this has happened before?”

  “I just said that, didn’t I?”

  Seren tried to think, but she could not recall ever seeing Arianrod in so much pain before, not without a readily discernible cause. “When has it happened?”

  Arianrod sighed. “It only happens when I am not careful. I told you, it never lasts. It’s none of your concern.” Her voice did seem slightly stronger, or maybe it was just Seren’s imagination. She even eased her grip on the footboard somewhat. After only a couple of deep breaths, she was able to let go of it entirely, and she reached down to loosen her shoes. “Seren, the best thing for me now is sleep. Make sure Elgar doesn’t send an army in through the window; if anything even slightly less dire should occur, I wish to remain undisturbed.” Without any further ceremony, she let her shoes fall to the floor and spread herself out on the bed. Her hands had finally relaxed, though her chest still trembled when she breathed.

  Seren hesitated. “You’re just going to—”

  Arianrod’s voice was muffled, the hand she waved halfhearted at best. “Seren, I am used to falling asleep in my chair. The lack of proper nightclothes will do me no harm, I assure you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  If his new crown caused him any discomfort, King Kelken the Fourth gave no sign of it. It seemed rather large for such a small boy, its golden tines sharp as spearpoints, but the old advisor had managed to put it on straight, and Varalen surprised himself by being unable to find anything comical in the image. He had never had the privilege of attending a coronation before, but he couldn’t say he’d ever particularly wanted to, or that he’d found this one particularly impressive. It was the result that mattered: the king of Reglay had been newly minted, and Elgar and Lady Margraine, whether reluctantly or not, had lent the affair some amount of legitimacy by bearing witness to it. Then again, Varalen thought, it wasn’t as if Elgar had had a reputation as a paragon of virtue before, so why should anyone be surprised if he moved to destroy a kingdom the moment its ruler had finished feasting him?

  The pavilion King Kelken’s men had built was more of a simple awning than anything else, and even that wasn’t really necessary: you could barely see the sun, but it didn’t look as if it was going to rain. The boy king, raised high in his seat of honor, was as painfully earnest as ever, his still-childish face oddly matured by that solemn, wistful look. Varalen did not think he had ever seen him smi
le.

  On the other hand, Lady Margraine’s good humor seemed fully restored. She smirked with new vivacity, and if she had rested ill, she hid it surpassingly well. When he had first seen her, Elgar had tried staring her down once or twice, as if expecting her to shrink from his gaze. But she had met his looks with such exquisite insolence that he soon averted his eyes, slumping into his seat with a frown. Seren still stood at her side, just slightly behind her chair, and Varalen found that he still couldn’t look at her, not even now that Elgar knew all that had passed between them.

  The young king had scant entertainment for his guests: “I had thought to have minstrels at least,” he said, with another of those somber glances, “but the men tell me they have yet to arrive. I hope they haven’t gotten into trouble along the way, but I am a little … relieved, I think. It just didn’t seem right. I didn’t have the heart for music, in the end.” Either he was still too saddened over his father’s death, or else the thought of granting any pleasure to a known enemy stung him. Perhaps it was both, and Varalen couldn’t help but respect either. Dammit.

  Had he not known better, he would have wondered if King Kelken was depressed, too caught up in the sickness of grief to pay much mind to what lay around him. But they could never have all been brought together like this by someone in the throes of despair. King Kelken knew what he was doing, whether or not he liked it. And he still had hope; even Varalen could tell that much.

  In the absence of more joyful sport, they had been obliged to watch King Kelken’s soldiers practice in the courtyard. It was a rather dreary affair to say the least: the damp, foggy air; the cold, imposing stone that rose up all around them; and only the grim mimicry of warfare for entertainment. Varalen would almost have donned motley and played the fool himself if it would’ve broken the tension that surrounded them.

  “I am sorry,” King Kelken said, for what must have been the fifth time. “Perhaps the bards will yet arrive, or perhaps—”

  Elgar finally spoke, leaning slightly forward to meet Kelken’s gaze. “Perhaps, Your Grace, since we are both fortunate enough to have so many men here, we might use them to make ourselves some sport? In keeping with the sober spirit of the occasion, of course, but you cannot be faulted for wanting a little excitement on a day that has brought so much to you.”

  King Kelken hesitated only a moment; Varalen waited for his eyes to flick to the old man who was his advisor, but they did not. “Excitement?” he mused. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about contests of arms—I couldn’t ever join in, of course, so everyone usually tried to hide such things from me.” He rubbed one swollen leg absently. “But if it will please you, then by all means. What did you have in mind?”

  Elgar smiled, leaning farther forward still. “Well, I’m sure we couldn’t set up a tourney on such short notice, but we might have a competitive match or two, don’t you think? I know several soldiers of mine who’d be eager to show off, and I’m sure you have the same.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” King Kelken said thoughtfully. “I haven’t asked them.” He pondered a few moments more, then seemed to realize they were all still awaiting his answer. “Oh, but call whatever men you wish, of course. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

  After he had sent a man to the northwest tower to summon more of his soldiers, Elgar looked to Lady Margraine. “Your Grace? Have you combatants to join our little game? I know you did not bring so many with you.”

  She smirked at him as cheerfully as ever. “I have enough, but I don’t know that I want to wear them out in a pointless contest. They’ll have real killing to do soon enough, I’m sure.”

  He stroked his beard. “My apologies. I forget women can be so squeamish about these things. You are not well used to the realities of the battlefield, as I recall.”

  “Why, I did not realize you were accustomed to take to the front lines. That is not what I have heard.” She laughed. “Gravis is always telling me the same thing, you know—how I have only the theory of war, and none of the practice. I generally tell him I have to keep things sporting somehow.”

  Elgar’s brow was furrowed. “Sporting?”

  “I have only the theory of war, as you all say,” the marquise said, leaning back lazily in her chair. “But I’ve been doing rather well for myself so far, wouldn’t you say? I imagine if I were to master this practice of warfare that women know nothing about … well, then I’d really be a nuisance to you.” She could not have missed the glower on Elgar’s face, yet she barely looked at him. “I do wish you wouldn’t group all women together like that, though; you’re liable to give offense.”

  “How is it I’ve offended you, Your Grace?” Elgar nearly growled.

  She waved a hand at him. “Oh, not me, of course. I was talking about Seren.”

  Her bodyguard was so stoic and so placid that Varalen doubted Elgar could’ve offended her if he spat in her face. “Seren is by far the best of my guards, and has been ever since she first came to me,” the marquise continued. “Did you think I would choose anyone lesser to guard me personally? So she handles the practice of warfare, as it were, in my stead, woman or not.”

  Elgar eyed her skeptically. “She is really so very fine? She does not look like much.”

  Lady Margraine laughed. “How would you like her to look? They say Sebastian Valens was about as tall and as wide about the shoulders as any man, yet he was known as the greatest swordsman of his time.”

  “The greatest swordsman, but a rather bad bodyguard, as he killed the man he was sworn to protect,” Varalen reminded her. “For your sake, I hope it’s not a female Valens you’re after, Your Grace.”

  She smiled—or perhaps it was more accurate to say she kept smiling—but said nothing.

  “Ah,” Elgar said as a line of dark-cloaked soldiers began streaming into the courtyard. “Here we are.” He turned to King Kelken. “I hope you at least will indulge me in a bit of battle, Your Grace? The lady loves to boast of her favorite, but it seems she will not put her to the test.”

  “Oh, I shall if you like,” Lady Margraine replied, with no more concern than if they were discussing the appropriate fashions for a midwinter ball. She looked up at the woman in her shadow. “Seren, it seems my word on your abilities will not satisfy the imperator. Go stand in the courtyard and await his pleasure.”

  Seren’s expression had not changed while the marquise and Elgar were discussing her, and it did not now; she bowed to Lady Margraine and walked briskly to the center of the courtyard, as the soldiers standing there pulled back toward the walls to create a makeshift arena. Elgar ran his eyes very carefully across the ranks of the men he had summoned, nodding once or twice. Then he turned back to the marquise. “I wonder,” he said slowly, “if you might go so far as to oblige me in another matter.”

  She raised her eyebrows, but the set of her mouth said she had guessed it already. “What might that be?”

  Elgar pressed his fingertips together. “I only thought it might be best if we marked such an auspicious occasion with true blood sport, not merely the mockery of it.”

  At that, King Kelken’s eyebrows lifted as well, and his expression showed nothing but alarm. “You can’t mean—not to the death, surely?”

  “Why not? Such displays were common in the past, and I am given to understand that in Lanvaldis, old King Eira marked even trivial events with mortal combat, right up until his death.” Elgar turned to Varalen, and he felt himself tense at the unexpected attention. “Varalen, you spent quite some time in Lanvaldis, didn’t you? Have I spoken correctly?”

  “I … I never ventured anywhere near the Lanvaldian capital, my lord.” As you well know, he didn’t add. “But I did hear that such contests were popular in Araveil, yes.” There was some movement in the corner of his eye that seemed out of place; Varalen turned his head, but by then all he could notice was that King Kelken’s scarred retainer seemed to be scowling more deeply than usual.

  Elgar spread his hands. “There, you see? I
t’s traditional enough, and the lady and I would do you honor to risk our men for this day’s sport. Provided you are amenable, of course,” he added to the lady in question.

  She shrugged, but she was considering it intently enough to frown. “Very well,” she said slowly, “but only if whatever opponent you send against her wears no plate. Otherwise she might suffer a scratch or two, and I dislike for anything of mine to be damaged without sufficient cause.”

  Elgar smiled. “Confident, aren’t you? Well, I’ll not dispute those terms.” To the king, he said, “And you, Your Grace? Have you further objections?”

  King Kelken was silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “The ones fighting are in service to the two of you, not to me,” he finally said. “As long as they risk their lives freely, I suppose I should respect their decision.” He set his jaw. “But my sister must have no part in this. She has no stomach for anything bloody.”

  “I rather suspected as much,” Lady Margraine said. “By all means, let her amuse herself as she prefers.”

  “Of course,” Elgar agreed, as the king nodded to his sister. She slipped away gratefully, and Varalen found he could not blame her. “Now let me see…” He examined the assembled soldiers thoroughly enough, but it did not take him long to come to a decision. “Colm.” The man who stepped forward was tall and thickset, a bastard sword strapped to his side. True to the terms of the fight, he was wearing only leather, not plate, which suggested he was not among Elgar’s elite. On the other hand, if Elgar knew him by name, he was no common soldier. Perhaps, as with more than a few of Elgar’s men, he’d grown up too poor to buy armor and by now was too accustomed to fighting without it.

  “Weapons?” Elgar asked the marquise.

  She shrugged again. “Why not let them use what they have to hand? If you need another blade, I’m sure the king can provide one.”