The Empire's Ghost

by Isabelle Steiger

  “If you draw your sword now,” Seren said calmly, “you will die for it. Are you content to die here, for this?”

  Cadfael hesitated only a moment, all the breath going out of him in a deep sigh. Then he sheathed his blade, shook off her hand, and turned away. “No,” he said. “I have something I must do first.”

  In the silence that followed, Elgar raised himself to his knees, then got slowly to his feet. He was not shaking; he did not even seem afraid. Why in the gods’ name had he flung himself away like that? There had been something of reflex about the movement, of instinct, the way one flinches back from heat or shivers under the influence of cold. Lady Margraine had noticed it too, he was certain: she ought to have been pleased at Elgar’s apparent cowardice, but instead her eyes were thoughtful, the fingers of one hand curling and uncurling slowly.

  “Your Grace,” Elgar said to King Kelken, brushing the dust from his clothes, “I must ask that that man be summarily put to justice.”

  Varalen had expected panic to show on the boy king’s face, but he did not see it; Kelken looked as solemn as ever, and, in fact, oddly calm. “For what crime?” he asked.

  “For the crime,” Elgar snapped, “of attempting to kill me.”

  The king blinked. “Did he do that? I’m certainly not pleased with him for showing you such disrespect, but he didn’t even draw his—”

  “Only because she prevented him,” Elgar said, with an almost sullen nod at Seren.

  “No,” she said. “I did not hold him with any force. He could easily have thrown me off if he had wished to.”

  King Kelken nodded. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” he said to Elgar, “but I don’t see how it’s just for me to punish him. We are not in your lands; you are a guest here, like any other, not a ruler. He was discourteous toward you, but he did you no harm, and stopped of his own will. I wish it hadn’t happened, but beyond that…”

  Elgar scowled. “Are you truly saying you see no harm in keeping on a servant who would so flagrantly disobey your wishes?”

  The king shook his head. “Cadfael is not my servant; he is my friend. I am sorry if that was not clear. The fault is mine, for not explaining things better.” He touched his cheek. “With friends there are no orders, and as for going against my wishes … I may be angry with him, but that’s where it ends.”

  “Whether you claim to be or not,” Elgar said, “you are his king, and—”

  “He isn’t,” Cadfael finally spoke up. “I am no Reglian.”

  Rather than respond to that, Elgar hesitated, his scowl fading to a thoughtful frown as he stared at Cadfael intently. “No,” he said, very slowly. “I don’t suppose you are. Might you, in fact, be from Lanvaldis?”

  Cadfael started at that, and drew back warily. “That’s right,” he said, after several long moments of silence, and his voice was hoarse.

  Elgar shrugged, and somehow that unnerved Varalen more than the most vehement gesture would have. “In your halls, Your Grace,” he said to Kelken, “I cannot force you to see things my way. But might I inquire how long I shall have to contend with this … friend of yours in close quarters?”

  Cadfael answered that. “Not long, I assure you. I will be gone at first light, and you have my word, I will not so much as approach you until then.”

  Elgar sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to content myself with that.” He took his seat again, pressing his palms together. “What an … edifying experience all this has been.”

  But Varalen knew his master would hardly be content to leave things there. He would have his revenge for this, one way or another.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Elgar had accepted his request to clear his head but had commanded him to return within the hour. Varalen supposed he should count himself lucky that his master trusted him at least that far, but it still didn’t leave him with nearly as much time as he would have liked. He didn’t have much of a chance anyway, of course—even if he did, by some miracle, manage to find Seren alone, why would she ever want to answer his questions?

  After that little show in the courtyard, it was laughable to think of how hard he and Quentin had pushed to have her freed. We argued she was harmless! Gods, that’ll teach me to stick my neck out for an innocent again. If he had just left well enough alone and kept her there … Well, there was no use thinking about it now.

  He stumbled halfway down the next corridor and had to rest one hand against the wall to keep from falling. In that instant, while he stayed motionless and glanced aimlessly at the other end of the hall, where a perpendicular corridor formed a T shape as it crossed his own, he saw Captain Ingret come around the corner toward him, his strides swift and purposeful. He wore a sour expression, but Varalen had come to understand that he was seldom without one.

  Though the captain’s eyes flicked to him as he passed, he seemed about to leave him behind without comment. Varalen spoke up. “Are you in such a hurry to abandon your mistress, Captain?”

  The man’s voice was a tight, low growl, but that was normal too. “My presence was not required.”

  Varalen laughed. “What does that mean? Did she send you away?” Captain Ingret’s expression didn’t change, so he couldn’t tell whether he’d guessed right or not. “I wonder if that isn’t more of a relief to you than a disappointment.”

  The captain’s face hardened; Varalen hadn’t thought that was possible. “I might well ask you the meaning of that.”

  Varalen shrugged. “It’s simple enough. I merely suggested that you might not be so fond of your mistress as you could wish to be, that’s all.” He grinned. “It’s a pity: she is fair, much as I’ve tried to find her otherwise. But perhaps you find her words more disagreeable than her face is agreeable, eh?”

  “Her face,” Captain Ingret spat, “has only ever served to remind me of her mother, who was a thousand times more what a woman should be and who she does not deserve to resemble in any particular. Was that the answer you wished to hear, my lord? Now let me pass.”

  Varalen held up his hands. “I cannot block your way, I’m sure—I’m hardly a warrior. I have to earn my keep with my mind instead, so perhaps I can be forgiven for thinking too much.”

  “If you thought more, perhaps you would speak less.”

  “Aye, I’ll admit the truth of that,” Varalen said, wincing. “But my mouth’s too used to the practice, I fear. Let me ask you just one more thing: If the lady dissatisfies you so, why is it you serve her?”

  “Why do you serve your master?” the captain asked. He certainly liked turning questions back upon the asker, didn’t he?

  “Ah,” Varalen said. “Well, as to that, the imperator can be … very persuasive.” He tried to smile, but it felt wrong on his face, and he wasn’t sure how it turned out.

  Captain Ingret’s expression softened slightly, turned inward. “So can she,” he said, “but not in the way you mean.” He nodded curtly and resumed his stride. “Good afternoon, Lord Oswhent.”

  I’m not a lord, Varalen wanted to call after him, but didn’t; no doubt he’d pressed the man hard enough. Besides, his absence only increased Varalen’s chances of getting to speak with Seren alone—not that that counted for much.

  As he drew nearer to the Esthradians’ rooms, he began to hear a voice, but it was soft, too low for him to make out the words. He could not exactly tell from the sound of it, but it had to be Lady Margraine’s voice, as Seren would no doubt tire herself if she spoke so many words in a row. He edged closer and closer, not quite daring to peer around the corner, and finally the words came clearly: “… deliberately obtuse, or were you just clinging to that same outdated notion?”

  Seren’s voice was even softer, her tone very nearly like a normal person’s. “I meant what I said. It was never my intention to lie.”

  “Yes, that’s the problem,” Lady Margraine said, sounding no more troubled than she ever was. “You persist in meaning it, past all attempts at correction. At this point I really ought to be cross with you,
you know.”

  “If you are angry, I am sorry for it,” Seren said. “But I cannot control what I believe any more than you can.”

  “Hmm. How should I take that, I wonder?”

  Varalen shifted, leaning against the far wall instead of the near one and trying to crane his neck so he could see around the corner. They were facing each other, not him, and he pressed his back against the wall and stayed as quiet as he could, hoping to keep it that way.

  The marquise walked sideways a couple of steps, not quite circling her retainer. “A debt? A debt? It merely gives you pleasure to believe such a thing exists. And as for your death, I am certain I never demanded something so melodramatic as that.”

  “I know you didn’t—I know—” Seren dropped her gaze to the floor. Had she actually stammered? “But whether you admit it or not, you still—”

  The marquise’s smile did not waver, but though the movement of her arm was smooth and steady, it was also swift, cutting off whatever Seren had been about to say. She curled her fingers in the cloth at Seren’s throat, and her thumb flicked up and outward, lifting Seren’s chin so their eyes met once more. Her voice held none of the cold anger Varalen remembered so well, but it was not so languid as it was wont to be either. “Be very careful how you finish that. I still what?”

  For a moment Seren just stood there, pressing her lips together, but then she opened her mouth—and halted, stiffening. Varalen did not realize she had seen him until Lady Margraine turned his way too, and by then it was too late to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

  They both stared at him, yet Lady Margraine, far from snatching her hand back, barely even slackened her grip. And Seren met his eyes coolly, her usual staid composure unblemished by even the slightest hint of embarrassment. “Well, Lord Oswhent,” the marquise said, still smiling. “How unexpected. Is there something we can do for you?”

  Varalen bowed as best he could; the gesture felt somehow off, somehow surreal. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I was hoping I could have a word with your servant. It will not take long.”

  “That’s a word with my servant alone, I take it?” Lady Margraine asked. “You don’t imagine that’s going to be an effective way to keep secrets from me, I hope?”

  “It isn’t a secret,” Varalen said. “I just need to ask her something. I don’t care whether you listen or not.”

  Lady Margraine finally released Seren’s collar and faced him fully, tapping one fingertip against her chin. “You may ask her one question. If I tell her to answer you truthfully, she will. But if I allow that, then I get to ask you a question. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  What could she possibly have to ask him about? “That’s fine,” Varalen said.

  “Very well.” She nodded. “One question.”

  He turned to Seren. “Where is the stone?”

  Seren shook her head, but it wasn’t confusion or refusal. “There’s no point in looking for it, or in trying to steal it back. It’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Was Elgar right, then? “You mean it’s been destroyed?”

  She hesitated, then said, “For you, it is the same as if it had been destroyed. No one will ever see it again. Let that be the last word on it.”

  Lady Margraine was smirking serenely enough; this answer, at least, had pleased her. Varalen bowed again, stiffly. “If that is the truth, then I thank you for it.”

  “I cannot say that I never lie,” Seren replied. “But I prefer to tell the truth, when I can help it.”

  He looked to the marquise. “And your question, Your Grace?”

  She tilted her head. “Why my lord?”

  Varalen tried not to look taken aback, and failed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You call me Your Grace, as do most foreigners, because that is how one addresses a monarch. But we Margraines are not monarchs.” His confusion must have shown on his face, because she laughed. “We are monarchs, of course, in every way that matters, but we don’t claim to be. So in Esthrades there exists no title higher than my lady or my lord.”

  She leaned back against the wall. “But with Elgar, I am given to understand it is quite different. The title he has chosen to go along with Imperator is Your Eminence, is it not? And yet you call him only my lord. Why does he allow such a thing?”

  Varalen could still remember that day well enough, though it felt as if ten years separated him from the man he’d been then. I’m like to suffocate under all your ridiculous rules, he had told Elgar. I can barely remember them all, and there are always more. How much deference do you think you can wring out of a man whose son you’ve stolen? You know his fate. You know his condition. And yet you still think I have it in me to bear endless burdens, when my son could die tomorrow even if you spare him?

  He could not possibly tell Lady Margraine that, yet he doubted he’d be able to lie to her. Finally he smiled as best he could. “The answer to that … The answer to that is that even a little man can be pushed only so far,” he said, “Your Grace.”

  * * *

  “She didn’t say destroyed?” Elgar asked for the third time. “Just gone?”

  “Just gone.” By this time Varalen was almost starting to get used to the lack of agitation, the almost-relief. Elgar was avid, but not especially anxious. If only the same could be said of him always.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Well, close enough. It’s as I told you, isn’t it? The rogue piece is eliminated, but we still command the board.”

  “Something like that, my lord.” If Elgar wasn’t going to worry about a bloody magic rock, why in the world should he? Better to turn his master’s mind to more practical matters. “Now, if I may…”

  Elgar frowned. “You’re going to ask me something irritating again, aren’t you?”

  He really ought to just keep his mouth shut. Why had he never learned to just keep his mouth shut? “My lord, if you told me you wished to give up your plans for the continent, no one would be happier than I. But as I doubt that’s true—”

  “You may well doubt it,” Elgar said fiercely, sitting up, his right hand clenching into a fist. “What other dream have I ever had but Elesthene? Once, just once in our history, this land came under the sway of one man. That proves it can be done. I will fulfill his legacy or I will die trying.”

  “It proves,” Varalen said, “that it is not meant to be. Vespasian Darrow held on to his empire for only a handful of months, and he … he had every advantage.” According to all accounts, Darrow had been all the things Elgar was not: he was young and handsome and charismatic, beloved by nobles and commoners alike, even some of those who eventually decided to take up arms against the Citadel. Just not by his sworn knight, it seemed.

  “Vespasian Darrow was betrayed,” Elgar insisted. “That’s all.”

  “That’s all? My lord, have you forgotten that there was a rebellion, that the people rioted in the streets—”

  “Stirred up by traitors. If Darrow had executed Radcliffe and Trevelyan when he’d had the chance, if he had only known Sebastian Valens for a faithless dog the first time he laid eyes on him, he never would have lost his grip on the empire.”

  That was debatable, but Varalen knew better than to debate it. “Either way, my lord, since you are still determined to pursue this goal, I must urge you again: take this castle back before it is too late.”

  Elgar turned his face aside, scuffing at the arm of the chair with his nails. “No.”

  “My lord—”

  “No. That word, from me, should be enough, Varalen. Don’t try me in this manner.”

  “I’m trying to advise you!” Varalen shouted, in a kind of hysteria. “That’s what you wanted me to do, isn’t it? And yet every time I try to turn you toward something that makes sense—”

  “It does make sense.” Elgar’s voice was subdued, almost—gods, almost contrite. “Armed with only the information you have, you think that retaking Mist’s Edge is the best choice. And you are right, so far as that goes. But I know more th
an you do, and if you knew what I know…” He trailed off, his jaw clenching. “This place is not meant for my possession.”

  “Because of the ghosts?” Varalen couldn’t help asking.

  Elgar smiled thinly. “I do not insist that ghosts exist. But neither do I insist, as you do, that they do not.”

  “But if it’s ghosts you fear—”

  “I fear a warning,” Elgar said. “I fear a warning that was made to me in this very place.”

  Varalen frowned. “But you haven’t ever been here before, have you?”

  “I haven’t,” Elgar agreed. “But the warning was meant for me all the same. And before you roll your damned eyes and sigh at me … well, let me tell you a story, and then you can tell me what you would do, if you ever found yourself in a similar situation.”

  Varalen rubbed at his face. “A story? Well, as you like.”

  Elgar glanced suspiciously about him for a few moments, but finally he nodded, clasping his hands in front of him. “In the weeks before I abandoned Mist’s Edge, I had about a hundred and fifty soldiers inside the castle at any given time. I sent somewhat more than a third of them to reinforce a garrison on the southern border, and I gave orders for them to remain there until further notice. This state of affairs continued for about a fortnight while I considered whether to send any more men to replace the ones I’d taken out of Mist’s Edge. The castle didn’t seem to me to be in any danger of being retaken—the Rayls had certainly been trying for long enough, after all—but a bit of caution might’ve been warranted, considering its strategic value. I ultimately decided to send more men, but before I could give the order, six sentries from Mist’s Edge arrived in the capital. They informed me that none of my other soldiers had left the castle alive.”

  Varalen swallowed hard. He’d never heard the slightest whisper about this. “But what had happened to the rest of them?”

  “I questioned the lot of them, not to say I found any of them especially coherent. They had all been on watch outside the walls, and they had returned from their rounds to find the gates lying open and three distinct piles of bodies in the courtyard.”