“We await the prince high,” Ashlund said, but he gave no orders as to where or how Chriani and the others should wait. He simply watched, his gaze ignoring Kathlan but flitting from Chriani to Dargana with the same cold revulsion.
In Kathlan, Chriani saw a rapt expression as she paced slowly across the throne room floor. A great mosaic was set in the open space between tables, showing the falcon of Brandis that was the standard of Brandishear, its wings unfurled, tight knots of blue and white tile marking a great circle around it. He realized he didn’t know if she’d ever actually stepped within the throne room before, but he could feel her reaction to the power in the chamber, seemingly clinging to the walls even when the great room stood empty.
He remembered his own first time staring down at the great falcon that marked the floor. A child of ten years, only two years past being pulled off the street by Barien when Chriani’s attempt at cutting the sergeant’s purse had gone very wrong. He remembered being presented to Chanist, feeling the power and the authority that resonated within him. He remembered the ceremony and the writ that had made him a tyro and Barien’s adjutant, the prince high’s hand on his shoulder, the ice-blue eyes watching him.
A jumble of images and impressions that could be recognized from his own life were circling him at a distance, shuffled and faded in his mind, like he might be having that life told to him by someone else. Too many of those images were Kathlan, reminding him that he had brought her into this. He had used what little power he had to get her the chance she had always deserved. Letting her step away from the stables, letting her be what she could be. He was hoping desperately now that her closeness to him wouldn’t make her pay for his mistakes.
The prince high was on his way. Chriani would know soon enough.
“Who is she?” Kathlan’s voice was a subtle whisper at his ear where she had made her way over to him. Chriani knew what she was asking, looking to see Dargana pacing around the fire, staring to the flames and seemingly deep in thought.
“I’m sorry you’re angry with me,” he said quietly. He turned himself to keep his back to Ashlund, not wanting to worry about whether the captain could read the movement of his lips as he spoke.
“I’m not angry, Chriani. But I’m tired and I’m cold, and I don’t know what’s going on because you haven’t told me.”
“I did tell you. She’s the Ilvani who captured Lauresa and I, who helped us in the end. She led a war-band, and the last I saw of her was in the Ghostwood. I promise you, if I had any thought I’d see her again, I’d have given you her name.”
“She captured you? You said she saved you.”
“She did save me. Me and the princess both. Tried to kill me first, though. You know what that’s like.”
It was a calculated attempt at humor, but Kathlan’s expression didn’t warm. “What was she saying on the street? About the prince high still being alive?”
The cold of the question seized Chriani, held his mind tight. It was something he should have been thinking on, he realized. Using the time of their walk to the Bastion to come up with an answer.
“The Valnirata hate Chanist,” he said simply. “They call him the Ilvani Scourge for besting them in the Incursions like he did. The exiles are no exception.”
“She said you didn’t have it in you. What in fate’s name does that even mean?”
Chriani took a quick glance over his shoulder at Ashlund, saw the captain focused on Dargana. A fear twisted through him that he had to fight to speak over, his whispered words carrying an impossible weight in this place. “She and I are kin somehow. My father was of her war-clan, and an exile like her. I’m a traitor to both sides in her eyes.”
It was a good tale. He found himself almost believing it, even as Kathlan shook her head, incredulous.
“And you brought her here?”
“She brought us here, Kath. She told me while you ran to the inn that she’s got a message for the prince high. I don’t know what it’s about, but we’ll see it through.”
Chriani heard his words hang heavy in the silence. He had no idea whether Kathlan believed them, no idea what was happening. He had brought her into this, and there was no sense how it might end.
From under her arm, Kathlan thrust Magus Milyan’s satchel into Chriani’s hands. Then she stepped away from him without a word, suddenly intent on the bookcases along the east wall. Chriani glanced behind him again, saw Ashlund watching him this time.
He made his way over to Dargana by the fire, half expecting Ashlund to call him back, but the captain maintained his stony silence. The exile was still staring to the flames, but she raised her head as he approached, her dark eyes bright in the firelight.
“How are your wounds?” he asked her.
“Healed clean and numb as a week-old horse’s kick, no thanks to your mud magic.” The magic of animys and the healers was an Ilmari tradition, and so the Ilvani shunned it. The Valnirata had their own traditions of herbalism and alchemy that were said to be nearly as effective, though few among the Ilmari had ever seen such healing. Eighteen months past in the Ghostwood, Chriani had become one of those few.
“You’re welcome,” he said coldly.
“As are you, half…” Dargana checked herself in response to the coldness of Chriani’s gaze. She smiled. “As are you, lord. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Why are you here?” Chriani shifted to put his back to Ashlund again. “The truth, and quickly. I have my own business with the Prince High Chanist, and I don’t want us at cross purposes. It’s a short walk in here under guard, but you need to follow my lead if you want to walk out again.”
“The Ilvani hunt you for the bloodblade, Chriani.”
Dargana’s words caught him by absolute surprise. A darkness had slipped into her expression that Chriani didn’t understand, but whatever game the exile was playing, he had no time for it. “Answer my question.”
“I just did, lord. The blade you carried in the Ghostwood. The narneth móir wielded by Caradar, the exile warlord, who killed your Prince High Chanist’s father and put the son on the Brandishear throne. The blade that Chanist seized from Caradar when he cut him down and ended the Incursions. The Ilvani want it. I’m here so that you and I can make sure they fail.”
For the eighteen months since Chriani had ridden back from his long road to Aerach, the dagger that had killed Barien had been far from his thoughts. Never forgotten, but set aside in that place within his mind where it could be hidden from sight. But even as Chriani tried to process what the exile was saying, the side doors opened at the far end of the throne room.
As if he might have heard Dargana speak his name, the Prince High Chanist was there, stepping quickly into the room as the doors were closed by guards standing watch in the hall behind him. He was dressed in grey beneath a uniform jacket of the prince’s guard, as he almost always was. His head was bare, the prince having never worn a crown to the best of Chriani’s knowledge. His only symbol of rank was the armband of his own company and regiment, the falcon of Brandishear set in gold thread at his shoulder.
Chanist looked older. It was Chriani’s first thought upon seeing him.
He had expected anger. He had expected to feel a surge of the cold threats that had carried him from the throne room the last time he and Chanist spoke. But all those thoughts were muted suddenly beneath a sense of unfamiliarity, of a year and a half during which the prince high seemed to have aged more than Chriani would ever have expected. The shoulders were stooped, the pale hair gone more to grey. He had a picture of a stronger Chanist in his mind but couldn’t find it for some reason. A memory of a memory.
Ashlund turned to face the prince, as did Chriani and Kathlan, both of them approaching to where Chanist’s path toward the table would take him. Ashlund and Chriani both stopped five paces away, as was custom for those who bore arms in the presence of the prince high or his family. Kathlan held back farther. Chanist ignored them all, crossing to the table and the flagons set the
re. He poured wine for himself, well mixed with water, draining his goblet before he turned.
“My lord prince,” Ashlund murmured. Chanist finally nodded, as if only just noticing that the four of them were there.
No other guards had come in with Chanist, as would have been customary. Chriani remembered his own words on the street, spoken from haste and fear in the hope of forcing Eliana’s hand. This Ilvani agent was with me on the Clearwater Way. This was the result, then.
“You are an unexpected visitor, master Chriani.” The prince high’s voice carried its familiar weight, but Chriani sensed a weariness in it. “And bringing even more unexpected guests.”
Chanist’s blue eyes settled on Dargana, who hadn’t moved from her place by the fire. Chriani felt himself moving toward the prince high as if by instinct, cautious as he tried to plan how this encounter would play out. He stopped a suitable distance down the table, setting Milyan’s satchel down to the dark wood.
“My visit was as ordered, my lord prince, and to pass these reports to your war-mages.”
“I’m not accustomed to being asked to do courier service. Next time, deliver your documents directly.”
The mocking tone in the prince high’s voice was a thing Chriani remembered from their last meeting. Only the two of them then, no one else around, and Chanist revealing a kind of truth of his nature that Chriani suspected few others had ever seen. He recalled the rage in the prince high that night. His hatred of the Valnirata that had killed his father, his brother and sister, flaring as a fire in heart and mind that threatened to burn the Greatwood to the ground.
“Do you think to stop me, master Chriani?”
Chriani spoke quietly. “Are you sure you want Ashlund here for this, my lord prince?” A quick feint, as much to antagonize the captain as to remind Chanist of what had passed once between them.
“That’s Captain Ashlund to you, soldier.” Chanist spoke without answering the question, but Chriani saw his eyes flick from him to Kathlan, standing behind him. A kind of challenge there, like the prince high suspected that certain of the things he wouldn’t want spoken in front of his captain, Chriani would likewise be loath for Kathlan to hear.
Chanist turned his attention to Dargana. She was smiling again.
“You may all approach, as you wish.” The prince high poured for himself again before pushing the flagons toward Chriani, who noted the subtlety in the prince’s tone. An imperious attitude, but cautious. Not giving Dargana an order that he knew she would simply refuse. Masking how important she might be by showing as little interest in her as he could.
To Chriani’s surprise, the exile did approach the table, stepping up beside him. He shifted instinctively, tried to keep himself between her and Chanist as if he was worried about what she might do. She simply poured herself wine from the flagon, though. Drank it unwatered.
“Three months past,” Dargana said, “the Crithnala lands were invaded by forces of the Calala Ilvani.” She gave no preamble or warning to the subject matter, her tone suggesting that she and Chanist were somehow continuing a conversation they had started long ago. “They attacked into Nyndenu. The Ghostwood. Horse troops of Calalerean province pushed across their border in a fast assault, and the exile tribes in Nyndenu were routed. There’s been fighting to the north since then, with folk fleeing the Ghostwood and the tribes of the Kelerin Hills trying to take the fight back to the invaders. The Calala move by stealth, though. Attacking by night to avoid the notice of your patrols when they cross the Clearwater Way. Not wanting to attract Ilmari attention before their conquest is done.”
Chriani tried to conceal his surprise, even as he saw Ashlund doing the same. At the center of the table, a large map showed all the Ilmar. Its faded colors marked it as old, Chriani judged, its corners held down by steel weights. It was upside down from his position, but he could read the names of the Ilvani provinces of the Greatwood well enough.
“These matters are known,” Chanist said. “What of them?”
“You know far less than you think, prince,” Dargana sneered. A tension twisted through the room, Ashlund taking a step toward her, but Chanist waved him back. “You know that bandit activity on the Clearwater Way has increased in recent weeks,” the exile said. “You know that carontir patrols along the frontier with Calalerean have pushed out to attack Ilmari farmsteads. They hold you to the frontier, keeping your own patrols from pushing too far into the forest. But you don’t know why, and you won’t know until I tell you.”
Most folk of Brandishear saw Calalerean and the Valnirata nation as synonymous, focused on the Ilvani of that northwest province where it abutted the most populous reaches of the principality. Even for the loremasters of Brandishear and the other principalities, though, the politics of the Valnirata remained a subtle and secretive subject.
The treaty of the Ilmar, which Chanist had forged in the aftermath of driving back the Ilvani Incursions, held the Ilmar nations together in a pact of mutual animosity toward the Valnirata. All four princes had made agreement that should any future incursion come from the dark forest, all four of their principalities would respond as one. But there had been no formal contact or treaty between the Ilmar nations and the Ilvani of the Greatwood in a hundred generations. No ambassadors, no heralds. Few opportunities for spying, with the xenophobic Ilvani taking little trade from outside the forest and allowing no Ilmari within it. As such, even the prince high’s best sages could only guess at the structure of and struggles for power that went on in the Greatwood.
“I know the minds of the Valnirata well enough, exile.” Chanist began to pace around the table, Dargana holding fast. “I know every troop count, every sortie fought on both sides of the Greatwood, as I know how those sorties increase steadily, month by month for more than a year now.”
Ashlund stepped closer as well, and Chriani could see the captain’s attention focused sharply on the bloodblade at Dargana’s back. For her part, she kept her hands in front of her and firmly on her goblet as Chanist approached. “Your call to war has been answered,” she said coldly. “Do you expect me to believe you hoped otherwise?”
“The exiles are the best fighters of the Valnirata,” Chanist said, complimenting Dargana even as he ignored her question. Weary or not, the power of the prince’s statecraft was as sharp as ever. “Calalerean rises to foment war along the Brandishear frontier, as you say. So why waste resources and risk distraction on forays to the north?”
“Because the Calala came into possession of magic in the Ghostwood. Ancient rites, and powerful. They seek to bind all the Valnirata as one, drawing on the power of the past.”
“The Ilvani live their past in every waking moment. What power could the Calala hope to seek…”
“They seek the narneth móir of Caradar, the exile king. Lost to the Valnirata in the aftermath of the Incursions. A potent symbol of Ilvani rage against the Ilmari. And a sign that war will return.”
Chriani saw Chanist pale. The prince high stepped past Dargana, Ashlund flinching. He poured himself more wine, but as he did, his gaze traced across Chriani’s. A question there.
“I believe you know that blade, prince.” Dargana smiled.
Chriani felt lightheaded suddenly. A chill was rooting beneath his still-damp tunic, though the room was warm. He felt the truth lurking beneath the animosity that swirled between Chanist and Dargana like a rising storm. He saw Kathlan from the corner of his eye. The things he hadn’t told her. The lies he carried, still.
Not that, not now.
Ashlund snarled as he pushed forward, two strides putting him between Dargana and Chanist. “You show respect to the prince high of Brandishear, Ilvani, or so help me…”
“Why a prince?” Dargana cut Ashlund off as if he wasn’t there. Ignored him as she stepped past to look at Chanist, thoughtful.
“Enough of your insolence…!” Ashlund was actually going for his sword before Chanist put a hand to his back to stop him.
The prince’s blue eye
s flashed in the captain’s direction to force him back a step, still seething. Chanist then returned his attention to Dargana, as if her question had some compelling interest to him.
“What do you mean, Ilvani?”
“I mean, Ilmari, why are you prince? Brandishear, Elalantar, Aerach, Holc, each with its prince. Aren’t there usually kings above princes in what passes for history among your people?”
“There were kings before the Empire.” Chanist said it with a hint of amusement in his tone, as if he might be talking to a child. Speaking lessons of the Empire of the Lothelecan, which had spread across the world, then vanished from the Ilmar and all other lands more than two generations before. “And war between them that never did more than die down. Someone always wanting to rule all the Ilmar lands. Under Empire, the kingdoms were regencies, split among the four provinces. When the Empire fell, there were calls for a king again, but the four regents saw the chance for war and took the titles of prince high. They agreed that none would be king, crafting alliance instead of war.”
“And allowing them to make war against the Ilvani instead.”
Chanist’s cold smile matched Dargana’s, the sight setting Chriani on edge as he watched.
“Ilvani and Ilmari were kept at peace through long years of Empire,” Chanist said. “But by the Ilvani’s fear of the Imperial Guard and nothing else. The Ilmari were content to leave the Greatwood alone…”
“While staking claim to stolen land beyond it. All the Ilmar was Ilvani once…”
“Thirty centuries ago, yes. During which time the Ilvani warred on each other until the migration of our tribes gave them something else to fight…”
“The Migration Wars…”
“Were won by the Ilmari, who forged their nations and were content to let the Valnirata live in peace. Then when the Empire fell, the war-clans of Calalerean and Laneldenar set their eyes on Brandishear and Aerach before the ink on the Ilmar treaty had dried.”
Three Coins for Confession Page 15
