Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  The archbishop smiled coldly. “No, your royal highness, they are not going to elevate me to the Sacred College.”

  “Pity, that. I understand the winters are rather more bearable down south.”

  “Indubitably.”

  “Anyhow, I’m sure a celestine or two would be an ornament to the realm and all, but I suppose three kings can achieve a great deal with the use of two legions over the course of three reigns.” The Red Prince seemed to think he had made an effective point, and Theuderic rather considered that he had, but they were both rapidly disabused of the notion.

  “That is because you only think of conquest! The battle and its aftermath. Ha!” The king pounded the table, and it shook under the impact. “Where would we be today if the second of our name thought as you do? Or the fifth? For every generation of conquest, there must be three, or four, or even five devoted to consolidation of the gains made!”

  “Consolidation?” Theuderic almost laughed out loud at the expression of dismay and disbelief on the prince’s ruddy face. His superior, D’Arseille, knew no such restraint, and his mirth earned an irritated glance from the king. “Where is the glory in that?”

  “I realize this may come as a surprise to your royal highness, but it is the opinion of this council, and I daresay the entire realm, that there is a larger objective to your future reign than the mere maximization of your personal glory.”

  “Enough, D’Arseille!” snapped the Bishop de Chalaons. “Your Royal Highness, you need not fear your reign is likely to enjoy a period of the sort of peace and prosperity that your youth and energy appear to find so distasteful. Indeed, we already appear to be rapidly approaching a sword age of the sort that inevitably requires men of your talents and disposition. And, as such, it is the belief of this council that you will be admirably well suited for the times.”

  “Even so, a king must learn to distinguish the important from the merely urgent.” The Marechal de Savonne, Lord Antoine de Beaumille, spoke for the first time. He was a tall, distinguished man with thick white hair and an aristocratic face that was marred by a white scar that cut diagonally across the left side of his face. “Montrove, the Iles des Loup, the inevitable peasant uprising here and there, the next rebellious noble, these are all urgent matters one must face. But even as you address them, your royal highness, the good of the realm demands that you also consider the distant future. It will be upon you sooner than you imagine.”

  He directed a significant look toward the grandmagicien, who acknowledged the marechal with an ironic smile. Looking around at the others, Theuderic suddenly realized that the entire Haut Conseil was well aware of L’Academie’s grand project. Indeed, it was not impossible that they knew rather more about it than he did, despite his direct involvement in it.

  “You mentioned the Iles des Loup,” the prince told the marechal. “It was concerning that very matter that I wished to speak to the council.”

  “Of course.” De Beaumille’s manner was so relaxed that it was easy for Theuderic to forget this was a man whom even the prince himself must salute and obey. “I have no doubt you wish to request the ships required to transport the royal army, flush with its victory over the late Duc de Montrove, across the White Sea.”

  If the prince was annoyed at being anticipated so easily, he showed no sign of it. “I do indeed, my lord marechal.”

  “And how many ships do you think you require?”

  “As many are needed to transport eight thousand men and their mounts.”

  “But you will not be transporting eight thousand men. I will give you two thousand and the ships to carry them. And that is all.”

  Instead of attempting to argue with de Beaumille, the prince turned to his father and raised his hands in protest. “What is the sense of only taking two thousand men to the Isles de Loup? That’s not enough to conquer them! It’s not enough do much more than reinforce that fortress they call Ragnarborg, and for all we know it may not even be enough to guarantee holding it for more than a few months. I can’t be expected to make any headway against an island full of ulfin with only two thousand men, even if they’re all cavalry!”

  “Nor are you expected to, Charles. We have our councilors for a reason. Listen to Antoine, then tell me if you still want to plead your case. I assure you, I will listen to it.”

  One of the things Theuderic most respected about the prince, despite his impatience, was that he knew when to fight and when to retreat. He nodded to his father and bowed respectfully toward de Beaumille. “My Lord Marechal, I should be grateful for your instruction.”

  “The honor is mine, your royal highness. Now, I invite you to consider the question of why the Duc de Montrove considered himself able to revolt against the crown this year, setting aside the fact that events subsequently demonstrated the foolishness involved in doing so.”

  “Why he was able…do you mean to ask why he revolted or why he had the means? He had the means because he was the ruler of a large and wealthy duchy, which mistakenly led him to believe he had sufficient manpower to fend off the royal army. As for why, I suppose it was because he’s an arrogant bastard like damn near every other bloody noble in the realm.”

  “He had the means ten years ago. He loved the House of Mirid in no greater measure ten years ago than he did this spring. So why revolt now?”

  The prince looked at Theuderic. Theuderic shrugged. He couldn’t think of anything specific that could have triggered the duc’s ill-fated rebellion either.

  “Do you recall the last serious Dalarn raid within our borders?” de Beaumille asked.

  “It was seven, no, eight years ago,” the prince answered slowly. Then he smiled, exposing his big yellow teeth. “Ah, I see. The Duc de Montrove was the Warden of the North Coast. Since the reavers were uncharacteristically quiet for the last few years, he was able to use the warden’s subsidy to build up his army instead of spending them on ships, scouts, and forts.”

  “And what does that suggest about the Dalarn?”

  “They’re desperate and hard-pressed. But we already knew that!”

  “Yes, we did. But that’s not the significant conclusion. What the failure of the reavers to reave suggests to me is that they are not only desperate, but they have lost control of the sea as well. And the only thing I can imagine that would cause the reavers who have harried our coasts for centuries to lose control of the sea is that the wolf-creatures have built themselves an effective navy.”

  “Ugh,” the king groaned. “Although I suppose we should have considered the possibility. After all, they managed to get across the sea somehow when they invaded us during my grandfather’s reign.”

  “I think you’re overestimating their capabilities, my lord marechal.” The grandmagicien waved his hand, a little languidly, over his goblet of wine. “I don’t think we can safely conclude the ulfin have done anything more than provide themselves with ships that sail faster than the Dalarn ships do. The Dalarn don’t fight ship to ship, so there’s no reason to assume that the Witchbreed do either. The reason they’ve forced the reavers to port could be as simple as the fact that the wolf demons are physically stronger and can therefore row faster than the reavers do. Or, it could be that the wolves haven’t taken to sea at all, merely that the reavers are too busy trying to stay alive to put any effort into raiding our coast.”

  The prince nodded and put up his hand in royal submission. “My lords, I take your points. There is a great deal we do not know about the current state of the Dalarn clans or the degree to which the ulfin are presently ruling the Iles des Loup. Obviously it behooves us to learn more before we contemplate our next action, which is why you are only providing me with two thousand men, Marechal, as it that be enough to fend off any small attacks without tempting me to launch an offensive.”

  “It is, of course, highly unusual that the heir to the throne should be permitted to lead such a perilous reconnaissance,” the Archbishop said sourly.

  “I have three more sons, each more
capable than the last,” the king said with a hearty laugh.

  That was not entirely true, as Theuderic knew well. There were four royal princes, but of the four, only the Red Prince was truly fitted for kingship.

  “How many mages can I have?” the prince asked, giving Theuderic a sideways glance.

  “You may have two,” his father replied. “I can’t imagine you’ll require any more than that, as there are no records of the wolf-creatures showing any capacity for battle magic, or any other kind of magic, for that matter. However, you may not take the magus here, as I have other uses for his particular talents.”

  Louis-Charles exchanged a quizzical glance with him.

  Theuderic shrugged. He hadn’t been given any intimation of the conseil’s intentions. He was merely pleased to discover that the Academie debacle looked unlikely to redound upon his head.

  “It is my honor to serve His Royal Majesty according to his will,” he said smoothly, bowing toward the king as he repeated the salient part of the vow he’d sworn upon the completion of his training.

  “Do spare us your false humility, de Merovech,” said the grandmagicien, all but rolling his eyes. “The reason you are here is because the Lord Archbishop has requested you to serve as this conseil’s eyes and ears in the embassy to Amorr. Since the Amorrans take nearly as much exception to the esoteric arts as the lords of the Golden Circle do, and because you managed to penetrate the walls of Malkan without being discovered, it is my considered belief that you are the most likely candidate to survive a trip to that unenlightened city.”

  Theuderic nodded. The grandmagicien was almost surely right, in his considered opinion. And since the southerners didn’t permit any magic at all in their empire, whereas the Malkanians simply refused to permit foreign mages to enter, not getting himself in trouble would be nothing more than a simple matter of not using his magic. Of course, events often had a way of putting one’s self-discipline to the test. But for every magical solution, there were usually several alternatives that even the most benighted did not find intrinsically objectionable.

  “May I ask the conseil about my purpose?” He addressed the archbishop, but his eyes were on the marechal.

  “Ostensibly, you will be the captain of the military escort for the embassy accompanying the scot, utilizing your secular title.” To his surprise, it was de Beaumille who answered him. “The King has already granted the dispensation until your return. Given the amount of silver being transported, it is entirely credible to have a retinue of a size appropriate to your rank. However, both of the senior clerics will answer to you as head of the delegation, because, God and the Sanctified Father willing, both will be remaining in Amorr as newly appointed princes of the Church.”

  “Will we be traveling by sea?”

  The connetable looked at the king and the grandmagicien in confusion before spreading his hands. “Why would you go by sea?”

  “Because otherwise, we will have to travel through Malkan, and it is my understanding that there is a death sentence on my head there.”

  “You were there under the guise of an impoverished mercenary captain, de Merovech.” The grandmagicien dismissed his concerns. “In the extremely unlikely event anyone notices any similarity between the royal ambassador to the Sanctified Father and a mercenary who disappeared last summer, you’ll have twenty horse and fifty foot to help you convince them otherwise. Is there anyone in particular you deem likely to recognize you, seigneur?”

  Theuderic remembered the astonished look on the face of a young Malkanian mage at the moment Theuderic’s steel blade had entered his throat. The lad had been so confident in his skills, never imagining that he faced a trained royal battlemage instead of a fugitive wardog. “No, Grandmagicien, I don’t believe there is.”

  “Then it is settled,” declared the king. “Though, if you don’t mind, seigneur de Thoneaux, do try not to get yourself killed or start a war while you’re passing through. I don’t suppose there is any chance your elf lady will be willing to stay at L’Academie and assist with the spell-working in your absence?”

  “I should say it is impossible, Your Majesty. I believe she will prefer to accompany me on my travels, if she does not wish to return to her people in Merithaim. She does not appear to have any great affection for my colleagues. Nor, I fear, they for her.”

  There was a flicker of dark amusement in D’Arseille’s deep-set eyes, and Theuderic knew the grandmagicien was thinking of the reports of her behavior he’d received after the debacle with the dragon. “I could not concur more with the comte. The Lady Everbright has helped us enormously, but as she has already told us everything she knows and can no longer work spells herself, it would be as ungrateful as it is unnecessary to forcibly retain her if she wishes to depart.”

  The king pounded the arm of his chair, clearly uninterested in the mundane details. “Very well. In that case, I give her leave to depart with you, if that is indeed her desire, and Magicien, or rather, Comte, I hope you will convey the crown’s appreciation for her efforts to her. D’Arseille will give you your instructions tomorrow as well as a royal warrant and credentials, as you will be departing the three days from now.”

  “As you command, your majesty.” Theuderic knew a dismissal when he heard one. “My lords. Prince Charles.”

  The Red Prince caught his eye as he finished bowing and turned to go. “This is just a scouting expedition, Theudo. You can come along when we go back in force.”

  Theuderic smiled at the prince. He had no doubt Charles-Philippe would do exactly as he intended. In fact, by the time he returned, he wouldn’t be terribly surprised to learn that the prince had conquered the isles with only the meager force given him by the marechal.

  SEVERA

  Severa thought that if she had to listen to one more tale concerning to whom one of the less discerning daughters of the village peasantry was granting the pleasure of her dubious favors, she would demand the flogging of the entire female population of the estate staff. It wasn’t that the servants in the city gossipped any less, but at least when she was residing at the domus in Amorr, there were far more interesting rumors to be heard and stories to be told. Her great-grandfather had built what were really rather civilized baths in the nearby village, but Severa increasingly found herself inclined to use the smaller one on the grounds even though it lacked a tepidarium.

  It was quiet and isolated, and about all it had in common with the city’s great social center was clean water in varying degrees of temperature, but bathing in lonely silence was to be preferred to the endless chatter about who was sleeping with whom. She would have been dreadfully bored too, were it not for her brother’s letters, which were delivered faithfully every week by her father’s messengers. Their regular arrival every second or third day convinced her that he was up to something, although what that could be she could not imagine. It was not like him to remain at a distance when the Senate was in session, nor to stay in close contact with his clients or anyone else in the city when he had retired to his estate in Salventum to escape the worst of the summer’s heat.

  Aulus Severus Patronus might have reached his fifty-ninth year, but Severa found it impossible to imagine that he finally decided to relinquish his grasp on power in the Senate to his many rivals. Indeed, it was easier to imagine that he would force Death to relinquish its skeletal grasp on him, such was the force of his indomitable will. It was unwise to have crossed him, Severa freely admitted that to herself now, and foolish to think the mere stubbornness of a young woman could hope to conquer the resolve of one who had broken many far stiffer spines than hers.

  She sighed, thinking about Silicus Clusius, the extraordinarily handsome young gladiator who had captured her heart from the very first time she’d seen him. His dark, smoldering eyes still held her fast, penetrating her dreams with all the savagely burning intensity he brought to the sands of the arena. She was no less his victim than the luckless men who died before his blade, and she was more of a prize than
he could ever have hoped to win.

  Alas, after being caught sneaking out to meet him, her tears and her pleading had availed her nothing, and her father had unceremoniously packed her off to the rural countryside in Salventum, the center of House Severus’s power for the last seven generations. Calcetus, the traditional family seat, was now deemed to be too close to Amorr to serve as a retreat and Severa had only visited it once as a child. She was desperate to discover what had befallen her beautiful young man since her banishment from the city. She feared the worst and didn’t dare asking her father about him again; she had seen coldness in his eyes but never before that awful night had it been directed at her. She shivered at the memory.

  None of the family messengers would take her letters to the city, no matter to whom it was addressed or how extravagant a bribe she offered. None of her friends in Amorr even knew where she was, nor did she expect their letters would be delivered to her if any of them happened to guess correctly and address one to her here. Her mother and her sister were here as well, and as for her three brothers, Regulus was too busy serving out his year as quastor, Aulan was marching through one province or another with the family legions, and while Marcius Severus wrote to her, he dutifully refused to tell her anything that was even remotely related to the arena, much less Clusius. No doubt he did well to obey what was doubtless a direct order from Father, but her brother’s meek compliance irked her even so.

  But she had to find out about Clusius! Was he well? Had Father harmed him in any way? She winced at the thought of that perfect body striped with the marks of the whip, that godlike face twisted with pain. And all because she loved him and he dared to love her back!

  It was so unfair! She would have hardly been the first patrician woman to take a gladiator lover, though admittedly that was usually the act of widows, divorcees, or the sort of scandalous women to whom Amorran society turned a blind eye. And then, none of these abandoned women were the daughter of Aulus Severus Patronus. Father had never spoken to her about her indiscretion, not even hinted by any word or gesture that he even knew she had been in contact with what amounted to a fighting slave. His very silence on the affair alarmed her. What was he hiding from her? She had to know! She simply had to know!