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

by Vox Day

  “What age do you deem suitable?”

  “I want you to have a degree of influence over him, so he must be near to your age. Below twenty-five, to be precise. House Caerus has made what would otherwise be an attractive offer, and while I am interested in binding them closer to us, no matter how he might dote on you, your voice will count for nothing with a husband who is nearly fifty years of age and secure in his power.” He smiled at her. “You see how our interests coincide?”

  “Nearly fifty?” Severa winced, relieved that she had escaped that dire fate. “May I ask about the two candidates you are seriously considering?”

  He nodded and released her, then began to pace back and forth as was his custom when lecturing her. “There are five, actually, from Andronicus and Arrianus. Three of the former House and two of the latter. The Andronicans are all sons of ex-consuls, and one of the Arrians is the son of Arrianus Lepidus, who was consul provincae sixteen years ago. But with Caudinus’s death, I fear things may become a bit complicated.”

  “I didn’t know Caudinus had a son older than me.”

  “No, two of the young men are the younger sons of Andronicus Geminus. The other is Albinus’s lad. I’ve heard nothing ill of them, although one does occasionally worry about the madness that seems to taint their blood. Geminus was a great man in his day. He sat the Eagle Chair twice and defeated the dwarves in the Underground War, but about ten years before that his father had to put down his brother as if he were a mad dog. His twin brother, no less.”

  “Oh, that’s dreadful!” Severa shivered, but she was fascinated too. “Why did he have to do that?”

  “Some say it’s a curse that goes back four hundred years to the old royal line. They never tire of reminding everyone that they were kings before the Houses rose against them, but they’re not so proud of their legacy of madness. There were all sorts of horrific stories about Titus Andronicus, Publius Andronicus’s twin, but I never put too much stock in any of them. If I recall correctly, he had a nasty habit of tormenting the slave girls. Torturing them, to be honest. The family looked the other way for a while and sent him off to the countryside, but he killed one of his aunts in a rather brutal fashion during her visit there, and his father had no choice but to act. Brilliance or madness, it’s usually one or the other with the Andronicans.”

  “What killed the consul aquilae, then? Brilliance or madness?”

  He flashed her a weary smile. “Something much more prosaic. Stubbornness. Let that be a lesson to you, little one. There are careless missteps anyone can make, however brilliant one might be. However beautiful.”

  “Even you?”

  “Especially me. The more power one has, the easier it is to be careless. The higher one rises, the easier it is to be seduced by the idea that the path one has chosen is right by virtue of the chooser. It’s nonsense, of course, but astonishingly seductive nonsense.”

  “That sounds like Regulus. He always thinks that whatever he does is the right thing, just because he’s the one doing it.”

  “Yes, it is a common problem among the sons of the Great Houses. The legions have a way of beating it out of most of them, but then, martial success can sometimes make it worse. It probably wouldn’t do your brother any harm to lose a battle or two.”

  “What a pity he wasn’t with Caudinus, then.”

  “Cruel, daughter, very cruel.” Her father smiled at her again. “As much as I cherish you as you are, it is rather a pity you weren’t born male. Perhaps it is a blessing. I cannot decide if you are more clever than Tertius or more reckless than Aulan.”

  “Or more enthralled by my own beauty than Regulus?” She tossed her hair. “So you have seen through me again…. Now tell me why you would consider the Valerians for even a moment! I still cannot believe that you might give me to a son of Magnus, or were you thinking of one of the lesser Valerians?”

  “Until recently, I was considering Corvus’s youngest, after I heard he’d abjured his vows. But now, I am not so sure. Even as consul suffectus, Corvus has considerably less weight in the Senate than his brother. After more than twenty years of battling Magnus, I’ve come to have more than a grudging respect for the man. He knows how to compromise, and he knows how to build alliances. He’s much wealthier than Corvus too, but the main attraction of an alliance is that I need him. Not to join me, you understand, but to simply stand aside and refrain from opposing me. I think, with your help, that much can be arranged.”

  “But why, Father?” Severa complained. “House Valerius have been our enemies—all right, our rivals—for ages!”

  “The world is changing, Severa. It’s changing in ways you can’t possibly understand, in ways I don’t understand myself. There are strange forces at work, powerful forces that go well beyond Amorr, or its allies, or even the race of Man. And my fear is that we are going to see drastic changes of the sort that haven’t been seen in Amorr since the City Fathers rose against King Andronis.

  “I can’t prevent them from occurring, but I have to believe it is my place to help Amorr prepare herself so that the Senate and People will survive, and perhaps even thrive, during the disorder to come. And to do that, I need to win over the conservatives and traditionalists, those who oppose change reflexively. If I can remove the Valerians from ranks of the clausores, especially Magnus, then the rest will fall in line.”

  “You make it sound so frightening, Father. Strange forces, things that haven’t happened in four centuries…do you actually believe awful things are going to happen?”

  “I don’t know precisely what is going to happen. But I know that whatever is going to happen will take place within the next two years. I thought to have more time, but as I look at the various events outside the empire, I don’t think that will be the case.”

  Severa shook her head. There was so much he wasn’t telling her. “But why, Father? You haven’t said why you believe any of this!”

  “Nor will I. I wouldn’t have told you this much, except that it’s important for you to understand that I need your acquiescence to whatever marriage I make for you. I want more than that, I want your cooperation, I want you to do everything you can to ensure that your husband’s family doesn’t oppose my actions, as many in the Senate will. Few will understand the actions I’ve taken until it is much too late. That’s the way it usually is. Those who see the coming storm are called madmen and fabulists, and those who attempt to prepare for it will be denounced for being self-serving. But what else can I do? I can’t simply retire to my estates and let the city collapse. What sort of legacy would that be for my children, for my grandchildren?”

  She stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll find a way, Father. You always do. Are you certain you don’t want to tell me more about it?”

  “The less you know, the better. There is some knowledge that can be dangerous, and I would not have you bring yourself to the attention of…to the attention of those whose attention can be perilous.”

  Severa nodded, knowing that this was the time to play the dutiful daughter. She decided to talk to Quinta Jul. Perhaps the Moon Sister would be able to make some sense of her father’s arcane references. Or perhaps Tertius might know something. He was always poking around in the same old books their father did.

  “If you think it will help you save Amorr, Father, I will willingly marry any Valerian you name, even if he is ugly and old. If my brothers are brave enough to risk the sharp swords of Amorr’s enemies, then surely I can face the rusted blade of an elderly Valerian.”

  He shook his head and smiled at her. “I think we can spare you that unseemly sacrifice. Magnus has two unmarried sons left after losing the one. Corvus has the priestling, and Pardus has either two or three lads, I can’t recall. The young men are all tall and more or less well-formed. I mislike the notion of the priestling, though, and in any event, Magnus’s line is the more significant one. Corvus is consul now, but only as suffectus, and he’ll be back in the field when the new consul is elected in
a few weeks.

  “But it all may be moot. I made an overture to Magnus concerning the possibility of a marriage about a month ago and have heard nothing from him. And he’s been in mourning since the word arrived that his son, the tribune, died in the campaign against the goblins. Naturally, I am loathe to press him further for the nonce.”

  “Oh, that’s awful,” Severa exclaimed, genuinely upset by news of the fallen young Valerian. With both Aulan and Regulus serving with the House legions, Aulan being a tribune himself, she couldn’t bear to think about the death of even a hated Valerian without feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach. It was strange, too, to think that the dead young man might have been chosen as her husband, had he survived.

  “Yes, well, House Arrianus always had the most likely prospects, to my mind. They would be the safest choice, for both your interests and mine. I think you will not be displeased with Lepidus’s son. He is well-formed and will be quastor in his year next year.”

  So he was twenty-seven, only nine years older than her. That wasn’t too much. And the son of a consul too. House Arrianus might not be the most influential House Martial, but she’d prefer it to the too-numerous Falconians or the ancient, but unstable Andronicans.

  The sound of a door being opened caused them to turn around and look up toward the platform. The two guards were saluting a man whose position in the household had never quite made sense to Severa. Domitius was a fighting slave and wore leather armor like the rest of the guards but never seemed to actually be around the domus very often or guard anyone. He was older than most of the guards too, and seemed considerably more intelligent than them as well.

  He spotted Patronus at once and hastened down the stairs. His lean face was red with effort as he half-ran across the length of the garden toward them, holding a little scroll in his hand. He was out of breath too. Something is wrong, Severa thought instantly.

  “My lord princeps, I pray you, forgive my intrusion.”

  “Of course,” her father said. “What is it, Domitius?”

  “A letter. From Lord Aulan.”

  Her father nodded calmly, took the letter from the slave, and dismissed him. He broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. Severa watched his face closely as he quickly scanned its comments. There was only a flicker of irritation before the familiar, imperturbable mask returned.

  “Is Aulan hurt? Was there a battle?”

  “No,” he said curtly. “And that is precisely the problem. But what is done is done. Let this be a lesson to you, Severa: Both the truth and mediocrity will always come out in the end, and we are fools to imagine they will not.” He shook his head and stared out over the garden, not bothering to conceal his vexation from her. It was clear he had deeper concerns than her prospective betrothal.

  Severa reached out and took his free hand in her own. “I’m glad Aulan is well. But I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “It means that I made a mistake,” her father told her grimly. “And it means I may have to reconsider your betrothal.”

  LODI

  Three days and two abandoned campsites later, Lodi and Thorald discovered why the orcs had been moving so quickly.

  Lodi hadn’t thought twice about the Ludareka, a wide, aggressive river that ran down from the mountains and eventually made its way into the Elvenlands, where it was known as Elf River. Swollen with snowmelt and the rains that had made their journey eastward a slow and miserable one, the river raged and boiled its way south. They’d previously crossed it much further to the south, over a decaying stone bridge that had been built by the elves of Glaislael many centuries ago and still stood, spanning the river, a mute testament to a defeated and departed civilization. The orcs showed no more inclination to guard that bridge than repair it, so Lodi had assumed it would be a simple matter to travel south along the river until they found a similar bridge and crossed back with the same ease.

  However, it seemed that whoever had set the orcs to hunting them had anticipated their need to get across the river and had therefore sent them directly to the nearest bridge. It wasn’t that his little trick of climbing out of the water without leaving tracks had prevented the orcs from picking up their trail. It was that they had never wasted any time searching for it. They knew that this rickety wooden structure that hung above the tempestous, fast, moving water would draw any dwarf hoping to make his way out of the orclands and back to the Underdeep.

  With a deepfelt sigh of frustration, Lodi began counting orcs. There were eighteen of them, which gave him a momentary sense of satisfaction that he’d estimated their numbers correctly, more or less.

  The sight of the orcs lounging about the wooden supports of the bridge, their boisterous bickering interrupted periodically by the occasional brawl, sent a shiver down his spine.

  There was no typical orc intelligence directing them, of this he was certain, although he didn’t know if it was the huge shaman, the summoned demon, or something else that was behind this unexpectedly anticipatory action. Regardless, he was worried now in a way that he had not been when they were hiding out before. Because he expected that, in addition to this group that had been ordered to rush to the bridge to cut off their retreat, there were probably one or more similar groups carefully combing the forests behind them, looking for signs of their passing. This required thought, but first they needed to put some distance between them and the orcs.

  He indicated that Thorald should follow, and they walked north along the river until Lodi felt they were sufficiently far from the guarded bridge.

  He went to the river’s edge and sat down.

  There were too many of them to openly attack. If they got lazy and the guards fell asleep, they might be able to sneak across, but even then, he had to assume they’d been ordered to sleep on the bridge itself. They couldn’t fly across, and the river was too wide to loop a rope across a branch on the other side. He could attach a rope to a crossbow bolt and fire it into a tree, and they could use it to pull themselves through the rapids and across the river. But he doubted it would hold the weight of a dwarf, given the force of the rushing water.

  Building a raft seemed their best bet, but it would be risky. Very risky, since they’d have to enter the water at night. He couldn’t swim, and he doubted Thorald could, so even if they weren’t spotted by the orcs or smashed onto rocks, a simple upsetting would be enough to finish them. What were their chances? Perhaps one in ten? There wasn’t even any guarantee they’d be able to make it to the other side. They might float miles down the river, only to end up on the same side of it on which they’d started. And poling across wasn’t an option either, given the depth of the river.

  Then a thought struck him. The river was deep, and if his memory served him correctly, it flowed all the way to the sea. So there was a chance—perhaps not one in ten, more like one in a hundred, but at least failure meant only that he’d have to figure out something else. He dug through his pack and withdrew one of the two gold coins he’d rescued from the dragon’s hoard, then he took the waterstone he used for keeping his blades sharp out of his belt pouch.

  “What are you doing?” Thorald asked.

  “I’d think it was obvious. I’m grinding gold dust.”

  “Yes, I can see that! I mean, why are you doing that?”

  “Got an idea for crossing the river.”

  Thorald looked from the bowl to the river, perplexed. “You can’t think we’ll get across that river without a bridge!”

  “No, I don’t. We won’t.”

  “Do you think there might be a ford?”

  “Nope. Too close to the mountains. That water is coming down hard and fast. And it’s deep. I bet we could go south a hundred miles without finding a place shallow enough to walk across it.”

  Thorald watched him work. “How are you going to make a bridge out of a little gold dust?”

  Lodi ignored the question and drew his knife from his belt. He ran the wickedly sharp blade across the tip of the little finger on his left h
and, then squeezed it until there was a small quantity of blood in the bowl.

  “Are you some sort of alchemist?” Thorald asked, seeming a little alarmed by the sight of the knife and the blood.

  “Nope,” Lodi said, still squeezing his fingertip. “See, they got keen noses, especially for blood. But they love gold almost as much as we dwarves do. So if there are any of them within a few miles of here, this here mixture should bring them in a hurry.”

  “Bring what, naiads? Who is ‘they’? The river god?”

  “The river god? I hope not, we don’t want the bridge washed out—we got to cross it!” Lodi scoffed as he poured out about half the bloody contents of the bowl into the river. “And what use would river sylphs be against a troop of orcs? Just keep your eyes open and be real civil if they show up. Don’t be waving your hammer at them or anything stupid, all right?”

  “If what shows up?” Thorald asked, exasperated.

  “You’ll know. I guarantee, you’ll know. Now, I’m going to get me some sleep. You’re on watch. Keep your eye on the river. And make yourself useful. Maybe see if you can catch some fish for dinner.”

  Lodi woke to the sound and scent of frying fish. For a moment, he lay back and luxuriated in the almost euphoric sense it inspired in him, after days of eating nothing but stonebiscuit and the occasional raw mountain squirrel. Then he realized where he was, and he sat up in a panic.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed. “Are you mad? Put that out!”

  Thorald stared back at him unrepentantly and reached out with his knife to delicately flip over one of the fish that was roasting on the glowing coals. “Look at the direction of the wind, Lodi. Even if someone is there to smell it, there ain’t nothing they can do from the other side of the river.”

  Lodi licked a finger and held it up. Sure enough, the wind was coming from the east, and it was carrying the smoke from their fire across the river. Even in the unlikely even that the wind changed slightly and started carrying the smoke downriver, they could be confident that the orcs at the bridge to the south wouldn’t notice the smell, not with the size of the fires they made every evening. And considering the odds that were presently stacked against them, this might be his last chance to get a decent meal in this life.