Brown,_Simon_-_[Keys_Of_Power_03]_-_Sovereign

by Simon Brown

  'I will wait here for her reply,' Edaytor said, trying to look like someone who would not brook delay.

  'Suit yourself,' Harnan said and left.

  The two guards blocking Edaytor's way looked at him as if he was an unnecessary and unpleasant distraction, and his natural timidity took over. He avoided their gaze and pretended to look at the ceiling, at his shoes, at his fingernails. As time went on he became increasingly uncomfortable and was starting to wish he had never come. But then all doubts disappeared when Areava herself, with Harnan in tow, appeared behind the guards and ordered them to let the prelate through. The guards snapped to attention and Edaytor sidled past them. He bowed deeply to Areava and threw a smug look at Harnan. Areava looped her arm through his and drew him away from all other ears.

  'What about my brother?' she demanded, her voice a strange mixture of hope and threat.

  'I think I know a way we can help him—'

  'How?' she interrupted.

  '—but it is risky, and may possibly make his Highness's illness worse.'

  Areava caught his gaze. Edaytor thought her eyes were as cold as ice, and he could not help a shiver down his spine.

  'What sort of risk? Is this some new kind of magik the Theurgia have dreamed up?'

  Edaytor shook his head. 'No, your Majesty.' He pointed to the Key of Hearts around her neck. 'It is by using that.'

  'You should know I have already tried that.'

  'I guessed you would have. But you felt nothing at all when you tried.'

  'How did you know that?' she asked sharply, and tugged painfully at his arm.

  'Because the Key has become attuned to Olio. Only he can use it now, unless someone is prepared to sacrifice themselves as he has to gain control over it.'

  Areava went white. 'I must do that to save him?'

  Edaytor looked at Areava in horror. 'You, your Majesty? No, never! That price would be too high, even for Olio's sake.'

  'Then you're suggesting someone else sacrifice themselves?' She regarded him with new respect. 'You're suggesting yourself? You love my brother that much?'

  'If it would make him better, then yes, I would,' he said without thinking, then paused, surprised by the admission. 'But I do not think the Key would let me.'

  'Then what exactly do you have in mind?' she asked impatiently.

  'We let Olio use it,' he said.

  Areava stood back from Edaytor and looked at him as she might an idiot. 'It was the Key that caused this blight afflicting him!'

  'There are moments when we are talking—your brother and I—when I see flashes of the old prince. It's as if he is a prisoner in his own mind, but no matter how hard he tries he has not the strength to break free. The Key has the strength he needs.'

  'But you don't know that, Prelate Fanhow. It might just as easily make him worse, or even kill him.'

  'It may, your Majesty,' he admitted. 'But I think not. I believe because he is so attuned to the Key he will be able to use it to heal himself.'

  'Then why did he not do so when he first became ill?'

  'Because he overused the Key. He became subservient to it. Now that he has been without it for a long while, he may be able to reassert his mastery over it.'

  Areava took Edaytor's arm again and drew him close. 'But you are not sure, are you?'

  'I said there was a risk.'

  For a long while Areava said nothing, and Edaytor held his breath.

  'If I agree, when do we do this?' she asked eventually.

  'We give him the Key at those moments when he is most like his old self. Hopefully there will be enough of him there to use it.'

  Areava nodded. 'I will think on it and let you know my decision. I wish fervently you had come up with some other solution.'

  'As do I, your Majesty,' Edaytor conceded.

  Father Rown followed Powl to the library after the meeting with the parish priests. Powl stopped in front of the Book of Days.

  'You know what this is?' Powl asked.

  'Of course, your Grace,' Rown replied.

  Powl rested his hand on the book and drummed with his fingers. Rown waited patiently. Eventually the primate said: 'It is one of my duties to write in this book.'

  'Yes, your Grace.'

  'Daily.'

  Rown nodded.

  'I have had a lot on my mind since my predecessor's death.'

  'A great many tragic things have occurred,' Rown elaborated, starting to wonder what the point of this discussion was.

  'It wasn't possible for me to keep up with all the responsibilities of primate. After all, the succession was unexpected.'

  Rown lifted an eyebrow. 'Unexpected? But Primate Northam gave you the name of God—'

  'Yes, yes,' Powl said irritably. 'I didn't mean my succession was unexpected. I meant…' He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. '… God… I meant that Northam's death was unexpected.'

  'Ah, yes, of course.'

  'The point is, you see, that as secretary I think you should have reminded me of my duties where I neglected… no… unintentionally avoided… them.'

  'I see,' Rown said, his voice falling.

  'This is not a reprimand, you understand.'

  'Of course not,' Rown said, but Powl could see the priest did not believe it.

  'It's just that I know you are devoted to your service and would desire to be shown where certain deficiencies…' Instead of finishing the sentence, Powl waved a hand vaguely in the air.

  'I understand, and thank your Grace for showing me the error of my ways.'

  'I accept that I am a frail man prone to make mistakes as easily as the next man—indeed we both are—and may find it necessary from time to time to be reminded when I fall short of my expectations. Such as filling in the Book of Days.'

  'I understand, your Grace. I will try harder in future.'

  Powl tried to smile convivially, but it just made his face look grumpier. 'Good. Excellent. Can I ask why you did not remind me about the Book of Days?'

  'Forgive me, but I thought you had so much to do already in the hard times following Primate Northam's death I was afraid of labouring you with unnecessary details. And I was not sure you had forgotten. There may have been some other reason for your not continuing the tradition.'

  'I see. Well, now we both know better where we stand.'

  'Yes, your Grace.'

  'Right. Thank you.'

  Rown bowed and left. Powl watched him go, silently cursing himself for facing Rown down like that; the priest had done nothing to deserve his ill favour—it had not been Rown's fault that he had unknowingly replaced Powl as his predecessor's favourite to become primate of the Church, the knowledge of which had driven Powl to murder Northam. Powl turned to the book and from a pocket in his frock retrieved a pen and small bottle of ink. He carefully unscrewed the bottle's lid, dipped the pen then lifted it to write.

  But he had no words. His mind was empty of any pious thought, any revelation. Powl, Primate of the Church of the Righteous God, had nothing righteous to add to the Book of Days.

  CHAPTER 10

  Serefa enjoyed the first hour of filling water casks and roping them to the back of the outpost's donkey. It had been a warm morning with a gentle mist lifting off the ground and birds singing in the gallery along the stream. He had taken off his clothes and bathed before starting his chores and felt refreshed and at peace with the world. However, by the time he had hoisted the sixth cask he was feeling less sanguine about life in general, and outpost work in particular. His imagination started painting pictures for him of the other knights in Daavis, enjoying good company, good wine and a comfortable bed at night. All he had was three other knights who stank worse than he did, fresh water and a horse blanket. And the constant birdsong was starting to irritate him.

  With the sixth cask in place he dressed quickly in his stained leather breeches and jerkin. He started strapping on his greaves and breastplate, but the day was getting hot and he decided to leave them off. He tucked them betwe
en the casks and began the walk back to the outpost, only a league away but at the top of a steep hill. His stomach rumbled and he hoped one of the others had started the breakfast fire. He cursed himself then, for he had forgotten that one of his tasks that morning had been to gather more wood. He was about to turn back when he noticed smoke coming from the top of the hill.

  Worat on the dawn guard must have been able to scrape together enough chips and twigs to start cooking. He decided he could get the firewood later and resumed the climb up the hill, but stopped again when he saw just how big a fire Worat had started.

  He's burning the corned beef again, Serefa told himself, and cursed loudly. Thick white smoke puffed above the hill. The idiot's using the green wood meant for the signal fire…

  'Oh, shit!' he cursed. He let go of the donkey's lead and ran up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him. When he got there he found the other three knights already dressed and holding the leads of their mounts. His horse had been saddled for him.

  'Where?' he asked.

  Worat pointed northeast, and Serefa saw a long streaming line of enemy soldiers. Judging by the speed the line was moving they must be cavalry, for all that they looked like ants from this high up.

  'About a hundred riders?'

  'About,' agreed one of the others. 'Scouting party.'

  'And coming this way,' he said absently and to no one in particular. His stomach rumbled again. 'They're at least an hour away.'

  Worat snorted. 'You and your gut can wait until we get to Daavis,' he said.

  They started down the hill, meeting the donkey halfway. They filled their water bottles from one of the casks, and Serefa retrieved his armour, before continuing.

  'Do you think they were Chetts?' Serefa asked.

  'We can wait and ask them if you like,' Worat said.

  'Kind of you to offer, but I'd rather not—'

  Worat yelped and turned round in his saddle. Serefa had time to see the short black arrow sticking out of the knight's eye before he toppled off his horse. Something hissed by his ear and he heard the man behind him gargle blood. Without thinking, Serefa threw himself over his horse and kicked his heels in. The horse was too afraid of the slope to move, and Serefa cursed it as he threw himself off. Just as he did so an arrow thwacked into the saddle, and then another into the animal's neck. The horse screamed and dropped. The third knight was half running, half scrabbling down the slope. He had almost reached the bottom when a single Chett leaped up from behind a depression with his bow and used it like an axe, whacking it across the knight's face. The knight fell backward, jerked like a puppet and then was still.

  Serefa drew his sword and charged downhill, sliding and slipping, desperately trying to keep his balance and watching as the Chett righted his bow and fitted another arrow. His feet skidded out from under him when he was only two paces from the Chett, and a hastily fired arrow parted his hair. Serefa could not control his fall, and he barrelled into the Chett, sending him pinwheeling back into the depression he had been hiding in. When Serefa regained his footing he looked over the edge and saw that the Chett had broken his neck. His sword drooped and his shoulders slumped. Then it occurred to him the Chett might not have been alone. He frantically looked around him, but saw no sign of any more enemies. Keeping his heart under control he checked on his fellows. All three were dead. Two horses had been killed as well and another was lame. The fourth horse—Worat's—was nowhere in sight. Serefa heard a noise and looked up to see a horse he did not recognise galloping north around the hill. The Chett's mount, he reasoned. Now what could he do? The enemy column would catch up with him for sure if he tried to make it back to Daavis by foot.

  The donkey brayed.

  'Shut up,' Serefa snapped. He blinked. The donkey. He sheathed his sword, quickly unloaded the water casks and led the donkey to level ground. Once there he carefully clambered onto its back. Without saddle or stirrups it took him some time to get it to go in the direction he wanted, but eventually they were moving at a pace that would have been something like a slow trot for a horse. With luck, he would keep just far enough ahead of the Chetts to survive until he made Daavis.

  With luck, he repeated to himself.

  It occurred to him then that being in Daavis might not put him in a more secure position. If there was a Chett scouting column heading south there was probably a Chett army not far behind it, and Serefa had no trouble guessing where that was heading.

  Mally rolled the knucklebone. It landed with the number five uppermost. 'That's it!' he cried. 'That's what I need!' He moved his white stone five spaces along the polygonal playing area he had scratched in the walkway, landing on a red stone. 'Your duke is gone!'

  The old soldier grunted, then smiled at the small boy squatting opposite him. 'Indeed. I think you have won the war.'

  Mally grinned from ear to ear. 'Did you let me win, Brettin?'

  'I would not cheat you like that, Mally,' the soldier said. Not absolutely true. When his grandson was just learning the game Brettin had let him win quite a few times, but not for over a year now. And Mally won more often than not. He was a smart boy. Too smart to be a soldier, Brettin thought. Alas, it is all he's interested in. Well, his poor father had been one after me, so it's not surprising.

  'What were you keeping in your castle?' Mally asked.

  'Let's see.' Brettin flipped over the shells hiding his last few stones. 'Two spearmen and an archer. What about you?'

  Mally lifted his shells one by one. None of them had anything underneath.

  'You little rascal,' Brettin laughed. 'I could have taken your castle any time.'

  'But you didn't,' Mally laughed back. 'Another game?'

  'I have to do my rounds soon, Mally…'

  'Oh, Brettin, please? It won't take more than a few minutes.'

  'God, who's cocky all of a sudden?' He mussed Mally's hair. 'Alright. I'll set up first this time.'

  Mally agreed and stood up to stretch his legs. Brettin collected all the stones and shells and started deploying his troops, selecting a battering ram this time, together with the swordsmen to support it. Mally's father had been good with a sword, he remembered. But not good enough to beat off a Chett lancer. He forced himself to think about something else. His grandchildren. That would do. And his fine daughter-in-law, whom he loved as if she had been his blood daughter, and who loved him as dearly in return. Little Serven, only two, and sweet Mally, whom he loved above all else in the world. He would have to talk to Mally's mother about getting him real schooling and a real job, one that would not have him spilling his guts on a dusty, blasted battlefield. A tear came then. He wiped it away with a rough finger and concentrated on deploying his pieces.

  Mally, meanwhile, was taking advantage of being allowed on the wall. It was not often his grandfather got patrol duty up here, and he loved to look out over the city and the wide, gentle Barda River to the south and the wide, gentle countryside to the north. One day he would go exploring. He would follow the river to its source in the Ufero Mountains and discover gold. And when he was rich he would make an army for the great queen in Kendra, and lead it north to defeat Haxus and then on to the Oceans of Grass to take his revenge on the Chetts for the death of his father.

  North, across all those miles of farms and fields and rolling hills…

  'Brettin.'

  'Yes, Mally.'

  'I see smoke.'

  'From a farmhouse?'

  'No. White smoke. A whole tower of smoke. And there's another, south of the first.'

  Brettin stood up so quickly he dropped his spear. 'Fuck,' he said under his breath. 'They're coming.'

  Mally, who knew when to pretend and when not to pretend to hear Brettin swearing, said: 'The Chetts?'

  Brettin nodded. He picked up his spear and trotted to the nearest tower to give the alarm, Mally close on his heels.

  Others watched the white smoke as well, and for them it meant something else.

  'I'm sorry, Lynan,' Korigan said. 'Th
e scouts failed. Daavis has been warned.'

  Lynan nodded wearily. 'Well, it can't be helped. The enemy was better prepared this time. I had not counted on them establishing so many outposts so quickly.'

  'We can reach Daavis by nightfall if we push the army.'

  'No. We will arrive too tired and too late to do anything useful before it is too dark to fight. Truth, the city will be locked to us, and our cavalry will be of little use. We will wait until tomorrow.'

  'The Haxan sappers want us to cut wood for their machines.'

  'Fine. But not now. When we reach the city there will be time to cut down whole forests if needs be. There's no reason for us to carry more than we have to on the way. This army moves slow enough as it is.'

  Korigan grinned at him. 'You are used to a purely Chett army. Now we have Salokan's infantry.'

  'And demoralised infantry at that. They have been beaten too many times this year to have much heart for the business of war.'

  'A victory will fix that.'

  'Then let's make sure we give them one.'

  Korigan studied Lynan's face. She could see the lines of worry creasing the corners of his mouth and eyes, the deep furrow that seemed permanently ploughed across his brow. The campaign in Haxus had been a fast, vicious one but she had some idea how much it had taken out of him. She wanted to lean over and kiss him, but to do that in front of his army would embarrass him.

  'You will have your victory, my love,' she whispered.

  'This time, yes. I will not let Grenda Lear defeat me twice.' He turned to her and smiled slightly. 'I have no doubt about that.'

  Korigan saw that it was true, and felt a twinge of fear. Since the night they had made love she hoped she had learned something more about him, but in the clear light of day she knew the hope was fruitless. He was something new in her experience, a warrior and innocent at the same time, and she did not know how to make sense of that. In his rage, when he became more than a man, or maybe less than a man, he was terrifying, and yet for the rest he was small and almost childlike, but weighed down with worry. He did not want to fight, but only battle seemed to liberate him; the problem was, she did not think she could ever love the Lynan who swept all before him, the one who could not be wounded, the one who revelled in slaughter. And yet it was those very characteristics that had married his followers to him. The Chert warrior believed Lynan was almost godlike. They would follow him to their deaths if need be, and willingly. And Korigan knew that if it would advance his cause, to their deaths he would send them.