by Alma Boykin
Kiara released his hand for a moment, then squeezed again. “Arrrgh,” she cried out, her belly rippling with another contraction. She panted. A maid handed Matthew a bit of rag and he wiped Kiara’s forehead. “Promise me,” she demanded.
“Promise you what, my lady?”
“Promise me,” she stopped and caught her breath. “Promise me that if our son lives, you’ll dismiss your whore and bastards.” He stared at her, appalled by the pure hatred and venom in her words. “Promise me,” she repeated, eyes wide, her golden hair dark with sweat. “Prom-aahh.” She tried to crush his hand and he marveled at her strength.
“I see the head,” the midwife called.
Kiara repeated yet again, “Dismiss your whore or I’ll horsewhip her myself, then leave, take our son, you’ll never see him again, promise me.”
“My lady, now! Push,” the midwife interrupted, saving Matthew from having to answer. Every ounce of attention in Kiara’s body turned to the midwife and child, or so it seemed to her husband, who held her hand, wiped her forehead, and prayed. He kept his eyes on Kiara’s face, awestruck by her efforts. He’d never watched Barbara give birth, and now he understood why.
“Push once more,” the old woman ordered and Kiara complied. A red, wet something appeared, only to disappear as the women swarmed the new arrival. “It’s a boy.”
Matthew bent over and kissed Kiara’s forehead. She panted, eyes closed, trying to smile. The women began murmuring, and after a minute one trotted out of the room, skirts hiked for running. What’s going on? Shouldn’t he be crying? A terrible feeling chilled Matthew as the women remained huddled. He caught a glimpse of the midwife, her mouth on the baby’s, and he began shaking his head. No, oh Godown, please no. Why is he so quiet? Godown, please help us, holy lord, St. Foy please intercede, Godown please, I need a son, please Godown give him life. I will do anything if he lives, Godown, I swear.
But it was not to be.
An hour later, numb with grief even Fr. Andy’s assurances couldn’t assuage, Matthew returned to his office. He’d barely taken his seat when Kazmer Takacs and Lt. Bustos appeared. “Your Grace, I’m terribly sorry. I don’t want to disturb you, but,” Kazmer waved his hand in frustration.
Bustos explained, “Your Grace, a messenger from the Rajtan is outside the town gates under a flag of truce. He says he carries personal greetings for you.”
Bad news in threes indeed, Matthew thought. He laughed, a bitter sound, and the men exchanged worried looks. “I’ll come and speak to him.”
He accepted a black cape from one of the servants and stalked out. A horse already waited for him, and he rode down from the keep to the town below. The early spring sun beamed down from a sky that should have been dark with mourning. Instead birds sang, bright trills of silvery sound. Matthew shunted away his pain and anger, instead focusing his attention on the yellow-clad man standing beside a beautiful bay horse, both watched carefully by a half-dozen soldiers. Another half-dozen kept their attention on the townsfolk, ready for trouble should someone take it upon themselves to lay a hand on the messenger.
Matthew dismounted and walked up to the man. “You are the Blackbird,” the messenger began in Turkowi.
So that’s how you say it! The weight goes on the third syllable. “Yes, I am he who is called the Blackbird.”
Dark eyes flashed wide for a fraction of an instant before the smaller man recovered his poise. “I bear greetings and an invitation from Selkow’s most wise, most generous servant, Tulwar an Kailash an Tulwar an Vikrant Ko Singha, chosen of Selkow the Bright, to Mat-ta-ia Ahn-too-ney Ko Ma-lay-keska, called the Blackbird.” He reached down to the bag at his feet and removed a yellow and green roll, tied with yellow ribbons. The messenger straightened up and offered the end of the roll to Matthew.
Matthew took it, loosened the ribbons, and unfurled a page of beautiful writing that took his breath away. A series of blooming vines outlined the large sheet of heavy paper, twining in on themselves and dotted with red, blue, and yellow flowers. A serpent, colored with all the shades of the rainbow, slithered down between the columns of writing, flicking its yellow tongue. Then Matthew began to read the Rajtan’s proposal.
He rolled the page with great care, giving himself time to remember the words he wanted. He spoke slowly. “In light of your master’s most generous offer, it is necessary for me to give his words the consideration they deserve. Unless you know of a reason otherwise, I will provide you with shelter and refreshment tonight, and with a proper response to take back to the Rajtan on the morrow.” I think that’s polite enough, and that I didn’t mangle it too much.
If he had, the messenger concealed his mirth, or disgust, very well. “There is no need for unseemly urgency.”
Matthew ordered his men to set up his own personal tent outside the walls, and to provide the messenger with anything he might require. “Bustos, do not allow anyone, and I mean anyone, to approach closer than the paddock fence until I come back.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” They both knew better than to trust the messenger’s safety to the townsfolk. Too many had lost men to the raids and battles over the years.
Matthew rode back to the keep and called in Capt. Ricks, Kazmer Takacs, and Rudolfo Nagy, and sent word for Bustos to come back as soon as he could do so. As he waited for them, Matthew re-read the letter, then dug a piece of rock-crystal out from under some papers and used it to look at the delicate brushwork on the missive. If this weren’t so deadly serious, I’d have it mounted and framed so I could enjoy the artistry. How did he get those flower petals so small? He must have used a brush with a single hair. And the snake’s scales! Once again, Matthew wondered how such a barbaric religion managed to inspire such beautiful work.
The men arrived at his office with a clatter. He sat. “Rajtan Tulwar, most blessed servant of Selkow, leader of the right-guided armies of the Turkowi, mighty in battle and so on, proposes a most generous settlement with me.”
Nagy had been rolling his eyes at the string of titles, but the other two men remained deadly serious. Capt. Ricks frowned. “And that settlement is, Your Grace?”
Lt. Bustos trotted in, panting, without asking permission. Matthew gave him a few seconds to catch his breath before informing them, “He says that if we return to the worship of the true deity, Selkow the Beautiful, and present such signs and evidence as is proper, he will leave us in peace. Otherwise the priests will call a ferengrazia and Solana will be wiped clean of our accursed foulness.”
“Sole-anna, Your Grace?” Nagy sounded out the strange name.
“The Lander name for Colplatschki,” Ricks told him. “And what small token does the Rajtan ask in exchange for peace, Your Grace?”
You know, don’t you? But the others need the reminder. “Twenty percent of all our treasure, including anything that has ever been given to Godown, the destruction of all signs of the false religion, sending men and weapons to assist the Rajtan in his fight against other non-believers,” Matthew listed. He gave Nagy a moment to digest the demands. “Oh, and killing or exiling all females over five years of age.”
Ricks nodded, arms folded, unsurprised. Bustos snarled, low in his throat, as did Takacs. Rudolfo Nagy blanched, “The monster is serious?”
Matthew leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Completely. Women cannot convert to Selkow, not fully, and so the most generous thing to do is kill them so their souls may return, reborn as believers.”
Takacs made St. Basil’s crook. “So that story’s true. I’d always wondered why the heathen insisted on murdering our women.”
Matthew sounded remarkably calm, even to his own ears, and he caught Ricks and Bustos hiding worried looks. Am I going mad? I don’t know. I don’t feel anything, not anymore. Maybe I’ve felt too much already today. “If you look at it from inside their sick, twisted minds, there are good reasons for what they do. They’re not mad, not like the Tillson clan is.”
“Which is good, Your Grace. The sane are predi
ctable. The truly insane?” The old mercenary raised one eyebrow and hand.
“Agreed.”
Nagy gulped. “Um, Your Grace, ah, that is, we’re not strong enough to face the Turkowi army right now.”
“I know.” Believe me, I know.
Matthew’s jaw dropped as Nagy pressed on. “Since most people are already leaving what’s left of Scheel, would, ah, that is, perhaps the Rajtan might be satisfied with—”
“No!” The chair fell over as Matthew surged to his feet, planted his hands on the desk and roared. “I will not betray my people! Get the fuck out of my sight, Nagy. Now.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Do not return until you recover your wits and grow a spine,” and a pair to go with it. The accounts keeper didn’t wait. He bowed and all but ran from the room.
“How much time do we have, Your Grace?” Ricks smoothed what was left of his gray hair and thought aloud, “They won’t move before midsummer, not if the Rajtan’s bringing his entire army. They’ll need to pre-position supplies, like they did thirty years ago.”
“Midsummer, by this,” he held up the page. “Probably a little earlier, since I don’t care to let them come all the way to Solva before trying to turn them back.”
Kazmer Takacs had been counting on his fingers, lips moving. “It’s time to call in all the northern levies anyway, Your Grace, and the coastal group, plus your household troops. I’ll see who else is willing to join in the fun.”
“Do that.”
Bustos nodded to the map on the office wall, one showing everything around Morloke-Scheel. “What about the northerners?”
“His gracious Majesty Emperor Alois sends his regrets. He is unable to detach himself from some domestic difficulties at this time.” Icicles hung from his words, and Ricks made St. François sign while Bustos rocked back. Matthew found the page in question and tossed it to the old man, who skimmed it, his lip curling as if he smelled something foul.
“How … convenient.” He left it at that and passed the letter to Takacs and Bustos.
“So. We are going to war. Against the entire Turkowi army. Godown has given us a season to prepare, gentlemen, so I believe it behooves us to make the most of this time.”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Takacs nodded.
“Get started. Bustos, guard the messenger. I’ll take the first and second watches, you catch the third, and I’ll give him his answer in the morning.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Godown and the Blackbird.” The officer saluted and trotted out.
After some quick, quiet talk, the others left, taking the master muster lists and account books with them. Matthew stared at the wall. He thought he could hear soft keening, as if the women had already began the vigil for his dead son. He spun around, stalked to the window, and slammed his fist down against the rough stone of the sill, over and over, until the side of his hand bled. Then he cleared his desk of everything but a wax board, his most expensive ink and finest paper, and the Rajtan’s correspondence.
Three hours by sun later he stared down at the finished page. Someone coughed from the door. He ignored them. The cough repeated, louder. “Go to hell,” he muttered.
“If I do you’ll be in good company then,” Fr. Andy’s voice replied.
Matthew tried to muster a riposte and failed. “What now?”
The sturdy priest walked in, closing the door behind him. “Your wife is asking for you. Her maids are terrified, both of her and because the Turkowi army is outside the gates.”
“One messenger is outside Solva’s gates.” Damn fool hysterical females. I need a drink. No, I need to get drunk—blind, stinking, stupid drunk, so drunk that the hangover will keep me from thinking about anything for at least the next week. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk himself into a stupor, which suggested he was overdue.
“Well, he’s impressed the gossips. So, is he really ten meters tall on a fire-breathing horse?”
“No. He’s about shoulder-height to you, slight build like most couriers, dark eyes outlined with the black goop Freistaadter women smear around their eyes. He looks a little like those washing-bears from the northern coast.” Matthew stretched, then triple-checked that he’d resealed all the ink jars. He got up, frowning as his knees creaked and the room swirled a little, and lit a candle. Fr. Andy watched as Matthew folded and sealed his reply to the Rajtan, sealing it with the black eagle, then touching the talons and beak with gold, adding the lightest of golden coronas and rays around the seal. “An added precaution,” Matthew explained.
“Ah.”
Matthew snuffed the candle. Once I give this to the messenger, we’re all under a death warning.
“Matthew, no one leaves Colplatschki alive.” Matthew jerked back and the priest explained, “You’re talking to yourself. You need food and rest before the vigil tonight.”
“Yes. Because I’m taking the first and second watches over the Turkowi messenger, so no one does something stupid.” He straightened up, too quickly.
Fr. Andy’s face wavered in and out. My, that’s a big weaver web beside that beam. Someone needs to get rid of that, he thought, looking past the priest to the ceiling above. “Ugh.”
It took two tries for Matthew to get back on his feet. “Food, drink, and rest. You have a little while before you need to go down to relieve whoever’s in charge,” Andy informed him. “I’m invoking clerical authority, Matthew Charles.” He shook his finger. “And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to bash you over the head with my walking staff until you see stars and reason both.”
Matthew stared, then started laughing. Laughter shifted to something else, and he found himself leaning on the other man’s shoulder as he wept for his dead son.
That night, after visiting Kiara and calming her maids, he paced around the paddock, watching the woods and the marching stars and praying for his son. A few high clouds dimmed the Blackbird as it appeared above the horizon, climbing out of the trees to the east.
The next day he gave the Rajtan’s messenger the letter, along with a second page ordering everyone to give the man safe passage under threat of dire punishment. Then he set to work calling in favors and planning for war. Kiara scolded him. “My lord, what about mourning?”
“Unless you want to mourn the loss of Scheel and Morloke both, I have an army to gather.” He left it at that, rather than terrify her further. My lady, you do not want to know what will happen if I do not use this time.
He also had words with Fr. Andy about Kiara and Barbara. The priest’s lips tightened, and he scolded pro forma, “My son, you promised to cleave to Kiara Ann, forsaking all others. That includes your leman. Are you surprised that your lady takes your behavior amiss?”
“No, Father, I’m not. But there’s taking things amiss and then there’s trying to kill my children, which is beyond the pale, and what I fear Kiara will try. She’s already driven them out of the keep.” Which is why the dower house is in Barbara’s name, and why I kept it for her. Barbara had taken the children there the day after the Black Day, as Matthew thought of it, and had kept them out of sight of any of Kiara’s maids.
Fr. Andy gusted a sigh. “I will speak with Her Grace. And I expect you to do your duty, Matthew Charles.”
Oh, I will, probably just before we leave for war, assuming she’s willing and I have any energy to spare. He’d been more tired than usual after the daily drills and practices, planning sessions and riding sessions. His sons had joined the town guard, so they would not be coming south, but would still be making themselves useful. “I will, Father. I have always done my duty.”
“It’s a sea of yellow, Yer Krace,” the scout swore. “Far as a man can see, men, horses, big guns, stretching to the mountains and beyond, my lor’.”
“Where?” Matthew pointed to the map on the camp table, showing their current position. “We’re here. Morpalo River’s here.”
The shaggy man ducked down, looking at the page, and Matthew wrinkled his nose as something scuttled through the sc
out’s hair. Please, Godown, may he take all of them with him when he leaves. “Here, Yer Krace. Down this way,” and he drew his finger along the road to Scheel Center.
“So they crossed at Sigurney,” Capt. Ricks murmured.
“And the baggage ended, um, here.”
Almost ten kilometers? Holy Godown, how many men are we facing? He stomped his fear down and nodded. “Typical, keep the goodies in the back and out of danger.” They think. Godown willing, some Magwi would be coming up to harry the end of the column. “Good work.” Matthew pressed a silver eagle into the man’s dirt-stained palm and after more compliments, sent him back to rejoin the mounted infantry. “I can’t believe that.”
Ricks scrubbed his face, thinking. “I can. Remember, they bring all their food on the hoof, Your Grace, plus armorers, churigons, servants and slaves, hell, everything short of a field brothel.”
“Long tail for the number of teeth, then.” Matthew studied the map again.
“A what, Your Grace?”
“It’s an old Lander phrase. Means too much support and not enough fighters.” He straightened up. “Scheel Center. We meet them there.”
Ricks and Bustos both nodded, reminding Matthew of a pair of wader birds, dipping their beaks and stepping in tandem. “Use the remains of the city for cover, Your Grace?”
“No. No, I have something different in mind. The Rajtan’s expecting us to race down and meet him as far south as we can, giving him prime choice of ground. We’re going to do something different.”
He sketched out what he wanted to try. Ricks rubbed under his nose but didn’t argue. Bustos, on the other hand …
“The cavalry won’t stand for it, Your Grace.”
“Oh really.”
“No, Your Grace. You’re denying them the chance to attack, and to get loot. They won’t listen.” He set his mouth in a stubborn line.
Matthew straightened up and took two steps around the table, so he loomed over the startled officer. “They will obey, Bustos, or I will blow them from the mouths of the captured Turkowi cannons. And I won’t tolerate any debate or ‘independent action,’ either. There are plenty of trees, and corpse-lizards to eat the fruit.” He left it at that. I know you have two daughters to dower, Bustos, and the Oligarchs’ sons are bitching about not getting any loot or glory. But do not push me. His patience had died along with his son, or so it felt. When he felt anything at all.
