The Second Empire: Book Four of The Monarchies of God

by Paul Kearney

  “Ahara was from Aekir,” the Sultan explained. “She will soon give me a son. The next Sultan of Ostrabar will have Ramusian blood in him. For that reason at least, it is good that this long war finally comes to an end.”

  Albrec laid a hand on Corfe’s shoulder, surprising him. The little monk was staring intently at him. Half amused, half puzzled, he took the Merduk Queen’s hand to kiss, raised it to his lips. “Lady—”

  Her eyes were full of tears. Corfe hesitated, wondering what was wrong, and in that instant, he knew her.

  He knew her.

  Albrec’s grip on his shoulder tightened bruisingly.

  “It may be that one day our children will even play together,” Aurungzeb went on, oblivious. He seemed to enjoy showing off his command of Normannic. “Imagine how we will be able to improve our respective kingdoms, if there is no war to fight, no frontier to maintain. I foresee a new era with the signing of this treaty. Today is a famous day.”

  So much, in one terrible moment. A whole host of impulses come roaring at him, only to be beaten back. His life shipwrecked beyond hope or happiness. Albrec’s grip on his shoulder anchoring him to reality in a world which had suddenly gone insane.

  Her eyes had not changed, despite the paint that had been applied about them. Perhaps there was a wisdom in them now which had not been there before. Her fingers clasped his hand as they hovered below his lips, a gentle pressure, no more.

  Something broke, deep within him.

  Corfe shut his eyes, and kissed the hand of the woman who had been his wife. He held her fingers one moment more, and then released them and straightened.

  “I hope I see you well, lady,” he said, his voice as harsh and thick as a raven’s croak.

  “I am well enough, my lord,” she replied.

  One second longer they had looking at one another, and then the madness of the world came flooding back in on them. The day must be seen through, and the thing they had come here for must be done. Had to be done.

  “Are you all right?” Odelia whispered to Corfe as they led the Merduk Royal couple down from the dais to the carriages that awaited.

  He nodded, grey in the face. Albrec had to help him into the carriage; he was as unsteady as an old man.

  The crowds found their voices at last, and began to cheer as the carriages trundled the short distance to the open doors of the great audience hall, where rank after rank of Fimbrian pikemen were drawn up alongside Torunnan regulars and a small, vermilion line of Cathedrallers. Aras and Formio rode alongside the carriage.

  “Wave, Corfe,” Odelia said to him. “This is supposed to be a glad day. The war is over, remember.”

  But he did not wave. He stared out at that sea of cheering people, and thought he saw faces he knew in the crowd. Andruw and Marsch, Ebro, Cerne, Ranafast, Martellus. And at the last he saw Heria, the woman who had once been his wife, with that heartbreaking smile of hers, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards.

  He closed his eyes. She had joined the faces of the dead at last.

  Contents

  WHAT WENT BEFORE . . .

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE RETURN OF THE MARINER

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  PART TWO DEATH OF A SOLDIER

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE