Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “Tsistimed the Golden. He’ll come. And he’s never been stopped once he decides to add a city to his empire.”

  The Hu’n-tai At did not “add cities” to their empire. They looted them, then destroyed them, leaving only ash, ruins, and starvation.

  The boy added, “The nomads are suffering from the changing climate. Snow and ice claim more pastureland every year.”

  Old news. “Which we’ve heard all my life. A Hu’n-tai At scouting force was caught inside the Holy Lands a few years ago. Near Esther’s Wood.” And crusaders, Lucidians, and Dreangereans alike had combined to exterminate them.

  The boy inclined his head. “Someday it will be a reconnaissance in force. Tsistimed is considering sending one of his grandsons with ten thousand veterans.”

  Nassim was impressed with the quality of the warlord’s intelligence. He said as much.

  “There are Faithful among the caravaneers who travel the east road. They talk to Faithful among the Hu’n-tai At. And Tsistimed does little to conceal his ambitions. It matters not if his enemies know his plans. They’ll be crushed anyway.”

  The Mountain knew that kind of arrogance well. His erstwhile friend Gordimer the Lion had it in plenty.

  It would be interesting to see the Lion and the Golden butt heads. Though neither was in his prime, now.

  The great terror of the east had become an armchair warrior, they said.

  He was ancient.

  No one living remembered a time when Tsistimed the Golden and the Hu’n-tai At were not a storm beyond the northeastern horizon. No one living recalled a time when captains and kings were not more interested in local squabbles than in preparing for the onslaught to come.

  “How does this concern us?” Nassim asked.

  “Tel Moussa overlooks the road armies use to march to and fro between Dreanger and the lands between the rivers. The road armies follow north and south crosses that road southwest of Gherig, at the edge of the Plain of Judgment, by the Well of Remembrance.”

  Nassim nodded. As a youngster he had known veterans of the Battle of the Four Armies, that the Arnhanders called the Battle of the Well of Remembrance. Hard feelings from that still poisoned relations between Lucidia and Dreanger. “An important site. The crusaders were defending it when they stumbled into the trap set by your illustrious relative.”

  “Any Hu’n-tai At army will follow the traditional route.”

  “Any army must go where the water is.”

  “Just so. And for reasons to do with water and grass, my illustrious relative, as you name him, has convinced the Kaif to remove from Mezket and Begshtar to Shamramdi. The plains round Shamramdi are well grassed. The wars of the future will demand many more horses than we have today. Mounts will become a particular problem if we can’t buy them from peoples who have fallen under the dominion of Tsistimed.”

  “I see.” Nassim had been in the presence of the Kaif of Qasr al-Zed several times. “What does the Kaif think of the changes?”

  The kaifs of Qasr al-Zed had ruled from Mezket for four centuries. And religious leaders everywhere were known for resisting change.

  “He was reluctant. But he does as he’s told.”

  As did Karim Kaseem al-Bakr in al-Qarn, Nassim reflected. The Lion lurked behind every fatwa from the Kaif of al-Minphet. More troubling was the Mountain’s suspicion that er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen still dictated Gordimer’s decisions, whether or not he had been outlawed.

  “As should be in matters of war.”

  “We trust in God but remember that God helps most those who plan best.”

  Nassim laughed aloud, definitely beginning to like the boy. There was much of his granduncle in him. He wished Hagid had been such a boy. Though Hagid had been strong in his own way. He had crossed the White Sea alone to warn Else Tage of er-Rashal’s evil perfidy. Which burst of courage had gained him nothing but death.

  Which burst of courage had driven a mortal wedge between Gordimer the Lion and his friend since boyhood, Nassim Alizarin, the Mountain. The back draft from which burst of courage swept through the Sha-lug like a blistering desert wind. But which, in the end, changed nothing. Few Sha-lug would put aside what they had always known, however repugnant they found what had been done to Hagid.

  The boy returned to his primary interest. “The Hu’n-tai At will come soon. Maybe this summer. We are at that stage where we must give God every assistance by preparing to execute His will.”

  Nassim nodded. “And?”

  “This is a critical outpost. Signals from Tel Moussa can carry warnings down the road, or back to Shamramdi.”

  True. A lookout in the mountains to the northeast could relay signals to Shamramdi in just one transfer. But to the west …

  The boy smiled. “To the west is Gherig. Only Gherig, of the crusaders. Gherig, of the foulest Arnhander of all, Rogert du Tancret.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet Black Rogert is right there in the path of anyone headed into the Holy Lands.”

  “The adder cares not whose hand it bites.”

  The boy nodded. “The Hu’n-tai At will ride around Tel Moussa. They’ll bypass Gherig. They’ll want to seize the Wells of Ihrian first. If they’re defeated, which hasn’t happened yet, they’ll try to destroy the Wells.”

  “Are they that wicked?” The Holy Lands were the heart of the world. During all the thousands of years that men had fought over the Wells of Ihrian none had been mad enough to try destroying them so they would not benefit anyone else. But the Hu’n-tai At had the reputation. They killed. They plundered. They destroyed. Those who were not of the horde could not comprehend. The horde was determined to destroy settled civilization.

  “They’re that wicked, General. That wicked, and more. They’re enemies of everyone who isn’t Hu’n-tai At.”

  “Taking that at face, what are we to do here?”

  “Assuming you’ll stand your ground?”

  “We’ve taken this place under obligation. We’ll fulfill that.”

  “That’s what I was sent to find out. That being the case, I’m supposed to tap your thoughts about how best to absorb and crush a Hu’n-tai At invasion.”

  That puzzled Nassim. He said as much.

  “Sha-lug think differently. You’re one vast brotherhood, strongly disciplined, centrally ruled. My granduncle must, of necessity, gather men from a hundred tribes, captained by proud chieftains who’d rather fight old vendettas than unite against an outsider. He tried to create his own guard, like the Immortals of the Kings of Kings of Ghargarlicea, without notable success. The central problem being the expense of maintaining the force.”

  The Mountain allowed himself another nod, as much respect as assent. Indala al-Sul Halaladin had done well, teaching this one. Few Sha-lug had as solid a sense of history and their place in it.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Nassim said. “It is written: We must defeat the enemies of God before we can settle enmities within the Realm of Peace.” Which name he spoke with a cynical sneer. There was no peace inside the bounds spanned by God’s Peace. Because men did not just demand submission to the Will of God, they demanded submission to themselves. Nor could they agree what the Will of God might be.

  6. Navaya Medien: The Tired Man

  The student waited till the Perfect completed his meditation. He carried a letter addressed to the old man. That letter had spent months in transit, tracing Brother Candle from retreat to retreat. In a community less honest and dutiful it would have gotten lost long since. With the Seekers After Light, though, delivery was assured, barring divine, diabolic, or villainous intercession.

  It had survived hundreds of miles and dozens of hands crossing the Connec and the Verses Mountains to reach the remote Maysalean monastery at Sant Peyre de Mileage in Navaya Medien.

  The old man rose. The youth’s presence startled him. “Jean-Pierre?”

  “A letter, Master. For you. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Good.” The old man responded slowly. Not becaus
e of any infirmity but because the boy spoke the Medien dialect, a cousin of that used in the western Connec. It did funny things with consonants. You could confuse words that sounded familiar but then made no sense in context. “It certainly could wait those few minutes.”

  Brother Candle did not reach out for the letter. He wanted no contact with the world. He had been out there so long, till recently, that he had fallen from Perfection. Far from Perfection. Only now, after months, had he gotten solidly onto the Path again.

  The letter was filthy. He did not recognize the hand that had written his name large upon the wrapping. He suspected that had been added in transit because the original had grown so ragged. He saw nothing to indicate a source.

  “Aren’t you going to open it, Master? It might be important.”

  It would be. Of course. Extremely. To the person who had written it. He considered the possibilities. Whatever this correspondent had to report, it would not be good.

  “My fingers aren’t working well today, Jean-Pierre.” He pronounced the name in the Connecten manner. Here, it was Jean-Peyre. “Read it to me, if it please you.”

  The boy was thrilled. He could show off for the monastery’s great celebrity. He could demonstrate how well his lessons had taken.

  Jean-Peyre took the letter back, removed the wrapper with great care. He made sure nothing had been written on the back of the paper. There had been but it had nothing to do with the letter. Unless a baker somewhere wanted Brother Candle to know details about quantities of flour and eggs and the rising cost of fuel to fire his ovens.

  The inner wrapper was, indeed, the worse for wear. But its sender had foreseen its travails. There were additional layers of protection — one such discarded calculations by a military quartermaster — before Jean-Peyre found the jewel at the heart.

  “All right, Master. This wrapper says, ‘To the Most Illustrious Perfect Master, Charde ande Clairs, known as Brother Candle, greetings.’”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.” Few people knew the name he had worn before he had set out along the Path.

  “That part is signed ‘Bernardin Amberchelle.’ Is that a name I should know, Master?”

  “No, Jean-Pierre. Bernardin Amberchelle is a cousin of Count Raymone Garete of Antieux. A ferocious devil. I never suspected him of being literate. His world is defined by sharpened steel.”

  “Maybe he had a scribe write for him.”

  “Most likely.” Nobles did that. Those who were dim enough to trust their clerics completely. “That explains it. Go on.”

  What followed was a rambling history of Count Raymone and his spouse, Socia Rault, since Brother Candle had left them to find the Path again. There was much about the slaughter of foreigners and an alliance with the Church’s Captain-General.

  Odd. Count Raymone had spent years bloodily resisting the will of Brothe.

  The letter eventually got to Amberchelle’s point. Which was what the old man feared it would be.

  Bernardin Amberchelle begged Brother Candle’s return. Socia, for whom the old man had cared through the horrors of the Connecten Crusade, desperately needed his guidance and mellowing influence.

  Socia’s brothers had all been slain in the past year. None had left a legitimate son. But that was beside Amberchelle’s point.

  Socia had become a blood drinker. Her thirst for revenge had begun to influence her husband’s decisions. The only hope for Count Raymone or his Countess was to spark their respect for the Perfect Master.

  Jean-Peyre looked up. “That’s all, Master. Except for a signature and a seal.”

  Brother Candle groaned. The sins of his past were overhauling him. If teaching was a sin.

  How bad must it be if someone as vicious as Bernardin Amberchelle was distressed?

  Jean-Peyre was frightened. He sensed what the letter failed to state explicitly. He saw a chance to impress the Master. “Would you like to dictate a reply, Master? I have a clear hand.”

  “Perhaps later, Jean-Pierre. Once I’ve digested the message. See me this same time tomorrow.”

  Jean-Peyre could not restrain a slight bow, though that was discouraged amongst Seekers, where there were supposed to be no classes. He gave the letter to the old man and got out.

  Brother Candle carried the missive to his cell, where he was profligate in his use of candles as he read and reread.

  ***

  The old man was not at his meditations when Jean-Peyre arrived to record his reply. He rushed to the old man’s cell. Brother Candle was not there. Before long the monastery was in an uproar. The missing Maysalean hero was so old. The monastics feared the worst.

  The mystery ended when a sleepy deacon — the antique who kept the cemetery — reported having seen Brother Candle headed down to the village that shared the monastery’s name. He carried a staff, a small pack, a blanket, and a water bottle. He wore rags, so it was likely that he planned a long journey.

  The younger students begged the abbot to let them bring the Perfect back. He was too frail for today’s wild world. There were brigands everywhere. The Night was astir as it had not been since the early days of the Old Empire. And enemies were tormenting the End of Connec again.

  The abbot sent the students back to their studies. The Perfect Master knew what he was doing. He was Perfect.

  Already eight miles away, climbing the long slope out of the valley of heretics, Brother Candle increasingly suspected that he had no real idea what he was doing.

  Once again he had allowed the world to intrude upon Perfection.

  7. Mother City: Time of Changes

  Rumor said the Five Families were furious. Rumor had their supporters in the Collegium gnashing their teeth. They were irked by Boniface’s stubborn refusal to get out of their way.

  They were further incensed by the swift arrival of the Captain-General, whose commitment to the vision of Hugo Mongoz was common knowledge. Before his advent gangs roved the streets, bullying the retinues of rustic Principatés, often coming to blows.

  The City Regiment did little to control the violence. That said a great deal.

  Someone had a firm grasp on Pinkus Ghort’s leash. Piper Hecht suspected Principaté Bronte Doneto. Doneto, of the Benedocto family, wanted the disorders to continue.

  The arrival of Patriarchal troops stilled the waters swiftly.

  The Captain-General answered only to Boniface VII. Boniface had asked for peace in Brothe for months.

  Peace there would be, now.

  ***

  Piper Hecht meant to steal every moment he could with Anna Mozilla and the children. And received an outstanding gift his first visit. The children surrounded him immediately. Pella was proprietary, having just spent all that time in the field with his adoptive father. Lila was shy. He had not been around much since her arrival. She kept looking to Anna to see if she was doing the right thing.

  Vali was the amazing one. First, she had grown dramatically. She promised to become an attractive woman. But the greater thrill was having her hug him, then say, “Welcome home, Father.” Plain words. Straight out. Speaking in his presence for the first time ever.

  Hecht hugged her back and looked over her at Anna. Anna smiled, nodded. Vali had regained her ability to trust. Vali had enlisted fully in their makeshift family.

  Pella said, “We thought you’d never get here.”

  “You and me, both. Every time I started this way they found something else that had to be handled right now. Otherwise, Mother Church and the Episcopal world would go under before sundown.”

  Anna said, “You’re here, now. Leave the world outside. Madouc sent word you were coming. The children made a special meal.”

  “Wonderful.” He could smell the mutton cooking. “I wish I knew how to tell you all what an anchor you are to me when I’m out there.” Which he meant absolutely, however hard temptation might nip.

  “Tell us about the wedding!” Vali enthused. Lila nodded. The older girl would break no hearts. Nor get a chance to do
if her background came out. “Pella wouldn’t.”

  “Because they didn’t let him inside.” He settled at the table, began describing the Imperial wedding.

  The girls rushed back and forth with food. Hecht talked only when both were there to hear. Pella remained seated, Anna judging him to be too old now to run with the girls.

  Anna no longer had servants. She did not trust herself or the children not to give something away. And they all had secrets.

  Vali wanted to know what King Jaime looked like. Was he as handsome as they said? Lila wanted to know what the Empress and her sister wore. Lila was almost appealing when she was excited.

  “Jaime is as pretty as a man can be. And as spoiled. He makes enemies almost as fast as he can talk. He won’t stop saying stupid and offensive things. The Empress and the Princess Apparent were stunning. Their gowns cost more than any of us can hope to see in our lifetimes. Katrin wore gold. Helspeth wore silver. They were soaked in gems and pearls. Katrin favored rubies, Helspeth emeralds. The ladies of the court were nearly as gaudy. I do wish you could have seen them. But I’m still thinking it was a miracle that I was invited.”

  “That is curious,” Anna observed.

  “They said it was because Boniface can’t travel. After the crusade in the Connec, I was better known than anyone else connected with the Patriarch.”

  “You were invited when Pacificus Sublime was Patriarch, too. And he wasn’t handicapped.”

  “Are you sure? He went way before his time.”

  Anna shrugged. “It just seems strange.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  “Pella says you had a private interview with the Empress.”

  “I did. She tried to hire me away from the Church. So maybe that explains why I was there.”

  “What? Why?”

  Lila asked, “You aren’t going to do it, are you?” In a voice so soft Hecht almost missed it.

  “No. She wanted me to lead a crusade to the Holy Lands. I don’t want that. I’d have to deal with all those pompous idiots. … Never mind. I have a job here. At the moment, to ensure an orderly transition. But let’s don’t talk about that. You girls tell me what you did while I was gone.”