Not far from those two rode Count Lestere Hagarath of House Keneshin, looking for all the world like a pallid bear wearing a lida hide cloak. Swathed in his usual layers of clothing he dipped his head in her direction. She returned the gesture, wondering why Lestere had let out the bush he called hair rather than keep it braided. His beard was so thick it could pass for a bird’s nest.
Count Pomir Fiorenta rode ahead of Lestere, dressed in black, on a black steed. Simply looking at his pockmarked face made the day drearier. She had never trusted that one. He was too secretive by half, much like the rest of House Humel. Those three counts bore an obvious dislike for each other. Too obvious, in her estimation.
Minor lords and ladies, sons and daughters or other family members who had taken advantage of the chaos Succession Day created, comprised the remainder of the retinue. Such shifts in titles were to be expected.
She rode between High Priest Jarod and King Ainslen. Jarod was in the thick fur-lined robes of his station, cinched with a wide, blue belt. The Star of the Dominion hung from a chain around his neck and a fur hat covered his head and ears.
The king was puffed up like a preening bird in gold satin and layered velvet, amber-colored stallion dancing. He received odd looks from people along the streets who huddled in thick furs. They likely thought him mad for his lack of a coat in this weather. She would have too, except she knew he wanted every eye focused on him, and was using soul to keep out the cold. Jemare had employed his skills in a similar fashion at times, stating that first appearances often made the most impact.
Ainslen also had an additional reason. In light of the recent assassination attempt he had to appear fearless. Terestere drew her lips in a tight line as she considered the counts, and which of their number had the most cause to want the king dead.
Surrounded by Blades and Farlanders they proceeded due south along slush-filled streets, riding from the crisp air of the Golden Spires to the filth choking Deadman’s Gap. A scaffold with a platform at the top rose above nearby buildings. Eyes narrowed, she tried to discern what else lay ahead. A weight descended on her chest as they drew closer.
Over three dozen gibbets lined Deadman’s Gap, icicles hanging from their metal frames. Chains extended from the manacles worn by the men and women inside each, connecting one person to the other by links of dark metal. A foul stench drifted from the cages. Some of her family had perished in those metal monstrosities.
Among the prisoners were Jemare’s supporters: nobles, children to one Hill or another that had opposed Ainslen. Some were naked, shivering profusely, curled into balls. Others were clothed but still hugged themselves. Six were motionless. Those still lucid stretched shaking hands between the bars toward the metal drums from which flames roared. But the bonfires were too far away to offer any heat. Agonized moans and unintelligible sputter issued from many a mouth, all lacking tongues. Behind each gibbet stood a King’s Blade. Several lesser nobles leaned over the side of their mounts and spilled their breakfast. The counts were implacable.
A mass of common folk gathered on the far side of Deadman’s Gap, separated from the cobblestoned road by a line of soldiers and bonfires. Perhaps half of their original number had survived Succession Day. Bundled in many layers of clothing they jostled each other in their attempts to get as close to the warmth as possible. The Smear was a mass of construction behind them, charred buildings and dilapidated structures that had once hugged each other.
Ainslen spurred his mount toward the scaffold. When he reached the wooden ladder that led up to the top, he wheeled his horse to face the nobles. The nervous titter of voices cut off. “I brought you all here for a reason,” he declared, gaze roving over the nobility.
“I would hope so,” Count Shenen said under his breath. Terestere suppressed a smile.
“Our Empire has survived for millennia, its greatest accomplishments wrought through change,” the king announced. “Whenever we stagnated, ill has befallen us. The beginning of the Blight, the Thousand Year War, the end of Hemene the Savage and the Fabled Era, the death of Khalil the Wise, the rise of the Caradorii and our struggle against them, King Jemare …” He let his voice trail off. A horse stamped and someone coughed. “I mentioned our former king because he did not embrace the changes we must make as an Empire. Today begins the first steps.
“Many of you have risen due to this past Succession Day. I’ve listened to your petitions and dealt with issues as they arise. Only a few seem to realize our greatest weakness.” He pointed at his personal guard. “The Blades.”
Murmurs spread through the nobility. A few shook their heads. Ainslen held up a gloved hand. They hushed.
“Those of you who beg to differ are either in denial or do not understand the facts. So I ask you this … who is the last legendary Blade you remember? Has there been one born in your lifetime? A Moamar the Massive? Redinen the Dual Blade? Amalia the Ravishing? Danilo the Quaking Blade? Roslav Quickthrust the Dagger Blade? Gothien the Shadow Blade? Myron the Sun Blade? Jemare the Unbridled Blade? Ainslen the Wind Blade? None?” He cocked his head. “That is not to say our Blades are worthless, simply that they are not on par with those of old. Have you asked yourselves why?” The king waited for a reply. No one offered any. “No? Then I shall tell you. It’s because the dregs have held back some of their best. We get the occasional piece of gold but not a precious gem. Others have very little skill, their parents offering them to us as they hope to give their children something better than squalor, disease, and death.”
All three helped on by the Order. Terestere scowled.
“I don’t blame them,” the king continued. “Where are all these strong melders going, you ask? Judging from those we fought since Succession Day, they became a part of the Consortium. They rose against the Empire despite the freedom Jemare allowed them, the influx of coin into their coffers. Jemare himself had to resort to raids and offerings from the Empire’s other kingdoms to fill the ranks.”
“So what is it you propose … these … changes?” asked Count Hagarath.
“Ah.” Ainslen signaled to someone behind the nobles.
Heads shifted, the crowd parting as Count Shaz, dressed in soft, dark, derin fur, woolen britches, and a leather cloak, rode between them. He stared straight ahead, scarred features giving away nothing. House Jarina’s silver insignia, a silhouette of a woman and a cup, hung from a chain around his neck. Shaz trotted his horse next to the king, said a few words, and then moved to join the others.
“To put it simply,” Ainslen began anew, “we need fresh blood in almost every facet of our lives. The first is among you.” He pointed to Shaz. “Bestowing a Hill to one of foreign descent has never been done. And before any one grumbles, neither has a dreg risen to the station of count.” He nodded in the direction of Marshal Lestin, former Drillmaster of the Blades. “From this day forth let him be known as Count Lestin of House Antelen.”
Gasps spread throughout the nobles. A few shouted their dissent. A louder roar of approval rose from across Deadman’s Gap. The commoners close enough to hear Ainslen’s declaration were whooping, pumping their fists in the air, the coldness of the day forgotten. The cheers spread in a wave through the throng.
Terestere couldn’t help but to smile in admiration of Ainslen’s move. Though the Blades refused to acknowledge their origins, or were conditioned to recognize no power but the Empire’s, and bear no love for anyone but the king, the heritage of most was undeniable. As aloof as some Blades had grown, many commoners still looked up to them, still saw them as their own. Her sources had told her of Lestin’s concern for the Smear’s residents during the recent skirmishes. She wondered what the king would do now to quell the nobility’s anger.
Four Blades climbed the ladder at the king’s back. The clangor diminished.
Ainslen continued to speak to the nobles. “I have upset a few of you with this announcement, perhaps the majority of you, but most will forgive me when you hear what I have to say next. Shenen, Lestere, Fiorent
a, Katuro, and Corbel, I address you specifically because you are all counts or prominent men from Jemare’s court. How many children have you all lost over the past forty years?”
“Three,” Shenen said.
“Four.” Lestere was frowning at the king, bushy eyebrows touching.
“Two,” said Fiorenta.
“Three,” called out Katuro, his robes an imitation of the wisemen. He claimed to be one of the most pious among the nobility.
“Two.” Corbel was taller than most of the other nobles. Wider too, his size easily mistaken for fat until one realized the logs he had for arms.
“And all of your children took part in the Trial of Bravery … excelled, didn’t they?”
The men nodded, but each had that wary look about them. A chill coursed across Terestere’s arms. Bumps rose on her skin. She once had a spy follow Jemare. He reported a ritual by her dead husband that she would rather forget.
“They died to Jemare, their souls ingested to make him stronger,” the king said. “He had planned the same for my Kenslen.”
Leroi Shenen snarled. Lestere Hagarath’s massive fists clenched and unclenched. Fiorenta became extremely still. The wives of Corbel and Katuro fainted. Shock and murmurs ran rampant through the group. Several turned to gaze upon Terestere. Hate radiated from the expressions of many, doubt and questions from others.
“The former queen did not know of her husband’s … appetite,” Ainslen said. “For those of you who might doubt my word, Jemare kept a detailed memoir, hidden away in a special room in the dungeon. If you wish to see it, you can do so upon our return. High Priest Jarod can confirm it for those who lack the stomach for grisly details.”
The High Priest stepped forward. “The king speaks the truth, in both regards. Such a travesty was one reason we have given our support to His Majesty. May the Dominion shine on his reign.” He resumed his place among the nobles.
The knot in her stomach eased. However, she still received suspicious glances. Enough to be a future cause for worry.
“For this travesty, I now call an end to the Trial of Bravery,” Ainslen continued. “It was a ploy for Jemare to gauge the strength of our children’s souls, to decide whom he would take.” No one cried foul at the decree. “In addition, once I put down the rabble that have risen against us in Thelusia, Marissinia, and Kheridisia, I will award estates, fiefdoms, and baronies to the most deserving of you. If there proves to be a threat from the west, we shall use my Farlanders to crush them also, and take their riches and lands for our own.”
Grinning and nodding, the nobles were clapping each other on the back. Shenen’s forehead was furrowed in contemplation. Fiorenta was his usual expressionless self. Humel arched one bushy eyebrow and stroked his beard. For her part, Terestere gazed on Ainslen with a deeper understanding of the man. He had slipped in the one thing over which the nobles and commoners alike had expressed outrage: the Farlanders. In one move he gained support for them. Well played, my king. Well played.
Ainslen climbed the ladder. When he reached the platform, towering above everyone, he gazed out toward the Smear and its people, their expectant eyes upon him.
“Of late,” he shouted, voice echoing, “some of you have rebelled. I do not blame you for this. You have lacked a true voice in the court, but today I gave you one, a man who has known your suffering.”
The crowd was enraptured. Terestere doubted many of them realized the power Ainslen wielded or could stop it.
“But that is not all … you were willfully misled by your old king and by the Consortium. The guilds you grew to love, to rely upon, were robbing you of what was rightfully yours. Yes, some of you profited, but what you earned was a mere pittance compared to what was agreed upon between the king and the Consortium leaders. To line his coffers, Jemare, may he burn in the Ten Purgatories, banned trade with the Farish Isles, Helegan, and Kheridisia, making those lands profitable for the Consortium’s smugglers. The coin earned from the guilds’ black markets was to feed and clothe you. What did you get in return?” Ainslen swept his hand out to encompass the Smear. “Filth, poverty, starvation, disease, murderers and rapists, and only the Purgatories knows what else.”
Terestere gritted her teeth. The king was lying. The pacts were true enough. She’d drawn up a few. However, the guilds had provided their part to the commoners, and so had the king. She’d seen to it herself even if Jemare did not wish to abide by the bargain. Also, Kasinia’s coffers were full to overflowing. A simple visit to the accountants would prove as much. Unless … she eyed High Priest Jarod, whose lips curved in a slight smile as Ainslen continued to speak.
“Not only did they rob you of comfort, they stole opportunity from your children. Opportunity to become more, to lead greater lives, to live on in songs and tales, to serve the Empire and the greater good of the Dominion.” The king’s voice was a roar now. “What did they give you in return? Dead children and loved ones on Succession Day and in the recent uprisings. All because they convinced you not to deliver the most gifted on the Day of Accolades.”
He paused as his words sunk in. Angry murmurs rippled through the commoners. Terestere heard the mention of the Consortium or the name of one guild or another, and not in pleasant tones.
“Why should you be forced to surrender those you love, some may ask,” Ainslen said. “Why should you be willing to give up the joys and wonders of parenthood, of seeing your children grow, their first steps, their first speech? Why should you have to learn of your children’s deaths in some battle in a land you know nothing of, or see them pass you by as if they do not know you? Well, I agree, I sympathize, I understand. My solution? I offer you a choice.
“Bring the gifted among you to the Grey Fist to be tested. Or if you have some skill in soul, you may present yourself. Age will no longer be a barrier or a cause for execution of those the Dominion have endowed their gifts upon. Instead, you will be taught. Think of it as you would a school, but a school that will pay you ten silver monarchs a month for it to teach your children. The Empire will be eternally grateful and will see to your comfort thereafter. When the training has almost ended, a person can choose to return to the Smear or partake of the final trials to become a Blade. No more fear of reprisal, fear of examiners coming among you, Blades hunting down those who avoided the Day of Accolades. No more worry.”
Terestere could see the commoners mulling over the idea, could discern the greed, as well as the understanding of such an opportunity. Merchant’s guards, sailors, and craftsmen made similar wages. These poor folk would be elevated to a middle class life. More than that, though, and she doubted the other counts realized, but by doing away with the Day of Accolades, Ainslen was severing the influence of the houses, their ability to strengthen their ranks. All would fall within his control. He would choose who profited the most from the influx of gifted children.
“In addition,” Ainslen said, shushing the crowd, “I will see to it that the Smear is repaired, houses rebuilt better than before, laborers sent among you, wisemen to offer their medicine, healing, and prayer. Also, I will ensure that those of you with some skill can partake in the rebuilding, will earn coin for your work. No more will you need to huddle here in the cold. No more will you walk bare-footed. No more will you go hungry. This, I promise in the name of the Dominion. Praise the Dominion. It is their will!”
Cheers and prayers ran through the crowd. Stunned, Terestere watched the adulation.
“Lastly, to signify the end of the Day of Accolades, and the beginning of the Day of Change, we shall have a festival. The execution of the thieving guild leaders and members will take place on that day.” He gazed down at her for the first time. “As well as my marriage to Terestere. All hail the queen.” The celebration grew to a fever pitch.
Ainslen climbed down from the platform and mounted his amber stallion. Victory radiating in his expression, he returned to her side. “Now, I own the common folk as I do the nobility,” he said as they turned toward the Golden Spires.
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“But not the middle class, the merchants and the like,” she said. “With the absence of the guilds, their flow of coin has been severely depleted.”
“A work in progress. However, with the impending war, I don’t see how to soothe their worries. A king can no more rule without gaining enemies than a butcher can provide meat without slaughter.”
“There might be a way,” she said. “Our wedding will be a massive affair that will fill their coffers, I’m sure. Not to mention that industry for weapons and transport will thrive. I may be able to convince them to adapt. It should not be too difficult for most. Coin is all that matters. I will also stress to them that because of your efforts, they can now trade with the Farish Isles once more, and that if you succeed in your endeavors, Helegan and Kheridisia soon will be available to them. At the same time, you might discover additional sources of income the counts may yet be hiding. My suggestion would be to use them.”
“A woman after my own heart, indeed.” He smiled, gaze becoming distant as they rode for home. “Considering the announcement of our marriage, it might also be a good idea for you to visit the counts, reacquaint yourself with the ones you know and start a relationship with those new to their title.”
“After you smooth over any concerns they might have over Jemare’s atrocities,” she said.
“Of course.” He paused for a moment. “And since we’re on the topic of a wedding, I suggest you also visit Curate Selentus to begin our other endeavor.” A smile graced the king’s face that made her shiver.
P rice of A rrogance
G rimacing, Thar leaned against the wall of the ruined building behind him, pressing his hand to the wound in his side. His fingers came away sticky and wet. Pain lanced up his leg, and his free arm hung limply. He had made tourniquets to cover the three holes, one in his leg, one in his arm, and the other in his side, but the blood still flowed. The cold added to his misery.
The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series Page 43
