by Mike Shel
Auric nodded. “Our route?” he asked.
“The most direct would have you sail to Aelbrinth,” answered Rae, “and ride through Marburand’s southeastern hills into Ironwound. However, I would suggest you avoid the direct route. Word from our sources in the duchy suggests Duke Willem is up to seditious games these days. I fear the queen’s script and letter of imprimatur may not be honored as it should be. I suggest you sail to Ralsea, and from there charter transportation up the Ironbell. You can purchase mounts in Ironwound itself and follow mining camp trails through the mountains to Gnexes, rather than the main highway.”
Agnes was ready to ask more questions, but her father seemed satisfied with the lictor’s pronouncement and was prepared to move on. “There is another matter,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the door to Rae’s quarters. Standing there, his face hidden by the shadow of his robe’s cowl, was Qeelb.
Rae frowned and closed her eyes again, letting out a long, ragged sigh. “Your charge from Geneviva is ill-omened and impious,” she said, touching the knuckle of her forefinger to her lips in a perfunctory gesture of loyalty to the crown. “And I’d lay a great wager that this attack on the Citadel was orchestrated by the Church of Timilis, if not by the great god himself. You’ll need mighty assistance, no?”
“Agnes said the same,” said her father, nodding. “But in all honesty, I fear that power.”
“You should,” said the broken sorcerer. “It is terrible. But I swear that everything I do will be in service to the expedition. I will do nothing to deliberately harm my allies.”
“Deliberately,” echoed Auric. “Meaning?”
“I try to be exact in my language,” Qeelb responded. “I don’t always know what I’ll draw forth when I call upon the power, and such elements can be…unpredictable. But know this: I would throw myself in harm’s way rather than see what I’ve conjured injure an ally. I swear.”
“Upon what is your oath sworn?” Auric queried.
The sorcerer was quiet for a moment. Agnes could see his thin, bloodless lips tense. “Alas, I have nothing I believe in, no deity at least, upon whom I can lay my oath. I spent decades imprisoned, formless, then four years back in this vessel, serving as an instrument of death for one Azkayan sea captain after another—all of it against my will. I now enter into this enterprise with you of my own free will, out of gratitude for my release, and glad to fight alongside those I may one day call friends. And I believe your cause is righteous.”
“Do you?” said Rae from her sickbed. “Murdering a god?”
“It isn’t murder, ma’am,” came the answer. “It’s justice.”
Agnes returned to the Orchard to retrieve her rapier. Sure enough, there it lay with belt and sheath among a litter of leaves and smaller branches brought down by her descent from the roof. She looked up and smiled at how far the roof seemed, feeling not a little pleased with herself for her foolhardy leap. A knife of pain from her brutalized shins wiped the grin away.
She returned to her quarters, feeling exhausted and exhilarated both, wondering if she would be able to sleep. When she arrived there, she found Chalca sitting on her bed.
“Sweet Lalu’s mercy, girl, you look a right mess.”
“It’s been a rough night,” she answered, attempting a levity she didn’t feel. Chalca’s wounds had been healed by a priest, and he had washed off the days-old cosmetics. Agnes realized this was the first time she had seen him plain. He was a beautiful man, with kind eyes, high cheekbones, and soft black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He had a feminine grace about him that was soothing, safe. He held out his arms, like a welcoming mother. Agnes sat down next to him and let him embrace her.
They laid down on the bed together and Agnes told him her story. He was a gifted listener. He asked few questions, stroked her hair, pulling out a stray twig or bit of leaf now and again. And before she knew it, she had fallen asleep.
20
Acorns
Though the old man was in the adjacent room, he still bore witness to the countess’s private ritual in her chamber. In his mind’s eye, he saw Ilanda Padivale kneel naked before a makeshift shrine to Chaeres, hands outstretched in supplication, as though ready to catch blessings from the heavens. The altar top was lacquered ash carved with religious sigils. Upon it sat a fired red-clay plate. Lying on the plate were three baked acorns, corn silk braided with sprigs of thyme, a cake of honey-infused tallow, and a muddy brown jar, plugged with cork stopper and wax. Eyes closed, she spoke her prayer aloud.
“O beneficent Chaeres, Mother of the Fields, who makes the crops grow, who provides sustenance to the people of Hanifax. I beg thee, make fruitful my womb, so that I might honor thy admonition to people the earth, and provide an heir for my noble husband and partner. Protect and nurture that child with thy abiding grace, until the time comes for his arrival. I ask these things, O Bountiful Mother of Childbirth and the Harvest, with the sacrifice thou dost require.”
Ilanda Padivale picked up the muddy brown jar, which contained some of the flow of her most recent menses, nearly a month past and mixed with wine, and poured it upon the lacquered wood of the altar, smearing it with her palm until it covered its entire surface save where the clay plate rested. She touched a bloody finger to her forehead, then selected an acorn from the plate. She peeled it carefully, and smeared the nut with the blood surrounding the plate. She held the acorn in cupped hands as she continued the liturgy.
“By this mingling of thy symbol of fertility, and mine own lifeblood, symbol of my fertility, I swear my eternal love and devotion to thee, Mother of Mothers, Fecund Queen of the Soil and everything that is green and grows.” White teeth bit into the pale yellow meat of the nut. The old man knew it was bitter with tannins and the coppery taste of her blood, but the countess hid well any sign that she found the taste unpleasant. She chewed it slowly and swallowed it, then repeated the act with the second and third of the acorns. When she swallowed the last, she pressed her blood-smeared hand to her face and abased herself on the floor of the chamber. Face pressed into the cold stone, she whispered the final words of the prayer.
“Bless me, by thy mercy, by thy great bounty, O Beneficent Chaeres.”
After a few silent moments, the ritual complete, she picked herself up from the floor, dusted off her knees, and called for her maidservants, Baea and Ruby. They arrived from another side chamber to attend her.
The old man rose then from the footstool he sat upon. The boy Ghallo, nodding off on the stool next to him, was startled awake by his movement, and roused himself awkwardly. “Has she summoned us?” he squeaked.
“In a short while, Ghallo. As soon as she has her undergarments on.”
The boy’s face went crimson at the mention of Ilanda’s undergarments. Ghallo had regarded the countess with a kind of religious awe from the moment he met her. At his first private opportunity with the old man after they had arrived at the palace, the boy started chattering about her as though in an ecstatic trance.
“She looks like I figure a goddess would!” he whispered with reverence at the end of his first worshipful paean to her.
“Yes, she is a very beautiful and comely woman, Ghallo,” the old man had said. “And that is where the regard of many ends. Most think her a silly, pretty ornament of the court, the queen’s plaything, an expensive, but useless, porcelain doll. Our hostess has cultivated this image to throw off intriguers who swarm the capital like flies on a rotting carcass. She is much more than that. Some will discover this too late, to their detriment. We must assist her in keeping her secrets, and provide counsel others cannot.”
“‘Counsel?’”
“Advice, direction. She has many things to do and needs people she can trust.”
“Well,” said Ghallo, fists clenched, “she sure can trust me!”
The boy’s earnestness warmed the old man’s heart. Ghallo would fling himself into the
maw of the Yellow Hells for this woman if she required it, and happily. May she inspire others to such loyalty, and be worthy of it, he thought.
The summons came twenty minutes later. Ruby opened the door with her plain, welcoming smile, and admitted them to Ilanda’s private rooms. “Good morning, Countess,” the old man intoned. He noted that the makeshift altar was gone, the blood washed from her hands and face.
“Good morning, sir,” she answered, arms in the air as Baea tightened an ivory corset around her torso. Her waist cinched in, her bosom swelled. Ghallo’s face glowed as though he bore witness to a singular miracle. “I received an alarming briefing from my spymaster in the wee hours of the morning,” she said as Baea applied copious white powder to her face. “Duke Willem of Marburand amasses a private army in contravention of the Ducal Compact. He’s conscripting rather brazenly, training the bulk of them in the countryside east of Ensele, though others are in smaller camps across the duchy, including a light cavalry division just south of Ruly. Needless to say, the mounted contingent is the greatest immediate concern to my liege lord in Caird.”
“It is a distraction, Countess.”
Ilanda frowned at him, an expression she never permitted herself outside the rooms they occupied. “Distraction, sir? A cavalry division belonging to Harkeny’s age-old rival, less than a week’s march through easy country to our southeastern cities? What lofty realms you must hail from, if such a naked threat seems a distraction. Willem’s acting more the monarch than the queen’s designated satrap, and one eager to expand his territory.”
“This duke of yours senses the decay.”
“Bah! He is not my duke. And he has three spies to every one of mine in the capital, though a blind man can sense the decay.” Her nostrils flared. “Or smell it. The stink of it pollutes the very heavens.”
“Willem believes he can assert his independence from the Crown. He most certainly has designs on his neighbors in the future, but he will consolidate his hold on his own people first.”
Ilanda’s eyebrows perked up. “How do you…” But she shook her head and smiled, sending little clouds of powder dancing in the air about her. “I should know better than to question your information, whatever your mystical sources are. And again, you have my gratitude, sir.”
The old man smiled and gave her a slight bow. Two days ago he had warned of a poison plot against her: a gift of candied apricots from an “anonymous admirer.” It was an appeal to Ilanda’s sweet tooth, foiled by his intervention. The old man laid the blame at the door of the aged and grasping Countess of Falmuthe, who resented Ilanda’s beauty and favor with the queen. Ilanda had sent the sweets to her, with a note stating that she thought them better suited for her. At first, Ilanda dismissed it as a petty act by a vindictive aristocrat whose star was setting, but the old man assured her it was part of a greater intrigue: he knew not where the center of the spider’s web lay, but the aging countess hadn’t acted on her own. The old man’s intervention had cemented Ilanda’s trust, though she was wily enough to know there was information he held back. Still, the old man was impressed that this countess was wise enough not to ask what was hidden. For now. Soon that would change.
“Duke Orin fears Marburand’s encroachment, always,” Ilanda resumed. “My husband, on the other hand, believes that Willem appreciates Harkeny as a buffer between himelf and the Korsa nomads and will leave us largely unmolested for this reason. Lawrence will be pleased to know his judgment is in accord with your own.”
Alas, your husband was mistaken. He is dead, Ilanda Padivale, thought the old man. Sweet Lawrence was murdered by Willem’s agents last night. A necromantic spirit entered him as he slept and crushed his lungs. Willem’s sorcerers prevent the sad news from arriving in the capital for political advantage. I will not tell you now either, if only to provide you a few more days of merciful ignorance.
The countess set aside her concerns about Marburand’s maneuvers and returned to the old man’s point. “If the duke is a distraction, from what does he distract?”
Before answering, the old man paused. He needed to evaluate—again—the degree to which he should share his prescient visions with this woman, how much she could bear. This would be complicated in a few days when news of Lawrence Padivale’s murder reached her. So much would ride on her cunning and quick action, and require a certain ruthlessness. Could she summon the steel? It wouldn’t do to have her mind cluttered with things that would only agitate. He decided to direct her thoughts elsewhere.
“The poisons hatching forth here in the capital must be your focus. Indeed, some have already bubbled up. The attack on the Citadel is only the first of the calamities you must endure.”
“You suggested that Sir Auric and his expedition were the target of that assault. They departed two days ago. Why would the Trickster’s cult stir up more mayhem if their target sails to the east?”
“That attack was not merely directed at Sir Auric and the League. Timilis, now and forever, thrives on chaos. He consumes it like a glutton does a buffet. Just as he orchestrated your queen’s current monstrous condition for the purpose of fomenting civil disarray, he has further turmoil to unleash. Think of the god as a destructive child. He is never as happy as when he brings something magnificent crashing down.”
Ilanda’s finely trimmed eyebrows arched and she halted Ruby from pinning up her coal-dark hair. “You believe the god wishes to bring Hanifax down? The entire empire?”
“He would see it shattered into little warring pieces and sup off the subsequent bloodletting and suffering. Agnes must not fail at her charge—”
“Agnes?”
The old man cursed his slip, but ignored the interruption. “If the expedition fails, things will be infinitely worse, making today’s disorder seem a dream of heaven. But even if it succeeds, dissolution of the empire may be inevitable. What happens with the succession will determine all.”
“Geneviva hasn’t yet revealed the successor she named to the Priest of Chapters,” said the countess, eyes going wide. “No one else knows who will take the place of poor Kedrech.” She kissed two fingers and touched them to her forehead and lips in a silent prayer. “Who is next in line hasn’t truly mattered in a century. Everyone assumes the queen will rule for another hundred years—or forever.”
Ilanda sat so that Baea could fit a fanciful white wig woven with tiny sapphires to her head. “Gods know who she will name,” she continued, looking at the manicured hands in her lap. “Her direct descendants, surviving members of the Reges family…it’s a spent force—reckless libertines, hopeless drunkards, and emotionally unstable wisps. Living in the shadow of this queen takes a toll on more delicate psyches, I’m afraid.”
“Yes,” said the old man, smoothing a wrinkle on his lily-white robe, “Geneviva’s descendant generations are ill-suited for the demands of this monarchy. Of course, many among the aristocracy with even a drop of royal blood might think themselves worthy of elevation.”
Ilanda looked up from her nails and met the old man’s eyes. “What a little fool I am!” she exclaimed. “The infighting will be—”
“Potentially catastrophic. But of course, no one believes such a thing to be a remote possibility, and certainly nobody covets the post of crown prince now. Geneviva has reigned for one hundred and eighteen years. But you, Ilanda Padivale, you know otherwise, and must use that advantage to prepare.”
“Prepare? How on earth do I prepare for that?”
“Be ready. Recruit your own loyal swords here in Boudun, call in favors, judge what alliances might hold firm in such circumstances. You must be ready to do what is required to see to it the best claimant to the throne is crowned. Hanifax and all its people depend upon it.”
The countess considered this for a moment, a knuckle to her full, unpainted lips, her expression somber. The old man watched as the realization struck her. Her dark eyes met his, probing, so skilled at readi
ng others, but not him. She tilted her head back and, looking down her upturned nose, made a statement.
“You know who Geneviva will name.”
The old man didn’t answer her. He didn’t need to.
“Is he someone whom I should support? Will I need to help maneuver a worthier claimant to the throne?”
“When the moment arrives, Ilanda Padivale, you will know whom to back and what to do. Whoever is named to succeed Geneviva, that person will be in immediate peril and in need of allies.”
The countess allowed just a little bit of exasperation to show on her face. She was not a woman accustomed to being outmatched. He looked in her eyes, big, deep blue, and saw the little girl she once was: vulnerability mixed with rare intelligence and a sturdy will. He knew that a part of her was terrified by this future he illuminated. He decided that to provide the strength she needed now, he had to do something terribly cruel. It would be a sin, he knew, though not his greatest. He resolved to do this thing now, silently begging forgiveness before the act.
The old man stepped forward and put one wrinkled palm, the color of dark caramel, to the countess’s powdered cheek. The other he placed upon her womb, just below the corset’s constriction. Ruby and Baea gasped as one, but made no move to intervene. The boy Ghallo stood gawping at his master, as though he had just mounted a cathedral altar and fondled a holy relic. After a start, Ilanda herself relaxed, and tears formed in her eyes.
“From a tiny acorn grows the mighty oak. Bless you, Ilanda Padivale. Much will be required of you in the coming days. I pray the Creative Spirit of the Universe makes certain you are equal to the task.”
