Chisaad turned away from his fruitless scrying. His latest golem lay on his worktable, a shining perfection of shaped wood, leather and wire ready for activation. This time he had built the body from individual pieces shaped to closely mimic the human bones that they represented and positioned the wires that animated those bones as if they were metal muscles. It had been far more work this way, but he hoped it would solve the articulation problem. To test it, he intended to also test his newest magical construct.
He lifted a palm-sized device of gems and silver and carefully positioned it on top of his head, gently working the spider-like legs through his hair until all eight were in contact with his skin. He cast the small activating spell and sensed the latent magic come alive. He looked at the golem on the table and gave it his first command.
Sit up.
The golem’s head and shoulders rose smoothly from the table, the arms pushed it upright, and in seconds it sat facing him. He allowed himself to enjoy a moment of exhilaration before continuing.
Stand.
It did so, moving as natural as could be.
Walk.
It broke into a swinging gait that brought it straight at him. Chisaad hastily dodged while thinking Stop! The golem came to a halt mere inches before crashing into a bookshelf.
Turn around.
One elbow swept a row of books off a shelf as it turned in place.
Chisaad sighed. It needed more work.
Back to the table.
It turned again, placing its back towards the table.
Chisaad growled. Definitely needed more work.
He had to give it several more exacting commands before he got it once more lying on the table. Only then did he dare reach up and detach the command spider, before locking the device away in his vault. I’ll have to be very careful that nobody else sees this.
He returned to contemplating the city outside his tower, feeling ironically pleased. The golem needed more work and so did his plans, but both were achievable.
If that troupe wasn’t one of the ones that performed regularly in the bazaar, they must either perform elsewhere or survive as clients of a wealthy patron. He had only to ask around for such, and someone would know. He would have to do more socializing to create the necessary opportunities.
He went to his desk and sorted through the most recent pile of invitations. The office of the Acting Royal Wizard received dozens of invitations as a matter of course, most of which he politely refused, but kept general track of who invited him to what. He remembered one that had arrived this week and sorted through the pile until he found the heavy vellum envelope with a white wax seal. He opened it and read aloud.
“Reshghar Bovea Millago and his wife Arriga Viga Millago invite you to the presentation of their firstborn child. Entertainment by the DiUmbra Acrobatic Troupe.”
He extracted the reply card and stared at it. Could they be the ones I saw? He uncorked his ink bottle and swiftly wrote an acceptance. He drew on his link to the Aretzo Node and summoned a crow, while thinking about the event. If the youth he sought turned out to be there, he would need a catspaw to help trap the boy.
Reshghar’s wife was one of Lady Ymera’s pupils on the Red Street, and disdains to conceal the fact. Reshghar must have been utterly besotted to marry a woman like that. He sniffed. It is certain that Arriga will invite her old teacher. Lady Ymera is more perceptive than most, but she has her own expectations and blind spots. I can take advantage of those.
The summoned bird arrived and perched passively on his windowsill. He tied the acceptance to its leg and sent it winging across the city to the Millago mansion.
There is no guarantee that the one I seek will be there. But if he is . . .
Finding this half breed acrobat would merely be the first step. Once he did, he would have to lure the youth into his service. Chisaad studied his waiting golem. A human would be far harder to control than this lump of material and magic. For a moment he doubted his own capacity to fulfil his plans. But the prize still glittered there in his mind. The Kingship. The power of the Hill of Sight.
“I must control him,” he said aloud in the privacy of his tower. “Or someone else will, and that I cannot risk. If he will not serve me, he must not serve anyone.”
Even if that requires his death.
CHAPTER 13: TERRELL
“Cerrai is a small duchy, Your Highness,” Madoc Swansea, Duke of Cerrai, said to Terrell as they reined in their horses on a hilltop. The two suns beat down on them. Terrell enjoyed the heat on his dark skin, while Madoc wore a broad-brimmed hat to shield his fair face.
The duke waved a hand at a serrated bare ridge peeking up out of the mosaic of forest and vineyard a double dozen miles to the west, then swept the hand east. “From Salim’s Backbone to the River Amm, perhaps thirty miles, and from the Collusi River that you crossed this morning to my southern border at the north end of Purification Lake, barely twenty. Ordinarily it would merely be a barony, if a large one, Your Highness. Because of our family kinship your father granted me the larger title.”
“So I’ve been told. You and my father share much, cousin,” Terrell nodded, thereby giving Madoc permission to drop the formality of honorifics. He had been spending a half day with each duke and ruling baron along the route of the Kings Road, taking their measure and letting them take his. So far, he had managed to see and be seen by all of them while still making steady progress toward Aretzo. “But small land area certainly doesn’t mean poor, especially when it’s some of the best land in Silbar.”
Terrell shaded his eyes to gaze appreciatively over neat green rows of staked grapevines curling around the hillsides, silver-gray olive groves, oak and pine trees shadowing red cattle in pastures on the higher slopes, and rich grain fields in the black-soiled bottomlands.
“True, cousin,” Duke Cerrai admitted proudly while tacitly accepting the permission. “And we do have an abundance of one thing.”
“Good wines!” Terrell said enthusiastically. “I’ve had Cerrai vintages at my father’s court in Gwythford. Marvelous!”
“Yes, they even travel well,” Madoc grinned. “When your father offered me my choice of rewards after the Conquest, I knew which I wanted. Of course, it helped that my heart had already been captured by my lady of Cerrai.”
His duchess, brown-skinned Lady Meera DiCerrai-Swansea, smiled from the back of her own horse. “The captivity is mutual. And convenient for both your lineages, Your Highness, since I am both the heir of Cerrai and your mother’s closest living female relative.”
“Mother told me.” Terrell nodded. “Your son Alain is my second cousin, and therefore he’ll be one of the Twenty in a few years.”
The duke and duchess exchanged glances.
“It is good that you’ve paid attention to the lineages, and their implications,” Madoc said. “You’ll find that, since the Conquest, some in Aretzo can think of little else.”
“The dispossessed.” Terrell frowned. “The nobles who lost their lands to my father.”
Madoc jerked his head in a sharp nod. “Yes. Some still cannot accept their losses.”
“Fools,” his lady said dispassionately. “They spend all their time scheming and maneuvering for scraps while living off dreams and shriveled fortunes. They build nothing for their children while steeping them in bitterness. What a waste.”
“Too true,” the duke sighed. “But that’s a danger largely confined to the capital these days. It’s been a dozen years since the last attempt to raise a rebellion. A bigger problem for you, cousin, may be the few Gwythlo lords in Silbar who still don’t understand their winnings, or accept the price of keeping them.” He bowed his head to Terrell to suggest that price.
Terrell frowned. “They’ll bow to the Gwythlo Emperor, but not to a Silbari ruler?”
“Not necessarily. Some will offer the outward forms of obedience while defying you in their hearts. A few may carry that defiance farther, especially if you appear weak.”
&nbs
p; Terrell let his mouth quirk into a smile. “I shall endeavor to never, ever, appear weak.”
“That would be wise,” said Madoc. His wife reached out and took her husband’s left hand in her right, squeezed it briefly. They smiled at each other.
Terrell covertly studied the two of them. Both wore bloused trousers above riding boots and midlength tunics with practical sleeves. They wore none of the elaborate embroidery and dagging typically seen on other Silbari nobles’ clothing. They looked like they belonged together, despite Madoc’s sun-reddened skin and the pointed ears that he currently hid under his hat.
“I have been told,” Terrell said casually. “That you’ve become a follower of The One God and raised your children the same.”
“I’ve gone native.” Madoc grinned. “Cerrai is my home now, my life and my future. I am a Silbari, as my sons and daughters will be after me. They’ll serve a Silbari king, as will I.”
He made this profession so calmly that a knot of worry inside Terrell’s heart melted away. This is a man that I can rely upon. “Thank you, cousin. One small point; to keep my brother happy I have agreed to title myself ‘Prince’ only, unless and until he consents to more. Though of course I cannot control what others may call me.”
Madoc’s grin stretched for a moment before he schooled his face. “An elegant concession. If you win the Amethyst Crown I will be content to title you as you wish.”
Left unsaid was what it would take to close that final step on the path to the Stone Throne. One thing at a time, Terrell told himself. “I wonder who else will follow your example?”
“Let’s discuss that after dinner.” The duke gestured at his castle across the little valley behind them. “Will you accept Cerrai’s hospitality tonight, cousin?”
“Gladly.”
* * *
Later, as his most discreet servant prepared him for bed in the suite that Duke and Duchess Cerrai had provided, Terrell asked, “What do you think of them, Pen?”
Pen absently touched Irreneetha’s hilt, paused as if to marshal his thoughts, and said, “Exactly what you need.”
Intrigued, Terrell made a beckoning gesture while his valet unlaced the complex ribbons of one of his tunic sleeves. “Explain.”
“First, neither of them gave me that slimy feeling I got from the dukes of Fiori and Anagni. Those two made me want a bath.”
“I felt the same when I met them!” Terrell chuckled. “Second?”
“Everything your cousin does and says comes across as honest, even when it’s diplomatic, like the way he talked to those hill barons on our ride. I doubt he’s told you everything on his mind, but I trust everything he did say. Third, when he speaks, the local nobles listen; he has a powerful fund of credit with them, like a good leader should. If he sticks with you, they will too, and that gives you the southern half of Upper Silbar except Anagni, who they surround. And while Fiori is stronger than any two of them, it’s not stronger than all of them. If Madoc can hold his neighbors together, they can check any threat that might rise against you in Upper Silbar.”
“Yes, Madoc seems to have covered his flanks very thoroughly,” Terrell nodded, stepping out of his trousers as his valet took them. “A man who plans, that he is. He’s fortified this castle in the modern style, too, but doesn’t rely on it to control his duchy for him. That system of mandatory training and service for his landholders’ sons is clever, as is mixing them with the sons of his peasants and craftsmen. He’s encouraging the best to rise and making it plain that those who want to keep authority, or gain it, are expected to prove their worth first.”
The novelty of this idea still enthralled him. I must find a way to implement Madoc’s ideas across all of Silbar.
“There’s more than clever management going on inside his head, my Lord,” Pen said earnestly. “His devotion to the One God seems sincere and deep, and the way he looks at his wife and touches her hand even in public tells me there’s love between them still. He really is turning himself into a Silbari; his children will be more so. That’s a good thing for your dynasty’s future. You could do a lot worse than have a man like that ruling the strongest fortress north of Purification Lake and south of Fiori.”
“Yes, I could,” Terrell murmured, pleased, as he pulled on a nightshirt. “Thank you, Pen.”
“You are entirely welcome, My Lord.” Pen bowed himself out with the valet.
Before Terrell could blow out the candle and climb into the big bed, the door opened again, and a slighter figure slipped inside. She wore a simple wraparound shift and had bare feet. Terrell paused, unsurprised. This had happened in four previous castles and he had become pleasantly accustomed to it.
“And you are here for?” he inquired teasingly. The woman—clearly a woman under that thin cloth—kept her eyes demurely lowered but a happy smile played around her mouth, as if she couldn’t quite believe her luck.
“For your pleasure, Your Highness.” She bowed without taking her eyes off the lower half of his body. “My lady chose me, and my lord sent me.” She darted a daring glance at his face, licked her lips, and peeled off her shift with one smooth motion.
Her brown skin gleamed in the candlelight and Terrell’s magesight showed him the familiar glow of a pregnancy protection spell in her belly, one that he now recognized as Dona Seraphina’s work. The woman brazenly gazed at his crotch, grinning. “If it be your will, Your Highness.”
Her perfume reached him, something musky and every bit as arousing as her smooth curves. Terrell discovered once again that, seen through the eyes of lust, all women are beautiful. “It is. Come here and tell me your name.”
* * *
Two days later Terrell leaned on the upper wall of the Tonatia, the fortress guarding the pass between Upper Silbar and Lower Silbar. “Dona Seraphina. Is this really the Scarp that God made to stop Azerin and Zablock’s civil war?”
“It is, Your Highness.” She gave him an inquiring look.
“I’m surprised; I expected something sharper.” He pointed east along the jagged ridge atop which the fort stood. “The bards always say it was ‘cut like a knife’, but this . . .”
“Is what three hundred years of rain and wind do to torn earth and stone.” The priestess pointed at the vast waters of Purification Lake spreading north from the ridge that cut the great valley in two. “Legends call the battle bloodier than any war Silbar has fought before or since. The twin brothers raised two great armies, each with nearly a million men, and clashed on the far side of the old river channel from here. The battlefield is underwater now, but three hundred years ago this spot we stand on was a flat plain like the one that holds the lake.”
“Think of that!” Terrell exclaimed, staring along the cliffs of the rearing scarp. Erosion had chewed deeply into the north face but now he could see how it had once been sheer; the south side sloped gently. “Is there a way to look down on the lake from the ridge above the battlefield?”
The priestess sighed and rolled her eyes at the fort’s commander, DiVetzi. Despite owning more than thrice Terrell’s years, that worthy grinned and said, “Certainly, Your Highness. Follow me.”
It took Terrell, Pen, Commander DiVetzi, and a squad of troops two hours to ride along a narrow road that grew steadily more winding, weaving in and out of great wedges and spikes of rock and bridging narrow chasms. Terrell’s wonder grew with every stride of his horse. The tallest slabs towered a hundred feet above the muddy waters that laved their feet. The road followed the high ground, so they had broad views. He and Pen exchanged awed glances.
“God raised all this in a day?” Terrell asked.
“So all the accounts say,” Commander DiVetzi assured him. “This road was only carved out about two centuries ago, but it follows a path said to have been made after the battle, before the waters rose. Traditionally every commander of the fort is led to the overlook and told the story.” Eagerly he added, “I shall be honored to share it with you, Your Highness.”
Terrell decided t
hat DiVetzi had a bit of frustrated bard in his character. “Please do, Commander. Lead on.”
The paved road ended at a round plaza next to a small watchtower built atop a sheer spur thrust out into the lake. Terrell and Pen followed the commander up echoing stairs to an east-facing parapet at the top. To their left spread the quiet lake, to their right a roaring chasm gulped down the waters as they fought their way through the huge barrier of the Scarp. The whole ridge had gradually canted downward as they rode east. Now they stood barely forty feet above the lake’s foaming exit. The commander pointed over the flat water.
“Azerin held the field, which now lies underwater,” he declaimed happily. “Zablock and his army had approached up the east bank, coming from Belluno.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the half-ruined city to the southeast. Terrell could barely see it through the canyon, a distant gray blur many miles away across a fissured plain. “The battle began at dawn and had already raged for half a day before the two brothers at last met face to face and sword to sword.”
“That’s when God sought to stop their madness,” Pen commented.
“And cleaved their armies apart by raising the Scarp,” Commander DiVetzi agreed. “The legends say Azerin had struck the first blow but Zablock was only wounded, and still on his feet. Then God raised the Scarp beneath Zablock and threw him to the ground. When he regained his feet, he found himself atop the rim of the great new cliff, torn away from taking his brother’s blood. He rejected God’s grace and gave himself to rage, leaped off the height and fell upon Azerin. Both died broken upon the still-trembling rocks.” DiVetzi sighed in appreciation of the splendid tragedy.
“Perhaps it’s not a completely bad thing that Osrick killed your twin brother,” Pen muttered darkly, his voice pitched for his lord’s ears alone.
Terrell twitched as a chill ran down his spine. At least we cannot end up as deadly enemies. He pushed away the shameful thought and pointed east across the lake. “What is behind that gap next to the long red cliff? Another valley?”
Shadow and Light Page 15
