Ash and Ambition

by Ari Marmell

  “Right. My point is, they take the forest’s title of the ‘Ogre-Weald’ far too seriously. They’d attribute anything that happened in and around Gronch to monsters or haunts or what have you.”

  Nycos cleared his throat from the chamber’s far side. “You don’t believe in the creatures of Gronch, your Highness? Are they so much more difficult to countenance than, say, elves or the mountain fey?”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt there are inhuman things dwelling in that forest, Sir Nycolos,” she said, her tone that of a teacher to a child. And no wonder, as more people of the modern era agreed with her belief than didn’t. “But the sorts of nightmares the stories claim? Or in such numbers? Pure fairy tale.”

  Considering that Nycos knew for absolute fact not only that such “nightmares” were very real, but that they weren’t the worst horror dwelling in the Ogre-Weald, it was difficult for him not to scoff. Instead, determined to remain polite, he said only, “If we treat the report Lord Kortlaus has passed along to us as fairy tale and you’re wrong, Highness, it’ll be too late to do anything about it.”

  Firillia’s scowl returned, even deeper, but she inclined her head, acknowledging the point.

  “We should indeed keep an eye on Gronch.” It was Aadesh Kidil, the Suunimi ambassador, who spoke—perhaps unsurprisingly, as his own nation, like Wenslir, shared a border with the kingdom-sized Ogre-Weald. “If the beasts within are agitated, it could prove a distraction for us at a most inconvenient time. I think, however, that we need to remain focused on the reason we’ve gathered.”

  Rumbles of assent made their way around the table.

  That reason—as was so often the case for assemblies of this sort—was Ktho Delios.

  Dame Zirresca’s patrol may have detected no abnormal activity near the edges of Kirresc, spotting only standard Deliant military drills, but word filtering down from various border towns—not just Kirresci, but Suunimi and Althlalan as well—was rather more disturbing. According to them, Ktho Delios was moving large forces of troops to various staging grounds only a few leagues from the border, sometimes under cover of darkness. It wouldn’t be the first time that nation had engaged in such exercises without anything coming of it, but it always made the other kingdoms nervous. Nor would it be the first time such alarms had been sounded and then proved false, but rarely from so many communities at once.

  When combined with rumors of several new up-and-coming officers making ripples in the Deliant power structure, officers who just might be pushing for a chance to prove their military prowess, it was more than enough to make all the southern nations sit up and take notice.

  “I’m not entirely certain,” King Hasyan admitted, dropping the “royal we” in this less formal gathering, “what else we can do, beyond posting lookouts and remaining wary. I can’t imagine why Ktho Delios would think it viable to move against any of us now—nothing’s happened to weaken our treaty—and I’m certainly not going to risk precipitating war by striking against them first when we’ve no idea what they’re doing.”

  “There’s wisdom in all of that,” Ambassador Razmos said. He spoke with the tone of a man faintly distracted, as though thinking on other matters, yet he never appeared lost or to have missed anything of relevance. “But it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve tested that treaty. And as Althlalen is arguably most vulnerable and furthest from any potential aid, no matter how well intentioned the rest of you may be…” He shrugged. “Well, you can imagine how ‘wait and see’ may not be our first choice of responses.”

  The Quindacran ambassador, Leomyn Guldoell, thumped a hand on the table. “I do understand, but what would you have us do? Any sort of gathering of forces along the borders might provoke the very incursion you fear!”

  “It’s easy for you to counsel patience!” Razmos snapped back. “You don’t share a border with the bastards! You’re in no immediate—!”

  Denuel Jarta, Hasyan’s palatine, interrupted. “The simple truth is, ladies and lords, that we lack sufficient information to take any substantive action. Until we know more, watching and waiting may not be the most satisfying or even the most prudent course, but it’s all we can do.”

  “I’d hoped,” Hasyan said softly, and the whole room quieted so the attendees might hear, “that we’d have that information by now.”

  “Your Majesty…” Jarta and Marshal Laszlan cautioned in unison.

  “Oh, hush. There’s no reason to keep it secret any longer. The whole operation clearly failed.” The king sighed. “I had managed, my friends, to get a spy into the upper echelons of Ktho Delian society. No direct access to the Deliant, but she had several indirect channels of information. And in fact, she signaled some time ago that she’d learned something of import, that she needed extraction.”

  The silence was tense, now, quivering. So far as anyone here knew, it had been well over a generation since any of the southern nations had placed an operative so deeply within the ranks of their common enemy.

  “I don’t know what happened,” the king confessed sadly. “I never heard from either my agent, or the one sent to retrieve her. Obviously such operations are unpredictable, but this was months ago. I… have to assume they didn’t make it.”

  Immediately the room erupted again: into theories and wild speculation over what the spy might have learned, a list of horrors that might have befallen his Majesty’s operatives, worries over what the Deliant might do if they had silence who the spy answered to. And that, of course, brought the argument clear back around to the same empty guesses about Ktho Delios’s current plans, if any, and what the treaty nations ought to be doing to counter those hypothetical plans.

  Nycos, though, found his thoughts returning to earlier bits of conversation. Maybe it was because he knew the many horrors of Gronch, the many nightmarish varieties of so-called “ogres,” were real. And perhaps his own experiences using “monsters”—wyverns, perytons, goblins, and the like—set the wheels of his mind turning in directions diagonal to every man and woman around him.

  “Lord Kortlaus.” The near-bellow, a battlefield tone he’d learned from watching the Crown Marshal, cut through the hubbub and dragged the chamber once more into silence.

  “Um, Sir Nycolos?”

  “Did the Wenslirran soldiers say when the increased activities in and around Gronch had begun?”

  Several others in the gathering groaned, sighed, or otherwise indicated in no uncertain terms how they felt about a return to the prior, and clearly less urgent topic.

  “Not specifically,” Kortlaus replied after a bit of thought. “I got the impression it had been fairly recent, though.”

  “Awful timing, isn’t that? For us, I mean. Awfully convenient for others.”

  “Yes, yes, Sir Nycolos,” Ambassador Razmos snapped. “We’ve already acknowledged it’s problematic, that we need to keep an eye on the Ogre-Weald. But it’s hardly—”

  Nycos raised an interrupting hand. “Are we quite certain,” he asked, cold and implacable, “that Ktho Delios hasn’t deliberately stirred up the creatures of Gronch as a means of keeping us distracted?”

  Mouths opened. No sound emerged.

  “Considering the Deliant’s distrust toward practitioners or creatures of sorcery beyond their control, I would think their inquisitors and military witches are probably as near as anyone to being experts on the unnatural beasts of the world. Who would know better how to aggravate them, agitate them, to keep our attentions on the Ogre-Weald while they reposition their forces?”

  Orban whispered, quickly and fiercely, into the king’s ear, until the monarch nodded his agreement. “My friends,” his Majesty said, “I think we all need to give some thought to Sir Nycolos’s theory. However likely or unlikely it may be, we must at least consider the impact it would have on our decisions. Given that, and as we’ve been at this for some while now, this seems as propitious a time as any for a break. Get some air, ask the servants for whatever food or beverage you might wish, and we’ll reconvene in,
say, an hour? Good.”

  People dispersed, the movement and the opening of the door sufficient to send a welcome draft through the chamber. First a few, then the greater portion of the assembly, filtered out into the hallway, making their way toward this refreshment or that. A handful approached Nycos, Kortlaus included, doubtless wishing to question him further on his theory. All fell back, however, when Prince Elias drew near. His Highness wore a peculiar expression on his clean-shaven and deceptively young face.

  “A word in private, Sir Nycolos?”

  Now what might this be about? Nycos had precious little notion what the prince might have to say to him, and frankly almost as little interest, but it wasn’t an invitation he could refuse. With a polite bow, he allowed Elias to lead him to the far side of the room—hardly isolated, but now that the throng had scattered, as good a spot as any. There remained every chance a few stragglers might overhear, but if that didn’t bother Elias, it wasn’t going to bother Nycos.

  And if it simply hadn’t occurred to the somewhat simple-minded royal scion, well, it still wasn’t going to bother Nycos.

  “How may I be of service, your Highness?”

  Now that they stood here, the prince seemed unsure how to begin the conversation, instead idly running a finger along the inner contours of an arrow slit in the wall beside them. Finally, a faint flush coloring his already dark complexion, he took a deep breath and spoke.

  “Nycolos, the idea of war with Ktho Delios—however unlikely—has got me thinking recently.”

  Well, something had to.

  “At my father’s age, well, he may have many good years left, gods willing, but he will not sit on the throne forever, and a catastrophe like war can only hasten that time. I’m…” Another breath. “I know that I’m… not the most intelligent fellow in the room most of the time.”

  That took Nycos aback. Not the revelation itself; that was hardly any great secret. That the prince had the self-awareness to recognize it, however, was news.

  “There are many,” he continued, “who wish that my sister were the elder, so that it would be her responsibility to rule after father is gone, rather than mine. Some days, I agree with them. I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if some hoped to take steps to make that happen.”

  “You fear assassination or revolt, your Highness?” Nycos asked, startled.

  “No, nothing so dramatic, just… If Firillia wanted the throne badly enough, the support of enough of the nobility could basically force me to abdicate, or else have the blood of civil war stain my hands.”

  “And will you let them do that?”

  “I hope not to let it come to that.” Elias’s features turned grim. “For good or ill, I am the king’s first born. This is my duty, my responsibility, and I will not surrender it lightly. And that, Sir Nycolos, is where you come in.”

  “Do I?”

  “If I cannot count on fully grasping every issue brought before me,” the prince said bitterly, “then I need advisors around me whom I can trust absolutely. To help me understand, or—when it’s time for me to make the important decisions—to guide me on the right course of action even where understanding eludes me. You’ve developed something of a reputation, you know.”

  Nycolos couldn’t help but smirk. “Several, I would imagine. Might you narrow it down for me, your Highness?”

  Elias blinked, then chuckled. “In this case, I mean a reputation for speaking out, sharing ideas or opinions even if it’s not entirely the, uh, polite or expedient thing to do. I need that. I need someone in my circle of advisors to be blunt, without worry over whether it’s proper to say what needs saying.”

  The knight almost reeled. He had little patience for foolishness, thought of Prince Elias as little more than an occasional irritation and didn’t relish the idea of spending more time with the man. On the other hand, it was an opportunity to climb the ladder of power and influence that didn’t rely on his success in becoming Crown Marshal, as well as the chance to keep an ear on the sundry goings-on within the palace—and perhaps the kingdom at large.

  “I… am honored, your Highness.”

  The prince’s eyes lit like torches. “Does that mean yes?”

  “You understand that I cannot ignore my duties as a knight of Kirresc, or to your father? That, until you are king—some time away, one hopes—those have to come first, and I can offer you my counsel only when it does not conflict with my responsibilities?”

  “Of course, Sir Nycolos. I would expect nothing else.”

  “Then I believe I’m your man, your Highness.” And may all your human gods help me. If nothing else, I’ll have plenty of practice being patient.

  “Wonderful! And thank you, truly.”

  “Actually, your Highness?” He spoke before the prince could step away, before the thought had even fully formed. “Perhaps there’s something you might be able to help me with, as well.”

  “Of course, Sir Nycolos. What do you need?”

  What did he need? Was it even doable? Would it help if it were? He knew, now, that no single grand gesture would solve his problems with Mariscal—but one might just cool her anger enough that she would speak with him again. He could figure out the rest from there.

  “Is it true,” he asked slowly, ideas stalking one another through his head like ravenous wolves, “that the chief gardeners here make use of magics in their craft? I suppose I ought to know that,” he added, “but I’ve never really had cause to pay them much heed.”

  Whatever Elias had been expecting to hear, this clearly was nowhere even in the same general vicinity. “I… Well, I mean, yes. Only a very little bit, to keep up appearances when the weather doesn’t cooperate or the like. I don’t really understand the specifics.”

  “That’s all right, your Highness,” Nycos told him, grinning. “I don’t need you to understand. I just need you to give a royal command or two for me.”

  ___

  It took a great deal of doing, far more than Nycos had anticipated. At every step of the way, the groundskeepers protested. It threw their entire decorative scheme out of balance, required backbreaking labor as entire bushes were carefully uprooted and moved. The season was wrong. This wasn’t how the few arcane tricks they’d mastered were meant to be used!

  And those tricks were few indeed. Those rare gardeners of Oztyerva who practiced any such magics knew only a few minor invocations, recipes of occult significance or spell-paeans to the Vinnkasti of flowering vegetation. Like healers such as Lady Ilkya—or, indeed, the overwhelming proportion of Galadran mystics—they were dabblers at best, hedge wizards and alchemists who knew only enough in the way of eldritch secrets to enhance and expand upon their more mundane labors.

  A genuine sorcerer could have done what Nycos requested in a matter of days. A true archmage of old, such as his long-dead foe Ondoniram, would—had he deigned to perform so frivolous a task—have accomplished the feat in hours, perhaps minutes.

  For the poor, beleaguered gardeners of Oztyerva, it required weeks. More than once, Prince Elias would almost certainly have given in to their complaints, their protests, their near begging, had he not felt indebted to Nycos as his newest ally and advisor. Nycos took merciless advantage of that sense of obligation with barely a modicum of guilt, spurring Elias onward when his enthusiasm flagged, and slowly the garden, one particular patch of color and greenery on the winding palace grounds, evolved.

  And so, finally, more than a month after the process began—and during which, it must be noted, Kirresc and the other allied nations had indeed increased their surveillance of Ktho Delios but taken no other action—the sun dawned on a late summer morning. The sky shone a cloudless azure, the towers of Oztyerva gleamed, and beneath them all, directly below many a window but particularly that of Margravine Mariscal, the earth bloomed with fire.

  Prodded and sustained by the hard work of many and the magics of a few, a vast array of tulips, normally quite out of season this long after spring, opened to greet the day. T
he wide-spread petals were a brilliant scarlet, save in their center where a deep golden hue outlined patterns in far darker, almost coal-like crimson. The result was as though the garden had sprouted hundreds of individual fires, each frozen in time for a few precious days before the harshness of the season would doubtless hammer them down.

  People gathered at the windows, drawn from all over the palace by spreading word. For many it was merely a touch of beauty before they went about their business, perhaps a whim of the groundskeepers or one of the royal family.

  Some, however, understood their significance. They recognized those fiery colors as a match for the garb often worn by one particular margravine, and some were even well enough acquainted with her to know that this particular tulip was her favorite flower. These people, at least, could have no doubt that the wonder in the garden was a message intended specifically, personally, for her.

  Nor could they doubt who must be responsible for that message. That rumor, too, spread through Oztyerva, until even people who had heard only the barest inklings of the tale gazed at Nycos with a touch of respect or a knowing smirk.

  Mariscal failed to attend the nobles’ supper those next several evenings, and when Nycos stopped by her chambers to ensure she was well, he was still refused entry. The margravine’s lady-in-waiting, however, greeted him politely at his knock, and apologized that her mistress wasn’t feeling up to company, rather than reminding him that he wasn’t welcome.

  It was, Nycos decided, an adequate start.

  ___

  “…of anything new,” Zirresca concluded. “Everyone’s still arguing over what to do about Ktho Delios, if anything, or Gronch, if anything. Or whether they’re related.”

  “Idiocy!” Andarjin snapped, briefly clutching his stomach in pain. “The idea of any link at all… Why does anyone listen to a word that man says?!”

  Zirresca seated herself at one of the small tables, where she’d earlier been poring over and making notes on a potential plan for moving small squadrons of soldiers into northern border towns. Picking up a nearby quill, she scribbled a quick thought, and then shrugged. “I find it highly unlikely, myself, but it’s worth considering.”