Deathcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Look,” Lord Matelon said, “armies don’t keep. We need to press the advantage we have. We hold the city, and we have—what—more than a thousand seasoned soldiers at our disposal, in addition to the bannermen I brought with me. A show of strength now will prevent further bloodshed. We’ll hold the coronation within the week.”

  “The coronation?” Hal’s stomach sank into his boots.

  “Aye,” his father said. “Once I’m crowned emperor, we’ll reach out to the downrealms and offer them more autonomy—at least temporarily—in exchange for their support. If Jarat survives his invasion of the north, he’ll come back to find that his throne is occupied. The other thanes will know that Jarat will never forgive them for taking up arms against him, so they’ll have to throw in with us. Especially if they want to reclaim the properties they’ve lost.”

  “What about Mother and Harper?” Robert said, voice rising. “Are they anywhere on your list?”

  “You forget yourself, boy,” Lord Matelon snapped. “If Heresford doesn’t get them back, we will negotiate for their release, once we have consolidated power here in the south.”

  “Who’ll we negotiate with?” Hal said. “If the empress overruns the northern queendom, she’ll be the one setting the terms for any negotiation.”

  “I cannot understand this obsession you have with the empress,” Lord Matelon growled.

  Hal couldn’t help thinking of what Lieutenant Karn had said after the rescue of the hostages. Maybe your father will be crowned king. King Arschel. Meanwhile, the empress is marching. As things stand, I suspect whoever wins will have a very short reign.

  Hal was a Matelon, and he’d been raised to be a good soldier, a dutiful son, a faithful subject of the king. Now, perhaps, he was none of those things.

  He took a deep breath. “You’re wrong, Father.”

  The big head came up, the heavy brows drew together. “Wrong? What do you mean?”

  Hal met his father’s eyes, and held his gaze, conscious of the pressure of Robert’s eyes. “You said that we have a thousand seasoned soldiers at our disposal. In fact, I have two thousand seasoned soldiers. You have your bannermen. Maybe.”

  “What are you saying, Halston?” His father employed that bass rumble that had been so intimidating when Hal was a boy. But Hal wasn’t a boy—not anymore.

  “I am saying that I keep my promises,” Hal said, “and you will keep your promises to me.”

  Lord Matelon slammed his hands down on the table. “You are not seeing the big picture. For more than twenty-five years, we have suffered under Gerard Montaigne. This is our chance to change that. We come from a line of kings. We have ruled in the past. There is no reason we shouldn’t rule now.”

  “You are the one who’s not seeing the big picture,” Hal said. “You are so blinded by local squabbles that you haven’t noticed the storms gathering in the north. I’ve tried to tell you, and you haven’t listened. While we jockey for position, the empress will conquer the north, and then she will conquer us, too.”

  His father’s jaw worked, and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He wasn’t used to resistance from this quarter. Hal could tell that he was sorting through arguments, trying to come up with the one that would work.

  “If this is about the succession, Son, rest assured, you will rule after me. I am old, and you are young, so you won’t have to wait long. In the meantime, I’ll put you in command of our armies. We’ll negotiate a suitable marriage—perhaps to a princess of the downrealms. There’s no reason not to aim high. You’ll rule an empire, and your children after you, and bring a lasting peace to the Realms. I think that you’ll find that it’s worth the wait.” Matelon pushed to his feet. “Think about it, Son, and you will see that I am right.” With that, his father stalked out of the hall.

  After their father departed, Hal and Robert remained at the table. Robert poured more wine.

  “He has never once listened to me,” Hal said, running his finger over the rim of his glass.

  “That’s because he’s used to riding over the both of us,” Robert said.

  “I’ve learned a lot from him,” Hal said.

  “And he hasn’t learned a thing from either of us,” Robert said. He looked sideways at Hal. “You’re going to have to take the throne, you know.”

  “You take it,” Hal growled. “Jarat isn’t much older than you, and you’d do a better job than he has. I’ll put the crown on your head myself.”

  “I can’t take the throne,” Robert said. “Your army wouldn’t stand for it. I’d be dead within the week.” He paused. “If you stay and rule, I’ll go north with the army.”

  Hal shook his head. “I need to lead. I’m the one who asked for volunteers. No offense meant, but I’m the one with the experience. I’m not going to sit home and send them—and you—into harm’s way.”

  “That’s what politicians do,” Robert said.

  “That’s proof positive that I’m not suited for the throne.”

  “If you leave the throne vacant and go north, someone will claim it. Father, probably, until somebody else pushes him off. The bloodshed continues, and the empress waltzes in and claims what remains.”

  Hal eyed his brother. “I might win, you know.”

  Robert raised both hands. “I’m not saying you won’t. If you do, you’ll come back to a mess, if not a ruin. If DeLacroix or Tourant gains the throne, they’ll be sending assassins after you or colluding with the empress to defeat you. Just like old times.”

  “When did you get to be a politician?”

  “Somebody has to be, since you don’t seem to have inherited Father’s ambition.”

  Hal laughed. “It’s not that I don’t have aspirations,” he said. “I do.” Aspirations that involved Lyssa Gray, if she still lived. If he survived. He was like any soldier who marched away to war with a miniature of his sweetheart in his duty bag. The symbol of a life after the fighting is over.

  “My money’s on you.”

  “You might be backing the wrong horse.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Robert said. “My point is, if Father takes the throne, you’ll never get your way. He’ll always have reasons for you to stay and support his agenda, until the empress comes knocking on the door. If you don’t cooperate, he’ll discard you, the way he’s discarded Mother and Harper.”

  “That’s harsh,” Hal said. “This has always been his policy, not to negotiate with—”

  “It’s time to stop making excuses for him,” Robert said. “That’s what we always do. Father looks good, compared with what we’ve had for twenty-five years. But is he good enough?” He paused, and when Hal said nothing, he continued on. “It’s time to figure out what your policy is, and go after what you want.”

  “That’s enough wine,” Hal said, plunking his glass down. “You’re beginning to sound like the voice of reason.” He cocked his head. “Why is it that you believe in me, when nobody else does?”

  “I’ve always believed in you, Hal,” Robert said.

  Hal rested his elbows on the table, his chin on his clasped hands, thinking furiously. Was there any way to march north without leaving the crown up for grabs?

  He’d promised the mages their freedom if they supported him. He had a feeling that if his father ascended the throne, that would turn out to be inconvenient also. Another promise broken, leaving mages with a grudge. Mages no longer imprisoned by their collars.

  “All right,” Hal said. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”

  Early the next morning, Hal met with the officers who had been so eager to proclaim him king and gained their support for his plans. He realized that it might be unfair for him to use his history with these men to further his own agenda, but he liked to think that their trust in him was honestly earned. Thad Mercier agreed to serve as military commander of the city in Hal’s absence. Mercier was well respected by his fellow officers and soldiers. Then he and Mercier met with DeJardin and the mages. During this time, Hal and Robert ign
ored several messages from their father, demanding a meeting.

  Hal asked Jan Rives to serve as quartermaster and steward for the city, alongside Robert as administrator. He didn’t really expect Rives to agree, given the old sergeant’s loyalty to his father, but he did.

  “It’s time,” Rives said. “We’ve made a fair mess of things. If we want change, we need to make room for the young ones.”

  Hal’s coronation took place two days later, in Jarat’s small hall. Hal hadn’t been present at Jarat’s coronation, but he had to think that it must have been similar to his own. Small, hurried, and secretive, as befitted a ruler under siege.

  They’d searched the royal vault for a suitable crown, but Jarat seemed to have carried most of the royal regalia along with him. They finally found a small crown, more of a circlet, really, but it suited Hal.

  By custom, the principia of the church would have presided over the ceremony, but Hal didn’t need another rant from Fosnaught. Instead, they found a flexible priest of the Church of Malthus who was willing to stand in. Most of the attendees were Hal’s officers, including Marc DeJardin, representing the mages. It was an entirely male event that smelled too much like a military coup.

  The women who might have attended were somewhere in the north. The noblewomen who were still in the capital hid in their houses, not wanting to come to the attention of the rebel forces, especially after the way the hostage families had been treated.

  Hal recalled something Captain Gray had said. Oh. Right. You don’t have women in your army. No wonder you’re losing.

  One step at a time, he thought.

  Hal’s thane “allies” were huddled in their keeps, laying plans and no doubt plotting his destruction. Only Rafe Heresford was there to toast the embattled new king.

  After some debate, he invited his father, and, to Hal’s surprise, Lord Matelon came. Perhaps he wanted to minimize the appearance of division in the family. Perhaps he had hopes that he could exert more influence in the new regime if he sanctioned it. Perhaps he was hoping for some more of that excellent Tamron wine.

  On impulse, Hal invited the children from the Cathedral Temple school, too, on the theory that change begins with the young. The students were from all over the empire, many of them girls, since an arts-and-religion-focused temple education was considered suitable for them. They watched, wide-eyed and apprehensive, as Robert carefully set the crown on Hal’s head. The crown might have been modest, but it still weighed him down.

  In Arden, death was the only way out from under the crown.

  The temple chorus sang, their voices high and true.

  Then the children came forward, one by one, to be blessed by the new king. Hal gave each of them a token, a pewter button with the Matelon tree on it.

  “Thank you for coming,” Hal said to the children. “I will do my best to be a good ruler. If you ever want to come and see me and tell me how I’m doing, show your token at the palace gate, and I will see that they let you in.”

  One older girl, who looked to be from the downrealms, weighed the token on her palm, and said, “How do you get to be an emperor? Is there a school for that?”

  “Well,” Hal said, “rulers need to know a lot of different things. So we learn as much as we can, and then we find good helpers who know other things.” He paused. “Any other questions?”

  “If we come and see you,” a little boy said, “will there be pie?”

  Hal laughed. “I cannot guarantee future pie, but there is food on the back tables now, so help yourselves.”

  A modest feast had been laid out in the back of the hall, and the temple children swarmed toward it.

  Hal’s officers gathered around him, congratulated him, offering flamboyant curtsies to their new emperor, swearing elaborate oaths, proposing preposterous toasts. Until a cry from the dining tables caught their attention.

  A little girl had collapsed onto the floor, and was writhing in pain, a few of her schoolmates clustered around her. A teacher knelt next to her, leaned in close to ask questions, then rolled the girl onto her side as she vomited. Across the table, an older boy stood staring, a turkey leg halfway to his mouth.

  No. Oh, no.

  “Stop!” Hal shouted, charging toward the feast table. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t eat anything. Stand back. Now.”

  The boy eyed the turkey leg wistfully, unwilling to let go of it until Hal snatched it out of his hand and pitched it back onto the table.

  He turned toward his officers, who’d followed him. “Call for a healer. On the double, now.” He paused, then added softly, “One of ours.”

  “It’s already done,” Robert said.

  Hal turned back toward the children, who stood, pale-faced, clearly frightened. “Who’s eaten from the table?” he demanded. “Tell the truth, now.”

  Hunching their shoulders as if anticipating a blow, three of the children timidly raised their hands.

  “Sit over there and wait for the healer,” Hal said, motioning them toward the hearth.

  “But . . . you said we could go ahead and eat,” the turkey leg boy said plaintively.

  “I did,” Hal said. “It’s not your fault. It’s just . . . I’m worried there is something wrong with the food.”

  With that, two more children raised their hands and went to sit with the others. One girl dug a sugar cake out of her skirt pocket and set it back on the table.

  “General Mat—Your Majesty,” DeJardin said. “I may be able to help.” He nodded toward the ailing girl.

  “Go ahead,” Hal said. “See what you can do.”

  In the end, the combined efforts of DeJardin and Georges Tomasson, Hal’s field surgeon, prevailed, and it seemed the girl would recover. Apparently, none of the other children had eaten enough of the wrong thing to become ill. DeJardin and Tomasson met with Hal’s command circle to render their verdict—gedden weed, the go-to poison in the empire. Easy to come by, treatable if identified in time.

  “Do you think it was a warning?” Hal asked. “Or were they trying to lop off the head of the new regime?”

  “Oh, most definitely the latter,” DeJardin said drily. “If all of your officers had bellied up to the table, it would have sickened or killed a great many of them. A poor beginning to the new order.” He paused. “Don’t forget—the Montaignes always used a taster.”

  Instead, in effect, Hal had used children for that office.

  You’ve got to do better, Matelon, if you’re going to survive this, Hal thought. Nobody plays by the rules when the stakes are this high.

  Gods, he thought. What have I gotten myself into?

  44

  SACRED AND PROFANE

  Destin had to admit, the witch queens in the north had built a fine road through the Vale from Marisa Pines Pass north to the capital. Prior to the war, clan traders traveled freely between north and south, selling goods to willing buyers in the empire.

  The Ardenine army made good progress through the empty countryside, with little risk of ambush, since the view across the fertile valley was clear all the way to the mountains. Having studied the geography, Destin knew that those to the left were the Spirit Mountains, the homes of the Gray Wolf queens. On the right stood the Heartfangs, the resting place of many a southern commander who thought he’d found a shortcut into the belly of the north. And, looming ahead, the moody face of Gray Lady, stronghold of the northern mages.

  Somewhere, on the other side of the Heartfangs, Celestine had landed her army.

  Was Evan here in the north somewhere? When they’d parted, the pirate had said that he was sailing north, to convince the Gray Wolf queen to take heed of the danger to the east.

  Destin’s eyes and ears continued to report that the city was lightly garrisoned, that the bulk of the Highlander army was fighting the empress in the east. They could tell him little about conditions inside the castle close. As far as anyone knew, the queen was seriously ill; some said she was dead. No one knew the whereabouts of what was left of the roy
al family or the queen’s council. If they had any sense, they would be high in the mountains in some inaccessible crevice, with mages guarding the door.

  Still, Destin thought, this war is far from over. Long before I was born, King Gerard marched his army all the way to the gates of Fellsmarch. Then was chased and harried all the way back to the flatlands.

  Destin was tasked with chasing and harrying his bloodsucking Darian Brothers back into line. All the way north, they ranged far and wide into the countryside, hoping to ferret out mages in hiding. They rarely found any. As a result, the brothers were sullen and ill-tempered, like guests who thought they’d been invited to a feast and were then presented with bread and water. Despite Destin’s aversion to the military, he was finding he preferred the company of his mage division to his mage-hunting crows.

  Several times, they were delayed by skirmishes with local militias, but these were less effective in the relative flatlands of the Vale than they were in the mountains. Eventually, Jarat’s thousands forced their way to the city walls. The king sent a demand for surrender. The city refused. Thus Arden’s second siege of the city began.

  Destin had read volumes on King Gerard’s previous assault on the city. That history was hard to come by in Arden, but he enjoyed reading about his father’s humiliation in the north.

  Now that they were in camp, the Darians were constantly at Destin’s heels. Either they’d been assigned to spy on him, or it was because they were drawn to the only available mage. The pressure of their hungry eyes made his skin crawl.

  Now I know how Evan feels sometimes, he thought.

  Finally, one night, Destin was summoned to King Jarat’s command tent just as he was debating whether he was ready to face another night on the ground.

  Destin walked through camp, trailing dark-robed fanatics like a bright comet with a black tail.

  “Stay outside,” he told them when they’d reached the command tent. “Better yet, go back to your quarters.” He entered the tent, knowing that his entourage would stay put.