Destiny: Child of the Sky

16

The library at Haguefort was enormous, with high ceilings that reflected the slightest sound. Footsteps echoed on the marble floor, swallowed intermittently by the silk rugs. A slight cough or the clearing of the throat could be heard in all corners of the vast room.

Despite those sensitive acoustics, not a sound was audible now save for the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock.

Cedric Canderre sat heavily on one of the leather sofas near the fireplace, staring blankly into the flames, his face decades older than it had been that morning. Beside him sat Quentin Baldasarre, Duke of Bethe Corbair, Dunstin’s brother. His silence was very different; his eyes were gleaming with a light that barely contained its wrath, and even his silent breathing was tinged with fury. Lanacan Orlando, the benison of his province, who sat in the wing chair next to him awkwardly patting his hand in an attempt to comfort him, was growing more nervous by the moment. When Quentin finally waved him away angrily, Orlando seemed almost relieved.

Ihrman Karsrick, the Duke of Yarim, poured himself another full glass of brandy, noting that Stephen’s decanter was in sorry need of refilling. He alone among the dukes of Roland had not suffered the loss of a relative or close friend, though the head of the winning sledge team, a popular guild member in his province and his personal blacksmith, had died in the attack.

The holy men had been inept at dispensing comfort, in Karsrick’s opinion; Colin Abernathy had been unable to stop weeping for more than a few moments. Lanacan Orlando, generally considered a great healer and source of consolation, was clearly irritating his duke far more than he was helping him. Philabet Griswold, the pompous Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, had begun pontificating about Sorbold and the need for an immediate retaliation earlier but was glared into silence by Stephen Navarne, a member of his own See. Stephen was currently elsewhere looking in on his children and the makeshift hospital wards that had been set up within his holdings to tend to the wounded. Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, was sitting isolated in a corner, his dark skin pale and clammy. Only Ian Steward seemed calm.

The door of the library opened and Tristan Steward entered, closing it quietly behind him. He had excused himself to look in on Madeleine and the wounded from his province, and had been meeting in the courtyard below with the captains of his regiments. His face was a mask of .calm as he entered the room, but Karsrick could tell from the look in his eye that he was planning something, biding his time to reveal it.

Martin Ivenstrand, the Duke of Avonderre, stood up as Tristan passed.

“The casualties, Tristan—how bad?”

“Over four hundred dead, twice that many more injured,” Tristan said, coming to a stop before the wooden stand that contained Stephen’s prized atlas from Serendair. The ancient manuscript was covered with a glass dome in order to protect the fragile pages of the charts that depicted the long-dead island from the ravages of time. Ironic, Tristan thought absently. A carefully preserved map of a world that died a thousand years ago. Directions to nowhere.

“Sweet All-God,” murmured Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold.

“Is that a benediction, or a plea for forgiveness?” snapped Philabet Griswold, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne.

Karsrick’s eyes, along with all the others in the room, riveted onto the two holy men, bitter enemies and hostile contenders behind the scenes for the sole right to wear the Patriarch’s Ring of Wisdom, white robes, and star-shaped talisman. With word coming out of Sepulvarta that the Patriarch was in his last days, the feud between the two men had heated to boiling. Throughout the festival they had gibed and sniped at each other, preening and positioning themselves with various nobles, speaking in furtive discussions, meeting secretly.

All the posturing was certainly a waste of time as far as Karsrick understood. The Patriarch could name his own successor, and pass his ring on to the benison of his choice, though the declaration did not seem to be forthcoming. If he did not do so, the great scales of Jierna Tal, the Place of Weight, would decide, with the ancient Ring of Wisdom balancing on one of the plates and the man it was judging on the other. Either way, the efforts of the two holy men to consolidate power seemed futile.

At the festival Griswold had appeared to have the upper hand. He was by far the most powerful benison in Roland, a fact that was magnified because the carnival taking place was within his See. Insiders at the Patriarch’s manse, however, whispered rumors that Mousa, the only non-Cymrian benison, and the Blesser of an entire country, was the Patriarch’s favored choice. In addition, if the decision of ascendancy were to go to the scales, it would certainly not weigh against Mousa that Jierna Tal was in Sorbold.

Whatever favor Mousa might have held before the festival, and whatever pleasure he might have drawn from those rumors, was gone now. While no one had broken the silence in the library in deference to the grief of Cedric Canderre and Quentin Baldasarre, it was clear by the almost-visible frost in the air where the clergy and nobility of Roland placed the blame for the attack. The Blesser of Sorbold. a normally unflappable man with dusky skin and a bland expression, had gone gray in the face. That face was puckered in worried lines and dotted with anxious perspiration.

He rose slowly now from his seat as Griswold approached.

“This—this was an inexplicable act,” he said, resting his hand on the table beside him for balance. “Sorbold—the Crown, that is—knows nothing of this, I’m certain.” He anxiously fingered the holy amulet around his neck, its talisman shaped like the earth.

Griswold crossed his arms over his chest, causing the amulet he wore, with its talisman shaped like a drop of water, to clink soundly. “It would certainly seem that an action involving an entire column of royal soldiers might have at least a suggestion of permission from the prince or the empress,” he said haughtily. “Particularly one that violates peace treaties and commits atrocities upon the citizens of a neighboring land—a formerly allied nation.” He came to a halt in front of his nemesis as the Blesser of Sorbold drew himself up to his full height and turned to face the others.

“I can assure you that this heinous attack was not sanctioned by the government of Sorbold,” Mousa said, his voice betraying none of the anxiety apparent in his features. “Let me state emphatically that Sorbold wishes no hostility with Roland, nor with any of its other neighbors. And even if it did, the Crown Prince has been keeping vigil at the sickbed of his mother, Her Serenity, the Dowager Empress, and would certainly not have chosen this time to attack.”

“How can you say that for certain?” sneered Griswold.

“I am here, for the love of the All-God!” Mousa growled. “Do you think they would risk the life of their only benison this way?”

“Perhaps the Crown Prince is trying to tell you something,” Griswold suggested.

Mousa’s dusky face flushed with dark anger. “Void take you, Griswold! If you don’t choose to believe in my worth to my See, let me at least assure you that if Sorbold had decided to attack Roland, we would have done so with one hundred times the force you saw today! You fool! Our own people were here at the festival! You have excused away all of the assaults that have been perpetrated on citizens of Tyrian and other Orlandan provinces by your own people as ‘random’ or ‘inexplicable’—you’ve never taken responsibility for any of that violence! Yet you cannot accept that this is exactly the same?”

“It’s not the same,” said Stephen Navarne quietly. The others turned to see the master of Haguefort standing in the open doorway. He had entered so silently that none had heard him come in.

The Duke of Navarne crossed the enormous room and came to stand directly in front of Nielash Mousa, who had gone pale again at his words. Stephen brought his hand awkwardly to rest on the benison’s upper arm and found it to be trembling.

“It’s not the same, because hithertofore there have been no incursions from Sorbold—this is the first I know of. The fact that whatever madness has been causing these attacks has spread to Sorbold is most disturbing, though not altogether unexpected. Up until now it limited itself to Tyrian and Roland.”

“And Ylorc,” said Tristan Steward firmly. “I told you last summer that the Bolg had attacked my citizens, and you all chose to disregard me.”

“King Achmed denied it,” said Quentin Baldasarre. Tristan’s eyes blazed. He reached into his boot and pulled forth a small, three-bladed throwing knife, and threw it at Baldasarre’s feet, where it clanged against the stone floor.

“He also denied selling weapons to Sorbold. See how much his word is worth.” The Lord Roland regarded Baldasarre coldly. “In your case, Quentin, you purchased that worthless word at the cost of your brother’s life.”

Baldasarre was off the leather couch and halfway across the room as the last words came from Tristan’s mouth, his muscles coiled in fury. Lanacan Orlando had managed to grasp the duke’s arm and was pulled along with the force of his stride, and now interposed himself between Tristan and Quentin. “Please,” the benison whispered. “No more violence; please. Do not desecrate your brother’s memory in your anger, my son.”

“He is in the warmth of the Afterlife, having saved us all,” said Ian Steward.

“Dunstin Baldasarre died a hero’s death,” Philabet Griswold intoned. “As did Andrew Canderre,” Ian Steward added quickly. Cedric Canderre opened his mouth to speak, but his words were stifled by the creak of the double doors as they opened, admitting Llauron, the Invoker of the Filids. The Invoker’s chiefs had been lending aid to Stephen’s forces, Khaddyr tending to the wounded alongside the healers of Navarne, while Gavin led the reconnaissance that was assessing the Sorbold attack. Llauron nodded to Stephen, then made his way quietly to the sideboard beside Ihrman Karsrick and poured himself a last finger of brandy, emptying the decanter.

When Cedric Canderre found his voice, it was steady, belying the pain in his eyes.

“I don’t wish to debate this further,” he said flatly. “Madeleine and I need to return to my lands, to prepare for Andrew’s interment, and to comfort the Lady Jecelyn.” He cleared his throat, and cast a pointed glance at his fellow dukes, then looked to Ian Steward, the benison of Canderre-Yarim. “She is going to need much support and consolation, Your Grace. She expects Andrew’s child in autumn.”

A heavy silence fell, echoing through the library, as the holy men and regents looked at each other. Finally Tristan Steward spoke.

“Have no fear, Cedric. Madeleine and I will see to the child’s needs and education as if it were Andrew’s right-born heir.”

Canderre’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. Stephen Navarne felt his fists unconsciously clench in anger at Tristan’s words; the Lord Roland had just named the child as Andrew’s bastard. The implication was lost on none of the men present: by right of succession Madeleine, and by extension, upon their marriage, Tristan, was now heir to Canderre, not Andrew’s unborn child.

Quentin Baldasarre, Andrew’s cousin, already furious at Tristan, stepped forward angrily again, only to have his arm caught by Lanacan Orlando, his benison.

“The child will be Sir Andrew’s right-born heir, my son,” Orlando said calmly to Tristan, his voice no longer quaking as it had the moment before. He turned to the clergy and the provincial leaders. “I presided over the marriage of Sir Andrew and Lady Jecelyn in secret last summer. Their union was blessed; the Unification ritual was performed. As result, any child of their union is legitimate, and the right-born heir of Cedric Canderre.” The firelight glinted off the chain around his neck, which bore no talisman in representation of the wind.

Stephen glanced at Llauron, but the Invoker showed no sign of surprise, or even interest; rather, he inhaled the bouquet of his brandy and took a sip from the snifter. Andrew had said nothing of his marriage to Stephen.

Tristan seemed shocked, while his brother, Ian, normally placid, grew red in the face. The spiral of red jewels in the sun-shaped talisman around his neck flashed angrily in the firelight as well.

“Why did he come to you, Your Grace?” Ian Steward demanded. “He is a member of my See, not yours.”

The benison of Bethe Corbair opened his hands mildly in a gesture of reconciliation. “And Lady Jecelyn is a member of mine. It was a romantic impulse, no doubt. It seemed too long for them to wait to be together, though they both looked forward to the more important, formal ceremony over which you would have presided next month, Your Grace. I imagine they did not wish to impose on you twice.”

The dukes exchanged a glance. It was apparent to them that Lanacan Orlando was probably offering a gracious cover for Andrew Canderre’s difficult situation, though the benison maintained a steady gaze. Tristan Steward exhaled deeply, but otherwise betrayed no annoyance that his attempt to place himself in Canderre’s line of succession had been thwarted. Finally Cedric spoke.

“I am grateful to you, Your Grace, for whatever blessings you have afforded my son.” He turned to his fellow regents. “I will take my leave of you now. I have dead to bury, as do you all.”

“You’ll have more, unless you listen a moment longer,” said Tristan Steward.

—

—

The curt tone drew the attention of all present in the room. The Lord Roland’s blue eyes burned with fire that smoldered within a fragile control. He regarded them seriously, almost contemptuously, then lingered for a moment, staring at Nielash Mousa.

“Take your leave now, Your Grace,” he said, his tone barely civil. “Return to His Highness, the Crown Prince, and tell him what has occurred. Inform him that I will be contacting him shortly. My retinue will see you to the border.”

The Blesser of Sorbold stared at him for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. He turned to the dukes.

“I do apologize most deeply on behalf of my countrymen for what has befallen your subjects,” he said, then looked to his fellow benisons. “I pray you remember, my brothers in grace, that we are all children of the All-God, sons of the Creator. Whatever evil has been causing this tragic violence amongst Orlandan citizens and the Lirin of Tyrian has now spread to Sorbold, but it is not in any way condoned by the Crown. Please keep this in mind, and keep cool heads. I assure you, the prince will make restitution for this, and do everything he can to see that it does not occur again.”

He waited for a response, but the dukes and benisons of Roland stood silent in the wake of his words. After a few moments of awkwardness he bowed and left the library.

Tristan Steward waited until the door had closed behind Mousa, then turned back with barely disguised wrath to confront the regents and the clergymen.

“I have been warning you all for some time that this was coming, that we needed to take action, but you spurned those warnings, every last one of you.” He glared pointedly at Stephen. “Now the winter solstice has been cursed, stained with the blood of citizens from each of our provinces, and even from the realm of Sorbold. I will tolerate this reckless lack of preparedness no longer. If you wish to remain blind to what is happening around you, fine. But I will no longer stand by while Orlandan subjects are slaughtered.

“Therefore, I invoke my rights as high regent and prince of the capital province. I declare sovereignty over the all the armies of Roland, and am assuming command thereof. It is high time to end this madness and combine our forces under a sole leadership—my leadership. Any province who opposes me will be cast out of the Orlandan alliance, and will no longer be under the protection of Bethany.”

“You are declaring yourself king, then?” demanded Ihrman Karsrick.

“Not yet, though that may follow as the natural progression.” Tristan’s gaze went from face to face, assessing the reactions of the various dukes and benisons. “My title is not important. The survival of Roland is. The Cymrian War fragmented this land into a ridiculous arrangement of egos and agendas, teetering on a precipice of disaster. No more! Too long we have bowed and scraped to each other, dancing gingerly around this issue to salve your fragile self-importance. My army protects your regions now. It has been Bethany’s soldiers, Bethany’s supply troops, that have maintained the peace throughout Roland for years now—

—

—with the aid of a considerable amount of taxes,” finished Martin Ivenstrand, the Duke of Avonderre. “Any one of us could have built the forces that you have had they been given the assessments from which you have benefited.”

“Be that as it may, none of you have had the stomach, or the loin-pouch, to do so,” retorted Tristan angrily. “It is my right, as high regent, to claim command, and I do so now. Those who oppose me will no longer be under my protection. I will end all trade agreements with renegade provinces, and will sever any and all diplomatic ties as well.”

“You can’t be serious,” sputtered Quentin Baldasarre.

“I am completely serious. I will strip your provinces from the mail caravan, tear up your grain treaties, ostracize you so completely that you will be for all intents a foreign land. I have had enough—more than enough—of this nightmare. It has cost me far more than I am willing to continue paying.” His words faltered as he thought of Prudence, her dismembered corpse strewn about the grass of Gwylliam’s Great Moot in Ylorc. “Now decide—are you with me? Or are you out?”

The other dukes stared at each other in dismay. Tristan’s voice was deep with power; his shoulders trembled with rage. The air in the room had gone as dry as a Yarim summer. Stephen thought he could taste blood in the back of his mouth.

The silence thudded heavily through the library, punctuated by the threat of the fire’s crackle, the accusatory ticking of the clock.

Finally Colin Abernathy, the Blesser of the Nonaligned States, turned to Tristan.

“I will take my leave now, my son,” he said pleasantly. “It is not fitting that I be privy to these discussions, as my See is not within the realm of Roland. Let me say, for what it is worth, however, that your plan seems the right one to me. It is high time, in my opinion, that Roland sort out its lines of succession, and unify behind one royal house. As a foreign national I can assure you the clarity will benefit both Roland and its allies.”

For the first time since he had entered the room, Tristan smiled slightly.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Abernathy bowed shakily to Stephen Navarne. “I will make arrangements to collect the remains of our people who have died this day on your soil with your chamberlain, my son.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Stephen replied. “He has been told to stand ready.”

“Very good. Well, then, farewell, my brothers in grace, and m’lord regents. I wish you wisdom in your discussions, and in your decisions.” Abernathy stood tall as he bowed to the clergy and the nobility, then crossed the library and closed the door soundly behind him.

Tristan turned back to the other regents of Roland.

“Sometimes it is easier to see the wisdom of an undertaking from the outside,” he said. He turned to Stephen Navarne, waving his hand to silence the other dukes as they prepared to speak.

“Let us cut to the chase. You, Stephen—you, my own cousin—you opposed me when I made a call for unity before. See where your folly has led? Four hundred dead, maybe twice that by the time the injured succumb. At your hands, Stephen—their blood is on your hands, because you failed to heed my warnings. You thought your pathetic wall could save you—it couldn’t even protect your keep against the peasant revolt last spring from which I had to rescue you. What is it going to take to convince you? Wasn’t the decapitation of your own wife enough?” A collective gasp echoed through the room. “M’lord!” Philabet Griswold choked.

“Your tongue is napping dangerously, Tristan,” said Quentin Baldasarre acidly, pulling free from Lanacan Orlando’s nervous clutches and interposing himself between Stephen and the Lord Roland. “Best batten it down before you swallow it.”

“If you wish to call him out, Stephen, I will happily stand as your second,” added Martin Ivenstrand angrily.

“No,” Stephen said, pushing Quentin out of the way and locking his gaze on to Tristan’s. Silence fell over the room again. “No,” Stephen repeated. “He’s right.”

Tristan’s nostrils flared, and he exhaled deeply. His fists unclenched at his sides.

“Will you stand with me now, then?” he demanded. Stephen could feel the eyes of the others trained on him. Tristan had confronted him first deliberately, he knew, because the other dukes would align themselves with Stephen either way. Finally he nodded, still holding Tristan’s gaze. “Yes,” he said.

The collective intake of breath swallowed the air in the room, making it difficult for Stephen to breathe.

“You would support him as king?” Ivenstrand asked Stephen incredulously.

“Not as yet,” Stephen said, watching Tristan’s face. “But it is not the crown he is claiming, at least not at this time.” He turned to the others, whose faces were frozen in various expressions ranging from dismay to horror. “How can I deny the truth of what he says? Twenty years ago Gwydion of Manosse, the best among us, the best hope for a new age and my best friend, had the life ripped out of him near the House of Remembrance—in my own lands. My wife—” His voice faltered, and his gaze fell to the floor. “My wife, the children of my province, now these, the invited guests of my festival, Dunstin, Andrew—countless others—how can I deny that Tristan is right? How can any of us?”

“You would return us to the hand of one lord, one king?” Ihrman Karsrick asked skeptically. “Have you, the Cymrian historian, forgotten what that led to the last time—the full-scale genocide waged by the last power-hungry maniacs who insisted on having 'sole leadership’?” His eye caught that of Llauron, who was standing next to him, and Karsrick’s voice disappeared as he realized that he was insulting the Invoker’s parents. Llauron merely smiled, saluted him with the last of the brandy in his snifter, and took a sip.

“I would see us at peace,” Stephen said heavily. “I would see this madness at an end. Obviously whatever is causing this bloody mayhem has grown too powerful, too ever-present. It is only getting stronger. It is now beyond my abilities to protect even my own people. And we still don’t even know what it is. It is long past time that we found out.” He turned and looked back at his cousin. “Tristan believes he can do it if we unite in support of him. I say we let him try.”

The other regents of Roland, Cedric Canderre, Quentin Baldasarre, Martin Ivenstrand, and Ihrman Karsrick, looked one to another as Stephen and Tristan continued their joint stare. Finally Cedric lowered his eyes and shook his head.

“All right, then, Tristan. I shall send my knight marshal to you upon my return to High Tower. You can work out the arrangements with him.” Tristan nodded appreciatively, breaking his glance for the first time from Stephen’s. Cedric turned to Quentin Baldasarre.

“I hope you will choose to follow my lead, nephew, and end this acrimonious exchange. This has been a tragic day for our family; now all I desire is to bury my son and grieve. I suggest you commit your forces to Tristan’s command, and tend to your brother as well.”

Baldasarre stared at Tristan for a moment, then nodded reluctantly, looking suddenly older and ashen.

“I will, Tristan, but be warned: do not misuse them. If you commit this new army to another foolish undertaking, like the Spring Cleaning exercise wherein you fed two thousand of your own soldiers to the Bolg, you will surely be sentencing Roland to certain death. Understand this.”

“I do,” said Tristan testily. “And I will not have you questioning my command, Quentin. Either you acknowledge my authority, or Bethe Corbair will be forced to secede from the kingdom and defend itself. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Baldasarre spat.

“Good. Now, what say you, Ihrman? Martin? Are you with me, or are you out?”

Martin Ivenstrand looked to Philabet Griswold, who nodded reluctantly, then to Stephen Navarne. He let loose a deep sigh.

“Avonderre is with you, Tristan. I will yield you command of my army, but not of the naval forces. I am the only province with a coastline and a shipping interest to protect.”

“That will suffice, for now,” Tristan said, walking to the sideboard and picking up the brandy decanter, which he found to be empty. He set it down again. “And you, Ihrman? Are you casting Yarim’s lot in with Roland?”

“Yes,” said Karsrick icily.

“Good. Then go home to your own lands, all of you, and send me your commanders forthwith after the state funerals. Please schedule those ceremonies so that I may attend both, as both Andrew and Dunstin were Madeleine’s kinsmen.” Cedric Canderre and Quentin Baldasarre, already numbly gathering their belongings, merely nodded.

Tristan waved his hand in the direction of the benisons.

“I’d be grateful, Your Graces, if you would be so kind as to offer up some prayers to the Patriarch on my behalf, that I might lead with the All-God’s granted wisdom.”

“And, of course, for the souls of the deceased as well,” said Llauron.

The Lord Roland caught the gaze of the Invoker of the Filids, and cleared his throat.

“Of course,” he said hastily. He looked into the Invoker’s blue eyes and found a mild expression in them. “Thank you for your assistance today, Your Grace. How fortunate it was for us that the chief priest of nature was among us at this time.” Llauron nodded casually, then took a final sip of brandy, draining his glass. “I imagine this must be a poignant moment for you,” Tristan said.

Llauron smiled slightly. “It has been a more than poignant day, my son,” he said pleasantly.

“No doubt. There was a time when we all thought that Gwydion might be the one to unite Roland into one realm again. I’m sure this brings back painful memories.”

Llauron turned so that Tristan could not see his face as he answered and set his brandy snifter on the sideboard.

“Indeed,” he said.

Hours later, within the depths of his carriage as it traveled rockily over the frozen roads back to his lands, the holy man smiled. All in all, things had gone rather well.