Destiny: Child of the Sky

59

Four benisons of the Patrician faith crowded impatiently outside the intricately carved door of black walnut wood, awaiting their audience with the leader of their faith, the first they had been invited to in more than two years. They were all nervous, but Philabet Griswold was particularly agitated, as Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, had managed to arrange a private audience a few moments before, and now was in with the Patriarch, undoubtedly sowing the seeds for his own ascension to the Ring of Sepulvarta. Griswold was struggling to contain his rage, and losing the battle dismally.

“How much longer are we going to be consigned to this infernal hallway?” he snapped at Gregory, the Patriarch’s sexton.

“Not one more moment, Your Grace,” Gregory replied dryly, taking hold of the door and opening it. “The Patriarch will see you now. Please remember, Your Graces, that he is in very poor health and should not be upset or aggravated.”

Griswold glared at him, then strode rapidly into the room. The other three benisons nodded, and Lanacan Orlando patted Gregory on the arm as he walked past.

The room, customarily a cold place, had been heated, in the absence of a fireplace, with boiling water poured over piles of hot stones to keep the frail Patriarch from catching a chill. Clouds of steam rose and sank, passing like sky vapor over the silver star embossed in the floor, the room’s only ornamentation.

In the heavy black walnut chair sitting atop a rise of marble stairs, looking frail and emaciated in his voluminous silver robes, sat the Patriarch, his bright blue eyes shining from within the prison of his failing body. In his clawlike hand, a hand which trembled violently, he was clutching a small scroll. He pointed to the five chairs that had been set up on the floor amid the rolling waves of steam, one of which was occupied by the Blesser of Sorbold.

“Please be seated, Your Graces,” he said. Despite his fragile appearance, his voice was clear, if thin. The benisons sat down, Griswold taking the seat farthest from Mousa with an undisguised scowl.

The eyes of the Patriarch went from one man to another, then to Gregory, who handed him a small white card.

“Thank you—all for coming so quickly. I have three things to tell you, my—brothers in Grace,” he said haltingly, consulting the card, then looking back to the benisons. “As you probably—suspect, my time in this world grows short, and so I—wish to limit what I have to say to those things—that most need saying. Here they are.

“First, I have spoken—at length with—the Blesser of Sorbold regarding the terrible—tragedy at the solstice festival in—Navarne, and have read the missives—from the Crown Prince and the one—dictated by the Dowager Empress. I am convinced—that this was an inexplicable and—isolated act of violence, similar to all the—others that have taken place over the last—score of years, and not an attack—sanctioned by the crown of Sorbold—or its benison.” The Patriarch coughed deeply, then looked sharply at Philabet Griswold, who had begun to rise in protest. “It is therefore the—position of the Ring that—Sorbold should not be punished in any—way for this incursion beyond—what they have already suffered.”

“Your Grace—” Griswold sputtered.

“Second,” the Patriarch continued, looking at his card, “the Ring has received an—invitation, as I imagine have you all, to the—coronation in Tyrian of the new Lirin queen.” He looked up with a hint of a smile. “I want to go. And I’d like—all of you to come with me.”

Ian Steward of Canderre-Yarim and Lanacan Orlando of Bethe Corbair looked at each other doubtfully. “But Tyrian is an adherent to the faith of Gwynwood, Your Grace,” Steward said.

“Yes, which is under the—leadership of a new Invoker. But I have a great fondness for the—new queen; I owe her my life. And if there is not much more—of that life to be had, I wish—to spend it as I see fit. I invite you—to join me.” Each of the benisons nodded, Griswold curtly, while Nielash Mousa avoided his glance. The journey that the Patriarch proposed would mark the first time he had set foot outside of Sepulvarta since his investiture. “Finally,” the Patriarch continued, “I know you are—all very concerned with the issue of succession.” He wheezed harshly, causing Colin Abernathy and Ian Steward to jump. “My decision—once it is made—will be recorded on this—scroll. It is my hope that—you will not resort to—letting personal interest affect the aftermath of my passing. The Creator—speaks only to the one who—is invested as Patriarch with—a clear conscience and a willingness to submit to His will. Remember this.”

The hand holding the scroll began to tremble even more violently. The sexton stepped up to the throne and took the religious leader’s hand.

“Do you wish to go back to the hospice now, Your Grace?” he asked as he held a cup of water to the Patriarch’s lips. The Patriarch took a sip, then nodded. “Very well, then, thank you, Your Graces, one and all. The coach departs in the morning at sunrise; I trust you can all be ready by then.”

“One moment, Your Grace,” Colin Abernathy called as the Patriarch rose to a shaky stand, ignoring the sexton’s glare. “I see you are not wearing the Ring of Wisdom this morning; is there a reason?”

The frail old man stood straighter, releasing for a moment his grip on the arm of the sexton. A mischievous light came into his eye.

“Indeed, Colin. One might think that—at my age and in my condition, undertaking—such a journey could only be done against the counsel of wisdom. It can only be—judged a very unwise idea, and detrimental to my health and continued existence.” He leaned forward a little and dropped his voice to a whisper.

“But I want to do it anyway!”

He took hold of Gregory’s arm again, and took a few steps toward the marble stairs, then looked over his shoulder one last time on his way back to his sickbed.

“Please rest assured, Colin, and all of you, that the Ring will be there when the new Patriarch is ready to ascend the throne, whoever he may be.”

The office of the Lord Roland was cold, the coals of the fireplace having been allowed to burn down during the night. Tristan Steward sat before it, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the vellum invitation in the other, pondering his life and the next move in improving it.

The Lirin had chosen a queen for the first time in almost a century. Their choice came as no surprise to him.

He stared at the calligraphed missive and gulped the remaining liquid, clenching his teeth as it stung the length of his gullet. What a colossal waste, he mused, turning the invitation over in his hand idly. I wed a beast to add Canderre to my holdings, when I could have married my heart’s desire and gained sovereignty over Tyrian in the process, something he knew had never been accomplished at any time in history. Sad.

Well, he had a year to make it right. To return Madeleine to her father’s house and dissolve their union would surely cause tremendous uproar among the royal houses of Roland; Cedric Canderre would doubtless wish to have him ostracized from their mutual circles, even to the point of withdrawing his troops from the alliance. But one factor not currently in place would change everything; within the year he would be king.

Timing was everything.

The Lord Roland rose resolutely and shouted for his ambassador.

“Evans! Evans!”

When the old man appeared, still in his nightshirt, at the library door, Tristan Steward was already giving orders to scurrying servants. He paused long enough to look over his shoulder at the veteran ambassador.

“Evans, pack your court essentials. We have a coronation to attend.”

The Patriarch’s massive coach rolled to an abrupt stop in the darkness. The holy man sat up straighter as the small window in the front of the carriage opened, revealing the face of one of the four coachmen, and leaned forward, making a gesture for quiet to forestall the driver from wakening the Patriarch and the other four benisons who slept on the small couches that lined the carriage’s inner walls.

“What is it, my son?” the holy man asked.

“The bridge is compromised, Your Grace; ice has broken through the main support brace. We are going to have to turn around and proceed north to Fisher’s Landing; that’s the closest place to cross the Phon.” The holy man nodded, and the small window closed again. He looked contemptuously around at the other men, snoring raggedly in disparate rhythms and varying degrees of glottal ugliness. Each of them was wrapped in the arms of sleep, something he had not experienced for as long as he could remember.

Since summer or perhaps before, he had found himself without the need of slumber, passing his days and nights in a state of heightened awareness, the human body he inhabited tiring occasionally, but never succumbing fully to unconsciousness. Instead his mind was adrift during quiet moments in a sort of meditation, a hazy pattern of thoughts and dreams that took the place of both sleep and true wakefulness. He was, in a way, a virtual sleepwalker, ever watchful, waiting for the day when sleep would end altogether. And the nightmare would begin. It was almost time.