A Darkness Forged in Fire

NINE

A steward entered the throne room and quietly placed a cup of evening tea before the Viceroy. Gwyn clasped it prayerlike in both hands, curling his fingers around the cup. He had changed from his traveling clothes. The light from the lanterns bounced crazily off the coronet that now rested on his head, a delicately worked crown of white gold studded with jewels representative of every foreign land he had visited as part of the diplomatic corps, and incorporated into the Empire.

Protocol demanded that the crown be smaller than Her Majesty's, and it was, barely. No fool though, he wore a second, much smaller and more modest coronet when traveling to Calahr, or on the rare occasions the Queen ventured forth to survey Her lands.

The light also highlighted his exceptionally pale skin, stretched taut across a delicate bone structure that bespoke his pure heritage, something many in the High Court were sadly lacking. That was the problem with empires-the bloodlines of the conquered lands mixed with that of their masters, polluting everything. In time, he would deal with them. For now, though, he focused his thoughts on his immediate situation.

Within the starched precision of his uniform, he forced his body to relax until no outward sign of movement could be detected. It was a trick he'd picked up early in the diplomatic corps and had used to great effect on many occasions. Without need of a mirror he saw himself perfectly: velvet-green jacket with gold facings, his slender shoulders made larger by two wide epaulets, blood-red aiguillettes of fine silk braid hanging down from each, gold-plated buttons in double rows running the length of the jacket's front, and around his waist a brilliant white belt from which a thin rapier hung in a scabbard of wrought silver. It was like looking at a painting, an effect Gwyn desired, for under the table his legs shook nervously in their riding breeches and calf-high leather boots.

He had scheduled a meeting with the commander of the cavalry forces in Elfkyna to commence an hour ago, but the Duke had not yet arrived. Gwyn knew it was deliberate. Why the Queen had allowed a despicable lower-caste peasant to rise so high in her army escaped him, but it was indisputable that the bastard knew how to fight.

Gwyn sipped sparingly at his tea until the voice of a retainer telling someone "this way" signaled the arrival of the Duke. The Viceroy turned slightly in his chair to offer a chiseled profile to the scoundrel.

"Good evening, my dear-" Gwyn started to say, then stopped. A green-uniformed corporal wearing the distinctive "Crown and Wagon" patch from one of the Outer Territories Trading Company's regiments stood just outside the ring of lanterns.

The elf came to attention and saluted.

"What is the meaning of this? Who are you?" Gwyn demanded.

The corporal lowered his hand. "Corporal Takoli Kritton, part of the piquet detail, your grace. There was a disturbance in front of one of the posts tonight. A rakke, sir."

"Are you drunk, Corporal? I've always found a firing squad a quick cure for that." So, the rumors about the last Viceroy were perhaps not the idle chatter he'd once thought.

The corporal didn't blink. "I am not drunk, your grace."

Gywn considered the elf. His voice was soft, his movements slow and deferential, but something told Gwyn you wouldn't turn your back on him. It was the eyes, or more precisely, the fact that they revealed nothing at all, and Gwyn prided himself on being able to plumb the depths of souls and learn their weaknesses.

"Really?" Gwyn said, affecting boredom. "Yet you interrupt me with stories of extinct creatures. Very well, if what you say is true, bring it to me."

The corporal took several steps forward and placed a large haversack on the table. A dark stain grew at its bottom, and an oily fluid began seeping onto the table.

"What's this?" the Viceroy asked, recoiling from the bag.

"Its head."

The Viceroy didn't bother opening the haversack. He didn't need to. Wheels began to turn in his head as he worked through the ramifications. The last Viceroy had been in Her service, and Her power was clearly expanding.

Yes, he could use this.

The Viceroy allowed himself to feel a moment of joy before he reined himself in and looked back at the corporal, making a more thorough appraisal. The elf slouched slightly, as if trying to make himself appear less than he was. He wore his long black hair tied in a queue, but again, it was his eyes that gave Gwyn pause. A Hynta-elf, Gwyn decided, his complexion as dark as that of some of the elfkynan. You never could tell how old these elves were, unless they looked ancient, and even then one never really knew. This one appeared to be in his midtwenties, not that that meant anything to him.

Gwyn needed to know more. "And how is it you came to have its head while still retaining your own?" He motioned for an elfkynan to place the haversack on the floor beside him and mop up the mess.

"I personally ordered my men to be on the watch for anything peculiar tonight, your grace. I felt something wasn't right."

The Viceroy smiled, an act without any intent to put the elf at ease. "Elves and their senses. It's like having bloodhounds, and house-trained at that," he said, peering down at the floor by the elf's boots as if to verify his own statement.

"Sir," the elf said, his cheeks coloring.

The Viceroy smiled. Elves were rare in the army, rarer still in the days since the Iron Elves were disbanded. This one was clearly a remnant of that disgraced horde. He wore his shako set at just enough of an angle that it marked him a veteran of more than one campaign, but not so tilted that it would catch the ire of an officer. It almost served to hide the fact that the point of one ear was missing, another telltale mark of a former Iron Elf. Seven wound stripes were sewn above the cuff of his left sleeve, a rarity among the cannon fodder they assigned to the Trading Company-typically the bastion of drunkards, fools, and cowards.

Gwyn was certain the elf before him was none of those. No, he was something far more dangerous.

The only other obvious flaw was an irregular dark band that ran the full way around the left sleeve of his uniform. "That dark mark, there, on your coat, what's that?"

"Just a stain," the elf said, his eyes looking everywhere but at the Viceroy.

Gwyn suppressed a smile. "Actually, it looks to me like a patch was once sewn there, a very specific patch, I think, one of leaves, if I had to take a guess. Tell me, Kritton…is it?"

"Sir," the elf said, refusing to take the bait.

"Corporal, what unit were you with before joining the company? A wizard's assistant perhaps, or a scout? Hmmm, no, you carry a musket so you certainly aren't a pureblood. No self-respecting elf would carry metal, would they?"

The elf's body grew even more rigid, but his voice remained neutral. "Regular light infantry, sir."

"Come now, Corporal," the Viceroy said, enjoying himself immensely, "the army spends a great deal of time and money instilling pride in one's regiment. Are you saying you don't remember which one?"

"The Iron Elves, sir."

"Ah, the shamed regiment," Gwyn said triumphantly. "Must have been a terrible blow, having the regiment dishonored like that. Your commanding officer turning out to be a traitor to the Empire. Cast all elves in a rather poor light."

"Sir," the corporal said, clearly restraining himself.

"Quite," Gwyn said, suddenly growing tired of the sport. He had bigger fish to fry tonight. "Job well done, Corporal. I'll make sure to circulate a note regarding it tomorrow, might help your officers see you in a better light. Dismissed."

The corporal threw a parade-ground salute at Gwyn, then wheeled about and marched away, forcing several elfkynan to scramble out of his path.

Gwyn raised his cup to his lips but stopped short of drinking, considering how he might use this latest incident to his advantage. The mind of the masses was a simple thing to manipulate. Play to their beliefs, invoke their various gods and deities, then vanquish their foes, real or imagined, and claim righteous benediction from said god or spirit and reap the rewards.

"It's all too easy, isn't it?" he said out loud. The table shimmered in the lanterns' glow in reply. He brought the cup to his lips and stopped in horror. Bits of gore from the haversack floated in the tea. A sly one. He might have a use for this elf yet. He was debating whether to have him called back when the sound of boots echoed off the ruined walls of the palace.

"Ah, the popinjay has a new roost. Interesting aroma, Viceroy," the Duke of Rakestraw said, striding into the light.

Red hair fluttered around his head like ribbons of blood, framing a face so scarred that it was difficult to pick out the line of his mouth unless it was open. A heavy, curved cavalry saber, known by friend and foe alike as Wolf's Tooth, hung from a sabertache slung down over one enormous shoulder and was of no more cumbrance to the duke than fleas on a dog.

Dull silver spurs sparked against the stones as the Duke quickly crossed the floor, his black riding boots flashing as only polished leather cavalry boots could. His pale-blue surcoat was open at his midsection, revealing a black sash wound around his stomach-Rogolth's Banner. The gall, Gwyn fumed, to wear a fallen orc king's personal standard. Did Rakestraw think showing off the spoils of one of his cavalry's murderous rampages would influence the events of the evening?

"My dear Duke, how good of you to make an appearance," Gwyn said, releasing his grasp on the cup and giving the soldier a measured wave.

The Duke smiled, a jagged crease across his face that looked as vicious as the blue eyes that glared back at Gwyn.

"I haven't all night, Viceroy," he said, walking a complete circuit around the rubble-strewn throne room before choosing a chair directly opposite Gwyn. He sat down with a thump, then rested his boots on the edge of the table.

Gwyn grabbed for the cup and succeeded in spilling more on the table, ruining the effect of the light across the dragon's maw.

"The days of quietude in the Empire are at an end, I'm afraid," Gwyn began, motioning at an adjutant to clean the table again. "Her Majesty's long and benevolent reign over the masses is being challenged. It falls to us to stop it."

The Duke flashed a ragged smile. "Her reign, or the challenge to it?"

"Very droll, my lord Duke, but I do not find this the least bit amusing. I came to Elfkyna expecting to find order, and instead am shocked to find chaos." He decided not to mention the rakke.

"Chaos?" the Duke asked, his voice rising. "The only chaos I know of was the riot you caused in the bazaar this afternoon. Fifteen dead. What are you playing at, Viceroy?"

Gwyn spread his arms wide. "I assure you, this is no game. Rebelliousness is spreading like a plague, and I have begun what you and the rest of the Imperial Army have been unable to do. The natives will learn to stay in line, or suffer the consequences."

The Duke's head was already shaking before Gwyn finished. "You think slaughtering a bunch of civilians is going to cow them? All you've done is stirred things up. I'm already hearing about unrest across the city. When news of this reaches the northern tribes, they're bound to react."

"They already have, weeks ago as it turns out. My information indicates an army from the northern tribes has moved down the Shalpurud River and begun building a series of small outposts. These forces are disrupting our trade routes and making it difficult to take out material to the coast."

The Duke huffed. "Your information comes from my scouts. This army is more mob than anything else. They hardly pose a real threat to the Empire."

Gwyn allowed the smallest of sighs to escape his lips. "That is why diplomacy is best left to those who understand the finer points of things."

The Duke motioned as if to leave and Gwyn hurriedly continued.

"The Imperial Weekly Herald is reporting that all foreign powers should leave Elfkyna. That is nothing less than a call to arms against the Empire."

"Over a period of fifty years! Frankly, I think they're a bit timid about it all."

Gwyn couldn't believe anyone could be this obtuse. "The elfkyna are not at all capable of self-government. Not now, not fifty years from now, not ever. I've studied their history. Tribal warfare racked this land for centuries. Only under the benevolent rule of this Empire has peace and stability existed long enough for real progress to be made, and this talk of rebellion threatens it all." A part of Gwyn listened rapturously to his own performance, marveling at his skill.

"The only talk of rebellion appears to be coming from you," the Duke said, his eyes drilling holes into Gwyn.

Gwyn sat up a little straighter. The Duke was perhaps not as obtuse as he had first suspected. "I don't think you appreciate the severity of this." He motioned to another adjutant. The elfkynan stepped forward carrying a long, leather tube which he upended on the table. A beautifully tanned sheepskin hide slid out, which the adjutant carefully unrolled.

"Fortresses have sprouted up along the river," Gwyn began, standing to better point to the map, "here, here, and here. Worse, my spies report that elfkynan rebels have occupied the fortress Taga Nor and are rebuilding its walls. Truly, the situation is grave."

The Duke leaned forward slightly to get a better look at the multihued sheepskin and snorted loudly.

Peasant, Gwyn thought, staring lovingly at the map.

The entire Calahrian Empire was laid out like a jeweler's wares. Strips of real gold foil delineated the outer boundaries of the territory controlled by the Empire, while beaten silver represented the major rivers. Mountain ranges made of crushed rubies gleamed and Celwyn, the Calahrian capital, sparkled with all four carats of a rare obsidian diamond.

"You could feed a village for a year with the baubles on this thing," the Duke murmured.

"Whatever for?" Gwyn asked. Diplomacy was art, something the Duke clearly didn't understand. Monarchs had broken down and wept as they looked at the map and realized the wealth and power arrayed against them. Often it was enough to offer the map as a gift, making sure that a particularly impressive jewel, though never as large as the one representing Celwyn, was placed on the capital of the ruler in question. Her Majesty wishes to assuage any concerns you have that your voice will not be heard within the Imperial Empire. You can see the importance She gives to your voice…

The map was oriented so that Celwyn was perfectly centered, the seat of power around which the world turned. That it was in reality several thousand miles north of the equator had been easily fixed by the royal cartographers.

"Pretty. Can I get one of those for my daughter? She's turning five next month," the Duke remarked.

"It's no laughing matter," Gwyn continued, scanning the faces of the elfkynan. If even one of them smiled …"The Empire is facing a significant threat."

"I'm still waiting for the part where you tell me why I'm here," the Duke said. He began tapping the table with his boots, dislodging bits of material that Gwyn chose to believe were mud.

Gwyn motioned for his retainers to leave and the elfkynan quietly exited the ruined throne room, leaving him alone with the Duke.

"Tell me, how is your land these days?"

The Duke said nothing, but his eyes flashed bluer than any gem on the map.

"I've heard stories of pastures lying fallow and a disease infecting the herds," Gwyn continued, careful to keep the smugness out of his voice. "A most disconcerting event for Her Majesty's primary supplier of fine horses, is it not?"

"It's nothing," the Duke said through clenched teeth.

"Really?" Gwyn asked, with what he knew sounded like genuine empathy. He'd certainly practiced the tone enough. "I was concerned that so many sick and dying horses would unduly affect your fortunes. Still, rumor has it Her Majesty has been forced to seek mounts for her cavalry units from more far-flung parts of the Empire. I shudder to think what that would mean should the trend continue. What a terrible shame it would be to have to sell off Greendale Manor," Gwyn said, knowing damn well the Duke had put the manor and most of his land up as collateral to borrow against his losses.

The Duke's right hand slid slowly across his body until his hand rested on the pommel of Wolf's Tooth. Gwyn judged his distance. He was well within the arc of that vicious blade. He pressed on quickly.

"Strange days. I only mention it because I've received reports that a magnificent herd of horses roams the plains to the west, near Linma," he said, pointing at a sparkling sapphire on the map. "Hundreds, perhaps thousands of fine specimens. True, they aren't the royal stock of your purebloods, but then again, they aren't dying either. Quite a windfall for the man who captures them. Enough to pay off one's debts, I would think? With a bit left over for sport."

The Duke's hand remained on the pommel.

"Go on," the Duke said, clearly unconvinced.

"The orcs, as always, are proving troublesome. If you were to mount an expedition and head west, really just a show of force, the sort you used against the former orc king, I think we could secure that border for the foreseeable future. And while you're in the area…"

Gwyn slowed his breathing and waited. It was pitiful, really, to watch the Duke struggle with his sense of honor. Rakestraw's family fortune was gone, pilfered away while he was out galloping at everything. Less time in the saddle and more with an accounting ledger would have served the man well, but he was too much the adventurer, and for that he would pay. Only the constant sales from the Duke's stables had kept the gold flowing in, but now, with disease decimating his herds, there was nothing.

"The orcs?" The Duke laughed, shaking his head. "Someone's having you on. Those hairy buggers have kept their heads down for the last ten years."

This was not going the way the Viceroy had planned.

Gwyn reached down beside him and picked up the haversack, holding it out for the Duke.

The Duke leaned forward to have a look inside, then jerked backward, his hand clutching at the pommel of his sword.

"Where did that come from? Those things are dead."

Gwyn smiled pleasantly. Now this was more like it. "I see nothing gets by you. Yes, it is dead, now, but it appears the orcs have been playing with magic best left alone."

The Duke slowly released his grip on his sword, never taking his eyes off the haversack. "Orcs? You're wrong. That's the work of that elf-witch."

Gwyn nodded solemnly, sliding his argument along this new line of thought. "I can see you understand things perfectly. You are right, of course, it is Her work, and my informants tell me the orcs have struck a deal with Her. Reports are coming in of more of these things to the west, near the orc border. Would you rather hunt them here, or wait until they are roaming the fields of Greendale Manor?" Gwyn put the haversack back down. Things were once again as they should be; the Duke was off guard.

The Duke warily looked back at Gwyn, as if trusting him were the most dangerous thing he could ever do.

"The orcs in league with Her? Are you sure?"

Gwyn pointed casually to the black banner around the Duke's midriff. "The Empire has long thwarted their expansionist aims. Why, you yourself decapitated their King and routed their army with but a handful of cavalry. A truly heroic deed that saved Elfkyna from being overrun years ago, but one that served to box the orcs in. Clearly, they have not forgotten."

"Have you spoken to the elves of the Long Watch about it? Word should be sent to them at once," the Duke said, but his voice was quieter now.

Gwyn rolled his eyes. "Really, I have better things to do than bandy words with skittish elves who see dark intent behind every squirrel that burrows into a tree. I assure you, my dear Duke, the creatures are here. I had rather hoped the solution would be found here, too."

"What of these rebels to the east?" the Duke asked, so obviously stalling that Gwyn had to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep from smiling. "If I'm off to the west, what then?"

Gwyn nodded solemnly and clasped his hands together. It was like toying with a child. "Rest assured they will be dealt with. In the meantime, the orcs and their terrible conjuring must be stopped, and who better than you and your gallant men to do it?"

"How terribly bloody convenient," the Duke growled, looking down at the map again. "I don't trust you, Viceroy."

Gwyn waved his hand. "Be that as it may, your orders are clear, and the benefits of following them far outweigh the costs of disobeying them, wouldn't you say? Now, I suggest you prepare to depart with all due haste. Good evening."

The Duke rose slowly from his chair and stood for a moment looking down at the table. When he raised his head to look at Gwyn, the Viceroy took a step back before catching himself. The man was smiling, a grin so wide and so fierce that as the Duke turned and walked through the circle of light and was swallowed up by the darkness, Gwyn wondered if it was possible he might have underestimated the warrior.

"You're in my palace."

Years of training were still not enough to keep the Viceroy from jumping. He shivered in spite of the heat. A writhing mass of shadows stood just outside the circle of lanterns not an arm's length from where the Duke had just passed. Frost sparkled on the edges of the table.

The Viceroy regained his composure, forcing a slow, deep breath through his nose before he spoke. He repeated the Calahrian diplomatic mantra in his mind. When negotiating, you don't represent the Empire, you are the Empire.

"Your statement lacks factual corroboration. This palace, such as it is, is property of Her Majesty the Queen of Calahr. Now, if you'd care to lodge a formal-"

"Fool! You would test Her Emissary thus? I once served your Queen, but now I serve a true monarch."

The voice sounded like tearing sheets of iron. The shadows that made up its form moved into the light, scraping over the stone like glacier over rock. Gwyn expected to see a body, but there was only the seething blackness in the shape of the former Viceroy.

"Of course…Emissary," Gwyn said, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. "My apologies. I was under the impression that you were underground, as it were."

The shadows grew blacker for a moment and the temperature in the throne room dropped.

"She has brought me back to serve Her. You will serve Her, too."

A shadow snaked toward Gwyn, a brilliant red light shining where the palm of a hand would have been.

Gwyn leaned forward. "A red star? The red star, the Eastern Star? You've discovered it?"

The light vanished. "Not yet, but it has returned, and they dig for it even now. Serve Her, and your reward will be power beyond measure."

Every syllable was like an ice pick in Gwyn's flesh. He allowed his eyes to stray away from the shadow, unable to keep it in proper focus. He waited for the threat, but when none was forthcoming, he realized it had no reason to articulate the obvious. Not serving Her had only one consequence, and it would be swift.

"What is it She requires?" The question itself wasn't treasonous. Gwyn needed power in order to move the Empire in the proper direction. If trading one monarch for another furthered that aim, then it was his duty to obey.

"Keep your forces away from Luuguth Jor."

Gwyn feigned shock. "But word of revolt in the east is spreading. Her Majesty will expect me to send men at once to put it down."

The shadows writhed faster, a black blur sucking the very warmth from the air. "You must not. They need time to grow, and to dig."

Gwyn struck his most regal pose and turned to look straight at the shadow. "Her power, it seems, is not as strong as I was led to believe. I could divert the Imperial Army, for a time, but I take a great risk in doing so. I begin to wonder…why should I bother?"

There was a sudden gust of wind and the lanterns flared and went out, shuttering the throne room in darkness. Gwyn took a step back and was stopped by something terribly cold and heavy standing behind him. He couldn't move, and he didn't know if it was the will of Her Emissary or abject terror that kept him rooted to the spot. Breath flowed down on his shoulder and neck as if straight from the frigid peak of a mountain, Her mountain. And then a voice was in his ear, each word a crystal sliver.

"Because dying is only the beginning."

The lanterns flared again. Gwyn was alone.

It was a long time before he called for his retainers, long enough for his heart to start beating again at a dignified, controlled pace, and the wetness in his trousers to dry.