Destiny: Child of the Sky

13

The line of carriages outside the rosy brown gates of Haguefort stretched for as far as the eye could see. A great convergence of wagons choked the entrance to Haguefort, squeezing in between the two slender bell towers that marked the beginning of Stephen Navarne’s lands, slowing the coaches to a crawl.

The holy man sighed inwardly and sipped his cordial. Patience, he reminded himself, glancing out the carriage window at the billowing banners of colored silk that adorned the bell towers, flapping merrily in the icy breeze. His constant admonition to his inner demonic voice, wheedling and restless.

Patience.

He had chosen to remain in his wheeled coach, rather than switch to one of the sleighs proffered at the eastern border of Navarne by the duke’s servants, under the theory that Stephen’s well-maintained roads and thoroughfares would provide swifter passage to Haguefort than the thin snowpack crusting the fields and rolling hills. He had misjudged the temperature, which had remained warm through a full day of intense snowfall followed by rain, and then dropped overnight, freezing the fields of the province into a sheet of glare ice that would have been well suited to a horse-drawn glider.

Now he was caught amid a great mass of carriages, wagons, and foot traffic. The braying of animals being brought to the carnival along with the clamor of human voices raised in excitement was enough to make him gulp his brandy in the hope that it would drown out the cacophony of merriment all around him. Patience.

Soon all things would be set in motion. Soon his wait would be over.

Soon his patience would be rewarded.

Stephen Navarne squinted in the sun, then shielded his eyes and followed the outstretched finger of Quentin Baldasarre, the Duke of Bethe Corbair. Baldasarre was pointing from where they stood at the hillside height of the castle gates down the vast lines of sight to the road below.

“There! I think I see Tristan’s coach—it’s logjammed in the middle there, right between your two bell towers out front,” Quentin said, dropping his arm when Stephen nodded in agreement. “Poor bastard—I’ll wager he’s trapped in there with Madeleine.”

“Gods. Poor Tristan,” said Dunstin Baldasarre, Quentin’s younger brother.

Stephen suppressed a smile. “Shame on you both. Isn’t Madeleine your cousin?”

Dunstin sighed comically. “Too true, I’m afraid to say,” he said, shielding his face in feigned shame. “But please, gentle lord, do not judge our family too harshly for producing her. No one save the All-God is perfect.”

“Though some of us are less so than others,” said Quentin, draining his mug of spiced rum.

The carriages were discharging their passengers slowly now to keep them from being trampled by the wagons of townsfolk. Stephen motioned to Gerald Owen, his chamberlain.

“Owen, send the third regiment to see if they can direct some of the wagon traffic to the forest road and through the western gates,” he said. He waited until Owen had nodded his understanding and departed, then turned to the Baldasarre brothers.

“If Tristan has his way, one day Madeleine will be our queen,” he said seriously. “Perhaps it is best not to joke so much at her expense.”

“My, we’re a grumpy old sod today, Navarne,” said Dunstin thickly. “You apparently haven’t had enough of this lovely mulled wine.”

“That’s because you finished off a legion’s worth all by your rotten self and there’s none left for another living soul,” Quentin retorted before Stephen could say anything. “Next time perhaps we should just fill a trough with it and let you guzzle with your snout in the trench. Souse.”

“Well, Cedric is here, at last,” said Stephen hastily as Dunstin gave Quentin an angry shove. “His carriage is unloading now, along with the ale wagons of the count.”

“Huzzah!” bellowed Dunstin. “Can you see which one is Andrew’s?”

Stephen looked into the sun again and spied a tall young man, lean and darkly bearded, directing a quartet of wagons loaded with wooden barrels. “The one in the front, taking to the forest road now—there, can you see him?” He waved to the man, and received a quick wave in return. Lord Stephen smiled.

Cedric Canderre, the Baldasarres’ uncle and father of Madeleine Canderre, the Lord Roland’s intended, was duke and regent of the province that bore his name. Though his lands were not as politically powerful as most of the other provinces, Cedric’s arrival was always anticipated greatly at the winter carnival.

The reason for this was twofold. First, Cedric Canderre was a merrymaker of great reputation, a portly, jolly man with an appetite for all of the finer things in life and the excesses they could lead to. When Madeleine’s mother was alive, some of those appetites had been a source of great consternation and occasional embarrassment to the family. Her untimely death had left the door open for Cedric to delight in his indulgences, and he did so now with a vigor that was enjoyable to be around, especially at a festival.

The second, and probably more pressing, reason was the bounty of his province that came with him in the wagons. Canderre was a realm that produced luxury items, amenities that were known throughout the world for their unsurpassed quality, in particular various types of alcohol, wines, cordials, brandies, and other distillations. Cedric’s merchants charged high prices for these goods, and paid no tariffs to his interprovincial trading partners, so the free distribution of these rare and pricey treasures at Stephen’s carnival was always anticipated with great excitement.

Sir Andrew Canderre, the Viscount of Paige, the northeastern region of Canderre that lay at the borders of Yarim and the Hintervold, was Cedric’s eldest son and primary councilor, and a good friend of Stephen Navarne.

Count Andrew was the diametric opposite of his father; where Cedric was stout and moved with a portly man’s gait, Andrew was lean and nimble, often working long hours beside the merchants and carters of his province. He was also known to participate in the manual labor that sustained his holdings; the stables and barns of the nobleman were legendary for their cleanliness. Where Cedric was self-indulgent, humorous, and quick-tempered, Andrew was wry, generous, and patient. Between them the House of Canderre was well regarded, in Roland, across the sea, and around much of the sea-trading world. Stephen shielded his eyes again as his smile broadened; Sir Andrew was making his way toward them, having arranged his caravan’s passage through the keep’s gates.

“Looks to be another good one, Stephen,” he said, extending his hand. “Well met, Andrew,” Lord Stephen answered, shaking it. “Well, there he is, the Ale Count, the Baron of the Brewery, the Lord of Libations,” slurred Dunstin, extending a tankard to him. “Impeccable timing, as always, Sir Andrew. You’re just in time to spare us from this inferior swill of Stephen’s. Have a swig and you’ll see what I mean.”

“As always, a pleasure to see you as well, Dunstin,” said Sir Andrew dryly. “Quentin.”

“Andrew, you’re looking well; good winter to you,” said Quentin. “How’s your intended, Lady Jecelyn of Bethe Corbair?”

“Good health to you, sir, and may next year’s solstice find you the same,” replied Andrew. “Jecelyn is well, thank you. Stephen, may I impose on your time for a moment? I want to make certain the carters deliver the casks to where you want them.”

“Of course. Gentlemen, please excuse us.” Stephen bowed politely to the Baldasarre brothers, took Andrew’s elbow, and led him down the path to the buttery of the keep where the forest road entered.

“Thank you,” he said to Andrew as soon as they were out of earshot. “My pleasure.”

, the Invoker of the Filids, smiled as he watched the Patriarch’s benisons exit their carriages to the lilting strains of Stephen’s court orchestra carried on the wind. The various Blessers had arrived as much as five hours apart, yet some had remained in their carriages all that time in order to ensure that they made a proper entrance. Word from Sepulvarta had indicated that the Patriarch was in his last days, and rumors were flying hot and fierce among the nobility and the clergy alike as to who the successor would be.

The first to leave his carriage was Ian Steward, brother of Tristan Steward, the Lord Roland. He was the Blesser of the provinces of Canderre and Yarim, though his basilica, Vrackna, the ringed temple of elemental fire, was located in the province of Bethany. Bethany, the capital seat, sent some of its faithful to worship in the basilica of the Star, Lianta’ar, the Patriarch’s own basilica in the holy city-state of Sepulvarta.

Despite Tristan’s influence, it was unlikely in Llauron’s opinion that the Patriarch would choose Ian as his successor. While a likable man of seemingly good heart, Ian Steward was fairly young and inexperienced to be given such a tremendous responsibility. Still, he might be the Patriarch’s choice just for that youth. Several of the other benisons were almost as old as the Patriarch, and would bring an inescapable instability when they themselves passed on to their rewards in the Afterlife a few years hence.

Two of the best examples of this problem were the next to disembark, and they did so together, leaning on each other for support. Lanacan Orlando, the heartier of the two, was the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, and held services in his city beneath the holy bell tower in the beautiful basilica of Ryles Cedelian, the cathedral dedicated to the wind. Quiet and unassuming, Lanacan was known as a talented healer, perhaps as talented as Khaddyr, but he was nervous around crowds and not particularly charismatic. Llauron did not judge him to be a likely successor, either, and was fairly certain that Lanacan would be relieved to see himself off the list as well.

Colin Abernathy, the Blesser of the Nonaligned States, to the south, who leaned on Lanacan as they made their way across the icy path, was older and frailer than his friend, but more politically powerful. He had no basilica in which to hold services, a fact that often occurred to Llauron as he ruminated on who the host of the F’dor might be. A demonic spirit would not be able to stand in a place of blessed ground, and each of the basilicas were the holiest of blessed ground. The five elements themselves consecrated the ground on which they were built. Even a F’dor of tremendous power should not be able to stand in such a place.

But Colin Abernathy didn’t have to. His services were held in an enormous arena, an unblessed basilica, where he tended a congregation of many diverse groups of followers—Lirin from the plains, Sorbold citizens too far from their own cathedral to make the pilgrimage, seafarers in the fishing villages ever farther south, and a general population of malcontents.

Abernathy had been the second choice to succeed the last Patriarch, losing out to the current one, and so was long known to grumble about the leadership of the church. If he was the F’dor’s host, he would be looking around to find a younger host body soon, Llauron knew. But the Invoker was more inclined to believe that the beast clung not to a member of the clergy, but to one of the provincial leaders, which opened the possibility of it even being his dear friend Stephen Navarne.

The fourth benison chose a moment of great fanfare to disembark from his carriage. Philabet Griswold, the Blesser of Avonderre-Navarne, who held sway over the great water basilica Abbat Mythlinis, was younger than either of the two elderly benisons, while still old enough to claim the wisdom of advanced years. He was pompous and self-important; Llauron found his arrogance alternately infuriating and amusing. Griswold had made no secret of his desire to be Patriarch, and had waited until the holy anthem of Sepulvarta was being played to alight from his carriage. His timing was impeccable; it seemed as if the anthem were playing in his honor.

The dark face of Nielash Mousa, the Blesser of Sorbold, resembled a thundercloud as he stepped out of his coach a moment behind Griswold. Their rivalry for the Patriarchy, long kept secret for political purposes, was now all but an open contest for the clerical throne of Sepulvarta. Mousa had come up from his arid land, braving the snow and bad traveling conditions for the opportunity to gain exposure at the winter carnival. His basilica was the only one of the five elemental cathedrals not within the territory of Roland; Terreanfor, the temple of earth, lay deep within the southern Teeth in Sorbold, hidden within the Night Mountain. His candidacy for the Patriarchy was an uphill battle, and Llauron knew it. The contest between Mousa and Griswold was shaping up to be a bloody one.

“Ah, Your Grace, I see you’ve arrived safely! Welcome!” Stephen’s voice carried tones of genuine pleasure, and Llauron turned, smiling, to greet the young duke.

“Good solstice, my son,” he said, clasping Stephen’s hand. He surveyed the festival grounds, with their bright pageantry set against the pristine field of virgin snow under a clear blue sky. “It looks to be a marvelous fête, as always. What is the official snow sculpture this year?”

“They’ve done a scale model of the Judiciary of Yarim, Your Grace.” Llauron nodded approvingly. “A beautiful building, to be certain. I shall be fascinated to see how they managed to make the snow hold up in minarets.”

“May I offer you a brandy? Count Andrew Canderre has brought a fine supply, and a special cask in particular.” Stephen held out a silver snifter. “I saved you some of the reserve.”

The Invoker’s face lit up, and he took the brandy happily. “Bless him, and you, my son. Nothing like a little warmth in the depth of winter.”

“I see your chiefs are here as well; very good,” said Stephen, waving to Khaddyr as the healer came into sight from behind the white guest tents. “Is it possible that I actually see Gavin among them?”

Llauron laughed. “Yes, indeed, the planets must be aligned this solstice, and Gavin’s schedule allows him to be here; amazing, isn’t it?”

“Indeed! There he is, behind Lark. And Ilyana, there with Brother Aldo. I’m so glad you all could make it.”

Llauron leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially into Stephen’s ear. “Well, the place is crawling with benisons. I had to bring all the Filidic leaders just to prevent a possible mass conversion away from the True Faith.”

Tristan Steward extended his hand to his fiancee and assisted her gently down from their carriage, struggling to keep from losing control and tossing her, face-first, into the deepest snowbank he could find.

I’ve died, and the Underworld looks exactly like this one, only I am doomed to spend Eternity in the constant presence of this soul-sucking witch, he thought wearily. What damnable evils could I have possibly committed to deserve this? He had learned a new skill, the skill of half-listening, on the trip from Bethany to Stephen’s keep, and since Madeleine’s endless nattering had shown no sign of abating, even as she descended the steps of the coach, he employed it now.

He glanced about the ground of Haguefort and the fields beyond, glistening in the fair light of midmorning. Nature and Stephen had done well by each other. Sparkling jewels of ice, left over from the storm of the previous night, adorned the branches of the trees that lined the pathways of the keep, frosted with cottony clouds of fresh snow. Stephen, in turn, had decorated Haguefort’s twin guardian bell towers with shining white and silver banners proclaiming the symbol of his House, and had dressed the tall lampposts that were carefully placed throughout the keep’s courtyard and walkways with long spirals of white ribbons, which spun slowly like sedate maypoles in the stiff breeze. The effect was enchanting.

In the distance the fields had been groomed for the sleigh races and other contests of wintersport, with large tents erected to house the cookfires and the thousands of common folk from outside the province. Bright banners in every color of the rainbow adorned the rolling fields down to the newly built wall that his cousin hoped would offer protection to his lands and subjects. Tristan could see the enormous bonfire pit being stocked with dry brush for the celebratory blaze that would take place on the last evening, a conflagration for which the festival’s host was famous.

The bite of the fresh winter wind stung his nose, and he caught the scent of hickory chips burning. It was a smell that reminded him of childhood, and the festivals of Stephen’s father. As boys he and his cousin and their friends, Andrew Canderre, the Baldasarre brothers, Gwydion of Manosse, dead twenty years now, and a host of others had looked forward to the solstice each year with an excitement unmatched by any other event. His eyes burned with the poignant memory.

More painful than any other in their sweetness were the memories of Prudence. His childhood friend, his first lover, a laughing peasant girl with strawberry curls and a wicked sense of humor, his confessor, his conscience. In the days of his youth she was part of the Wolf Pack, as he and his friends were called, participating with them in the sled races and the tugs-of-war, the pie eatings and the snow battles. Matching them, besting them. Stealing the hearts of his mates. Prudence. How he had loved her then, with a young boy’s innocence blossoming into something deeper.

-

Tristan’s throat caught as he and Madeleine passed Haguefort’s main portico, the place where in those days Prudence had waited for him at night to slip away from his family’s guest rooms within the keep, where the nobility stayed. He could always spy her from the balcony, a glint of shining red-blond curls in the torchlight, waiting for him, and him alone. Even years later, when the dukedom passed to him, and she was his servant, she still awaited him in the portico, watching furtively, giggling madly when he finally slipped away to her, finding a hiding place to make secret love among the thousands of drunken revelers, celebrating their youth, their bond, their lives.

How he loved her still. Her brutal death at the hands of the Bolg had taken the joy out of him, joy he had never realized really always belonged to Prudence, that he was merely borrowing. Without her his days were filled with melancholy and guilt, because it was his own selfishness that had brought about her death. He had sent her into the jaws of the monsters, and she had never returned.

None of his friends and fellow dukes, not even Stephen, believed that her murder was the work of the Bolg, no matter how hard he had tried to convince them. But that will be over soon, he thought grimly. Soon the arguments would end.

“Tristan?”

He blinked, and forced a smile as he looked down into Madeleine’s unpleasantly angular face.

“Yes, dearest?”

His fiancee exhaled in annoyance. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have you?”

Rotely Tristan lifted her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Darling, I’ve been hanging on your every word.”

Q) or all that the elite and influential of Roland utilized Stephen’s festival to make public shows and secret bargains, it was the common folk for whom it was actually held. Winter was a harsh and difficult time in most of Roland, a season in which the average citizen withdrew into his dwelling, having battened it down as much as possible, and struggled to survive the bitter months. The carnival gave them an opportunity to celebrate the season before winter gave them reason to rue it, as it did every year.

Stephen counted on the annual pattern of weather to allow the carnival to take place at the mildest part of early winter, and with one exception in twenty years, he had been successful. His friendship with the Invoker of the Filids, the religious order that worshiped nature, granted him access to their information about upcoming storms and thaws, freezing winds and snowfalls, so their impressive ability to predict the weather ensured a successful event. Indeed, it was commonly believed that the Filidic order not only studied and predicted the weather, but had it in their power to control it as well, especially the Invoker. If that was the case, they exercised a good deal of largesse on Stephen’s behalf, judging by the consistently fine weather his solstice festival enjoyed.

The first two days of the festival were marked by the pageantry of it, with games and races, contests and performances, dancing and merrymaking fueled by excesses of fine food and drink.

The third and final day was the religious observance of the solstice, with ceremonies in both canons. It was here that the religious posturing went on, Filid against Patrician, all very subtle, and worse since the Patriarch had begun to decline. In years when the Invoker predicted a storm or harsh weather before the solstice and better weather following it, the order of events at the carnival was switched, and the religious observances were held first, with the festival in the two days following. When this occurred the carnival was invariably spoiled, so Stephen was pleased that the weather had cooperated this year, allowing the festivities to happen first.

Now he sat on the reviewing platform with Tristan, Madeleine, and the religious leaders, who were all talking among themselves, watching the various races and games, occasionally joining in one himself.

His son, Gwydion Navarne, had proven adept at Snow Snakes, a contest where long smooth sticks were launched through icy channels hollowed out in the snow. Stephen had abandoned royal protocol and had danced excitedly at the fringes of the competition, hooting and cheering Gwydion through the semifinals and consoling him at his loss in the end. The boy had not really needed any consolation; he had broken into a sincere smile at the announcement of the winner, a redheaded farm lad named Scoutin, and extended a gracious hand of congratulations.

As the lads shook, it was all Stephen could do to hold back tears of pride and loss. How like Gwydion of Manosse and me they look, he thought, thinking back to his childhood friend, Llauron’s only son. He glanced behind him at the Invoker, who must have been sharing the thought by the smile and nod that he gave Stephen.

He was now anxiously awaiting the outcome of Melisande’s race, a comical contest where small sleds, on which a fat sheep was placed, were tied to the participants’ waists with a rope. The object of the race required both child and sheep to make it across the finish line together, but this afternoon the sheep had other plans. Melly’s merry giggle was unmistakable; it wafted over his head on the steamy air as she toppled into the snow yet again, then set off back toward the starting gate, chasing a bleating ewe.

She came reluctantly into her father’s arms and was swathed in a rough wool blanket handed to him by Rosella, her governess.

“Father, please! I’m not cold, and we’re going to miss the making of the snow candy!”

“Snow candy?” Tristan asked, smiling. “That brings back memories, Navarne.” Madeleine raised an eyebrow, and the Lord Roland turned her way. “You must try some, darling, it’s marvelous. The cooks heat enormous vats of caramel sugar to boiling, then drizzle it in squiggles onto the snow where it hardens in the cold; then they dip it in chocolate and almond cream. It becomes quite the melee to see who can get some of the first batch.”

“On the snow?” Madeleine asked in horror.

“Not on the ground, m’lady,” said Stephen quickly, tousling Melisande’s hair in the attempt to shake the look of surprise at Madeleine’s reaction from her face. “Clean snow is gathered and laid out on large cooking boards.”

“Nonetheless, it sounds repulsive,” Madeleine said.

Stephen rose as Tristan looked away and sighed.

“Come along, Melly. If we hurry we might get some of the first batch.” He tried to avoid Tristan’s face; he couldn’t help but notice that his cousin wore the look of a man who had lost the whole world.

On this, the feast of the longest night of the year, darkness came early, and none too soon. As the light left the sky the merrymakers and revelers moved on to the celebratory dining, an event in and of itself.

Rosella stood in the shadow of the cook tent, watching the festivities with delight. Melisande and Gwydion were chasing around beside their father near the open-air pit where four oxen were roasting over the gleaming coals, filling the frosty air with merry laughter and joyful shrieking. While the children were in his company the duke had dismissed her from her duties, suggesting she take in some of the glorious sights of the festival. She had obeyed. Standing hidden, she was observing the glorious sight that most delighted her heart.

From the day four years ago when she had been brought to Haguefort in her late teens to tend to the children of the recently widowed duke, Rosella had been enamored of Lord Stephen. Unlike Lord MacAlwaen, the baron to whom her father had originally indentured her, Lord Stephen was kind and considerate, and treated her like a member of his family rather than as the servant that she was. He was distantly pleasant at first; his young wife, the Lady Lydia Navarne, had been brutally murdered a few weeks before, and Lord Stephen wandered around for a long time in a daze, tending to the responsibilities of his duchy and family with the efficiency of one whose mind is engaged but whose soul is elsewhere.

As time passed, the duke became more alive, as if waking from a long sleep, spurred mostly by the need to be an effective father to his motherless children. Rosella’s fondness for him continued to grow as she witnessed his affectionate ministrations to Melisande and Gwydion, whom she loved as if they were her own. Her daydreams were filled with the silly romantic impossibilities of class warfare, of the unspannable chasm between lord and servant crumbling away, leaving a shining bridge between their two lives. The fact that Lord Stephen was oblivious of her feelings allowed her the freedom to imagine as she would, free of the guilt that a different reality might bring.

“Good solstice, my child.”

Rosella started and backed into the fluttering fabric of the cook tent at the sound of the sonorous voice. The rich scent of roasting meat filled her nose, along with a sour hint of burning flesh in fire.

“Good solstice, Your Grace.” Her heart pounded desperately against her ribs. She had not seen the religious leader step out of the firepit’s shadows. It was almost as if he had been part of the dancing flames the moment before he had made himself known to her.

Lord Stephen’s close ties to the religious leaders of both faiths, the Patriarchal canon and that of the Filids, had made the presence of holy men common around the keep. Rosella, raised from childhood as a Partriarchal adherent, was equally uncomfortable around both types of clergymen.

The holy man smiled, and put out his hand. Almost as if her hand had its own will, she felt her palm rotate upward and her fingers open slowly. She could not tear her gaze away from the glistening eyes that reflected the flames of the cookfire.

A tiny bag of soft cloth was dropped into her open palm.

“I assume you know what to do with this, my child.”

Rosella didn’t, but her mouth answered for her.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The holy man’s eyes gleamed red in the firelight. “Good, good. May your winter be blessed and healthy; may spring find you the same.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Rosella?”

Rosella looked down to see Melisande tugging impatiently at her skirt. She glanced toward the roasting oxen where the duke of Navarne and his son were watching her quizzically.

“Come, Rosella, come! The ox is ready to be carved, and Father said to invite you to sup with us!”

Rosella nodded dumbly, then turned back to where the holy man had stood, but he was gone.

The campfires crackled in the darkness, sending tendrils of smoke skyward, mixed with the raucous sounds of drunken singing and merry laughter echoing across the frosty fields of Haguefort. The noise of celebration, wild and chaotic; it scratched against Tristan Steward’s eardrums like a nail. He shook his head, leaned back against the cold wall of the dark portico in which he was sitting, and took another swig from the bottle of reserve port Cedric Canderre had slipped to him after the singing competition that evening.

Once the orgiastic sounds of the winter festival had been sweet music to his ears. There was a sense of sheer abandon that filled the air during the solstice, a heady, reckless excitement that stirred his blood. Now, without Prudence there to share the thrill, the passion of it, it was nothing but cacophony. He was drinking the port in great gulping swigs, hoping to drown out the din, or at least reduce it to a dull roar.

More than the noise of celebration, he was trying to silence the voice in his head. Tristan had long been unable to escape the whisper, or identify the one who had first spoken the words to him.

He vaguely recalled the day he first heard it. He thought it might have been after the awful meeting in summer when he had summoned all the Orlandan clergy and nobility together in the vain attempt to convince them to consolidate their armies and wreak vengeance on the Bolg, ostensibly for their attack on his guards, but in truth retaliation for Prudence’s brutal death. His fellow regents had thought him out of his mind, had refused unanimously

—to support him, even his cousin, Stephen Navarne, who was as close to a brother as Tristan had ever had.

It seemed to him that after that meeting someone had sought to console him—Stephen perhaps? No, he thought as he shook his head foggily. Not Stephen. Someone older, with kindly eyes that seemed to burn a bit at the edges. A holy man, he thought, but whether he was of Sepulvarta or Gwyn-wood Tristan had no idea. He struggled to make his mind bend around the image, to fill in the spaces around those disembodied eyes, but his brain refused to listen. He was left with nothing more than the same words, repeated over and over again whenever he was lost in silence.

You may be the one after all.

Tristan felt suddenly cold. It was a sensation he had remembered when he first heard the words, a chill that belied the warmth in the holy man’s eyes. He drew his greatcloak closer to him and shifted on the cold stone bench, trying to warm his chilling legs.

The one for what’? he had asked.

The one to return peace and security to Roland. The one to have the courage to put an end to the chaos that is the royal structure of this land and assume the throne. If you had dominion over all of Roland, not just Bethany, you would control all of the armies you sought in vain to bring together today. Your fellows, the dukes, can say no to the Lord Regent. They could not refuse the king. Your lineage is as worthy as any of the others, Tristan, more so than most.

Acid burned now in the back of his throat, as it had then, the bitter taste of humiliation, of rejection. Tristan took another swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I am not the one in need of convincing, Your Grace, he had replied sourly. In case this morning’s fiasco didn’t prove it, let me assure you that my fellow regents do not see the clarity of the succession scenario that you do.

The eyes had smiled. Leave that to me, m’lord. Your time will come. Just be certain that you are ready when it does. And m’lord?

Yes?

You will think about what I said, hmmm?

Tristan remembered nodding numbly. He had been true to his word; the voice had repeated itself endlessly in his mind, in his dreams, whenever he was alone or in silence.

They could not refuse the king.

Tristan took another blind swig, wiping the spillage off with the back of his greatcloak’s coarse sleeve.

In the distance a woman laughed; Tristan looked up dully from his inebriated reverie. He could see across the courtyard a pair of lovers running from pillar to post, hiding, laughing softly, crazily, shushing each other in tipsy merriment. The woman’s blond hair gleamed in the lamplight for a moment, then disappeared with them into the shadows.

Like a fever breaking, the voice fell silent as Tristan’s thoughts turned to his other obsession. He had been bitterly disappointed when Stephen told him that none of the invited guests from the Bolglands had come. The one respite from the torturous reality of having to spend the festival with Madeleine had been the knowledge that Rhapsody would be there, too. Heat flushed through him, tightening in his groin and spreading to his sweating palms, as he thought about her, leaving him almost sick with disappointment that he had been misinformed.

Whenever his thoughts turned to her, the voice fell silent. It was almost as if she had claimed his mind first, had set her imprint into his brain, staking it as her own. Whatever later spell had been cast upon him, forcing him to constantly consider the softly spoken words, had not been powerful enough to overturn his longings for her.

Slowly Tristan rose from the stone bench and stepped unsteadily out of the portico. Dawn would come soon, and with it the early festivities of the carnival’s second day. He left the empty bottle on the bench and hurried out of the chill night air into the smoky warmth of Stephen’s keep to his sleeping chambers.

The wind howled around him as he left.

Deep past the part of the night when any reveler still stood, two robed figures separately slipped out to the fields. Hooded, the elder waited at the edge of the huge shadows cast by the waning bonfires. Also hooded, the other man was forced into a vigorous walk, drawn to the meeting, a meeting of two holy men on a holy night for an unholy purpose.

Clouds flickered overhead, doubling the darkness where neither moon nor firelight shone. At the edge of Stephen Navarne’s territory the light from the distant fires cast long shadows over the snowy field, illuminating the woods. The eyes of the first cleric, the man who had stood waiting, reflected a similar light, with a hint of red at the rims. He waited patiently while the other man caught his breath.

“My words resonated with you, I see. Thank you for meeting me, Your Grace.”

The other man nodded.

“Until now you have not understood what you have been asked to do. You have merely followed the compulsion, hmm?”

The second man’s whisper was hoarse. “Yes.”

“But now, now you are ready to understand, aren’t you, Your Grace? Ready to participate in your own destiny? I am so pleased that you have decided to accept my offer. And you are doing so of your own free will? You understand what I am asking, and what I offer?”

“I believe I do, Your Grace.” The words were thick.

“Now, now, Your Grace, I meant no offense. I merely mean to ensure that you are aware of the power that awaits you, in this world and the Afterlife.”

“Yes.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

The reply was a whisper as well. “Unquestioned authority. Invulnerability. And Life unending.”

“Yes.”

“Good, good.” In the darkness the tiny blade glittered.

The second man swallowed heavily and pulled back the sleeve of his robe, his eyes shining as brightly as the blade.

“Just a drop to seal the bargain; then your position at the head of your order is secured.”

The second man nodded, trembling, but not from the cold. The thin, needle-like blade punctured the skin of his forearm swiftly, causing no pain. A crimson drop appeared, tiny at first, then welled to the size of a bead of rain.

A gray head bent over his arm, and he shuddered as the first man placed his lips, warm and eager, against the flesh of his forearm, then greedily inhaled the drop of blood. He felt a surge, a flash of fire that rolled through him like a sexual climax, something that he was forbidden by the rules of the order.

The pit of his stomach had been boiling all night. The burning acid in his stomach abated miraculously, leaving him dizzy and light-headed with relief. The sensation that had been twisting his stomach dissipated out through his skull, leaving him feeling excited and strangely alive.

The first holy man smiled warmly.

“Welcome, my son. Welcome to the true faith. Once we have removed any impediments, you may do with it as you will.”