Lord of the Silent Kingdom

9. Hochwasser: Ceremonies of Death and Life

Princess Helspeth, Grafina fon Supfer, Marquesa va Runjan, Contessa di Plemenza, and so forth, thought she had herself under control. She had known it would come. She had had time to become intimate with the truth during the bone-breaking rush from Plemenza to Hochwasser, where Lothar had been gathering a small army for a limited campaign in northern Firaldia. But seeing Mushin in a coffin, in a room lined with blocks of ice, took it out of the realm of the intellectual, into that of the intimately painful and real.

She threw herself onto the boy's pale, still form. Mushin was so cold. And so much smaller than he was inside her memory.

She lost control.

A hand squeezed her shoulder. She looked up. Katrin stood over her. Katrin's eyes were red and hollow. The pain had razor-slashed her soul.

The sisters fell into one another's arms. They wept together under the scowls of Katrin's women and several of the Empire's leading men. The majority and most powerful of the Council Advisory, however, had not yet arrived. They seemed in no hurry to present themselves for Emperor Lothar's final ritual obligation to the Grail Empire.

Helspeth pulled herself together before Katrin did. To the surprise of the younger sister, Katrin was the one they called the ice maiden. Katrin was the one who concealed everything happening inside. But Katrin was the one who had focused all her strained and stilted emotion on her beloved Mushin.

Katrin said, "My world has ended, Helspeth."

Helspeth wondered why Katrin had no pet name for her.

"This is worse than when Papa died. Though we've always known that it would happen."

"Father was hard to live with," Helspeth said. Parroting Katrin explaining her lack of distress after Johannes's fall at al-Khazen. Helspeth was too rattled to engage her own wit. "Who are those men?" She indicated three priests who seemed intent on remaining unnoticed.

"Father Volker. My confessor. I don't know the other two. Father introduced me but I was too distracted to remember. One of them is a bishop. He's going to preside at the funeral and my first vows."

"Oh."

"I don't want to be Empress, Helspeth. I don't want to deal with Omro va Still-Patter and all those coldhearted vultures. Help me, Helspeth."

"Always, dear sister. I am your most faithful and devoted subject. Whatever you ask of me, I'll do it. Just tell me."

A flicker of cold suspicion crossed Katrin's features.

Katrin Ege assumed the Imperial honors the day following Helspeth's arrival at Hochwasser. She did so in the absence of the Council Advisory, with the blessing of Bishop Hrobjart of Carbon. The Bishop administered a preliminary oath in the interest of state continuity. The official coronation was set for late summer, during the Feast of Kramas. The Feast was an ancient celebration, the reasons for which were lost in time. Grail Emperors were elevated officially on that date. They had been since the New Brothen Empire was imagined by the Patriarch Pacific II. Some who indulged an interest in matters historical believed Kramas commemorated a victory by tribesmen over invading Old Brothen legions. The Battle of Carmue, in Brothen history, had had an impact so great that the emperors never again tried to conquer the heart of the continent.

There were arguments. Those of the Council Advisory already on hand insisted on delays. The full Council was needed.

Unsaid, but understood, was that the full Council had less trouble bullying Katrin.

Helspeth was careful to say nothing negative about those ugly old men.

Privately, Algres Drear suggested, "If you want the Empress to know anything special you'd better deliver the message before Hilandle shows. Once he does Katrin will be hard to reach. He'll make sure access to the Empress is strictly managed."

Helspeth was impressed. That was the most the man had said since Lothar placed her under his protection. His advice was sound, too. "Captain, I need you more than ever. How do I assure your loyalty?"

"My loyalty is assured, Princess. It was the will of the emperors, your father and your brother. Only death can separate us. I'll be closer to you than I am to my wife."

Literally. Drear's wife refused to travel to Plemenza.

"I wasn't made for this, Algres."

"No one is till it's thrust upon them."

"But…"

"You are the daughter of Johannes Ege and Terezia of Nietzchau."

Helspeth wanted to argue but was too tired and too depressed. She hated her life. And it was unlikely to get better. Even Plemenza was losing its charm.

"I'm not sure that will be sufficient."

Drear turned grim. "You have enough on your mind. Get some rest. But see your sister as soon as you can."

Katrin did not answer Helspeth's message. She had gone into seclusion with her confessor and the other churchmen.

Ferris Renfrow arrived before the Grand Duke, in time for the interment and a hasty succession ceremony performed by Bishop Hrobjart. Just materializing behind Helspeth's left shoulder. She knew he was there without looking. The overcast began to clear from her emotional skies. The slump went out of her shoulders.

She felt guilty.

Algres Drear was supposed to make her feel this way. That was his mission. She could not manage without Captain Drear and his Braunsknechts, but he never inspired her the way Renfrow did.

Sad, too, because Ferris Renfrow's first loyalty was always the Grail Empire, not the sad second daughter of its penultimate Emperor.

Katrin sank to her knees before Bishop Hrobjart. After a murmured exchange, Hrobjart turned to his left and accepted a coronet from the nameless churchman who accompanied him everywhere. Father Volker swung a censor with one hand and sprinkled holy water with the other.

All three priests wore white. Father Volker's robes were simple. The unknown priest's were austere. Bishop Hrobjart's, though, had lace, uncut gems, and seed pearls all over it. The last time Helspeth saw priests in white was at Lothar's coronation. Normally, they wore gray or brown. Or black.

Helspeth loathed the new crows in black. They served the harsh orders: the Patriarchal Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy; the Brotherhood of War; the Knights of the Grail Order. And the former two grew more powerful by the day across the Jagos.

Grail Empire disdain kept the Society and Brotherhood from developing much power north of the Jagos. But the Grail Order – a sort of northern Brotherhood – was immensely influential where the Episcopal faith collided with the pagan world.

Ferris Renfrow summoned her from her reverie. Time for the witnesses to take a knee before the new Empress. Then both knees while the Bishop of Carbon invoked the blessing. A long responsorial followed. She did not need to pay attention to keep up. It was standard back and forth in Church Brothen. A five-year-old could keep up and have attention left over for mischief.

AS THEY LEFT THE CHURCH, RENFROW SAID, "YOU MAY face dramatic challenges on your return to Plemenza, Princess." He seemed not to care if someone overheard. The Patriarch is sure to test the new order."

"Sublime will find the Ege daughters no less formidable than their father." She thought of the Captain-General. Their paths might not cross again.

"That is fondly to be hoped," Renfrow said. "Unfortunately, the reality may not be so promising."

"Meaning?"

Renfrow glanced at Algres Drear. As always on public and ceremonial occasions, Drear was within arm's reach of Helspeth. 'Time will tell, Princess. I have to leave. Take care of her, Captain."

In an eye's blink Renfrow vanished. Look away, look back, the man was gone. "How does he do that?" Helspeth asked.

"And at his age. Sorcery? Or is he even human?" Drear respected Renfrow but did not like the man. Points he had striven to impress upon his charge.

"What do you mean, at his age?"

"Just that he's been around forever. Doing the same work. Steering the Empire. Subtly. Some think he engineered your father's election. And the Act of Succession, too."

"Father did say that Renfrow knows all the secrets. And isn't reluctant to use them."

"Lucky you're too young to have secrets."

"Lucky me. Like I've ever had a chance to do something I'd want to hide." Her women were closing in, to separate her from her desperado chief bodyguard. Reputations were at risk.

Katrin's court was undismayed when the Empress closeted herself with three priests, without benefit of chaperone. When priests had worse reputations than any other variety of man. Their opinions shifted dramatically when Katrin announced that she would rectify her father's error by shifting the Empire's support from Viscesment to Brothe.

If that was not enough to poleax the Imperial aristocracy, Katrin then announced a pilgrimage to the Mother City. Where she would be crowned by the Patriarch himself.

Algres Drear observed, "The Grand Duke must be apoplectic." While packing.

"I can't see Hilandle having that much imagination. This was his fault. He could have been here. But he wanted us to think the Empire can't function except at his pleasure. He thought an Ege daughter would swoon. Katrin's as clever as Mushin was. More so, maybe. She isn't shy about revealing her contempt for those people. But she shouldn't have shown her independence that way."

Drear grunted. Helspeth's women were close by. As always. Eavesdropping. Some would report to the Empress. Others would inform the Council Advisory.

The Imperial nobility included a pro-Sublime faction. Sentiment against Sublime appealed to a larger bloc of folk more exalted and emotionally committed.

When her household was ready Helspeth sent for permission to return to Plemenza.

Lady Chevra approached nervously. Her expression would not remain fixed. One moment it was worried, the next sheepish, after that maliciously triumphant.

"Yes?" No doubt the old cow brought bad news. She wanted to do right but could not help taking joy in the misery of others.

"Her Majesty denies your request. You are to join her pilgrimage to the Mother City."

"We're enjoying a change of plan, Captain Drear."

Drear nodded.

"Coordinate with the Empress's people. We can reduce costs if we make the progress through the Imperial cities of Firaldia."

Lady Chevra was unhappy. The girl she wanted to torment had taken disappointment without a whimper.

Helspeth Ege would not whimper or whine. Ever. Not for Grand Duke Hilandle, not for the Empress Katrin Ege.

There was a positive side. To assert his influence the Grand Duke would have to follow Hansel's girls into the heart of Firaldia. Which he loathed. In that land no one knew who he was. Nor cared.

In that land, she reflected, lay Brothe. Where the Captain-General of the false Patriarch's armies made his headquarters.

She felt a rush of excitement.

This might not be so bad after all.

"Are you all right, Princess?" Lady Delta va Kelgerberg asked. "You just turned red as a beet."

Her breath had gone shallow and wheezy, too.

The Grand Duke did not give the new situation adequate thought. He favored himself too highly to accept defeat by the Ege bitch.

He plunged into an intemperate rush south from Alten Weinberg. He should reach Firaldia in time to quell the chit's insanity. She would not get down on her knees in front of that pox-ridden Brothen boy-lover, Sublime V.

Hilandle's party numbered forty-three to start. It began to dwindle almost immediately. A half dozen disappeared at Hochwasser. Swearing, he drove on into the Jagos range. Into a fierce, unseasonable snowstorm.

Some wanted to den up and wait. But the band did not have enough provisions. They had to turn back or press on.

Several turned back.

Thirty-two pressed on.

One day of biting cold cracked the sense of obligation of more of the Grand Duke's companions, who turned back to Hochwasser. Where the troops Lothar had begun to gather still awaited instructions. While they lived off Imperial stores.

In the deep night, with snow swirling like sudden ivory embers in the light of small fires, the camp wakened to screaming. Four men had sentry duty. Three could not be found. The other had seen and heard nothing but the screams.

No one got any more sleep.

The snow stopped next afternoon. The accumulation showed no sign of melting. The Grand Duke's party climbed above the tree line. They had only what firewood they could carry.

There were no inns, hostels, or way stations. Those had been abandoned. Even the Imperial post remount stations stood empty. A couple of small castles held out, supporting the post. They would not open their gates. The Empress's party had picked their bones already.

Another night brought more screams.

Wrapped in blankets, shaking in the cold, his sword bared upon his lap, the Grand Duke crowded the only fire and fought to stay awake.

Omro va Still-Patter, the Protector, was a loathsome old man today. In his youth he had been bold and fearless. He had spent three years in the Holy Lands and two with the Grail Order knights converting the savages of the Grand Marshes. Age might be gnawing his bones and his tolerance for discomfort, but it had not stolen his capacity for staying calm in the face of terror.

Screams startled Hilandle awake.

They came from just a dozen feet away.

He jumped up, both hands gripping his sword.

Something came at him. Something he saw only for a moment. Something huge. Something carrying a bleeding man. Something insectile, like the biggest walking stick that could be imagined, with more legs. Its bulbous eyes seemed filled with fire.

It thrust a claw at Hilandle. The Grand Duke met the thrust. The grasper separated from the limb and fell. A second tore at his blankets, his armor, and left shoulder. The collision flung him aside.

In the instant of contact torrents of thought smashed into Hilandle's brain. A fraction seemed quite rational. Almost philosophical. From a mind that observed and cataloged. But overriding that was madness, founded in hatred, blood-lust, and a compulsion toward revenge unending, with a thousand images of murders past and hoped to come.

Then it was gone, still dragging its prey.

Sprawled in half a foot of bloody snow, stunned, trying to push the cruel visions away, the Grand Duke banged his nose on the severed grasper, which continued flexing.

"Hartwell," he gasped at the first man to arrive. "Find something to put this in. I want to take it along."

"Your Lordship?"

"I didn't stutter, man. That may tell us something about that thing."

The monster did not return. Not then.

To Hilandle it seemed he lay there for hours, mind ensnared in the thing's blood madness. In truth, it was minutes. One of his grooms began cleaning his wound. "Did you see that thing?" he asked the man.

"What thing, sir?" Hilandle did not insist on formality in she field. Which surprised his enemies. They considered him a pompous, self-important stiff.

"The monster."

"No, sir."

"It was like…" A vengeful god. But he could not say that. There was only one God. And He was not a gigantic, ugly carnivorous bug. "It was one of the Instrumentalities of the Night. One of the Great Devils, surely."

The groom, Horace, appeared unconvinced. Despite the screams, the bloody snow, and the absent companions.

Twenty-three men moved on next morning. The missing left little evidence that they ever existed. Except equipment and possessions abandoned because there was no one to carry them.

The Grand Duke and his men pressed on, often cutting the day's travel short where there was no certainty of reaching a defensible campsite before nightfall. He was furious all the time, in constant pain from his wound. He was falling farther and farther behind the Ege chits. And he continued to lose men.

Twelve men, one the Grand Duke, reached the friendly foothills of northern Firaldia. Hilandle told his closest surviving associate, "Remind me, after we recover. The most pressing problem facing the Empire today is the thing we just survived." He winced. Any thought of the monster made him tense up. And his wound hurt worse than its constant ache.

Discovering that the Ege bitch had not suffered at all crossing the Jagos did nothing to improve his temper.

Nor was he cheered by the news from the Connec.