Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) (13 page)

Audiences

Sarad waited impatiently for his familiar to
materialize. He could sense the imp’s presence, but his servant was nothing if
not impetuous, and enjoyed taxing Sarad’s forbearance whenever possible.

“What have you discovered, Talinus?” It took a supreme force
of will for Sarad not to turn his head and actively look for the imp. Demonic familiars
did not enjoy a reputation for being the most loyal of agents, but their unique
skills more than made up for this singular failing.

“Much is afoot my
Master
,” Talinus hissed from
alarmingly close, his pronunciation of
Master
derisive at best.

The imp remained invisible, much to his own amusement, until
he glided over Sarad’s shoulder and materialized. Talinus alighted on the
floor. Standing, he could look the Prelate, who sat, in the eye without needing
to tilt his head.

“I’m all ears,” Sarad said.

“The queen has received a correspondence from Baruch Rachman,
king of Ittamar.”

“Yes, Talinus, I know who the king of Ittamar is.”

“Of course, my Master.” The imp grinned around a mouthful of
needlelike teeth. “He wishes to engage in trade with Galacia—ore in exchange
for grain. He offers to send an emissary to discuss a lasting peace and open
trade.”

Talinus yawned.

“And...” said Sarad, who failed to keep his ire from
slipping into his voice, “what did the queen decide?”

“After much deliberation she decided to allow the emissary
to come.”

“Indeed.” Sarad leaned back and pointedly ignored Talinus as
he mulled the news over. The false Prelate’s scheming mind had already begun to
generate new plots from this unexpected turn of events. “This bodes well for
us. We can turn this into quite the advantage, my little friend. How does the
council feel about the queen’s choice?”

“The Five Houses are not pleased, with the exception of
Antares, who supports his niece as usual. Although, Rabidine, while he regards
the Ittamar with distaste, doesn’t seem to care overly much one way or the
other. As long as the flow of wine from Phyra is not interrupted, he’ll take
anything in stride. Even though the queen holds firm in her decision, the
council continues to argue their point and bicker amongst themselves.”

“Excellent. Division only breeds a more fertile ground for the
seed of our rising.”

“Brilliant metaphor, Master.”

Sarad snorted a laugh despite himself. He loosed Talinus’s
leash with a thought, emancipating the imp slightly from the geas that kept him
bound in servitude. “You have done well. Why don’t you go enjoy yourself a
vestal virgin or some other such delicacy. Just be careful to cover your
tracks.”

Talinus all but purred. He didn’t even attempt a trademark
quip, for his eyes had already glazed over in anticipation of the grisly sating
of his demonic appetites.

Talinus flew from Sarad’s chambers atop the central tower of
the Keep of the One God and into the dusk.

A toothy grin erupted on Sarad’s face. Everything was
falling into place without so much as a hitch. Soon the throne would be under
his control, and the reward for his tireless efforts on the behalf of his Lords
would come due.

The Prelate’s smug indulgence, however, proved short lived.

The heat drained from the room in the span of a breath. Sarad’s
breath steamed in the frigid air and goose-bumps sprouted on his forearms and
the nape of his neck. He turned from the window, pulse thundering in
apprehension of what awaited him.

A shade stood before him, its visage contorted into a mask
of rage. The shadowy form wavered and pulsed in waves of indigo energy shot
through with scarlet veins. Sarad composed himself and addressed his fallen
compatriot.

“Slade, what has befallen you?”

“The Marshal rides. Beware. Sleeping lions have woken. From
the south they rise.”

With that cryptic remark the specter of Slade burned out in
a cataclysm of fell energy and a lashing of gales, leaving an atypically uneasy
Sarad Mirengi in its wake.

†

“It is not my wish to belabor the point, my Queen,”
said Lord Geoffrey Oberon, voice of House Oberon on the council, “but the House
of Oberon cannot condone an audience with this Ittamar
emissary
.” He all
but spat the last the word, as if uttering a curse. “Who can guess at the
intent of such a mission? Perhaps their motives are noble. However, it might be
an insidious plot to scout our defenses, and learn the layout of Peidra and
Lucerne Palace. Worse yet, it could be a cleverly concealed assassination
attempt under the guise of diplomacy.”

Eithne took a deep breath before responding to the reedy
Lord Oberon. “Firstly, Oberon, it is not your place to condone my choices or
mandates. Your role, if your memory must be refreshed, is to offer counsel, not
approval. Now, it does not seem likely that Ittamar would send spies or
assassins in the open. It would only initiate another conflict, and all of our
intelligence suggests that they are as ill equipped to fight another war as we.
If it is foul play they intend, they would send covert agents, not diplomats
under a flag of truce.”

“Your reasoning, Majesty, is of course quite sound,” said
Lord Vachel Ogressa, who had missed the council’s last session due to his
meeting with the Prelate. “Be that as it may, if Baruch bears you ill will he
may count on us thinking he wouldn’t dare to send an assassin or spy out in the
open. While searching for the snake in the long grass, one may overlook the one
underfoot.”

Eithne clenched her teeth so hard she feared they would
break, although she knew she shouldn’t be surprised that Vachel had jumped to
Oberon’s side. House Ogressa and Oberon had ever been eager bedfellows. Aside
from being the wealthiest and most influential of the five houses, they both
enjoyed a long standing rapport with decadent Phyra. The
big Os
as
Eithne called them, made ideal candidates for diplomatic missions to that
carefree monarchy, for they shared not only blood ties but a love of all things
opulent. She supposed Oberon and Ogressa were sore that they had been born to
an agrarian kingdom and not their neighbors to the west, who were known for
their rich deposits of marble, precious ores, and poetry.

“It pleases me, Lord Ogressa, that you are so concerned for
my welfare, but I assure you that we will take all necessary precautions,”
Eithne said. “Captain Blackwell has the situation well under control. The
emissaries from Ittamar will never go unescorted in our lands.”

“If it is your will, My Lady, the council will see it done,”
said Josua Antares, Eithne’s one steadfast ally on the council.

Known for his even temper, the mature yet vibrant Lord of
House Antares always supported the interests of his niece. Never having known
her Mother, who died in childbirth, Eithne had the love of two fathers. Some
twenty-odd years later, when aged King Peregrine succumbed to the consumption
and followed his bride to the afterlife, Josua and faithful Ogden were all she
had left of her parents, and of affection.

“I think we owe it to the children of the war,” Josua
continued, “and the veterans that gave their lives, to give peace a chance.”

“We owe it to the soldiers and knights that spilled their
blood in the frost-lands not to roll out the red carpet and treat these heathen
butchers like an old acquaintance we had an unfortunate spat with!” said Dekel
Mycrum, voice of the militant House Mycrum.

“Lord Mycrum, no one is asking you to befriend these men
from the North, but merely listen to what they have to say,” Eithne said. “I
know the Quarter Century War is still fresh in our minds, and the wounds yet
tender, but believe me when I say House Denar will never allow that bitter campaign
to become a footnote, forgotten to the scribes and bards. We will honor the
past, but we must also honor the future. This is the will of the crown.”

Mycrum bowed his head. “Yes, my Queen,” he said, a little
stiffly, but not without deference.

“Let them come,” said Lord Winthrop Rabidine with a shrug. “The
northmen may be brutes and savages, but I think the sting has gone from their
bite. Their mountain halls are teeming with gold and workable ore in abundance,
and they are doubtlessly little aware how valuable the resources they take for
granted are. Also, selling grain to the Ittamar may drive up the market price,
which could further line our pockets. The less grain we have, the more we can
charge to our other buyers.”

“Yes, Winthrop” said Mycrum dryly, “we all understand the
basics of supply and demand.”

The House of Rabidine long enjoyed a reputation as the most
flippant of the high houses—a reputation that Winthrop, the youngest member of the
queen’s Council, certainly lived up to. Of Winthrop, rumor held that he
inherited his father’s excessive appetite for wine and other more exotic
intoxicants, and also an indolent approach to life, taking great pleasure in
reveling into the early hours of the morning. Thus, this was a typical response
from House Rabidine who, having its hands in many of the prominent merchant
houses, adopted a more lenient attitude when issues of trade were involved.

Still, Eithne needed the support of House Rabidine, and she
was glad to have it despite Winthrop’s myriad failings—or his motives.

“If I may,” said Vachel with a demure clearing of his
throat, “bring up another subject for debate?”

“By all means, Lord Ogressa,” said Eithne, who was thankful
to leave the subject of the Ittamarian emissary behind. “What do you have on
your mind?”

“I wish to speak of Prelate.”

“Oh?” Eithne said, taken aback. “What has the Prelate to do
with matters of council?”

“Not a thing, your Majesty,” Vachel answered, “which is
precisely my point.”

“Vachel,” Eithne sighed, “I permiss you to be blunt.”

Vachel favored his queen with a smile. “The Prelate has made
quite a reputation for himself, as you know. He is the youngest man to be
appointed to his venerable office. He is wise and has the ear of God himself. Some
say that he has the ability to perform divine miracles, like the prophets of
old!”

“I’m not sure I like where this is headed,” Mycrum growled,
frowning at the cheerful Vachel Ogressa.

“Yes, what exactly are you getting at?” said Josua, his hawk-like
eyes narrowing.

Oberon threw his hands up. “Let the man finish!”

The queen nodded and Vachel continued. “I propose that we
think about inviting the Prelate to be an advisor to the council.”

“That is preposterous,” Josua said flatly. “The Church has
no involvement in the rule of Galacia. Hell, the Church has already spread its
faith through the lands and practically has a temple in every town. It’s a
moral center not a governing body, and has more than enough power if you ask me.”

“I must agree with Lord Antares,” Eithne said, troubled. “What
would behoove you to suggest this?”

Vachel shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Only that I
recently had an audience with the Prelate, and discovered a deep admiration for
his wisdom and candor. I feel his counsel would prove most valuable.”

“Actually, it may not be that bad an idea,” mused Oberon, as
he rubbed at the side of his prominent nose. “Such a move could win favor with
the more conservative members of the court and citizenry. It may demonstrate to
your critics that wonder why you refuse to take a husband that you are in fact
a God-fearing woman, with an intact moral compass.”

Eithne fumed. The council and a host of other advisors, with
the exception of Josua, had been beleaguering her, both implicitly and
explicitly, about marriage since her father’s death. Just last week, she had
been paid a diplomatic visit from Prince Nigel of Erastes whose circumspect
attempts at wooing and flirtation were as laughable as they were infuriating. She
could only guess at which one of her incorrigible counselors or advisors it had
been that planted the seed in the Prince’s mind.

Eithne refused to wed. Her position as monarch was precarious
enough without forging an alliance through marriage with a foreign power that
might attempt to subvert her will and the well-being of her people. The court,
of course, hungered for the wealth such a marriage would bring, but Eithne’s
concern was in maintaining the autonomy of the crown. Worse yet, marrying
inside the country would jeopardize the delicate balance of power between the
Five Houses, and the other members of the court might defer to a male
sovereign, who would have the interests of his own house and progeny in the
foreground of his thoughts.

Eithne knew she had to consolidate her own power as queen
before taking a husband. She swore to herself and her father when she took the
crown that the House of Denar would keep the throne. She was young and healthy
yet, and if some scheming courtier happened to slide a dagger in her back, well
she had her Uncle Vance and then Bryn to succeed her.

Eithne’s thoughts briefly turned to her cousin. Considering Bryn’s
ravishing beauty, it was something of a mystery that she remained unwed, but it
suited the queen just fine. Bryn’s unique skills served Galacia far better in
her current capacity than as a mother of potential monarchs, at least for now.

“Lord Ogressa,” the queen said at last, manufacturing her
most winning smile, “I respect the spirit of your proposition, but for now five
of you are as much as I can handle. That being said, if there is nothing
else...” She waited a moment, pointedly looking Geoffrey Oberon in the eye,
daring him to goad her further. “This session of the Council of the Six Houses
has come to a end.”

†

The witch looked up at Agnar Vundi with murky, pupilless
eyes. Despite the clouds that rolled across her irises, like a foreboding storm
front predicting calamity, the ancient woman didn’t seem to have any trouble
seeing him. She held an opaque skull sized orb in both hands.