The Unwilling Warlord (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

There were no nightmares that night, or the next, and Vond grew more optimistic. He stayed sequestered in his apartments, but spoke of venturing forth again, and taking up his role as emperor, when he had adjusted to using no magic.

Even the rain on the second day did not seriously dampen his spirits. If anything, this sign that he was no longer controlling the weather seemed to cheer the warlock.

On the third night his screams woke the entire palace. Sterren took the stairs three steps at a time on his way to Vond’s chamber.

Two guards and Vond’s valet were already there, staring in shocked silence as Vond, hanging a foot off the floor, beat on the north wall of the room with his fists.

“Your Majesty,” Sterren called, “remember, use your feet!”

Vond looked at him unseeingly, and then seemed to emerge from a daze. He looked down, and then dropped to the floor and fell to his knees.

He knelt there, shaking. Sterren crossed to him and put an arm around his shoulder.

“You,” he said, pointing to one guard, “go get brandy. And you, go get an herbalist.” They hurried away.

The valet asked, “Is there anything . . . ?”

“Go find the theurgist, Agor,” Sterren said.

The valet vanished, leaving Sterren alone with the terrified warlock.

He looked up at the wall, where a small smear of red showed that Vond had scraped his hand on the rough edge of a stone.

“Why were you hitting the wall?” Sterren asked.

“I don’t know,” Vond replied. “Was I?” He looked up, saw the streak of blood, then looked down at his injured hand, puzzled.

“Was it the nightmares?” Sterren asked.

Vond almost growled. “Of course it was, idiot!” He looked up at the blood again, and asked, “Was I flying?”

“Yes,” Sterren said.

“I used magic, then. No matter how careful I am, the nightmares can make me use magic. It’s not fair!”

“No,” Sterren agreed, “it’s not fair.”

The guard returned with the brandy, and Sterren helped steady the glass as Vond drank.

When the warlock had caught his breath again, he asked, “Did I say anything?”

“No,” Sterren told him, “I don’t think so.”

The guard cleared his throat.

Sterren glanced at him. “Was there something before I got here?” he asked.

“He was crying, my lord,” the soldier said, “and saying something about needing to go somewhere. I couldn’t make out all of it.”

Then the herbalist arrived.

Half an hour later Vond was in bed again, feeling the effects of a sleeping potion the herbalist had brewed, and the little crowd of concerned subjects was breaking up, drifting out of the imperial bedchamber one by one.

Sterren departed and headed back up for his own room.

The incident had shaken his nerves. It had been easy enough to say that Vond had to go, but to watch him slowly being destroyed by the Calling was not easy at all.

Sterren was not sure he could take it.

Perhaps, he thought, it was time to go home to Ethshar. Vond could not follow him. The old Semman nobility was scattered and powerless, save for Kalira and Algarven, and they would have no particular reason to want him back.

But no, he told himself, that was cowardice. Not that he was particularly brave, but it was worse than ordinary cowardice. He had created the whole situation; to run away and leave it for others to clean up the mess was despicable. It went beyond cowardice, and into treachery.

It would be cheating, and he was an honest gambler. He did not cheat. He did not welsh.

He would stay, and watch what he had wrought.

He almost reconsidered two nights later, when another nightmare sent Vond blazing into the sky like a comet. He awoke and fell to earth a mile north of the palace; Sterren and a dozen guards marched out to fetch him back.

Chapter Forty

On the twenty-fourth of Leafcolor, 5221, Sterren awoke suddenly and was startled to see sunlight pouring in his bedroom window. It had been two sixnights since he had slept the night through, without being awakened by an­other of Vond’s Calling nightmares.

He sat up, and realized that he was not alone in the room, that he had been awakened. He blinked, and ­recognized the man who had awakened him as Vond’s valet.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“He’s gone,” the valet said.

Sterren wasted no time with further questions; he rose and followed the servant at a trot through the palace passages, back to the warlock’s bedchamber.

The bed was empty, and not particularly disturbed; the coverlet was thrown back on one side, as if Vond had gotten up for a moment, perhaps to use the chamberpot, and had not yet returned.

The often-repaired window to the courtyard was open.

Vond was gone.

It was over; whatever it was that lurked in the hills of Aldagmor had taken another warlock.

Sterren almost wanted to laugh with relief, but instead he found himself weeping.

When he had regained control of himself, he asked the valet, “What time is it?”

“I don’t know, my lord; I awoke an hour or so after dawn, I think, and came in and found it like this, and went straight to fetch you.”

Sterren nodded. “All right,” he said. “You go find whoever takes care of such matters, and see to it that the Imperial Council is in the council chamber an hour from now. I need to speak to them.”

The valet hesitated. “What do I do here?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Sterren said. “Leave it just the way it is. The Great Vond might come back.”

With a shiver, Sterren realized that might even be true. Nobody knew what happened to warlocks who gave in to the Calling. None had ever returned.

But Vond had been more powerful than any other warlock who ever lived, and warlocks had only existed, and therefore only been vanishing, for twenty years. Nobody really knew whether Vond might come back.

But quite frankly, Sterren doubted it.

Back in his room he had someone fetch him a tray of breakfast pastry, which he ate while bathing. When he was washed, fed, and dry, he took his time in dressing in his best tunic and breeches, combing his hair, brushing out his freshly-grown mustache — he was almost, he thought as he looked at the mirror, ready to grow a proper beard.

When he was thoroughly satisfied with his appearance, he headed for the council chamber.

All seven councillors were there waiting for him; Lady Kalira, anticipating his arrival, was at the foot of the table, leaving room for him at the head. He marched in and took his place.

“The Great Vond,” he announced, “has moved on to a higher plane of existence.”

“You mean he’s dead?” Prince Ferral asked.

“No,” Sterren said. “Or at least, I don’t think so.”

“You’ll have to explain that,” Algarven remarked.

Sterren did, not concerning himself with the truth.

Warlocks, he explained, did not die the way ordinary people did. They vanished, transmogrified into pure magic. The nightmares and other ills that the Great Vond had been suffering were his mortal body’s attempts to prevent this ascension.

“He’s gone, though?” Prince Ferral demanded.

“He’s gone,” Sterren admitted, “but we don’t know if it’s permanent. It’s only twenty years since warlockry was first discovered, and the Great Vond was the most powerful warlock the World has yet seen. We really don’t know whether he might return or not.”

The councillors watched Sterren carefully, and he looked them over in return, trying to judge how many of them believed him.

He couldn’t tell. After all, these were all expert politicians. They could hide their opinions quite effectively.

Then Lady Kalira asked the really important question, the one that Sterren had called this meeting to answer.

“What now?” she said.

“I don’t know,” Sterren admitted.

“Well, what do you think?” Algarven asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sterren said. “We could really just go on the way we have been. After all, nobody outside the palace has seen Vond in almost two months now. Nobody has to know that anything has changed.”

“I don’t know about that,” Algarven said. “I don’t think we can keep it secret forever. The servants will know, and they’ll talk.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“We could take Lord Sterren’s approach,” Lady Kalira suggested, “and say that he’s gone, but he’ll be back.”

“Do we want to go on as we have?” asked Lady Arris of Ksinallion. “We could put everything back the way it was, couldn’t we?”

“Could we?” Algarven said. “What would we do with this palace?”

Everyone began talking, and Sterren lost track of who was saying what.

“Why should we go back to stupid little border wars?”

“Why break up the strongest nation in the Small Kingdoms?”

“What if the peasants don’t want to switch back?”

“What about all the roads he built?”

“We could be beheaded for treason!”

“How would we divide up the imperial treasury?”

It was Lady Kalira who settled the matter by asking, “Do you really want someone like King Phenvel back on the throne?”

That settled it; the Empire of Vond would continue.

“What about a new emperor?” Prince Ferral asked.

“Who?” Algarven asked in reply.

“If we pick one of the deposed kings, we’ll have rebellions in the other provinces,” Lady Kalira pointed out.

“What about Lord Sterren?” Lady Arris asked.

Sterren thought he sensed a current of approval, and he blocked it quickly. He had thought this all through once before, when Vond had appointed him to handle the details of government.

“No,” he said, “I’m not interested. I didn’t want to be warlord of Semma, I didn’t want to be Vond’s chancellor, and I certainly don’t want to be your emperor!”

Lady Kalira started to speak, and Sterren cut her off.

“You don’t need an emperor,” he said. “The Hegemony hasn’t got an emperor. Sardiron hasn’t got an emperor. They get along just fine.”

“What do they have?” Prince Ferral asked.

“The Hegemony has a triumvirate — three overlords who form a sort of council. And Sardiron has a council of barons. We have a council here; we don’t need an emperor.”

“You’re suggesting, then, that the Imperial Council be the highest authority?” Algarven asked.

Sterren nodded. “Exactly,” he said.

“And what,” Lady Kalira asked, “of our chancellor? What will you do?”

“Retire, if you’ll let me,” Sterren said. “I’d like to settle down quietly, find some sort of honest work — though I certainly wouldn’t mind if you want to vote me a pension, or maybe even an appointment of some sort.”

Lady Kalira rose and glanced at the other councillors. “I think,” she said, “that we need to discuss this by ourselves.”

Sterren bowed. “As you wish, my lady,” he said. “If you need me, I expect to be at Semma Castle.”

She bowed in return, and Sterren left the room.

As he strolled down the hill on one of Vond’s fine paved roads, he whistled quietly to himself.

It was over. He had discharged his responsibilities. He had cleaned up the mess he had created.

He had won Semma’s war, but in the process of winning it he had unleashed Vond and destroyed Semma. Now he had removed Vond, but had kept his good works, his empire, intact. He could not be warlord of Semma, since Semma was gone, and now he was no longer chancellor of Vond.

He was free. He could go home to Ethshar if he wanted, or he could stay where he was.

He was crossing the market before the castle gate when a soldier spotted him and waved.

He waved back.

“Lord Sterren,” the man called in Semmat, “what about a game of three-bone?”

Sterren looked over, thinking of the feel of the dice in his fingers. At that thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he heard a faint silent buzz — or perhaps even a whisper.

He shuddered.

“No, thanks,” he called. He turned his gaze away, up toward the castle.

He saw Princess Shirrin standing on the battlements, watching him approach. He waved.

She smiled, and waved back.

Startled, he stumbled and almost fell, then caught himself and walked on.

She must finally have forgiven him for allowing her father to be deposed, he realized. She could not possibly know yet that Vond was gone.

He could explain it all to her now, explain how he had known Vond was doomed, and that to resist him would only lead to disaster. She would welcome this explanation, he was sure. She would welcome him.

He thought he just might stay in Semma after all.

Epilogue

Sterren lay on his bed, enjoying the view of warm afternoon sunlight and contemplating his future. Marriage to Princess Shirrin seemed delightfully inevitable. Nobody seemed disposed to evict him from his comfortable tower room in Semma Castle, and nobody objected to his presence at the table at meals, so he had free food and shelter and was in no great hurry to find another home, or any genuine occupation.

Life was good.

A polite knock sounded.

He ignored it for a moment, too comfortable to want to move.

A much less polite knock sounded.

He sighed and sat up as the second knock was followed by someone pounding on his door and calling, “Lord Sterren! We must speak with you!”

“I’m coming!” he shouted in reply.

Reluctantly, he rolled off the bed and onto his feet, crossed the room, and opened the door.

“What is it?” he demanded.

Then he saw who was in the corridor beyond.

The entire Imperial Council was standing there.

For a moment he stared at them silently, and they stared back.

“What is it?” he asked again. “What do you want?”

Lady Kalira spoke, while the others remained grimly silent.

“Lord Sterren,” she said, “for the past two sixnights we have tried to do as you suggested, running the Empire ourselves. For the most part, I think we have succeeded. However, some problems have arisen that we find ourselves unable to deal with. We spend our time in pointless bickering over the most trivial issues, and when we try to vote, someone invariably abstains and we find ourselves in a tie, and the arguments start all over again.”

Sterren blinked, and said, “So what?”

“So,” Lady Kalira said, glaring balefully at him, “your system is not working.”

Sterren felt a sudden sinking feeling in his gut.

She paused for a moment, and then continued, “Furthermore, we have some doubts about the nature of our authority. We are all accustomed to living under monarchy, where one person holds the final say. We aren’t comfortable having that power divided — particularly when it stays divided because our votes end in ties.”

“What does this have to do with me?” he asked, afraid that he knew.

“Lord Sterren,” Lady Kalira said, “you brought the warlock here, and in doing so you destroyed all the established hierarchies. You served as his chancellor, which gave you an authority nobody else in the Empire now possesses. We need an authority, a king or an emperor, who can settle these endless little disputes, and the only authority we can all agree on is yours.”

“But I don’t want it!” Sterren protested.

“That’s exactly why we chose you as emperor,” Lady Kalira explained. “How could we trust someone who hungered after power?”

“I won’t do it,” Sterren said.

“Lord Sterren,” Lady Kalira said, “you have little choice. You arranged for your Imperial Council to have absolute power, did you not?”

“Yes, I did,” Sterren began, “and I . . .”

“In that case, your Majesty,” she interrupted, “if the Council’s power is absolute, you must yield to it — and it is the will of the Council, determined by unanimous vote, that you, Sterren of Semma, be named emperor of Vond.”

Sterren stared at her. He realized what he had just done. In admitting that he had arranged for the Council to have absolute power, he had tacitly admitted that he, himself, had the authority to grant such power, and he could hardly deny the Council’s right to return it. He fumed for a moment, and then burst out, “I am not going to be an emperor!”

“As you wish, your Majesty,” she said, bowing. “Tell us then what title you prefer.”

“Vond is the emperor,” he pointed out. “I can’t be emperor.”

“Vond is gone,” Lady Kalira replied.

He looked over the seven faces before him, all of them determined. “You all want me in charge?” he demanded.

All seven nodded, but he thought one or two might have hesitated.

“Suppose I refuse?”

“If you refuse, your Majesty,” Lady Kalira said, “I’m afraid that I will be forced to resign from the Council, and I believe several others will resign as well.”

He looked over the faces and saw no hint of yielding.

Lady Kalira said, “Need I point out that if the Council resigns, the Empire will fall apart? I expect that the old kingdoms would revive, and that you would probably be considered a traitor by the nobility of Semma.”

That was true enough, and Princess Shirrin was one of those nobles.

Besides, he thought the Empire was a good thing — he saw no point to all the petty little kingdoms it had replaced.

“Oh, hell,” he said. “You could appoint me regent, I suppose.”

Smiles of varying intensity appeared on four of the seven faces; the other three he couldn’t read.

“Lady Kalira will serve as my chancellor and vice-regent, of course,” he said.

Her smile had been an intermediate one; it vanished completely, and she opened her mouth to protest.

Then she stopped as she saw the look of satisfaction on his face.

“As your Majesty wishes,” she said, reluctantly. She hesitated. “Will you be moving back into the Imperial Palace?”

“Let me think it over,” he said. He stepped back into the room, and waved in dismissal. “You may go,” he said.

The councillors turned away, when a thought occurred to him. “Lady Kalira!” he called.

She turned and waited as the others continued down the stairs.

“That vote,” he asked. “Was it really unanimous?”

She smiled. “On the second ballot,” she said.

Then she turned and headed for the stairs.