Three Coins for Confession (19 page)

Chanist looked older. It was Chriani’s first thought upon seeing
him.

He had expected anger. He had expected to feel a surge of the
cold threats that had carried him from the throne room the last time he and
Chanist spoke. But all those thoughts were muted suddenly beneath a sense of
unfamiliarity, of a year and a half during which the prince high seemed to have
aged more than Chriani would ever have expected. The shoulders were stooped,
the pale hair gone more to grey. He had a picture of a stronger Chanist in his
mind but couldn’t find it for some reason. A memory of a memory.

Ashlund turned to face the prince, as did Chriani and Kathlan,
both of them approaching to where Chanist’s path toward the table would take
him. Ashlund and Chriani both stopped five paces away, as was custom for those
who bore arms in the presence of the prince high or his family. Kathlan held
back farther. Chanist ignored them all, crossing to the table and the flagons
set there. He poured wine for himself, well mixed with water, draining his
goblet before he turned.

“My lord prince,” Ashlund murmured. Chanist finally nodded, as if
only just noticing that the four of them were there.

No other guards had come in with Chanist, as would have been
customary. Chriani remembered his own words on the street, spoken from haste
and fear in the hope of forcing Eliana’s hand.
This Ilvani agent was with me
on the Clearwater Way.
This was the result, then.

“You are an unexpected visitor, master Chriani.” The prince
high’s voice carried its familiar weight, but Chriani sensed a weariness in it.
“And bringing even more unexpected guests.”

Chanist’s blue eyes settled on Dargana, who hadn’t moved from her
place by the fire. Chriani felt himself moving toward the prince high as if by
instinct, cautious as he tried to plan how this encounter would play out. He
stopped a suitable distance down the table, setting Milyan’s satchel down to
the dark wood.

“My visit was as ordered, my lord prince, and to pass these
reports to your war-mages.”

“I’m not accustomed to being asked to do courier service. Next
time, deliver your documents directly.”

The mocking tone in the prince high’s voice was a thing Chriani
remembered from their last meeting. Only the two of them then, no one else
around, and Chanist revealing a kind of truth of his nature that Chriani
suspected few others had ever seen. He recalled the rage in the prince high that
night. His hatred of the Valnirata that had killed his father, his brother and
sister, flaring as a fire in heart and mind that threatened to burn the
Greatwood to the ground.

“Do you think to stop me, master Chriani?”

Chriani spoke quietly. “Are you sure you want Ashlund here for
this, my lord prince?” A quick feint, as much to antagonize the captain as to
remind Chanist of what had passed once between them.

“That’s Captain Ashlund to you, soldier.” Chanist spoke without
answering the question, but Chriani saw his eyes flick from him to Kathlan,
standing behind him. A kind of challenge there, like the prince high suspected
that certain of the things he wouldn’t want spoken in front of his captain,
Chriani would likewise be loath for Kathlan to hear.

Chanist turned his attention to Dargana. She was smiling again.

“You may all approach, as you wish.” The prince high poured for
himself again before pushing the flagons toward Chriani, who noted the subtlety
in the prince’s tone. An imperious attitude, but cautious. Not giving Dargana
an order that he knew she would simply refuse. Masking how important she might
be by showing as little interest in her as he could.

To Chriani’s surprise, the exile did approach the table, stepping
up beside him. He shifted instinctively, tried to keep himself between her and
Chanist as if he was worried about what she might do. She simply poured herself
wine from the flagon, though. Drank it unwatered.

“Three months past,” Dargana said, “the Crithnala lands were
invaded by forces of the Calala Ilvani.” She gave no preamble or warning to the
subject matter, her tone suggesting that she and Chanist were somehow
continuing a conversation they had started long ago. “They attacked into
Nyndenu
.
The Ghostwood. Horse troops of Calalerean province pushed across their border
in a fast assault, and the exile tribes in Nyndenu were routed. There’s been
fighting to the north since then, with folk fleeing the Ghostwood and the
tribes of the Kelerin Hills trying to take the fight back to the invaders. The
Calala move by stealth, though. Attacking by night to avoid the notice of your
patrols when they cross the Clearwater Way. Not wanting to attract Ilmari
attention before their conquest is done.”

Chriani tried to conceal his surprise, even as he saw Ashlund
doing the same. At the center of the table, a large map showed all the Ilmar.
Its faded colors marked it as old, Chriani judged, its corners held down by
steel weights. It was upside down from his position, but he could read the
names of the Ilvani provinces of the Greatwood well enough.

“These matters are known,” Chanist said. “What of them?”

“You know far less than you think, prince,” Dargana sneered. A
tension twisted through the room, Ashlund taking a step toward her, but Chanist
waved him back. “You know that bandit activity on the Clearwater Way has
increased in recent weeks,” the exile said. “You know that carontir patrols
along the frontier with Calalerean have pushed out to attack Ilmari farmsteads.
They hold you to the frontier, keeping your own patrols from pushing too far
into the forest. But you don’t know why, and you won’t know until I tell you.”

Most folk of Brandishear saw Calalerean and the Valnirata nation
as synonymous, focused on the Ilvani of that northwest province where it abutted
the most populous reaches of the principality. Even for the loremasters of
Brandishear and the other principalities, though, the politics of the Valnirata
remained a subtle and secretive subject.

The treaty of the Ilmar, which Chanist had forged in the
aftermath of driving back the Ilvani Incursions, held the Ilmar nations
together in a pact of mutual animosity toward the Valnirata. All four princes
had made agreement that should any future incursion come from the dark forest,
all four of their principalities would respond as one. But there had been no
formal contact or treaty between the Ilmar nations and the Ilvani of the
Greatwood in a hundred generations. No ambassadors, no heralds. Few
opportunities for spying, with the xenophobic Ilvani taking little trade from
outside the forest and allowing no Ilmari within it. As such, even the prince
high’s best sages could only guess at the structure of and struggles for power
that went on in the Greatwood.

“I know the minds of the Valnirata well enough, exile.” Chanist
began to pace around the table, Dargana holding fast. “I know every troop
count, every sortie fought on both sides of the Greatwood, as I know how those
sorties increase steadily, month by month for more than a year now.”

Ashlund stepped closer as well, and Chriani could see the
captain’s attention focused sharply on the bloodblade at Dargana’s back. For
her part, she kept her hands in front of her and firmly on her goblet as
Chanist approached. “Your call to war has been answered,” she said coldly. “Do
you expect me to believe you hoped otherwise?”

“The exiles are the best fighters of the Valnirata,” Chanist
said, complimenting Dargana even as he ignored her question. Weary or not, the
power of the prince’s statecraft was as sharp as ever. “Calalerean rises to
foment war along the Brandishear frontier, as you say. So why waste resources
and risk distraction on forays to the north?”

“Because the Calala came into possession of magic in the
Ghostwood. Ancient rites, and powerful. They seek to bind all the Valnirata as
one, drawing on the power of the past.”

“The Ilvani live their past in every waking moment. What power
could the Calala hope to seek…”

“They seek the narneth móir of Caradar, the exile king. Lost to
the Valnirata in the aftermath of the Incursions. A potent symbol of Ilvani
rage against the Ilmari. And a sign that war will return.”

Chriani saw Chanist pale. The prince high stepped past Dargana,
Ashlund flinching. He poured himself more wine, but as he did, his gaze traced
across Chriani’s. A question there.

“I believe you know that blade, prince.” Dargana smiled.

Chriani felt lightheaded suddenly. A chill was rooting beneath
his still-damp tunic, though the room was warm. He felt the truth lurking
beneath the animosity that swirled between Chanist and Dargana like a rising
storm. He saw Kathlan from the corner of his eye. The things he hadn’t told
her. The lies he carried, still.

Not that, not now.

Ashlund snarled as he pushed forward, two strides putting him
between Dargana and Chanist. “You show respect to the prince high of
Brandishear, Ilvani, or so help me…”

“Why a prince?” Dargana cut Ashlund off as if he wasn’t there.
Ignored him as she stepped past to look at Chanist, thoughtful.

“Enough of your insolence…!” Ashlund was actually going for his
sword before Chanist put a hand to his back to stop him.

The prince’s blue eyes flashed in the captain’s direction to
force him back a step, still seething. Chanist then returned his attention to
Dargana, as if her question had some compelling interest to him.

“What do you mean, Ilvani?”

“I mean, Ilmari, why are you prince? Brandishear, Elalantar,
Aerach, Holc, each with its prince. Aren’t there usually kings above princes in
what passes for history among your people?”

“There were kings before the Empire.” Chanist said it with a hint
of amusement in his tone, as if he might be talking to a child. Speaking
lessons of the Empire of the Lothelecan, which had spread across the world,
then vanished from the Ilmar and all other lands more than two generations
before. “And war between them that never did more than die down. Someone always
wanting to rule all the Ilmar lands. Under Empire, the kingdoms were regencies,
split among the four provinces. When the Empire fell, there were calls for a
king again, but the four regents saw the chance for war and took the titles of
prince high. They agreed that none would be king, crafting alliance instead of
war.”

“And allowing them to make war against the Ilvani instead.”

Chanist’s cold smile matched Dargana’s, the sight setting Chriani
on edge as he watched.

“Ilvani and Ilmari were kept at peace through long years of
Empire,” Chanist said. “But by the Ilvani’s fear of the Imperial Guard and
nothing else. The Ilmari were content to leave the Greatwood alone…”

“While staking claim to stolen land beyond it. All the Ilmar was
Ilvani once…”

“Thirty centuries ago, yes. During which time the Ilvani warred
on each other until the migration of our tribes gave them something else to
fight…”

“The Migration Wars…”

“Were won by the Ilmari, who forged their nations and were
content to let the Valnirata live in peace. Then when the Empire fell, the
war-clans of Calalerean and Laneldenar set their eyes on Brandishear and Aerach
before the ink on the Ilmar treaty had dried.”

“You think you know the history of the Valnirata, old man…”

“I have made the history of the Valnirata, exile! I have lived
it. And you and your kin should hope and beseech whatever fallen gods still
dwell in the Greatwood that my time for shaping history is done
…
”

“Enough!”

It was Chriani’s voice that cut the steel-sharp tone of Chanist’s
anger and the reply Dargana had been set to make. He forced them both to
silence, as much from surprise as anything. It was a surprise he shared, no
idea what he was meant to say now.

He felt the change overwhelming him, as it so often did. Unseen
pieces of the puzzle coming into view, but as they moved, they shifted all the
other pieces into new positions. Set them to new shapes. New patterns.

“The Ilvani seek the dagger that once belonged to Caradar,”
Chriani said, as much for his own ear as anyone else’s. Feeling the
understanding falling into place. “They hunt me because they know I took it
from the assassins who meant to use it against the Princess Lauresa.”

He was watching Chanist as he said it. He saw the prince high try
and fail to mask his surprise. The dismissive gaze was shaken by uncertainty,
only for a moment. It was enough, though.

Chriani had been wrong. Chanist wasn’t behind the attack in the
forest, and he certainly wasn’t responsible for bringing the Valnirata into
Rheran. That fact alone of the second attack should have given him something to
think about. Too much else going on, though. Too many things he didn’t want to
see.

“Sit. All of you.” When Chanist spoke this time, it was an order.
Chriani stepped up slowly, taking a chair at the prince high’s left hand.
Kathlan followed to sit next to him, her face a mask. Ashlund moved to the
right, between Chanist and Dargana. He sat only after the Ilvani exile had
slipped to a chair.

“Chriani. Where is the blade that was Caradar’s?”

The Prince High Chanist’s voice was pitched low to leave the
question hanging. An evenness to its tone that Chriani understood the reasons
for.

He remembered the morning he gave the dagger to Lauresa, the last
time he saw it. Knowing that she would take it a principality away, protected
behind all the stone and steel of a duke the Ilmari called
the Lion of
Aerach.
A duke whose legendary campaigns against the Valnirata gave them
every reason to avoid him. Its safety was thus assured by its being under the
protection of one who had no business holding it. One who didn’t even know he
held it, Chriani trusting Lauresa to keep it hidden. No one ever thinking to
seek it there.