Lamentation (25 page)

“This does not bode well,” Lysias said. “I’ve a bird back from the front lines. It’s coming from the center of the city. Scouts have been dispatched.”

Sethbert nodded. “Do we know who it is?”

Lysias shrugged. “Not with any certainty. But . . .” He started the sentence, then paused.

Sethbert sighed. “But what, General? Who is it?”

Lysias set his jaw. “He claims to be Petronus,” he said.

Sethbert dropped the wineglass he’d forgotten he still carried. It shattered on the ground. He felt his stomach lurch, and he closed his eyes against it.

The wily old gravedigger and his Androfrancine laws, he thought.

I should have recognized him.

Then Sethbert screamed for his horse and sword.

Rudolfo

Rudolfo reached the old man first, racing low in the saddle across the wasted land. Behind him, his scouts magicked themselves and ran, sending their horses back to camp with a whistle.

The old man looked at Rudolfo, and their eyes met. Rudolfo saw anger and despair in those blue eyes, cold as winter stars and sharp as moonshine blades. The force of the stare was enough that he grunted and pulled up his horse. He whistled, and his men, already fading as the magicks took hold and bent light around them, scattered to take up positions around the old man.

Rudolfo saw a boy standing next to the old man. The grandson, he realized. Gregoric had told him about the boy and even pointed him out when they’d seen him leaving the Marsher camp with the girl he later learned was the true Marsh King.

He slipped from the saddle, landing on his feet with ease. He approached, one hand brushing the hilt of his narrow sword. The old man stopped speaking as Rudolfo slowly knelt before him. “You claim to be Petronus,” Rudolfo said in a whisper. “What proof do you bear?”

When Petronus replied, it was the voice of many waters. “I watched you with your father at my funeral, Rudolfo. You wore a red turban and you did not cry.”

Rudolfo nodded. “It is as you say.”

Petronus inclined his head.

Rudolfo drew his sword and laid it at the old man’s feet. Then, he kissed the old man’s ring.

Petronus nodded, grimly. He looked out across the city, and Rudolfo’s eyes followed. A line of horses approached from the north, the south and the west. Rudolfo picked up his sword and stood, holding it outward and down.

Petronus cleared his voice. “Lord Rudolfo of the Ninefold Forest Houses has pledged his Wandering Army to my cause and pledged his fealty to me as the Holy See of the Androfrancine Order. In the absence of the Gray Guard, he holds the Guardianship of the Light.” He paused. “You who war on Rudolfo, war on the light.”

Rudolfo nodded, whistling to his men. They pulled in closer, forming a shield around the Pope after checking the perimeter. Behind him, Rudolfo knew the Marsh King’s army would not be far behind. When they’d heard the proclamation he and the king, Winters, had run out of the tent shouting orders. Her shadow, Hanric, raised the third alarm, and their soldiers—men
and
women—rallied. Rudolfo rode out first with his Gypsy Scouts, but they’d agreed that the Marsh King’s army would follow after.

Rudolfo watched the rising cloud of ash on his north, west and south. The Marsh King’s shadow arrived next, followed closely by the Queen of Pylos.

She slowed her pale horse to a trot and slipped from the saddle. The silver bow upon her back glistened in the watery afternoon light. “I am for the light,” she said. She glared at Rudolfo.

She’d hoped to be first, he knew. To offer her fealty and seek the Pope’s favor and currency. Pylos was a small nation with a challenged economy.

Rudolfo smiled. “Queen Meirov,” he said. “You are radiant.”

She inclined her head, but her face remained a cold mask. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it as the sounds of shouting approached.

Rudolfo had no difficulty picking out Sethbert’s raised voice, and hÛed

“I dispute your claim,” he said in a loud, icy voice.

Petronus fixed his eyes upon him. When he spoke his words rumbled out, but already Rudolfo could hear the magicks fading.

“Lord Sethbert,” Petronus said, “Overseer of the Entrolusian City States. You are the Desolator of Windwir and enemy of the light. Surrender yourself. We’ve lost enough because of your senseless act of genocide. We do not need more bodies in this field of ash.”

Sethbert sneered. “Senseless act of genocide?” He laughed. “I am a patriot of the light.” He leaned in, studying the old man, and Rudolfo gathered his strength, ready to defend his Pope. “By the Gods,” the Overseer said as he looked Petronus over more closely. “It
is
you.”

“Then you acknowledge me as your Pope?”

Sethbert’s eyes narrowed. “I do not. I simply acknowledge you as Petronus.”

Petronus nodded. “That is enough then.” He looked around the gathering crowd. Rudolfo looked, too. Now the workers were drifting in too, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the sight of their leader holding court with nobility. “You all have heard him acknowledge that I am Petronus.”

“It does not make you Pope and King,” Sethbert said. “The Order has a Pope, Resolute the First, proclaimed in accordance with the Lines of Succession.”

One of the Gypsy Scouts whistled, and Rudolfo looked up to see Vlad Li Tam approach, his horse sweaty from the hard gallop. Rudolfo watched knowing glances exchanged between Lord Tam and Pope Petronus. “Pope Petronus,” Lord Tam said, inclining his head.

Petronus nodded his acknowledgement. “Lord Tam. We have much to discuss.”

Rudolfo watched Sethbert’s face turn purple with rage. “You should have stayed on your Emerald Coasts, Tam,” Sethbert said. He turned to Petronus. “And you should have stayed dead.” He raised his voice then, as loud as he could. “I dispute the Papacy of Petronus.”

With that, he spun his horse and rode south to his camps. His men fell in behind him.

Rudolfo looked at the faces of those gathered close to the newly proclaimed Pope. The Queen of Pylos looked uncomfortable but resolved. The Marsh King’s shadow stood neaÛhadhe r her, his face blank. The boy stood near the Pope, his face a wash of emotion that moved freely between sadness and wonder. The only person in the crowd who looked pleased was Vlad Li Tam.

Rudolfo scowled, puzzling out the expression on the face of the man who would soon be his father by marriage.

It was a look of relief, but Rudolfo did not understand how anyone could feel relief knowing what was to come.

As the first snowflakes of winter fell on the Desolation of Windwir, mingling its cold white with the gray ash of the fallen city, Rudolfo’s mind spun strategies and intrigue.

The War of the Androfrancine Popes, born in a field of bones, was upon them.

Jin Li Tam

Jin Li Tam raced down the hallways of the manor with her pack slung over one shoulder. She paused long enough to knock at Isaak’s door, then opened it. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Isaak looked up from his desk of papers. “I am, Lady.”

“And you have your tools?”

He held up the leather satchel containing the mechoservitor tools. “I do.”

The bird had arrived the day before, and those members of the Wandering Army from the Seventh Forest Manor and the town that surrounded it gathered in the meadow south of town and prepared to ride west. Over the protests of the steward and the captain of the contingent, Jin Li Tam insisted on accompanying them. And because she was going, Isaak went too. She would use the pretense, if Rudolfo challenged her, that the mechoservitors might require repairs after so long in Sethbert’s care.

In two days’ time, she would meet Rudolfo at the western steppes of the Prairie Sea. There, she would slip the first of the powders into his evening brandy and give herself to the task of bearing him an heir. Apprehension fluttered in her stomach.

I should stop this, she thought.

And do what? Dishonor her father and the work of House Li Tam by questioning a will and a strategy that stretched far beyond her understanding? Because of a poisoned boy? Because of an orphaned Gypsy King? It was this strategy and will, both from her father, that shaped a leader for the Named Lands’ first catastrophe. If bearing an heir and settling into the life of a Gypsy King’s wife was her part to play in this, to create a wily and educated child who would one day take the turban—this was not a chore. This was honor.

Isaak fell in behind her, carrying the large pack.

“Tomorrow night at the soonest,” she said. Coded deeply into the message she’d snatched from the steward’s hands was a note that Rudolfo intended to liberate the metal men from Sethbert’s camp whether or not the invisible Pope gave him leave. His plan was to pass the metal men over to a small contingent that would run them east and north to Isaak’s aid, then return to the front with his Wandering Army.

War is coming,
her father’s note had read. She could smell it in the air now, and she sensed the tightening of a hunter’s snare but she could not quite see it.

There were birds from her brothers and sisters, passed along with her father’s approval. The scattered nations of the Emerald Coasts and the pioneer counties of the Divided Isle were teetering on fences. The Androfrancines were woven into the Named Lands—a thread that, when ripped out, unraveled the entire robe. She could read the critical mass as it built throughout, armies being recruited and supplies being stockpiled. They waited simply to be compelled one way or another, and she saw her father’s strategy with this invisible Pope now as well. She would expect some grand event soon in that regard, though she was not certain what. Perhaps a public proclamation.

Her Gypsy Scouts waited for her at the door. She stopped, and Edrys stepped forward. “You’re certain I cannot dissuade you of this notion, Lady Tam?”

She smiled at him. “I assure you that you cannot.”

He nodded. “Very well. We shall accompany you.”

She inclined her head, ever so slightly. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

As they exited the manor into the snow-blanketed courtyard, she felt for the satchel of powders in the pocket of her coat. She took no pleasure in the deception she must play, but neither did she lament it overmuch. For all she knew, Rudolfo pined for an heir. But her father’s work must be done with discretion. Whatever his strategy ultimately was, it required secrecy and care.

So I will deceive the man I marry.

Of course, she’d always known that if she married, deception would be required of her.

She was her father’s daughter.

Neb

Neb waited near Petronus’s tent. In the last few weeks, the old man had used the tent more and more for work. Eventually, it made more sense for Neb to stay with some of the other young men.

Neb hadn’t expected the response to the proclamation. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the sudden convergence of three armies upon the new Pope was an alarming outcome. When the crowd broke and all that remained were the Marsh King, Rudolfo and Queen Meirov, Petronus walked away with them while they talked in low voices. Neb returned to the camp, and after a dinner that he’d barely touched, he waited there in the snow.

Finally, the old man arrived. He saw the boy and offered a grim smile. “It had to be done, Neb,” he said.

Neb nodded. “I am sorry for it.”

Petronus pulled open the flap to his tent. “You may be. But it’s unnecessary.” He paused, half in and half out of his tent. “But I do wonder what else you’ve seen in your dreams.”

He couldn’t bring himself to tell him. “Nothing that makes any sense,” he finally said. “You should rest, Excellency.”

Petronus nodded. “Good night, then.”

After the old man slipped into the tent, Neb wandered through the camp.

The workers were snoring in their tents, the small Androfrancine heaters venting steam into the cold air through long brass chimneys. Otherwise, the camp was quiet. With the snow falling now, Neb wasn’t sure how long they could hold out. With Petronus firmly rooted in Windwir, there would be no more supply wagons from Sethbert. But with Petronus proclaimed, they would have access to the funds in House Li Tam’s Androfrancine accounts. The Entrolusian sentries were now simply replaced with Marshfolk or Gypsy Scouts. And he suspected Rudolfo’s Wandering Army was on the march.

Thinking of the Marshfolk brought memories of the girl back to him. He couldn’t push her far from his mind—she invaded regularly.

He’d already felt drawn to her, but the kiss sealed it. He wondered what she was doing now and if he would see her again. She said he would, but Neb took little at face value these days. For instance, this Rudolfo. On the surface he seemed a fop, but up close, Neb saw steel in that man’s eyes. It made him grateful that Petronus had given him the guardianship, and even more grateful that Petronus had put the metal man in the Gypsy King’s care.

Neb wandered past the edges of the camp. The moon was up again, high above now, blue flecked with green. Some days the Moon Wizard’s tower was barely visible, but only when the moon was low and nearby.

Of course the Moon Wizard was a distant memory from thÛ me"0ee First World. And all of the books containing the legends of his exploits were ash now. Brother Hebda had once shown him a parchment of an early text about the Czarist Lunar Expedition from the world before the time of P’Andro Whym. They had been talking and walking during one of his father’s visits.

“I want to do what you do,” Neb said. He’d not been allowed to touch the parchment, but he’d leaned in close to study it well. “I want find the lost parchments of the Old World.”

A shadow formed on Brother Hebda’s face. “Not all of them
should
be found,” he mumbled in a low voice.

“Brother Hebda?”

He looked up. “I’m sorry, Neb. I’m a bit distracted tonight. I think we found something that would be better off unfound.”