Wrath of a Mad God (28 page)

Those Deathknights who stood nearby raised a cheer of approval, even Hirea and Martuch. Pug realized that no matter how reasonable these men were compared to others of their race, they were still at heart Dasati and only a short step between being rational beings to becoming murderous warriors lacking any shred of compassion. But he also knew that there was some sort of prophecy involved that made it likely Valko would plunge ahead despite any advice anyone might give.

He turned to his son. “We can do nothing more here. We can only hope that your mother and those allied with her have prepared the Tsurani for what is to come, and that she has found and destroyed Leso Varen.”

Despite his respect for his mother and her single-minded ability to pursue a goal until it was achieved, Magnus had grave doubts that she would be able to find the necromancer and deal with him.

The cheering died down and Valko said, “What will you choose to do, human?”

Pug considered. He was becoming certain his time on this world was growing short. “If you are moving against the TeKarana, then Nakor must decide quickly what to do with Bek.” Pug was not convinced that Bek was the prophesied Godkiller, but he knew there were many things he didn’t yet understand, including the reasons why they were all in this realm. He didn’t know if Nakor could shed any light on these mysteries. He would not leave Nakor behind if he could avoid it, and if Bek was not fated to die here, then that strange young man as well had to be returned to Midkemia.

“I hope you will be victorious against the TeKarana and unseat him and that the Dark One’s power is blunted, but I must return to my own realm for there will be many of your warriors overrunning a world that I once called home. I will go back with you.”

Valko weighed Pug’s words and nodded once. “Can you move us all by your magic?”

Pug looked to Magnus who said, “If you wish to return to the Grove, I can move perhaps four or five of us at a time. It will take several trips.”

Valko said, “One trip will be enough. You only need take your father, Martuch, Hirea, and myself.” To the remaining Deathknights he shouted, “Accompany the Sisterhood to their new place of hiding. Protect them! If we fail, you are the seeds of the new White.”

The Deathknights who served the White saluted the young lord and departed, and Valko said, “Let us be away, for there is much to do and scant time.”

Pug nodded. Magnus motioned for the three Dasati to come close, bade them to take hold of one another, and suddenly they were gone.

Miranda asked, “Have I made it clear enough for you, Lord Erik?”

Erik von Darkmoor settled into the large chair in his private quarters and let out a long sigh. “Yes, Miranda, you have. Even
if you hadn’t, Nakor wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of keeping me alive this long if he hadn’t judged the situation grave, and that alone would have convinced me that any warning from the Conclave should be treated with the utmost gravity.” He shifted his weight and grimaced.

“Are you all right?”

“No, I’m dying…again.” He looked out of the window of the palace, his favorite view, to watch the sun set over the harbor in Krondor. “I don’t mind being dead; it’s the getting there that’s aggravating.” He motioned toward a large wooden chest at the foot of his bed. “Would you do me a favor, please, and fetch a small vial from that chest? It’s in a pouch of black velvet.”

Miranda opened the chest and fetched him the pouch. Erik carefully unknotted the two cords that kept it closed, and took out the vial. He pulled out a tiny stopper and tipped the contents of the vial to his mouth. Then he tossed the empty vial onto the table next to where he sat. “There. That’s the last of it. I’ve nursed along that elixir Nakor gave me and it’s kept me fairly fit…for a man pushing a hundred years old.”

“I thought closer to ninety,” said Miranda.

“Well, never let the truth get in the way of a dramatic point,” Erik countered with a smile. As she watched she could see lines beginning to fade from his face and the color return.

“How much time do you have?”

“I don’t know. A few months perhaps.” He sat back. “I’m tired. Down to the core of my bones tired, Miranda. I’ve served the Crown for the last seventy years, and I deserve a rest.”

“We all do,” she replied. She chose not to delve into the fact that she and her husband had been fighting against the forces of madness since long before Erik was born. Still, he had served with distinction and fought his share of battles. He had never wed and fathered children, and she realized how much starker that must have made his life compared to her own. And while he had lived a long time, he had aged, while she seemed forever a woman in her late thirties or early forties in terms of appearance and vigor.

Erik slapped his hands on the arms of the chair. “As to your
first need, I can do nothing. The King is adamant. He has no love for your husband and less love for the Tsurani.”

“Why?” she asked. “The Empire and Kingdom have been at peace since the end of the Riftwar. The Tsurani aided the Kingdom during the Battle of Sethanon. You’ve had more trouble with Kesh in the last ten years than you’ve had with Tsurani since the peace treaty was signed.”

“You’re not talking about a few hundred or even a few thousand refugees, Miranda. You’re talking about millions. More Tsurani than the entire populations of Kesh and the Kingdom combined. There’s not one duke who would want them in his duchy. Who would feed them?”

“They can work. They are artisans and farmers and carters…”

“They are aliens. Not even the Earl of LaMut would welcome them and he’s of Tsurani blood! They’re too big a threat.”

Miranda knew that would be the answer, but she had hoped for better. “How many would you take?”

“Me?” asked the Duke. He laughed and again she saw the vigor returning to his features. “I’d look the other way if you settled a few thousand up in Yabon and Crydee. If you sneaked a few thousand more into the villages along the Teeth of the World for the border lords to worry about, I wouldn’t care. But I could not fulfill my oath of office if I didn’t follow my liege lord’s orders, Miranda. I simply could not.”

Miranda said, “Any ideas?”

“Novindus would be my suggestion. It’s still recovering from the ravages of the Emerald Queen and might be able to absorb a lot of Tsurani. Hells, they could conquer the entire continent and no one up here would care.”

“Kaspar is down there now, talking to a friend of his.”

“Well, I’ll bet he has better luck than you, because you haven’t had any.” He sighed again, this time more from emotion than fatigue. “And I’ll guarantee Jim Dasher Jamison is having even less than you. His grandfather is a cunning and dangerous man, just like his own grandfather—and he was one sneaky bastard—but he’s as steadfast and loyal to the Crown as you are to
your cause. Jim won’t move his grandfather—and that means he won’t move the King—to settle one Tsurani farmer in the Eastern Realm.”

“What about my other favor?”

Erik grinned. “That is another story.” He stood up and stretched and Miranda could see the years falling away again. Now Erik looked like a vigorous man of fifty or sixty years of age, still fit and dangerous. “I’ve got a mess here in the Western Realm, but it’s time my staff earned their keep and they can keep an eye on it for me.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Well, you’ll want generals for the Tsurani army, and I’m a general. Or at least a Knight-Marshal, which means I order generals around.”

“The Prince would give you leave?”

“The Prince would wear green paint and dance in the city square if I told him it was a good idea.”

Miranda laughed at the image.

“Edmund’s a good enough fellow, but everyone this side of a stone statue knows he’s a caretaker prince, sent out here because he’s so ineffective no one back east will worry about him becoming ambitious.” Erik’s mood turned serious. “We may have a civil war brewing when I get back—if I get back. I swear you to an oath of secrecy, but the King is not a well man.”

Miranda was alarmed. The King was young and had no male heir. “What is it?”

“No one knows, but I suspect it’s something dire. Every priest that could be trusted has been in to see him, and I may even ask you or the Conclave for help if I can persuade the King to trust you. He’s been growing slightly less hale every year, and he and the Queen have had no male children, and the Princess is only seven years old. We’ve had a string of royal cousins on the throne of Krondor for the last ten years and the King keeps moving them around lest they grow ambitious.”

“Erik, if the King died tomorrow, what would happen?”

“Prince Edmund and a dozen other royals would return to Rillanon and appear before the Congress of Lords, all of them
claiming the throne. And there would be a dozen royals standing right beside him claiming the crown. We’d have a kingdom brokered like my old friend Roo used to broker wheat and barley—and he told me enough stories about trade for me to think it’s every bit as nasty a business as war. If no claimant to the throne gained consensus in the Congress, we’d have factions, and that could lead to open strife.”

“Civil war,” said Miranda.

“Yes, and we haven’t had one of those in a very long time.”

“Who’s the closest conDoin male?”

Erik said, “That’s the difficult part. Lord Henry of Crydee is. Harry’s a grand fellow, but his ancestor, King Lyam’s brother Lord Martin, swore an oath on his own and his descendants’ behalf never to claim the crown. I’m sure it seemed like a good idea at the time, but right now I wish he’d kept his big mouth shut.” Erik’s frustration was evident. “Harry would have the unconditional support of the Western Nobles, and not a few of the Eastern rulers as well. But without a legitimate claim, many who would have supported him will oppose him because of that oath. So, the one fellow who could keep the kingdom from civil war is the one most likely to cause it should anyone press his claim.”

Miranda said, “I don’t envy you.”

“The only other conDoin male right now is a child, Prince Oliver, the son of the King’s dead brother, Richard. He’s six.”

Miranda turned toward the window. Night was falling. “I will leave you, Lord Erik. When can you come to aid the Tsurani?”

“I have put my affairs in order and my successor will be here tomorrow. Lord John deVres of Bas-Tyra will arrive sometime before noon by hard ride from Salador. I will be forced to endure one of Edmund’s receptions and tomorrow will be the formal investiture and my retirement from office. The Prince will insist on giving me titles to lands I’ll never have time to see, and from which I’ll get income I will never have time to spend. In short, I’ll be ready to join you in three days’ time.”

Miranda said, “I will come myself to take you to the rift.” She paused, “A suggestion?”

“Yes?”

“If the King does not survive, it might be politic for Prince Edmund to go to Rillanon and propose himself as—”

“Prince Oliver’s regent,” said Erik with a grin. “I’ve already discussed it with Lord James of Rillanon.”

Miranda said, “Nakor told me you were very clever for a blacksmith.”

Erik looked regretful. “There are days, and tomorrow is shaping up to be one of them, when I wish I had never left the forge.”

“I understand. Three days, then.”

“Three days.”

Miranda vanished and Erik sat down to think.

Kaspar moved his knight. “Check.”

General Prakesh Alenburga sighed. “I concede.” He sat back. “You’re still the best opponent I’ve faced in years, Kaspar.”

“I got lucky,” said Kaspar. “And you’re distracted, General.”

“True. I’ve spoken to the Maharajah about your…suggestion.”

Kaspar had been waiting to hear the Maharajah’s response. He had arrived two days earlier and found the capital of the new, vigorous Kingdom of Muboya enjoying a period of prosperity. A new palace was being constructed on a bluff overlooking the city, replacing an ancient citadel that reminded Kaspar a little of his own home in Olasko. It seemed centuries since he had lived there.

“What was his reaction?” Kaspar asked.

Alenburga sat back, his craggy features set in a thoughtful expression. “Given that you have never even met our beloved ruler, you certainly know how to gauge a man.”

“Comes from years of trying to keep your neighbors from crushing you while trying to crush them in return,” said Kaspar dryly.

Alenburga laughed. “Very well put. As you suggested, last time we met, the Maharajah married off his youngest sister to the second son of the King of Okanala and secured our southern border.

“But as it happens, the new Princess of Okanala can’t abide the Prince’s touch, and he apparently isn’t all that interested in
touching her in any event, preferring to go whoring with his chums, gambling his father’s kingdom away, or sailing boats that are built for racing—if you can imagine such a waste of gold—and so our ruler is not happy with the circumstances as they stand.

“Your suggestion that we take in an army willing to swear fealty to him—and the prospect of settling such an army down south, very close to the Okanala border—is very appealing to the Maharajah, but it is counterbalanced by the concern over where the loyalty of such soldiers may lie. To their own leaders or to the Maharajah?” He spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty.

Kaspar shrugged. The reaction was much as he had expected. “I don’t suppose the word of an outlander would count for much? They are the most oath-bound bunch I’ve ever encountered. If they swear fealty to the Maharajah, they’d cut off their own thumbs at his order.”

“I believe you, Kaspar. In our brief encounters I have come to judge you accurately, I think. You were once a very proud man who was humbled, and you are a more than capable military man. A ruler, too, I think at one time, or someone placed very high by birth.”

“You read me well,” said Kaspar.

“You have never lied to me, though you probably never had cause: if you had, you’d no doubt lie as convincingly as a young whore seeking to persuade a rich old man she’s in love with him.”

Kaspar laughed. “I have been known to avoid the truth when it served me to do so.”