The Barons' War (Shattered Lands Book 3), page 12
“At once, Your Majesty,” Orlan bowed deeply.
Tomas gathered his artifacts and notes, returning them carefully to his satchel. “Thank you for your patronage, Your Majesty.”
“Of course. Orlan, before you take him to his room, stay a moment. I apologize, Tomas, but a small matter of state needs settling. The secular world always seems to intrude on higher callings.”
Tomas laughed politely. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
He bowed and closed the door behind him. The moment the latch clicked Edmund’s face transformed. The warmth vanished, replaced by his normal expression of annoyance. He walked to his desk and sat, not bothering to gesture for Orlan to do the same.
“Find a way to get some of Colm’s cutthroats to Werna,” Edmund ordered. “I want them to watch over our dedicated young archivist. Ensure no one, not the acolytes, not the republic, no one, interferes with his finding the Key.”
“And should he succeed, Your Majesty?” Orlan asked.
“Ensure he brings it here safely. If he changes his mind, then the Key is more important than our friend. This could change everything, Orlan, if we play our cards correctly.”
“I understand, Your Majesty. I’ll take care of it personally.”
“Good. I want those men on their way to Werna ahead of our friend. Now go.”
Orlan bowed and withdrew, leaving Edmund alone with his thoughts. Things were starting to turn around. Garris was in trouble, his army was nearly fully assembled, and he might just have a new weapon before long.
***
Valemonde, Lynese
Isolde sat beside her father’s ornate bed, her hand resting atop his frail one. She wished everyone would leave. The room felt crowded, almost suffocating. For weeks, she had maintained her vigil, watching as he wasted away beneath silk sheets and fur coverlets worth more than most commoners would see in a lifetime.
Court officials and nobles filled the chamber, buzzing away like insects, just at the edge of her awareness. Word must have spread that the emperor would not last the night, although no one had talked to her about it.
In fact, no one had spoken to her at all. Instead, disciples made their pronouncements to the council members and the other circling vultures.
Beside her, dressed in the formal uniform with gold braid and polished buttons that was a little too large, hanging awkwardly on him, sat Baudric. He was trying his hardest to look important. Official.
And, of course, there was Agravaine, directing the flow of the carrion birds, arranging the pieces so that the empire transitioned how he wanted it to.
They disgusted her. Her father had raised them to their positions, and now they waited to pick at his corpse.
“Water,” he rasped, so quietly she wasn’t sure the men around her had even heard him.
Isolde picked up the silver cup from the nightstand and lifted it to his lips. His skin had turned yellow and paper-thin, stretched over bones that seemed too prominent. When she’d first arrived weeks ago, he had barely acknowledged her presence. Now, he gripped her fingers with surprising strength whenever she tried to leave his side.
The lead disciple approached, checked her father’s pulse, then stepped back to whisper to Agravaine. Isolde caught fragments: “… hours at most …” and “… arrangements must be …”
Several ministers held scrolls and wax, eager to finalize everything before death stole their opportunity.
“Isolde,” her father said, his voice cracking on the words.
“I’m here, Father,” Isolde said, squeezing his hand.
“You came back.”
“I did.”
“Father, the ministers require your attention on urgent matters of state,” her brother said, trying to elbow his way in next to her.
Baudric’s eyes shifted to his son, then back to Isolde, not even acknowledging the boy.
Chancellor Felan approached with the order of succession document, its edge trimmed in gold leaf, the imperial seal already affixed. He placed it on a small writing board and positioned it near the emperor’s right hand.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Agravaine said, “the succession must be secured for the empire’s future. If you would sign where indicated?”
Isolde said nothing. She didn’t care what happened to these people after her father was gone. She would still write to some of her sisters, and the lords of the empire could do what they wanted. The throne had never been her concern, not even before her marriage to William. She stroked her father’s arm and watched as he reached for the quill with shaking fingers.
The emperor dipped the quill in ink and brought it to the parchment. His hand trembled violently, and for a moment, Isolde thought he might be too weak to write. Then, with sudden determination, he pressed the quill down, not on the line marked for his signature, but above, where it listed her brother’s name as the successor to the Lynesian throne. In a single stroke, he crossed it out and above it, with painful slowness, he scratched five letters.
“I-S-O-L-D-E”
The whispering men gathered around his bed fell silent.
Young Baudric lunged forward and snatched the document. “What? No! This cannot be! This isn’t fair!”
“The emperor has made his choice,” Count Janir said from the corner of the room.
The old man was one of the few in her father’s court she’d ever liked.
“My lords, ladies, esteemed ministers,” Agravaine said calmly, although she could hear the desperation in his voice. “Clearly, His Imperial Majesty’s mind has been affected by his illness and medications. We must …”
“I know what I wrote,” the emperor said, each word strained, but very clear.
Young Baudric turned red and screamed, “She married a Sidorian! She doesn’t deserve it!”
“No law prohibits her inheritance,” Count Janir said as he moved closer to Isolde. “The Imperial Code is quite clear on this matter. The emperor’s choice is final.”
“No! No, no! She can’t!”
Two other elder lords, both opponents of Agravaine, joined Count Janir near her.
“The emperor has named his successor as is his right. Our personal feelings on the matter are irrelevant,” Lord Terivo said.
The room erupted into shouts as the factions began to argue with one another. She looked into her father’s eyes. She couldn’t figure out what he was doing. He’d never thought she was right for the throne. He’d said so enough times. Why would he pick her? What was the point of it all?
Her brother stormed around the bed, his face contorted with rage.
“Disciple!” he shouted. “Tell them of our father’s mental state! Tell them he has been delirious for days!”
The disciple looked uncomfortable. “His Imperial Majesty has been weak and at times has had difficulty staying awake, but when he is his mind is usually clear. He has suffered only a few bouts of confusion.”
“And what is he experiencing now?” Agravaine demanded.
“This is treason,” young Baudric hissed.
“No, my prince,” Count Janir said. “This is succession.”
Agravaine raised his hands. “My lords, this benefits none of us. I call an emergency meeting of the Imperial Council to address this situation.”
“Yes. We must correct this error immediately,” Baudric said, turning to follow Agravaine toward the door. “You four, stay here. Watch my sister. Make sure she doesn’t leave.”
Most of the ministers and courtiers trailed after Agravaine and the prince, already dividing into factions. Isolde heard their raised voices fade as they moved down the corridor.
The disciple, a little fazed but still keeping to his duty, checked her father’s pulse again and shook his head.
“Not long now, Your Highness,” he murmured to Isolde.
With most of the officials gone, Isolde leaned closer to her father.
“I never wanted this,” she whispered.
“I know.” His voice was faint now. “But you … you were right.”
Count Janir stepped closer. “Your Highness, your father discussed this possibility with me during his clearer moments over the past week. He has … had a change of heart.”
The emperor tried to speak, managed only broken whispers. “Hope you … understand … my choice.”
“I do,” Isolde said, though she wasn’t certain she did.
The physician approached with a small vial.
“For the pain, Your Majesty,” he said, helping the emperor drink.
The emperor fumbled at his neck, fingers searching for something. Isolde helped him, finding a small chain hidden beneath his nightshirt. From it hung a token bearing her mother’s crest, a golden Sajoi bird in flight above three stars. The emperor removed it with trembling hands and pressed it into Isolde’s palm.
“Your mother would have … been proud,” he whispered.
His breathing grew labored, his grip on Isolde’s hand weakening with each passing minute. The physician stepped back respectfully, giving Isolde these final moments alone with her father.
She was having trouble taking it all in. The sadness of losing him, the shock from his proclamation, the surprise from his sudden change of heart after a lifetime of being disappointed in her.
Had he seen the ancients? Had they spoken to him? Convinced him to change his ways before it was too late?
“I’ve made so many mistakes,” the emperor said. “With you … most of all.”
“None of that matters now, just go …”
She was interrupted when Baroness Evonh, one of her father’s loyal supporters, burst into the room, past the guards who were unsure of what to do.
“We have a problem,” she said to Janir, “Agravaine gathers signatures to declare the emperor mentally unfit at the time of signing. They are working quickly to nullify the succession document. I think he will be successful.”
Count Janir frowned. “You should leave for Rendalia immediately, Princess. Your father’s orders will not stand. Agravaine can detain you. We can buy you time, but not much.”
“I won’t abandon him in his final moments to save myself,” Isolde said.
The politics could wait; her father could not.
The emperor’s eyes were fixed on Isolde with unexpected clarity, but then he went foggy again. She didn’t think he could see her.
“Is that … you?” he whispered.
For a moment, Isolde thought he spoke to her, but then she realized he saw someone else. Someone long gone.
“My love … you came for me …”
The emperor took his final breath while looking at whatever vision comforted him in his last moment. His hand went still in hers.
The elder acolyte stepped forward from the shadows. “The emperor returns to the ancients. May they welcome him as one of their own.”
Everyone in the room bowed their heads, even the guards who had been ordered to watch Isolde.
Count Janir moved to her side, “Your Highness. We should go.”
Isolde nodded. The guards on the door, the ones her brother had ordered to hold her there, looked to the count and stepped aside.
Tears streamed down her face as she hurried out of the room, knowing she would probably never see Valemonde again.
Chapter 10
The Silent Isles
William knelt beside the carpenter at the stern of the beached ship, examining the newly fitted planks. The wood felt rough beneath his fingers, not the smooth, seasoned timber that a proper shipyard would use, but it would have to serve.
“Will it hold?” he asked Foskett.
“Yes, my prince. Not pretty work, but solid enough. We used the nails we forged yesterday and they are holding well. Need more for the bow section. Once we have more pine resin for caulking, we’ll test if she’s watertight. There is still a lot to do, but with this progress, maybe three more weeks and she will be ready to put to sea.”
William nodded, rising to his feet and dusting off his knees. Every day, the projection of when they would be able to leave extended. It wasn’t the carpenter’s or the captain’s fault, but it was hard for William not to be impatient.
Before William could reply, he saw Sir Drummond hurrying toward him, coming up the beach from the camp. The knight, who was usually serious, looked even more grave than usual.
“Your Highness. The supply party has not returned. Six men departed at dawn for the pine grove we found to collect more resin. They should have been back by midday at the latest.”
“How long since anyone saw them?”
“Nine hours, Your Highness. Too long for a simple gathering task. This makes thirteen men now, although this is the first with so many at one time.”
William cursed silently. After the first several disappearances, he’d forbidden solitary excursions. They’d gone out in pairs, and he lost two more. After that, they only sent large parties, which had seemed to work. They hadn’t lost anyone in a week. He’d hoped that meant he’d solved the problem.
“We need to search for them now,” William said, turning and heading for the tents. “Round up Eskild and five others. Tell them to bring torches, weapons, water.”
Instead of following orders, Drummond followed him.
“Your Highness, with respect, you should remain in camp. We cannot risk your safety on this island. I will lead the search party myself.”
William ducked into his tent, emerging moments later with his sword. “I’m not going to argue. I’ve stayed here every day while all of you have been out there getting what we need. I am a third wheel, just telling everyone to hurry but adding nothing to our progress. You have work to do, so do it. I will lead the men.”
“And when we leave this island? Who will lead the army back to Sidor?”
“The same person if I never got off this island. Protecting me while we slowly languish, losing men, is the same as never leaving this island. I am in no more danger now than I was leading armies in the field. I did not lead from safety then, and I will not do it now.”
“Your Royal Highness, I must advise …”
“You have advised. And I thank you for your counsel, Sir Drummond. But this is not open for debate.”
A brief silence fell between them. William knew Drummond saw the boy he’d met a year and a half ago, in over his head and in trouble. William knew he still had a lot to learn, but he also wasn’t that boy any longer.
“As you command,” Drummond relented, though he clearly still disapproved.
William clapped him on the shoulder. “I will forever appreciate your council, my friend. Keep the camp secure. Continue the repairs. If we do not return by morning, do what you can to get these men to safety.”
“Yes, my prince,” he said, bowing his head before going to carry out his orders.
Ten minutes later, Eskild and five of what William was sure were Drummond’s best soldiers arrived.
“We follow the supply team’s path to the pine grove, two miles north through the forest. Stay together at all times. No man wanders off alone, not even to relieve himself. We will not return until we find what is killing our brothers, and deal with the danger. Understood?”
The men nodded, faces solemn.
“Good. Let’s get going.”
With final instructions to Drummond, William led his small band toward the tree line, where shadows already stretched long and dark beneath ancient boughs. The air beneath the canopy smelled of damp earth and decay, with the distant tang of the salt sea fading behind them.
The narrow path showed clear signs of recent use from all of the trips his men had been making to collect water, resin, and other supplies. Broken twigs, disturbed leaf litter, occasional boot prints in patches of softer ground. Eskild led them at a brisk pace. The entire place made William uneasy. The Silent Isles had earned their name; no birds called from the branches overhead, no animals sounded in the distance.
They traveled for nearly an hour, maintaining Eskild’s punishing pace. As they traveled deeper into the forest, it grew denser, the trees taller and older. Finally, the path opened into a small clearing where a grove of massive pines stood, several cut down to the stump or scarred by earlier work parties.
“Spread out. Look for signs.”
It did not take long to discover the first evidence of trouble. William stepped into the center of the clearing where several satchels lay scattered on the ground. Tools for tapping the trees, small hammers, metal spouts, and collection buckets, lay abandoned amid the pine needles.
William crouched to examine the items. Nothing appeared damaged or torn, simply dropped. Whatever had happened, it occurred suddenly.
“Your Highness.” One of the soldiers pointed to a dark patch on a cluster of fallen leaves. “Blood.”
William moved to examine it. The stain was brown and dry, hours old. His fingers brushed the crisp leaves, coming away with flecks of rusty color.
“More here,” called Eskild from several paces away.
He pointed to spatters on a tree trunk, then to another patch on the ground nearby. William looked around the clearing. The men, knowing what to look for, quickly found more evidence of blood. Not great pools of it, but scattered droplets and smears around the area.
There wasn’t just blood. One of the men found a knife that had belonged to one of the sailors. A sturdy blade. It was bent at an unnatural angle, as though it had struck something with tremendous force.
“Hit against stone, perhaps,” Eskild suggested. “Bone would not do this.”
“Stone would have chipped it or shattered it, not just bent it. Keep looking.”
The search party spread out further, staying within sight of one another as William had ordered. The clearing told a grim story. A torn piece of shirt caught on a branch, a broken bow lying half-concealed beneath ferns, a water flask emptied and crushed.
“Here!” One of the men called. “A trail leads away. Blood drops.”
William joined him, kneeling to examine what appeared to be a path of disturbed undergrowth leading away from the clearing. Small droplets of dried blood marked the route.
