“Aha! Harteobben grabbed Maisak. Good! Good!” He strode inside, took a seat on the rostrum.
The Thing was a raggedy-assed comic imitation of a parliament now. Only thirty-six delegates were on hand. Most of those were self-appointed veterans. But it would do till some structure could be created for Kavelin’s remains.
Assuming the chair, Derel immediately recognized Baron Hardle of Sendentin.
Ragnarson loathed Sendentin. He had a big mouth, and had been involved in every attempt to weaken the Crown since the civil war. Yet Bragi grudgingly respected him. He had served uncomplainingly against Badalamen, and had been a doughty fighter. In the crunch he had stuck to Kavelin’s traditions and had closed ranks against the common enemy.
“News has come from Maisak,” the Baron announced. “The Dread Empire has abandoned the stronghold. Not one enemy occupies one square foot of the Fatherland. The war is over.”
Ragnarson wanted to protest. The conflict could never end while the Tervola existed. But he held his peace. Hardle’s remarks had drawn unanimous applause.
Hardle continued, “I suggest we return to the task we faced before the invasion. We need a King. A man able to make decisions and stick to them. The near future will be harrowing. All parties, all classes, all interests, must repudiate the politics of divisiveness. Or perish. We need a leader who understands us, our strength and our weakness. He must be fair, patient, and intolerant of threats to Kavelin’s survival.”
Bragi whispered, “Derel, they wanted me to hear self-serving
Nordmen campaign speeches?” Hardle, when wound up, could talk interminably.
Hardle spent an hour describing Kavelin’s future King. Then, “The Estates enter a consensus proposition: that the Regency be declared void and the Regent proclaimed King.”
Bragi’s dumbfoundment persisted while the Wesson party seconded the proposal.
“Hold it!” he bellowed. He realized that all this had been orchestrated. “Derel.... Gjerdrum....”
Both feigned surprise. “Don’t look at me,” said Prataxis. “It’s their idea.”
“How much help did they have coming up with it?” He glared at Varthlokkur, who lurked in the shadows, smiling smugly.
The Siluro and Marena Dimura minorities accepted the proposal too.
“I don’t want the aggravation!” Bragi shouted an hour later, having exhausted argument. “With no war to keep you out of mischief you’d drive me crazy in a month.”
He now suspected the motives of The Estates. A King was more constrained by law and custom than a Regent.
They out-stubborned him. They were planning the corona-tion before he yielded. His election, Derel insisted, would be lent legitimacy by the attendance of the K ings with the western army.
“You know,” he told Prataxis, “Haaken never wanted to come south. He wanted to fight the Pretender. If I’d known leaving would lead to this, I would’ve stayed.”
Prataxis grinned. “I doubt it. Kavelin was always your destiny.”
Kavelin. Always Kavelin. Damnable, demanding little Kavelin.
A sweating courier rushed in. He bore Inger’s response. Bragi read it, said, “All right. You’ve got me. Gods help us all.”
In his rags, with sores disfiguring his hands and face, the bent man didn’t stand out. He was but one of tattered thousands lining the avenue. The King’s Own Horse Guards pranced past, followed by Gjerdrum Eanredson, the new Marshall, then the Vorgrebergers.
The King and his wife approached. The Royal carriage wasn’t much. Fiana’s hearse converted. Kavelin had few resources to waste.
The old man hobbled away on feet tortured by hundreds ofmiles. He stared at the flagstones, hoped he wouldn’t catch Varthlokkur’s eye.
He squeezed the Tear shape in his pocket.
The wizard had been singularly careless, leaving it unat-tended.
But that was the nature of the Poles. To be forgotten. His own was the same.
Varthlokkur might not check on it for years.
He hobbled eastward, gripping the Tear with one hand, tumbling his gold medallion with the other. An hour outside Vorgreberg he began humming. He had had setbacks before. This one hadn’t been so terrible after all. The Nawami Crusades had gone worse.
There were countless tomorrows in his sentence without end.
The End
Glen Cook, All Darkness Met
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