“This one is a very special bird,” he said, fixing his grotesque marbles of eyes upon her. “For she could get into my mind, and I could feel her—feel her pulling me like a fish on the end of a line. One pull and I would be no more. And yet, somehow she let me go.”
“Birds, now fish, Your Grace? And who is this she of whom you speak?”
With a creak and then a shaking rattle sound, Duke Hoarfrost started to laugh. “You really don’t know, do you?”
For the first time, Ignacia had a moment of doubt, and with it a twinge of fear. This was not planned ahead, none of this. This was an unknown factor.
Seeing her suddenly thoughtful face, Duke Hoarfrost laughed even harder, a pumping bellows mechanism sprung into full motion. “You need to tell your Sovereign,” he said in-between guffaws, “that a Cobweb Bride is the least of her problems! Death, the gallows bastard, has another Champion!”
And then he laughed again, seeming to no longer be aware of her presence, and would not stop.
Moments later, Ignacia quietly left the Duke’s tent. She went inside her own, and hurriedly wrote on a tiny piece of parchment, then prodded the messenger boy awake. He took her rolled-up note and selected a plump grey pigeon with white-tipped feathers, trained specifically to fly to his native coop in the Sapphire Court.
“No,” said Ignacia. “This one is too late. The Sovereign and her armies are already on the move and the message will never reach her. Use a pigeon that returns to Balmue.”
The boy nodded, and took out another creature, this one of a darker coloration. “This one, My Lady. It will fly directly to His Majesty Clavian Sestial’s personal coop in Ulpheo.”
“Perfect! Ulpheo will be directly on the way, and there Her Brilliance will likely add to her Trovadii the Balmue battalions, so it will involve a sufficient delay. Now, attach the message and let the bird fly.”
The boy nodded, and in minutes he had released the pigeon into the clear winter sky.
Ignacia stood looking up at it. She thought about the contents of the note that said simply, “Hoarfrost is no longer entirely ours. He is likely to take Letheburg within a day, for himself. How shall I proceed?”
It was time to send the birds.
The Emperor Josephuste Liguon II of the Realm stopped briefly on his walk along the highest terrace of the Imperial Palace. It was his favorite haunt, meticulously kept free of the fresh powder of snow that had fallen overnight, by servants who had swept the marble floor and filigree gilded iron railings hours earlier.
Here, hundreds of feet above ground level, he could see the variegated hues of whiteness in a panoramic sweep of rooftops and cathedral spires, with the immense gilded dome of the Basilica Dei Coello to his right, wearing an ermine hat of snowfall, and everywhere distant rooftops and balconies of the outlying buildings and lyceums. Far beyond to the north lay Lethe, with its wintry forest wilderness. To the west, stretched Styx, bordering with verdant temperate France. And directly southeast was warm, fertile Morphaea, touching with its lower southern borders the foreign Domain Kingdom of Balmue, and with its upper eastern side the lofty ridge of the Aepienne Mountains and beyond it, the Domain Kingdom of Solemnis.
Here in this spot on top all things, was the heart of the Empire. The rest of the world radiated in all directions around him.
The Emperor was a slight man of less-than average height, so that his thin figure was often elevated with curving heels in the French fashion, and attired in resplendent finery of high Court, while rouge and powder were applied to his face to disguise the washed out, sallow quality of aging skin.
Today was not such an occasion.
The Emperor wore an ordinary tailored jacket and trousers, drab mourning colors, an overcoat and sensible winter shoes. His graying head and bald spot was covered with a plain unpowdered black wig, and his face, untouched by artifice, was clearly that of a grieving old man. He walked slowly, leaning on a polished walking cane, and took frequent stops to admire the view. A few discreet feet behind him walked two of his personal attendants and, farther back, the Imperial guards.
It had been several days now since the loss of his daughter. After the Infanta was assassinated on the fateful day of the Event when death stopped and everything began, the Emperor had grown apathetic, finding it harder and harder to focus on the daily routine, or to make the simplest of decisions. And now, with news of all manner of unrest, conflict, and general misfortune coming to barrage him every waking hour, he found it more and more difficult to face the duties of each day.
They told him the foodstuffs were hardly in sufficient supply to last a month at most. And then, there was expected to be widespread hunger all over the Realm and beyond. No fruits or vegetables reaped or grown after the Event could be consumed by the mortal body in order to gain nourishment, no livestock slaughtered. It was as if all living energy itself was suspended, and would not be released into the chain of life. Only old harvest grains, fruits, and other aged food kept the hunger at bay.
His dead daughter had gone north to the wilds of Lethe to offer herself as a Cobweb Bride, and nothing was heard of her since. The Emperor tried not to think, tried instead to look at the clear morning sky of pale blue, with not a cloud in sight.
They told him that something was happening in the north country, a massing of the dead under the banner of the Chidair Duke who himself was one of them. Again, the Emperor tried not to think, not to imagine, for it all made so little sense.
The Empress spent her time mostly in her own quarters, working on endless, useless needlework or making charitable visits. Again he tried not to think of his wife’s white face purged of all animation, carved by grief into a shrunken elderly doll. Indeed, the two of them now made a fine pair.
And the bizarre, unsettling news continued. More recently, within the last two days, there were such inexplicable events reported that the Emperor could not even grasp the meaning of what was being suggested. According to so-called reliable witnesses, various landmarks were disappearing from all around the Realm. Sections of the land gone—forests, entire portions of towns, remote settlements missing, roads abbreviated, hills misplaced. Utter nonsense, he thought, and chose to think of it as a mere sign of the troubled times—an escalated state of frenzy in the impressionable minds of everyone made vulnerable by the cessation of death to the barest hint of the metaphysical in all things. God had abandoned them, and so did reason.
One other superstitious rumor that particularly infuriated him had to do with a supposed young girl from a distant northern village in Lethe who had the miraculous ability to lay the dead to rest. Death’s Champion, they called her. She traveled the countryside and performed miracles on old women and pigs. Or maybe she was but an angel sent from Heaven, a precursor of the Last Judgment. Upon hearing of this “Death’s Champion,” he had gone into a quiet rage and forbade any more mention of it.
But there were other things, undeniable and real.
They told him there were new stirrings beyond the foreign border of the Domain. Something on a very large scale was taking place. . . . Balmue had grown so quiet it was surely a calm before the storm. Clandestine chatter was at a minimum, and all his own sources had gone extraordinarily silent. Oh, how he tried not to think on that!
The Emperor took a turn about the terrace, reaching its eastern end. It was here that Andre Eldon, the dashing and dandified Duke of Plaimes, and Claude Rovait, the bearded and distinguished Duke of Rovait, caught up with him. Both men were Peers of the Realm from Morphaea, consummate diplomats, and his finest Imperial advisors. Both also supervised a wide network of clandestine operations, with ties all over the Domain and the outlying foreign territories.
The men walked swiftly and bowed before the Emperor.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” spoke the younger man, the Duke of Plaimes, who held the secret distinction of handling the deep cover spy network based in the Domain. “If we might have a moment of your privacy—some news.”
The Emperor gr
imly acknowledged them; motioned with a tired gesture for the assistants trailing him to walk further back. The Imperial guards fell back also.
“Bad news, I surmise?” the Emperor said as soon as they were out of hearing range of anyone else.
“I am afraid so,” replied Plaimes. “Today I received a series of flower code messages from Micul Fiomarre. The first bird brought a carefully drawn likeness of the dreaded red rose, which means the Sovereign armies are on the march against us, blossom opened wide, which indicates the entire Trovadii force. Immediately after, a second bird arrived, also with an open rose, but this one black—a somewhat cryptic message, since black indicates death, and also a black rose is the symbol of one of the Trovadii generals. Later, two more pigeons came in, one with a blue fleur-de-lis which means Solemnis is on the move in the west, and the other bearing the likeness of a green leaf, which indicates that the Balmue border is on high alert.”
The Emperor sighed. “So, it begins. . . .”
“Fortunately, in this we have advance notice.” This time it was the ever-tactful and levelheaded Duke Claude Rovait who spoke. “I suggest Your Imperial Majesty puts the Imperial Forces on alert within the hour. And by the end of the day we will have the entire military of the Realm ready to counter the threat.”
“Good, yes, let us proceed thus,” muttered the Emperor. His eyes continued taking in the wide expanse of sky, serene and fathomless. A crisp late afternoon wind swept in sudden biting gusts along the terrace.
“With your permission,” continued Rovait, “We will alert Morphaea.”
“Yes, yes. . . .”
“One bird to His Majesty at Duorma, immediately,” said the Duke of Plaimes—for it was within his Dukedom that the capital city lay, and his prime responsibility was for the defense of the Morphaea-Balmue border.
“Another to my own Dukedom,” Rovait said.
“One to Styx, to alert the young Augustus,” said the Emperor thoughtfully.
“Styx has very few resources at the moment, Your Majesty,” Plaimes mused. “If I recall, a single battalion is all he can manage at such short notice. It will have to remain as part of his own garrison, to counter Solemnis, and none to lend to the Imperial army.”
“Poor boy.” The Emperor continued to stare at the rooftops, the distant haze of the outlying edifices, swept with snow. “He will have to manage on his own for quite a while. I have no expectations on his part. Now, what of Lethe?”
“Lethe,” Rovait said, “might be problematic. They are dealing with the civil uprising—”
“Ah, yes,” the Emperor mused. “The eternal cesspit of discord that is Lethe.”
“The Red and Blue Dukes have made things very difficult indeed, and now the alliances along the lines of the living and the dead are stretching things further. . . . There has been no word yet as to the developments in the north, but I do expect something shortly.”
“Well then, wait on Lethe until more is known.”
“Your Imperial Majesty, one more suggestion, if I might make it,” spoke Claude Rovait, in his rational, calming manner. “It might be prudent to send something beyond the Domain. The Sun King of France is not likely to respond, but it would be worth trying to fortify a solid rear front against the Domain there. The House of Bourbon has fickle and complex loyalties, especially on the side of Marie-Thérèse, the Infanta of Spain. As for Spain itself, feeble and starving, especially at such times as these, Carlos the Second is of little use to us.”
“Then send a bird to France, and tell them of our plight.”
“It shall be done, Your Imperial Majesty.” Rovait’s wise, comfortable gaze offered the Emperor a soothing moment of emotional balm.
“What a mess. . . .” Josephuste Liguon II muttered. “How long? How long do you think we have until the Sovereign reaches the Balmue border?”
“Even is she arrives tomorrow morning, we will be ready, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Duke of Plaimes spoke with utter confidence.
“And what if—what if she comes . . . tonight?” The fears arose, starting to gnaw at him full force, and the Emperor looked away from the false serenity of the panorama and focused at last upon his two advisors.
“Highly unlikely,” Rovait’s expression was mild, and a steady smile of reassurance played on his lips, partially obscured by his well-trimmed beard.
“Regardless, our battalions will stand ready.” Plaimes spoke reassuringly to his Imperial liege.
“Then go! Make it happen! Call the generals to war!”
They bowed, and hurried away, two of his favorite, most reliable men.
It was time to send the birds.
Chapter 14
Percy sat before him in the saddle and listened to the black knight’s steady breathing as he guided the warhorse forward on the roadway.
There was no one else on the road this morning. The road itself was almost invisible, an abstraction barely defined by the subtle hedge growth on both sides. After such a heavy snowfall, few bothered to make a trip of even a mile. And thus, the way was pristine, untouched by ruts of cart or wagon wheels or footfalls of man or beast.
Only a few birds sped overhead, and the occasional roadside trees shook off the crystalline burden from their branches.
Another half an hour of steady walking on the part of Jack, and they had ridden close to the outlying settlements of the town ahead. Here, the first cross-traffic of the day greeted them, as a few carts and warmly-dressed working class pedestrians approached and passed them.
“There it is,” said Percy in curiosity, turning her head from one side of the road to another, to stare at roadside establishments, as they grew thicker and thicker together. “I didn’t think it would be so big. . . . Not compared to Letheburg of course, but Fioren is a big place!”
“Hm-m-m,” the knight retorted. His steel eyes were on the road and he did not look at her, but she noted a slight tensing in his brows. “There is something—I cannot place what it is, but something is off,” he said. “For one thing, Fioren has no walls that I know off.” And he pointed with one gauntleted finger at the distant rising short walls of stone, directly in their path. They were nothing in comparison with the great parapets of Letheburg, but there was a definite enclosure, and a gate up ahead.
“What in Heaven’s name?” Beltain muttered. “This is not Fioren! This is Duarden!”
Percy stared in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, this is not the town of Fioren.”
“How can that be? Did we somehow miss it on the way back there?”
Beltain did not reply, but hailed the next passerby. “What town is this?”
“Duarden, My Lord,” the bearded peasant replied.
“What of Fioren? Is it not supposed to be here?”
“Aye, My Lord, it is. I am from Fioren, but a miracle has come, and it’s gone!” The peasant spoke, gesticulating with his mittened hands for emphasis. “I just spent the night here, out of noplace else to go! My horse an’ I here, we were out deliverin’ and now I got nowhere to return to. What with the snow an’ all, had to stay overnight.”
“So you say that Fioren has disappeared. . . . You’re sure of it?” Beltain persisted.
“Not sure of nuthin’ much these days, Lordship,” the man replied. “But if it is there, I’ll be looking for it, since my wife and the boys are there, and my home. Maybe it’ll come back? They say some places that disappear like that come back—”
“So this is not the only place that’s disappeared?” Percy asked.
The peasant looked up at her, rubbed the bridge of his nose with the back of his mitten. “Oh, no, girlie. They say, a few miles off, a whole field and forest are all gone. People woke up a day ago, and there was just nothing there. And up in the tavern back there in Duarden, they tell me half the streets are missing. And worse!”
“What’s worse?”
“It’s the dead, girlie. They’re everywhere. Not afraid of the cold they are. Hardly any place left for
an honest livin’ man. Not much food left, either.”
He shook his head wearily, raised his hat up to the knight in politeness, and then was on his way.
“Will that be a problem for you?” Beltain asked. “The dead?”
“Not any more so than usual. . . .”
“Good. Then we proceed onward.”
But Percy’s mind was reeling. “My Uncle Guel is in Fioren. . . . Was in Fioren!” she marveled, as the knight again directed the charger to walk forward.
“Wherever your Uncle and his family are now, say a prayer for them,” Beltain replied grimly.
They approached and passed the gates into Duarden, a mid-sized affluent town just a stone’s throw away from the Silver Court. The streets were snowed-over, with light traffic, and the buildings stood close to each other, with many overhangs and quite a few expensive shingles indicating various high-end establishments.
A few odd looking figures were indeed seen about, some sitting calmly right in the snow before buildings, others standing upright, like statues. A mother and child of no more than five, both deceased, lay dejectedly in a bundle before the wall of a bakery storefront, looking with apathetic glassy eyes at the passerby. Their faces were greyish-blue from the cold, and white powder covered the tops of their bare heads. Each one had a billowing death-shadow at their side, noted Percy. None were particularly threatening, and were left well enough alone by the living. But their presence was a strange psychic burden upon the place. . . .
As the knight and Percy rode by, she could see the dead slowly sensing her, turning their fixed stares upon her, and following all her movements with their eyes. None of them made any move to approach, and she took a deep breath and steadily looked away from them.
The sun rose higher, signaling near mid-morning, and Percy’s stomach was rumbling. She flushed again, knowing Beltain could hear it, while the knight simply said, “Time to get a meal. Lord knows, I could use a tankard of a real brew about now.”
They found a tavern and eatery within a few minutes, and right next to it, a bakery with a tantalizing storefront displaying apple tarts and great round loafs of golden-browned bread and long braided baguettes. The mouthwatering aroma of rising yeast and flour was devastating.