“Your Grace!” Nathan exclaimed. “Do you honestly think I would let myself grow this monstrous beard and come to be in such a foul state merely for a lark?”
The Duke stared at both of them, glancing from one to the other with thoughtful severity, then relented. “No, I suppose not. Knowing the two of you, I must regretfully admit the possibility of what you say. But only so far! Give me something more, something tangible the Emperor can put to practical military use—”
“You require strategic information?” Lady Amaryllis said with intensity. “Well, Your Grace, here is one—our former dearest friend, the Lady Ignacia Chitain is a Balmue spy of the Domain, and has been, it appears, for years on end.”
“We are aware of it,” the Duke replied calmly.
“What? You knew?” The expression on the lady’s face was outrage.
“We have learned it recently,” the Duke continued. “In fact, just as our suspicions on her behalf were supported by observation, the three of you happened to disappear shortly afterward, so for a while there it did not look good for all three of you.”
“What?” This time it was Nathan who exclaimed. “But we’d been captured by Chidair! We had gone to play at Cobweb Brides—an idiot adventure, I admit—but it all ended in the Chidair Keep with dead soldiers taking us, locking us up, and feeding us pig slop. Amaryllis and I here had nothing to do with any of Ignacia’s treason!”
“Yes, we also know that now.”
“Ignacia has betrayed us, and our friendship as much as she betrayed the Imperial Realm,” Amaryllis said with cold fury. “She had turned on us and gone over to Duke Hoarfrost’s side, with promises of some kind of beastly Alliance with the Sovereign—who incidentally is immortal—”
“What?” Duke Claude Rovait stopped Amaryllis’s tirade with a raised hand. “What did you say about the Sovereign? She is immortal?”
“Well, yes. She is the Grecian Goddess Persephone who has apparently lost her mind—or whatever it is that goddesses possess up there in the cranial region—and it has made her commit supposed atrocities.”
“Well now, this is indeed interesting news; this we did not know,” Duke Claude Rovait mused. “If what you say about Rumanar Avalais is true, then it explains some things remarkably, including her uncanny charismatic influence upon so many, despite her cruelties. She has indeed been pursuing a political course of action that had no apparent logical pattern to it, and not a solid hint as to motives. Indeed, the gradual brewing of hostility between the Realm and the Domain was observed by us over the years with much puzzlement, and more and more it became a mystery tied to her person. We suspected sorcery and the dark arts. But now—with the cessation of death, with potions of the land completely disappearing, chaos and unrest and soon-to be universal hunger, as our meager food supply dwindles—”
“Now you have a mad goddess on your hands,” Nathan concluded with an exasperated sigh. “So, when can we expect her to besiege the Silver Court?”
The Duke watched them both with a closed expression. “That is the strangest thing,” he said. “She and the Trovadii army have come . . . and gone. They came upon us the night before last, arriving in the late evening from the direction of Morphaea, and they did not stop. . . . Instead of surrounding the Imperial citadel, they simply passed around us, the undead multitudes streaming outside the walls, and then continued onward, north, and into Lethe. It was as if the Sovereign did not consider the Emperor a threat at all, to such an insulting degree that she did not bother to pause and make war with us!”
“Oh, I am certain I know where she is headed,” Amaryllis said. “If what Hades said is true, then she seeks Death’s Keep and plans to take her armies and enter the Underworld—how or why, I have not the faintest notion. As for our own mortal world—I fear we are in for some very bad times.”
“Well, my dears,” said the Duke, “it appears that you will have your Imperial Audience after all.”
Dawn bloomed softly, staining the lower edges of the starlit black sky of night with mother-of-pearl at the eastern horizon over the great ancient city of Charonne.
The ethereal first light gathered its riches over the capital city and over the entire Kingdom of Styx. It pooled with broken shards of mirror-clarity in the rapidly moving waters of the dark and wide river that flowed only a mile-and-a-half west of the city walls—the River Styx that never froze, not even now, in the heart of winter.
An invading army camped on the snow-laden distant western shores of the river, from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see in the dawning blue twilight. Hundreds of tents had been erected, morning campfires were already smoking, and a hive of soldiers wearing the olive and black colors of the Kingdom of Solemnis moved around the tents. At even intervals all along the shoreline, the great engines of siege were lined up in monolith formations, their dark silhouettes sharp against the paling sky, their wooden towers and catapults pointing across the river at the bulwarks of the city walls where the defending cannon faced them in turn from embrasures, silent for the moment.
This was an army of mortal living men, and thus, they had to eat and sleep, and wage ordinary war. King Frederick Ourin of Solemnis, which was one of the four Kingdoms of the Domain, had sent the entire force of his battalions north, into the enemy territory of the Realm, all upon the orders of the Sovereign. They had been told to wait at the western shore of the river, to block the city from any outside access in the west, but not to engage until further orders, and not to cross Styx. This has been days ago. . . . And as yet, no new orders were forthcoming.
And thus the Domain army sat in readiness, while the defenders of Charonne observed them from the height of the bone-pale walls.
More than fifty feet above ground level, up on the battlements, musketeer and arquebusier marksmen wearing the crimson and black colors of Styx leaned in readiness, manning their long-muzzled firearms through every merlon embrasure and along every crenel. Behind them, amid flickering night torches, paced sergeants-at-arms and various infantrymen with pole weapons at the ready, and suppliers moved small wheelbarrows and loaded carts. At one such point near a sizeable bulwark facing west, several high-ranking officers were gathered, and in their center stood a slim youth dressed in a full suit of battle armor, his plates shining to a high polish and trimmed with gold. His crested helmet sported black and crimson ostrich plumes and his visor was raised, revealing the face of a grave and frightened youngster of no more than fourteen.
His Majesty, Augustus Ixion, the young King of Styx, recently orphaned and recently crowned, was here at dawn, to observe and take stock of his city’s defenses. At his right stood a tall, vigorous man with a handsome face and artfully styled dark hair, bare of helm and heedless of the cold dawn, with filaments of his hair flying in the morning breeze. He was Andre Eldon, the Duke of Plaimes, from the Kingdom of Morphaea. Together with his King, Orphe Geroard, and the ragged remainder of the Morphaea army, the Duke had arrived here in Charonne only two days ago, under the cover of night and in inclement weather, to join forces with Styx against their common enemy. It has been a miracle they managed to enter the city from the eastern side without being intercepted and destroyed by the Solemnis forces. But so far, Solemnis showed no interest in crossing the river. And besides, the Morphaea men were so few in number that their arrival was easily overlooked and their reinforcements were mostly a boost to morale.
“I wonder what it is that makes them wait now . . .” mused the Duke of Plaimes, as he raised a long spyglass to stare at the roiling vista below, across the silvery waters of the River Styx. “Especially since the Sovereign and the Trovadii are well on their way deep into Lethe by now. One would expect Solemnis to be done here quickly then hurry to rendezvous with the Trovadii, coming together from the west and east at some point, but where?”
“Likely, Letheburg, where Hoarfrost sits,” replied Bruno Melograno, one of the garrison officers in their company.
“Yes, but why? Why Letheburg? It is incomprehensib
le to me. Why drive past the most attractive prize of the Realm that happens to be the Imperial Seat at Silver Court and cast away the opportunity to take the Emperor, and instead enter the northern wilderness?”
“Maybe the Sovereign wants to surround the Realm along its outer perimeter and cut us off from all our foreign borders?” Bruno Melograno pointed at the line of the camped enemy army across the river. “Even now, see how they choose to stay on the other side of Styx? There is no solid tactical advantage to it, since the added distance of the river makes artillery close to useless, except for the heaviest cannons. Their catapults will likely have the required reach to hit the walls and beyond, but other projectiles will fall short, miss all targets and likely drown in the river itself. If I were their commanding officer, I would cross Styx and camp on the eastern shore, closer to our walls. This way they still have plenty of safe distance between our artillery and their men, but at least they will have better chances of breaching us.”
“Agreed,” said Duke Andre Eldon. “So what is their reasoning? What are they waiting for? An invitation?”
King Augustus Ixion took a deep steadying breath and his boyish voice revealed only a slight tremor. “If they think to frighten me and my city simply by their extended presence, they will not succeed.”
“No, Your Majesty, indeed they will not. But generally speaking, it is a good thing to be somewhat frightened—just a tad, just enough to be on alert. . . . Nothing wrong with a healthy dose of awareness of reality, and the resulting caution,” the Duke replied in a steady matter-of-fact voice, as he continued to observe through the eyepiece of the slender brass telescope tube. “As long as fear is then transformed into useful actions.”
“Do you think,” the youth said, “that they will attack today?”
“Anything is possible. Your garrison is as ready as it can be, and My Liege and I are both at your service. I will personally stand at your side when it happens.”
Augustus turned his pale blotchy face with its acne-blemished skin and bright blue eyes at the older man. Then he glanced at the other officers surrounding him. “I thank you, Your Grace, and all of you who are here. I am ready for them,” he said bravely.
In that moment as the young King spoke, something unusual was taking place beyond the city walls of Charonne.
The nature of the sky itself seemed to change. But it was not the normal gradual brightening from blackness to pallor and a consequent fadeout of the stars. . . . Instead, the twilight seemed to pause momentarily, suspended for a few long moments in a perfect in-between state—while the stars hung fixed in the rich navy velvet of the heavenly zenith, almost black in the highest spot. And then the light at their back—coming from the east, from the direction of the city interior and beyond it, began to fade again—as though something had reversed the dawn itself.
As they looked out over the parapet walls at the western countryside and at the expanse of the faintly glittering river, at the same time, directly behind them, coming from the opposite direction, night was returning. . . .
No, it was not possible. It could not be.
The reversal happened quickly—far swifter than had been the normal blooming of dawn. In about ten breaths, there was an in-rushing of darkness, as first the heavens directly overhead became the same rich black they had been half an hour ago, and then the edges closer to the eastern horizon followed, darkening.
Meanwhile, the river and the army across it in the west were now in full darkness, their many beacons of campfires scattered like golden dots to mark the land.
“The sky! What in the world?” an officer exclaimed. “What is happening?”
“Lord protect us!” another man spoke, making the holy sign of God.
The soldiers manning the walls all trained their attention to the impossibility before them in the heavens. Marksmen were looking up, looking around and behind them, standing up and away from their firing posts in confusion.
But the Duke of Plaimes kept the spyglass raised, sweeping the horizon in all directions and was now once again aiming it in the direction of the river.
There, the lights of the enemy army were winking out, one by one. . . . In their place, a dark whirling mist arose, to obscure them entirely—and indeed to obscure most of the western half of the River Styx, so that nothing could be seen beyond its halfway point, much less its remote western shore.
At the same time, as they continued to observe all around them—with their only source of light being their own torches that were now cleanly burning in absolute night darkness—the men standing up on the battlements of Charonne looked up at the black sky and watched the stars go out overhead, as quickly as did the distant campfires.
It made even less sense. If it was night again, where were the stars?
The dome of the sky in its entirety was now a strange, uniform, homogeneous thing of darkness, a veil of mist, black as pitch.
Indeed, if one were to look out and around the city walls at the overwhelming mist-darkness surrounding them from all directions, Charonne no longer seemed to be situated in any place recognizable as being a part of the mortal world. . . .
Meanwhile, from the vantage point of the invading Solemnis across the River Styx, the soldiers of the Domain witnessed the same impossible phenomenon that seemed at first glance to be a reversal of dawn. The sky in the east faded, and a sudden black mist gathered over the middle of the river, blocking all view of the city beyond the other shore.
The mist stood up like a tangible wall of darkness, rising higher and higher into the expanse of heaven, while the air shimmered like a winter mirage.
For a quarter of an hour it stood thus. And then, as though touched by the capricious breath of the gods, the curtain of mist dissipated, and with it the eastern sky was revealed to be full of ordinary morning light.
However, the soldiers continued to stare in unrelieved wonder. Before them the wide and rapid River Styx had been diminished into a narrow stream, its girth reduced by half, and its eastern shore was now just a hundred feet away.
And beyond it, the land was a flat and snow-filled wilderness of brush and sparse trees, with nothing else for infinite leagues in the distance.
There was no trace of Charonne, the ancient city.
Chapter 5
Vlau Fiomarre awoke with a start, from yet another dream in which he saw her alive. She lay next to him, warm and glowing, her heart beating solidly in her chest, her blood coursing through her veins, a healthy rose flush on her delicate skin. Her great smoky eyes, open wide, were looking at him with soft receptiveness. . . .
Claere.
He found himself, as always, in her chambers, fully dressed, having fallen back against the cushions on the sofa, where he had nodded off yet again—for he was almost never sleeping any more, not properly in a bed. He existed in a chronic state of exhaustion, something within himself always preventing him from attaining the true moment of peaceful release necessary to accept sleep. Thus, sleep came upon him in stealth, taking him by force when he least expected it—such as now, here, in her presence.
While she—she stood silently near the window, as always looking out at the world outside, the distant rooftops of Letheburg, the street lanterns coming to life like golden fireflies among the early heliotrope dusk.
Vlau inhaled deeply and rubbed his eyes, then sat up, groggy from the lucid dream.
There had been a knock on the door. The sound had pulled him out of the stupor, while Claere slowly turned her head, casting a single glance at him where he sat, and then said softly, “Come in.”
The door opened and two liveried Palace guards entered, followed by the King of Lethe.
Claere Liguon turned, full body, away from the window and stood watching the newcomers. Her expression was the same nebulous mixture of infinite patience and resignation.
Vlau Fiomarre stood up, with a short bow before the King.
“I trust Your Imperial Highness is as well as can be,” King Roland Osenni said in a tir
ed voice, coming to the point, as was his usual manner. “I regret that it has come to this but I am left with no choice but to request your services.”
“Your Majesty,” the Infanta acknowledged him with a slow inclination of her head. “What . . . services?”
The King motioned with a weary hand at the window. “Out there,” he said. “Up on the parapets. I want you to go out there and talk to Hoarfrost. Attempt to talk some sense into him, for it might make a difference coming from one such as yourself. From one—uhm—deceased royal to another deceased vassal.”
“But—what am I to say?” Claere’s expression did not falter, but Vlau’s eyes—oh, they were fierce with reproach and intensity as he stared at the King.
“Say whatever you like. Think of something—anything, to get him to reconsider this siege. You, my dear, are Liguon. And if there is any shred of reason and loyalty left in Hoarfrost’s rotting brains—no offense—he might heed your words. He certainly did not bother to heed mine—not that I was able to stand up there for any length of time necessary to have a sentient conversation with that boar. At least you are in little danger of coming to—any further harm.”
There was a brief pause as Claere considered this. And then, “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course. Take me there and I will do what I can.”
In that moment, the Marquis Fiomarre opened his mouth, and without looking at the Infanta, dared to address the King directly. “Begging pardon of Your Majesty, but this is madness. Even if Her Imperial Highness believes she has the means of ending the siege, surely she does not seem to realize that as soon as she shows herself up on the city walls she will be subject to enemy artillery fire, as much as any man, dead or living. Her fragile body will be torn asunder, and she will be shot at—”