“We are certain our dearly beloved queen has been at pains to comply with every point of your instructions regarding what accommodations would be adequate for your needs. The hot water has been arranged for your rooms, your personal masseur for each afternoon. The food as stipulated. The requested Farlenian wine.”
He smiled genially. Ines stiffened beside him. Geraud de Chervalles looked briefly discomfited, then sorrowful, in the manner of all clerics. He had, however, no easy reply. It was useful, Ramiro thought, to bring them up short early, like a horse in the breaking, before all the smooth, rolling phrases began to pour endlessly forth. He doubted, though, that this man was susceptible to being checked. A moment later this was confirmed.
“I do regret that my advancing years have made it necessary to beg certain solicitous favors from those who honor us with a request to visit. Especially in winter, I fear. Your majesty is young yet, in the flush of your god-granted vigor. Those of us who have begun our mortal decline can only look to you as our stern arm of support, under the holy sun of Jad.”
As expected. Not someone who could be quelled as he had managed to quell the yellow-garbed clerics here over the years. Erratic men, ambitious, but without leadership or force. Without looking he could picture the smug expressions on their faces. They had a champion now, and things might be about to change. Well, he ought to have known this was coming. He ought to have given it more thought. He had no one to blame but himself for agreeing to Ines’s request that they invite one of the High Clerics from her own country to stop here on his way to the Isle, for the comfort of her soul.
He’d known the name of de Chervalles, known he was a figure of power. Beyond that he had not concerned himself. A weakness. He didn’t like thinking about clerics. He did have a vague memory of the afternoon she’d asked his permission to invite the man. He had been lulled and languorous in the aftermath of lovemaking. His queen, thought Ramiro of Valledo, looking straight ahead, knew him altogether too well.
He forced himself to smile again at the tall, grey-haired man in the luxurious blue and yellow robe. “You are unlikely to need defending here in winter. Except against cold and boredom, perhaps. We will do what we can to make you comfortable during your brief time with us.” He allowed his tone to hint at dismissal. Perhaps this first encounter, at least, could be kept short. That would give him time to think things through a little.
De Chervalles’s expression grew dark, troubled. “The god knows our fears are not for ourselves or our own comfort, gracious king. We come hither on the hard roads heavy with thoughts of the Children of Jad who live not beneath the benevolent rule of the kings in the lands of Esperaña. This, I confess, is what will make the coming winter hard for me.”
Well, that had been a vain thought: that they might keep the first meeting brief. And trouble lay ahead now like a thicket of spears. Ramiro said nothing. It was still possible he might deflect the worst of this, for the moment. He really was going to need time to think.
“What can you mean, most holy sire?” Ines’s question was transparently earnest. Her hands were clasped together, holding the sun disk in her lap, her face betrayed anxious concern. The king of Valledo swore inwardly, but refused to permit any flicker of emotion to cross his face.
“How can I not think of all our pious brethren of the god who must endure yet another winter under the cruel torments of the infidels of Ashar,” said Geraud de Chervalles. Said it smoothly, flowingly, sorrowfully. Loudly enough for the whole court to hear.
It was upon him, Ramiro thought grimly. It had arrived, with this assured, dangerous man from Ferrieres. De Chervalles had come here to say this one thing. Say it this morning, and then again, and again, until he made kings and riders and farmers from the fields dance to his tune and die.
Despite his earlier resolutions, Ramiro felt a flicker of anger against his constable. Gonzalez ought to have been alert to this. Was that not part of his office? Did Ramiro have to plan and prepare for everything of importance? He knew the answer to that, actually.
No one to blame but himself. The king thought of Rodrigo Belmonte, far away in Al-Rassan. Exiled among the infidels. They weren’t even certain where he’d gone yet. He had promised not to attack Valledo with anyone; promised that much but no more. He had been Raimundo’s man: his boyhood friend, then his constable. Not entirely trusted by Ramiro, or trusting him, if it came to that. Raimundo’s death. The shadows around it. Too much history there. And Belmonte was too proud, too independent a man. Needed, though; badly needed, in fact.
“But most holy sire, what can we do?” Ines asked, lifting her clasped hands to her breast. “Our hearts are heavy to hear your words.” Her golden disk shone in the muted light falling down through the new windows. It had begun to rain outside; the king could hear it on the glass.
Had he not known better, Ramiro would have thought his queen had been given her words by de Chervalles, so patly did they lead to the High Cleric’s next speech. The king wanted to close his eyes, his ears. Wanted urgently to be away from here, riding a horse in the rain. The words came, entirely predictable, but sonorous and compelling nonetheless.
“We can do what those charged by Jad with his holy mission on earth can do—that, and no more or less, most revered queen. The accursed Khalifate of the Asharites is no more,” said Geraud of Ferrieres, and paused, suggestively.
“Now there’s news,” said Gonzalez de Rada sarcastically, his own beautiful voice cutting into the mood. “More than fifteen years old.” He glanced at the king. Ramiro understood: the count had finally grasped where this was heading, and was trying to steer it aside.
Too late, of course.
“But there is fresher news, I understand,” the tall cleric from Ferrieres said, undeterred. “The vicious king of Cartada is also dead now, summoned to the black judgment Jad visits upon all unbelievers. Surely there is a message here for us! Surely with the leader of the jackals gone it is a time to act!”
The voice had risen, modulating smoothly towards a first crescendo. Ramiro had heard this sort of thing before, but never from such a master. In a kind of horrified admiration, he waited.
“To act? Now?” Gonzalez didn’t bother to mask his irony. “A trifle cold is it not?”
Another good effort, the dry tone as much as the words, but Geraud de Chervalles overmastered it. “The fires of the god warm those who serve his will!” His gaze as he looked at the constable was scornful and unyielding. Gonzalez de Rada was unlikely to tolerate this, the king knew from experience, and wondered if he ought to intervene before something serious happened.
But then, unexpectedly, the cleric smiled, much as any man might smile. His stern features relaxed, he lowered his voice. “Of course I do not speak of a winter war. I hope I am not so foolish as that. I know these matters take time, much planning, the right season. These are issues for brave men of the sword such as the valiant kings of Esperaña and their legendary Horsemen. I can only try, in my small way, to help light a fire, and to offer tidings that may aid and inspire you.”
He waited. There was a silence. Rain drummed on the windows. A log shifted in one of the fires, then fell with a crash and a flurry of sparks. Ramiro expected Ines to ask the awaited question, but she had fallen unexpectedly silent. He looked at her. She had lowered the sun disk to her lap and was staring at the cleric, biting her lip. Her expression was unreadable now. Inwardly, the king shrugged. The game had begun, it was going to have to be played out.
“What tidings?” he asked politely.
Geraud de Chervalles’s smile became a radiant thing. He said, “I thought it might be so. You have not yet heard.” He paused, raised his voice. “Hear, then, news to cause all hearts to exult and offer praise: the king of Ferrieres and both counts of Waleska, the mightiest lords of the Karch Lowlands and most of the nobility of Batiara have come together to wage war.”
“What? Where?” Gonzalez this time, the sharp words pulled from him.
The cleric’s smile gre
w even more triumphant. His blue eyes shone.
“In Soriyya,” he whispered into the stillness. “In Ammuz. In the desert homelands of the infidels, where Jad is denied and his life-bringing sun is cursed. The army of the god is assembling even now. It will winter south by the sea in Batiara and take ship in the spring. Already, though, a first battle has been fought in this holy war; we heard the tidings before we left to come to you.”
“Where was this battle?” Gonzalez again.
“A city called Sorenica. Do you know it?”
“I do,” said Ramiro quietly. “It is the Kindath city in the south of Batiara, granted them as their own long ago, for aid given the princes of Batiara in peace and war. What Asharite armies were there, may I ask?”
Geraud’s smile faded. There was a coldness in his eyes now. The belated recognition of a possible foe. Be careful, Ramiro told himself.
The cleric said, “Think you the so-called Star-born of the desert are the only infidels we must face? Do you not know the rites the Kindath practice on the nights of two full moons?”
“Most of them,” said Ramiro of Valledo calmly. It seemed he was not going to be careful, after all. His slow, deep anger was beginning to rise. He feared that anger, but not enough to resist it. He was aware that his wife was looking at him now. He stared at the cleric from Ferrieres. “I’ve given thought to inviting the Kindath back, you see. We need their industry and their knowledge in Valledo. We need all kinds of people here. I wanted to know as much as I could about Kindath beliefs before I proceeded further. There is nothing I’ve ever heard, or read, to suggest blood or desecration are part of their faith.”
“Invite them back?” Geraud de Chervalles’s voice had lost its modulated control. “At the very time when all the kings and princes of the Jaddite world are joining together to cleanse the world of heresy?” He turned to Ines. “You told us nothing of this, my lady.” The words were an accusation, stiff and grim.
Ramiro lost his temper. This was too much.
But before he could speak, his queen, his holy, devout queen from Ferrieres said, “Why, cleric, would I tell you such a thing?” Her tone was astringent, royal, shockingly cold.
Geraud de Chervalles, utterly unprepared for this, took an involuntary step backwards. Ines went on: “Why would the plans of my dear lord and husband for our own land be a part of any communication between you and me with regard to your pilgrimage? I think you presume, cleric. I await your apology.”
Ramiro was as shocked as the man addressed. Support from Ines against a High Cleric was not something he’d ever have expected. He dared not even look at her. He knew this ice-cold voice of hers extremely well; most often it had been used against him, for one sin or another.
Geraud de Chervalles, his color heightened now, said, “I beg forgiveness, of course, for any offense the queen has perceived. But I will say this: there are no internal, private affairs of any Jaddite kingdom, not when it comes to the infidels, Asharite or Kindath. They are a matter for the clerics of the god.”
“Then burn them yourselves,” said Ramiro of Valledo grimly. “Or if you seek men to die and women to be put at risk of losing all they have in your cause, speak a little more softly, especially at a royal court where you are a guest.”
“I have a question,” Ines added suddenly. “If I may?” She looked at the king. Ramiro nodded. He still couldn’t believe what had happened to her. She asked, “Who is it has mounted this war? Who summoned the armies?”
“The clerics of Jad, of course,” said Geraud, his color still high, the easy smile gone. “Led by those of us in Ferrieres, of course.”
“Of course,” said Ines. “Then tell me, why are you here, cleric? Why are you not with that mighty army in Batiara, preparing to make the long journey to those distant, dangerous eastern lands?”
Ramiro had never seen his wife like this. He looked at her again in frank astonishment. His own surprise, he saw, was as nothing compared to that of the man addressed.
“There are infidels nearer to home,” Geraud said darkly.
“Of course,” Ines murmured. Her expression was guileless. “And Soriyya is so far, and sea voyages so tedious, and war in the desert so chancy. I think I do begin to understand.”
“I don’t think you do. I think—”
“I am fatigued,” Queen Ines said, rising. “Forgive me. A woman’s weakness. Perhaps we might continue this another time, my lord king?” She looked at Ramiro.
Still unable to believe what he was hearing, the king rose, “Of course, my lady,” he said. “If you are unwell . . .” He extended a hand, she took it. He felt, unmistakably, a pressure of her fingers. “Count Gonzalez, will you be so good as to see to our distinguished guests . . .”
“A great honor,” said Gonzalez de Rada.
He snapped his fingers. Eight men came forward to flank the clerics from Ferrieres. Ramiro nodded his head politely and waited. Geraud de Chervalles, still red-faced, had no choice but to bow. Ramiro turned, Ines swinging around him, still holding his hand, as in the steps of a dance—though she never danced—and they went out through the new bronze doors behind the throne.
The doors closed behind them. It was a small retreat they entered, graciously appointed, with carpeting and new-bought tapestries. There was wine on a table by one wall. Ramiro walked quickly over and poured for himself. He drained a glass, poured another, drained it.
“Jad curse that insufferable man! Might I have just a little of that?” his queen said.
The king wheeled around. The servants had withdrawn. They were alone. Ines’s expression was not one he could ever remember seeing. Covering his confusion, he quickly poured for her, mixed water, brought her the glass.
She took it, looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I brought this upon us, didn’t I?”
“An unpleasant guest?” He managed a smile. He felt oddly buoyant, looking at her. “We’ve dealt with such before.”
“He’s more than that, though, isn’t he?” He watched her sip from the glass. She made a face, but took another sip. His sudden high spirits faded as quickly as they’d surged.
“Yes,” he said, “he is more than that. Or, not him alone, but the tidings he’s brought.”
“I know that. A holy war. All those armies together. They will want us to join the cause, won’t they? In Al-Rassan?”
“And my soldiers will want it.”
“You don’t want to go south.” It was not a question.
There was a discreet knock. The king spoke and Gonzalez de Rada entered. He was very pale, his expression somber. Ramiro went back to the table and poured another glass for himself. This one he watered. It was not a time for indulgence.
“Do I want to wage a holy war in Al-Rassan?” He framed Ines’s question again for the constable. “Truthful answer?” He shook his head. “I do not. I want to go south on my own terms in my own time. I want to take Ruenda from my feckless brother, Jaloña from Uncle Bermudo—may his fingers and toes rot—take Fezana from those butchering Cartadans, and then look further afield, or let my sons look further afield when I am dead and troubling you no longer.” He smiled briefly at Ines. She did not smile back.
“If an army of kings is sailing to Ammuz and Soriyya,” Gonzalez said, “it will be hard for us not to go south in the spring. Every cleric in the three kingdoms of Esperaña will be threatening from his chapel that we endanger our souls if we do not.”
“I know that,” Ramiro murmured. “Pour yourself some wine. It will ease your endangered soul.”
“This is my fault,” said Ines. “I brought him here.”
The king put down his wine. He went to her and claimed her glass and set it down. He took her hands. She did not pull away. All of this was very new.
“He would have come, my dear. He and others. If all the lords east of the mountains are dancing for them now, why should we be allowed to live free of the yoke? You may be sure there are men like this one in Jaloña already, and on the way to
Ruenda if not there by now. They will demand a winter meeting between the three of us. Wait for it. They will order us to meet, on pain of banning in the chapels, of losing our immortal places in the god’s light. And we will have to listen to them. We will meet, Uncle Bermudo and brother Sanchez and I will sit together, and hunt. They will watch every move I make, and I will do the same with them. We will swear a holy truce amongst ourselves. The clerics will sing our praises in rapture. And we will almost certainly be riding to war in Al-Rassan by spring.”
“And?”
She was direct, his queen. Clever and surprising and direct.
Ramiro shrugged. “No sober man ever speaks with certainty about war. Especially not this kind of war, with three armies that hate each other on one side, and twenty that fear each other opposing them.”
“And the Muwardis across the straits,” said Count Gonzalez softly. “Do not forget them.”
Ramiro closed his eyes. He could still hear the rain. Ferrieres, Waleska, Karch, the cities of Batiara . . . all gathered together in holy war. Despite himself, despite all his sober instincts, there was something undeniably stirring in the image. He could almost see the assembled banners, all those mighty lords of war brought together. How could any man of spirit not want to be there, not want to share in such an enterprise?
“The world is a different place than it was this morning,” Ramiro of Valledo said gravely. He became aware that he was still holding his wife’s hands, that she was allowing him to do so. “Do you know what I would like to do?” he added suddenly, surprising himself.