“Correct. These men looked like mine?”
“They wore your livery, badges…perfect replicas of the uniform your guards wear.”
“What is happening, Maximilian?”
“I…don’t…know.”
Malat sighed, then took Maximilian by the elbow and led him to a chair. He sat him down, then went to a sideboard and poured each of them a glass of wine.
“All right, then,” Malat said, handing Maximilian his wine, then sitting down in a chair opposite. “Tell me what you think is happening.”
“Someone has tried before to kill Ishbel. Someone is trying to implicate me in the deaths of Allemorte and Borchard. People are dying in a trail from the Outlands to Kyros, and the trail of death is following me. I don’t know why. I don’t know why, Malat.” Maximilian was now almost certain that these deaths were tied in with Elcho Falling, or whatever was going wrong with the world that required Elcho Falling to stir into life, but that Maximilian could not discuss with Malat. “Now Ishbel has gone. I don’t understand…why take her?”
Malat could think of several highly carnal reasons a group of men might want to seize Ishbel, but thought it best not to share his thoughts with Maximilian.
“Apart from Ishbel,” Malat said, “the other three men share something in common.”
Maximilian just looked at him. He was too tired and disheartened to speak.
“They’re all highborn,” said Malat, “but…they’re all good generals. Some of the best.”
Very carefully Maximilian put his wineglass down on the floor, then rested his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He should have seen that. Rilm Evenor had been the best war general in the Outlands, and the one with the most experience and the wisest head. Allemorte did not have the wealth of experience that Evenor did, but he’d proved himself on several occasions to have a cool head in battle and a superb eye for battle command. Borchard similarly. Malat had been at formal war with no one during his long reign, but Borchard had taken part in several campaigns in…
“Oh, gods,” Maximilian murmured. “Borchard served as Evenor’s lieutenant for a year, didn’t he?”
“Yes, and you can be sure I was none too pleased about it then, or now. But Evenor trained him well, and spoke highly of his capabilities.” Malat paused. “I think you can thank your lucky stars, Maxel—”
Maximilian noted, somewhat numbly, that Malat was now using the familiar contraction of his name.
“—that you are not a highly skilled battle general yourself, or otherwise I think you, too, would be dead.”
Hardly the best compliment, Maximilian thought, but true enough.
“Why Ishbel?” Malat said. “What part does she have to play in this?”
“Ishbel is a mystery to most people, including me,” Maximilian said. “She was offered to me by the Coil—”
“What?”
“—as their ward. They’d raised her after she lost her family at the age of eight.” Maximilian hesitated, wondering how much he could say, then decided he was tired of dissembling. Besides, Malat had lost a son, and deserved to hear as much as Maximilian could reveal. “But I think she might actually be a priestess of the Coil, not just a ward.”
Malat swore, his face shocked. “Why send her to marry you?”
Maximilian phrased the response as best he could. It might not be the full truth, but it was still truth enough. “Our families were connected many years ago. The Coil apparently thought it would be a good thing to reunite blood and fortunes again.” He gave a wry grin. “I was happy enough about the fortunes.”
Malat ignored the poor attempt at humor. “By the gods, Maximilian, what have you been dragging through the Central Kingdoms? A priestess of the Coil? A—”
“I do not know if she is or not. Ishbel denies it, but I suspect it.”
“Maximilian, my son died with a sword through his belly…are you trying to tell me now that he died, in that manner, with a priestess of the Coil close by, and that Ishbel was not involved?”
Maximilian now regretted telling Malat of his suspicions.
“I suspected her,” Maximilian said, wishing he need not say this also, “and all but blamed her. I was a fool. When I woke to see her seized by brigands, when I saw her face as they threatened her life, I knew I’d been wrong. She was terrified, Malat. Genuinely terrified. I think she is as much a victim as—”
“No priestess of the Coil is a victim of anything.”
Maximilian did not respond. There was nothing he could say to that.
Malat muttered yet another curse. “Sirus is moving ever closer to war with the Outlands, and dragging luckless Fulmer of Hosea with him. They should be stopped, but they are not going to believe what you’ve just told me. I don’t know that I should believe what you’ve just told me. Gods, Maximilian, a priestess of the Coil? Of what were you thinking?”
“I don’t know what to do, Malat. I don’t know how to find her. I don’t know why she was taken.”
“Snap out of it, Maxel. You’re a king and a husband. Do whatever you have to. Right at the moment, though, I’m just too tired and too old and too heartsick to help you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Road from Kyros to Deepend, Central Kingdoms
Ba’al’uz and his companions moved south as fast as they could, which was not as fast as they wished. They needed to be circumspect, not so much lest they be suspected of the trail of murders across the Outlands and the Central Kingdoms, but because they had among them the wife of Maximilian, the Queen of Escator, a veritable nuisance who needed to be kept in a state of some lassitude in order to keep her quiet. This lassitude was accomplished by a combination of threats and the free use of the contents of the dark vial Ba’al’uz carried with him. Ishbel was drugged into insensibility, and Ba’al’uz did not care what harm the potent mixture he forced down her throat did to her or to the baby she carried, so long as both remained alive by the time she reached Aqhat. They only needed to be breathing. They did not need to be completely healthy.
They were fortunate in that the spring remained cold north of the FarReach Mountains. Ba’al’uz kept Ishbel heavily cloaked and largely concealed beneath canvas in the small cart he’d purchased from a farmer, as well as the donkey to draw it. They traveled as far as they could every day, using the power of Kanubai to speed their steps as well as those of the donkey.
But the Eight would be taking Ishbel home without Ba’al’uz. He had business to attend to in Coroleas. He would vastly have preferred to see to Ishbel’s journey to Aqhat himself, but Kanubai needed him in Coroleas.
The Weeper resided in Coroleas, and Kanubai wanted it. Very badly. More badly than he had wanted the woman.
On the night before they entered Deepend, where Ba’al’uz would leave for Coroleas, Ba’al’uz drew the Eight aside. Ishbel was bedded down in the cart in an abandoned barn, tied with physical restraints and heavily drugged.
“Tonight I will contact Isaiah,” said Ba’al’uz, “to let him know that you and the woman shall be arriving at Aqhat. I shall tell Isaiah that she is the Queen of Escator, and that she would make him a good new wife. Before I depart for Coroleas, I shall hand the pyramid to you, Zeboul. I do not want Lister to know where I go. From now on, my life is devoted entirely to Kanubai. Keep the pyramid wrapped well, and do not respond if Lister tries to contact you through it.”
“Why tell Isaiah about Ishbel?” Zeboul said. “Why present her to him as a new wife?”
“Because I want the woman kept safe at Aqhat. I want her kept as securely as possible.” Ba’al’uz paused, and grinned. “And Isaiah keeps no one more safe than one of his wives. Especially one that he can claim as a ‘hunting’ trophy—the Queen of Escator. That might keep his generals in line for an extra half day or so.”
The Eight laughed.
“You don’t mind if he…” Zeboul asked.
“If he what?” said Ba’al’uz, his grin stretching to even slyer proportions. “So long as he
keeps her alive for when I return to present her to Kanubai, then I really don’t care how he plays with her in the meantime.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Aqhat and Crowhurst
Isaiah watched his rose pyramid dull back to its usual opaque inactivity. For a long time he sat motionless, staring at the pyramid, then very slowly the fingers of one hand began to thrum against the table.
Ba’al’uz had kidnapped Ishbel, Queen of Escator.
Ba’al’uz was sending her to Isaiah at Aqhat with his eight companions while he set off on some mysterious journey to Coroleas.
Ba’al’uz’ excuse for stealing Ishbel was that Isaiah needed another wife and who better than the Queen of Escator when Isaiah was soon to invade the north? A trophy like Ishbel would be sure to impress, not only Isaiah’s generals, but also the soon-to-be-subjected northern peoples. It has added to my campaign of terror and chaos to confound the northern kings, said Ba’al’uz, and it will keep your generals from outright treason for a little while longer, and Isaiah had nodded as if in complete agreement.
Of course, Ba’al’uz did have a point so far as the generals went.
Isaiah knew his five senior generals watched him constantly for weakness, for that moment when one among them might take the opportunity for a swift assassination and assumption of the throne for himself. Isaiah had many talents, and he was a very powerful man, but any one of those generals could ruin his, and Lister’s, plans with that one fatal strike. For the moment, Isaiah needed to placate them.
A marriage to the captured Queen of Escator, a conquest not quite at the same level as invasion, but nonetheless not insignificant either, might keep that dagger sheathed a month or two longer. Long enough for Isaiah to shore up his own position with a successful invasion of the north.
Long enough for Isaiah to do what he needed.
But generals and treachery aside, Isaiah knew that Ba’al’uz had a far deeper reason for sending Ishbel to Aqhat.
He wanted her.
For a moment Isaiah’s eyes slid toward the windows that looked over the river and DarkGlass Mountain beyond, then they slid back to the pyramid.
Then, as if to counteract that movement, they slid toward the Goblet of the Frogs, which, as usual at this time of evening, stood on the low table in the center of the room, a single lit reed taper behind it to set the glass afire. Isaiah looked at it for a long time, very still, thinking about Ishbel, Queen of Escator.
On her reluctant way to DarkGlass Mountain.
Isaiah drew a deep breath eventually, long and shaky. He needed to talk to Lister, but was far too disturbed to use the pyramid prop.
Instead, he used his power.
Lister, Isaiah whispered across the vast distance, guess who is coming to visit?
Lister was standing by the hearth in his chamber at Crowhurst, and the first that Eleanon and Inardle, another of the Lealfast and Eleanon’s sister, knew of the communication with Isaiah was when Lister went very stiff for a moment or two, and then bent over slightly at his waist, rubbing his temples with the fingers of one hand and muttering, “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“What is it?” said Eleanon, standing and moving to Lister’s side, Inardle only a breath behind him.
“Ba’al’uz has kidnapped Ishbel,” said Lister, “and he has sent her down to Aqhat. She is not there yet, but is on her way. Ba’al’uz just used his pyramid to contact Isaiah and let him know the fruits of Ba’al’uz’ efforts in the north. Ishbel was his prized piece of information.”
Eleanon and Inardle exchanged a shocked glance.
“Even worse,” Lister said, “Isaiah thinks that Ba’al’uz now works Kanubai’s will exclusively. You can be sure that Ba’al’uz did not snatch Ishbel of his own accord. He doesn’t have the wit or the length of coherent thought to be able to plan that.”
“Ishbel shall need all her wits about her,” said Eleanon.
“Ishbel refuses to acknowledge the time of day,” muttered Lister, “let alone her true nature or talents. If Kanubai rose before her, she would simply refuse to see him. Witless, witless, witless!”
Inardle put a gentle hand on Lister’s arm, knowing he referred to himself with those last words rather than Ishbel. “You could not have known Ba’al’uz would do something like that.”
Lister contented himself by slamming a fist into the wall, then cursing as his hand bruised. “I could have predicted it!” he snarled. “By the wind-driven snow itself, I should have thought Ba’al’uz might do something like this! I knew Maximilian and Ishbel were traveling through the north, I knew it. I—”
“Lister,” said Eleanon, “we must trust to the gods that—”
“Oh, you fool,” said Lister. “We are the gods, and look what a mess we’ve got Ishbel into!”
He walked about the chamber, rubbing at his injured hand, pausing to look out a window at four or five Skraelings scurrying far below.
They’re getting restless, he thought. How much longer do any of us have?
“Ba’al’uz has proved more nightmare than aid,” Lister said eventually. “We should have had him murdered months ago.”
“Perhaps now?” said Eleanon.
“Apparently he is off to Coroleas on some crazed expedition,” Lister said. “I don’t know what, but at least in Coroleas he cannot do us much more harm. We worry only if he returns, and we pray that the Coroleans have the sense to spit him the instant he sets foot in their empire.”
“What is Isaiah going to do?” Eleanon said.
“Look after her, I hope,” Lister muttered. “No, not hope. Pray to every benevolent being that he keeps her protected!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Tyranny of Isembaard
They had ridden out westward from Aqhat early in the morning, away from the River Lhyl and DarkGlass Mountain. Isaiah seemed to have something on his mind, for he was very introspective, and Axis did not push him for conversation. It was only when they’d reached the very edges of the Melachor Plains and had pulled their blowing horses to a halt that Isaiah finally looked to Axis, and spoke.
“Ba’al’uz contacted me last night.”
“Yes?”
“His companions are on their way home,” Isaiah said, “although Ba’al’uz has set off on a journey to Coroleas. Gods alone know why, but I for one don’t begrudge his continuing absence.”
Axis waited.
“Ba’al’uz and his companions have, apparently, accomplished their tasks better than expected in the north,” Isaiah continued. “The Central Kingdoms and the Outlands are at each other’s throats. Their best generals are dead. Disarray increases by the day.”
“I don’t like this, Isaiah. It is a miserable way to conduct a war, eh?”
“It is the successful way, Axis.”
Axis shrugged, and turned his eyes forward, looking over the Melachor Plains. Any semblance of lushness and fertility had been long left behind at the river. Here the landscape was a rolling vast barrenness, carpeted with scrubby plants that clung to rock crevices and the shaded sides of dust bowls. It was a forbidding landscape, and Axis wondered that Isaiah should have ridden out to survey it. Did he find comfort here? Or challenge?
Comfort, Axis thought, and wondered that Isaiah needed such as this for comfort.
“There was something else,” Isaiah said.
Axis looked back at him.
“Ba’al’uz has kidnapped the new wife of Maximilian of Escator and is sending her back to Aqhat.”
“What?”
“Ba’al’uz said she would make me a fine wife.”
Axis could do nothing now but stare, aghast.
Isaiah had been looking straight ahead over the landscape, but now turned his head to look directly at Axis. “She would be a fine conquest, Axis. Together with the territory, I take one of their queens. It would be a total emotional subjection. Ba’al’uz said she was of fair aspect, and that I would not find her displeasing.”
“Isaiah—”
“
Ba’al’uz has requested an escort for the lady from the FarReach Mountains back to Aqhat. He is worried that Maximilian might try to rescue his wife.”
“Frankly, I’d be a bit worried about that as well,” Axis muttered. Gods, what had Ba’al’uz done…and what in the world was Isaiah thinking?
“Axis, I ask that you lead a company of men north to the FarReach Mountains, there to meet Ba’al’uz’ men and this woman, Ishbel, Queen of Escator, and escort her to me.”
Axis was now rendered utterly speechless. The news that Ba’al’uz had kidnapped the new wife of Maximilian of Escator was startling, and the idea that Isaiah would take her as a conquest wife even more so, but that Isaiah should trust him to lead a company of armed men north…that was unbelievable.
And exciting. The idea of doing something was as heady as a draft of wine.
“Of course,” said Axis, then he smiled. “So long as you trust me with her.”
“You’re the one man I do trust with her,” said Isaiah. “I can’t see you betraying Azhure for any other woman. Besides, the trip will be useful in another way, for you can check to see how well the resettlement plans are progressing. Ezekiel and Morfah have sent regular and very reassuring reports, but it doesn’t hurt to have you cast your eye over their progress, does it?”
Later that night Isaiah sat in a chair in his private chamber, holding the Goblet of the Frogs in his hands. He rolled it gently between his palms, watching the light play through its beautifully crafted shape.
Ishbel, here at Aqhat. Oh, the dangers, not merely to her, but to everyone.
But, oh, the possibilities. Isaiah knew Lister would be worried—frantic, even—but Isaiah wondered if more was at play here than just what Kanubai might be whispering into Ba’al’uz’ mind.
Ishbel coming back to Aqhat would be Ishbel coming home. Ishbel coming home could be an Ishbel awakened. From what Lister had said of her, Ishbel had shut herself off completely from her true nature.