He’d loved her growing belly, had been so proud of it and of her.
So cherished a hope, shattered with such callous madness.
Ishbel wept for Maximilian, not for herself. The baby had been a girl. A daughter. Ishbel could imagine Maximilian with a daughter, imagine his face creasing in a delighted smile as the girl played before him, imagine him swinging her high in the air in his arms, imagine his face, the wonder in his face, as he watched her grow.
And she’d lost the baby. Lost her.
Nothing Zeboath had said to her had eased her guilt. Ba’al’uz may have been the hand by which the child had died, whether by poison or by that single, devastating sword stroke, but Ishbel felt as if she had killed the child herself, through lack of interest.
She’d never really cared for her pregnancy. She’d regarded it with distaste or disinterest or outright resentment.
Today her daughter had paid for that disinterest and resentment.
“Ishbel?”
Isaiah was standing by the side of the bed, looking at her. He hesitated, then sat down carefully on the bed.
He lifted one of her hands into his, interlacing their fingers, and he sat there for an hour in silence, holding her hand in his, and kept her company until she finally succumbed to Zeboath’s herbal draft and slid into sleep.
Isaiah sat, his fingers interlaced with Ishbel’s, and watched her sleep.
This was his fault. His alone.
He’d ignored the risk of Ba’al’uz, and had assumed the man was simply off wandering in some deranged manner about Coroleas.
Ba’al’uz had been wandering, deranged, but in the end his steps had been guided and purposeful.
Isaiah had assumed that placing guards about Ishbel would keep her safe, and they had not.
Ba’al’uz had come wrapped in Kanubai’s power, and no mortal man would have seen him.
Gods, what would Lister say when he heard?
Isaiah lifted his head and looked out the window. He could not see Dark-Glass Mountain, but he could feel it, and he knew Kanubai had finally wormed his way free of the abyss.
Via the blood of the sacrificial child, the child of Maximilian and Ishbel.
And that rope of tortured souls? What part had DarkGlass Mountain itself had to play in today’s tragedy? Had it whispered to Kanubai the means? Had it whispered to him a plan?
Shit…shit…shit!
Maximilian and Ishbel’s child, sacrificed to Kanubai.
Kanubai, born of Maximilian’s flesh.
It was a disaster.
They had no time to waste now. Kanubai was still very weak, and would be so until the Skraelings reached him, but Isaiah did not think he’d be having any more meditative sessions inside DarkGlass Mountain.
He had to move north, and he had to return Ishbel north. No one was doing any good here.
But for now, he sat and held Ishbel’s hand, watching her sleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Palace of Aqhat, Isembaard
Isaiah walked back to his own chambers, leaving Ishbel’s chamber surrounded by armed men.
As he walked he stared into the faces of the palace guards, trying to see in their bland expressions any hint of disloyalty, or treason.
He could almost hear the whispers seething about the entire tyranny.
The tyrant is weak. Now is our time.
All Isaiah wanted was to concentrate on Ishbel, and then on whatever was now growing inside DarkGlass Mountain, on the damned glass pyramid itself, but he could not afford to. If he didn’t shore up his hold on the throne right now then there would be no invasion, and if there was no invasion…
Then there would be nothing left.
All he wanted was to spend the night watching Ishbel sleep, but what he needed was to get back to his private quarters and call the generals to attendance and order the invasion of the north now.
Isaiah had to admire Lister’s tactics. He was almost certain that the assassination attempt had been Lister’s doing—the bowman had surely been one of the Lealfast, and the man could have killed him as easily as he had wounded him. Lister had wanted to spur Isaiah into action and, by the gods, he’d managed it.
But Lister could not have predicted the true disaster of this day…could he?
Damn it, now Isaiah was beginning to see treachery lurking in every shadow.
Isaiah strode into his private chamber in a black mood, ready to shout for his chamberlain to fetch his generals, when he stopped dead, appalled and angry, and horribly frightened to see Axis sitting at the table leaning back in the chair, legs crossed comfortably at the ankles, feet resting on the table, and chatting apparently quite amiably to Lister through Isaiah’s glass pyramid, which sat in the center of the table.
Isaiah slammed the door shut behind him, hitting one of the approaching servants in the face.
He didn’t give a damn.
“Why, Axis,” Isaiah said softly, “what do you now?”
Axis straightened up in the chair, putting his feet back on the floor, and nodded at the pyramid. “Lister intuited that there was a fuss. He opened the communication, Isaiah. Not I. He wanted to know what was happening.”
“And you told him?”
“Most of it, yes,” Axis said, and Isaiah had to physically restrain himself from bunching his fists. Had he lost control over the entire world on this day?
He looked into the glass pyramid and went cold. Always before, when he had communicated with Lister, the man was within his palace of Crowhurst. Now, however, Lister was garbed in a hooded black cloak, gusting in the wind, and he was standing on what appeared to be a ridge overlooking a vast snowy plain.
Over which flowed an army of Skraeling wraiths.
The Skraelings were on the move.
A movement at the corner of his eye caught Isaiah’s attention.
It was Axis, looking intently at Isaiah and then moving his eyes fractionally toward the pyramid.
There was something in there Axis wanted Isaiah to see.
Isaiah looked at Lister, who was smiling amiably and waiting patiently for Isaiah to greet him, and then looked more clearly behind the man.
There was something else behind Lister other than seething wraiths and snowy plains.
Something in the sky.
Something flying, and then alighting in the distance behind and below Lister.
“Where are you, Lister?” Isaiah said, growing cold at the realization of what he’d just seen.
“I’ve left home,” said Lister. “The wraiths decided all this waiting was terribly tedious, and just like that they decided to head south. Swarm. They claim a deep hunger.”
“Where are you?” barked Isaiah.
Lister made a pretense of rubbing his hands together and blowing out his cheeks, as if surprised to find himself out in the cold. “Oh, somewhere just above Gershadi, I believe,” he said. “Nasty weather, eh?”
Then he dropped all pretense and looked very directly at Isaiah. “It is time you moved, Isaiah. More than time, considering what Axis has just told me. An assassination attempt. And then that scoundrel, Ba’al’uz, murdering your beautiful new bride’s child.”
Lister hesitated there, staring through the pyramid into Isaiah’s eyes, and while he did not speak verbally, Isaiah could hear Lister’s screaming thoughts.
He murdered Maximilian and Ishbel’s child. He sacrificed it! Have you got any idea what that child has been used for, Isaiah? Do you realize what—
“I know, Lister,” Isaiah whispered, and Axis looked strangely at him.
“What a trouble, eh?” Lister carried on, conscious that Axis was listening. “Best to leave Isembaard behind and embark on your conquest of the northern world, yes?” His voice hardened. “It is time to save something, Isaiah, or else lose everything.”
And then he was gone, and the pyramid dulled into lifelessness. Isaiah picked it up, looked at it a moment, then put it away in a box.
“What did Lister mean, Isaiah
?”
Isaiah gave a shrug.
Axis’ eyes narrowed. There had been a great deal more to that conversation than mere words. “Did you see the creature alighting behind Lister, Isaiah?”
“Yes. Was it an Icarii?”
“Possibly. And possibly not. Isaiah, that assassin was sent by Lister.”
Isaiah hesitated. Then, grudgingly, he answered, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Lister wants me to invade. He thought I was delaying. Therefore he created the circumstances under which I would have to invade. If I don’t, one of the generals will be sitting on my bloodstained throne within a week.”
And in a month after that…Kanubai?
“When, Isaiah?”
Isaiah looked at him for a long moment. “Invade. Now. In six short weeks I can be in the Outlands.” He paused. “Did you enjoy using the pyramid, Axis?”
“Yes. I could smell the Star Dance oozing from it. Who are those almost-Icarii, Isaiah? I feel sure that you know.”
Isaiah was saved from a response by a servant, entering the room, bowing, and announcing the arrival of Isaiah’s generals.
Lister put his glass pyramid down in the snow, staring at it as if he would have liked to kick it all the way to Isembaard.
“Peace, Lister,” Eleanon said, coming up behind him. “Do not destroy it now. It may yet come in useful. Now, tell me, what has happened?”
“The assassination attempt went well.”
“Yes, I know that. Bingaleal is already well on his way home.”
“Ba’al’uz appeared from nowhere, back from Coroleas. He attempted to assassinate Ishbel.”
“What?”
“There is worse,” Lister said very softly, staring south as if he could see into the very heart of Aqhat. “Ba’al’uz might have failed at Ishbel, but he has taken the life of Maximilian and Ishbel’s child. She is dead. Her head smote from her shoulders.”
“The baby is dead?”
“And Kanubai risen, no doubt, on the strength of that blood sacrifice. Curse it, Eleanon, I can feel Kanubai in my blood and every sinew of my being. Damn Isaiah for not saving that baby. Damn him!”
Eleanon thought about pointing out that Isaiah had likely been somewhat distracted by the assassination attempt, but thought it politic not to say that to Lister in his current mood.
“Lister,” Eleanon said finally, “what are you going to do? What are we going to do?”
“Pray for a miracle, my beloved friend.” Lister paused, staring south as if he could will that miracle. “Move, Isaiah. Move, damn you! Save what is left before we all die!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Palace of Aqhat, Isembaard
The generals, five of them, filed into Isaiah’s chamber.
They carried no weapons, but that did not lessen the danger Axis felt emanating from them.
He regretted the lack of his own weapon.
Axis glanced at Isaiah. He appeared outwardly calm and composed, confident, but Axis knew he had to be worried.
The generals could make or break him, here and now. After today’s—Axis glanced at the open window, seeing with some surprise the first staining of dawn at the horizon—yesterday’s assassination attempt, Isaiah’s vulnerability was now at a critical level.
“Axis SunSoar shall stay for this conference,” Isaiah said, waving a hand vaguely in Axis’ direction.
Axis nodded at the generals.
Isaiah wasted no time on preliminaries or niceties. “We move,” he said. “When you leave me this morning you return to your commands and prepare for my order to march for Salamaan Pass.”
Armat, the youngest and, Axis thought, the most dangerous of the generals, looked at the other four generals, but the older men kept their faces expressionless.
Axis moved very slightly, putting himself to one side and between Isaiah and the generals. It was a symbolic gesture only. He did not think the generals would—if in the mood and if they thought the time right—attempt to murder Isaiah here and now.
That would come later. In the darkness of full night, when the assassin’s face might not be seen.
“Are you certain we are strong enough for an invasion, Excellency?” Ezekiel said.
Are you certain you are strong enough?
“My strength,” Isaiah said softly, looking at each of the generals in turn, “depends on your strength. I do you the honor, my friends, of trusting that you are each strong enough, and prepared enough, to do Isembaard proud.”
Kezial made a moue. “It is just there are whispers, Excellency. People are…anxious…after yesterday’s unfortunate events. All of Isembaard now knows the tyrant suffered yesterday, was brought to his knees by an assassin’s arrow.”
“And all of Isembaard is worried,” said Lamiah, “that the assassin escaped so cleanly. Who knows when he might strike again?”
Axis looked at Isaiah. The generals were probing, and they were not hiding the fact.
“The responsibility for the regrettable fact of the assassin’s escape,” Isaiah said, “I lay at your feet. As I blame his entry. If Isembaard worries about its tyrant, who is not to say the tyrant does not worry about the capabilities of his generals, who cannot keep a single bowman away from their lord? Perhaps,” he continued, turning away a little and strolling about the chamber, as if supremely relaxed, “I should consider retiring my current generals and replacing them with more experienced command.”
He glanced pointedly at Axis.
Axis gave a soft laugh, startled and not a little annoyed by Isaiah’s insinuation. Stars, now he had most certainly leapt to the top of the generals’ assassination list!
He shot Isaiah a significant look, but Isaiah had averted his eyes and was now toying with the Goblet of the Frogs, which he had lifted from its table.
“We are not responsible for assassination attempts from magicians!” snapped Ezekiel.
“Magicians?” said Isaiah, turning about and looking directly at Ezekiel.
“No one but a magician could have escaped our spearmen,” said Morfah. “We must be frank with you, Excellency. We do not relish a confrontation with an army of magicians.”
“Especially after what happened with the Eastern Independencies,” said Lamiah, very softly.
To a man the generals were now standing aggressively, shoulders thrown back slightly, bodies rigid, eyes hard and confrontational. Axis may not have been in the chamber, for all the attention they gave him.
Axis tensed himself, wishing for what must have been the fiftieth time he knew why it was that Isaiah had failed so dismally in the Eastern Independencies.
Of everyone, Isaiah still appeared relaxed and sure of himself. “Who needs magici—” he began.
“People think you are weak, Isaiah,” Armat said.
Not “Excellency” now. Just “Isaiah.”
“Who needs magicians,” Isaiah said again, his stance also confrontational, “when I command the land itself?”
Ezekiel, as did Lamiah and Armat, opened his mouth, and then closed it, his eyes wide, as he stared at the Goblet of the Frogs.
It was…moving.
Axis stared himself, unable to believe what he was seeing. A shaft of the dawn light had hit the caged glass goblet, illuminating it as if it were filled with blood. Spectacular as that effect was, it was not what had so startled everyone watching Isaiah.
The glass frogs attached to the reeds set into the side of the goblet were now moving. They clambered playfully up and down the sides of the goblet, jumping in and out of the cup, croaking cheerfully.
The reeds themselves wafted, as if caught by a breeze.
And the glass of the inner wall of the goblet shifted and rippled, as if it were water.
One of the frogs crawled over the back of one of Isaiah’s hands, then dropped into the bowl of the goblet.
Isaiah had not moved his eyes from his generals. “Imagine,” he said softly, “if I can make this simple glass goblet come to life and do my bidd
ing, what I might do to a sword at a man’s hip, if that man annoyed me. The elements themselves obey me, my friends, and I would beg you to consider your wives’ and children’s tears and do similar.”
Axis could not speak. He was stunned. He’d always suspected Isaiah of some kind of supernatural power. But to see this, now…
Ezekiel stiffened. “My life and my command is yours at your will, Excellency. You need not doubt my loyalty.”
Isaiah’s mouth moved in a small cynical smile.
“And mine,” said Morfah, and the other generals tripped over their tongues, hastening to assure Isaiah of their respective loyalties.
“Then do as I bid,” Isaiah said softly, “and do as I say. Ready your commands—and the families who wish to partake of the riches of the kingdoms beyond the FarReach Mountains—at the head of the Salamaan Pass for me to join you. The Northern Kingdoms shall not be another debacle. I can assure you of that.”
The generals looked, nodded, then left.
“Well,” said Axis, “I had been dozing off there until you produced that little surprise. I had no idea, Isaiah.”
Isaiah put the goblet back on the table. “It was a trick of the light, Axis, nothing more. Generals are so easily fooled, so easily manipulated.”
Now it was Axis who allowed the cynicism to flower on his face, but he said no more on the matter.
But, oh, gods, who could he ask about the Eastern Independencies campaign?
“I would like to give you command of ten thousand men, Axis,” Isaiah said.
“No,” said Axis, “I will not fight the Northern Kingdoms for you, Isaiah. I don’t agree with this invasion and I do not like your alliance with Lister.”
“Are you refusing me?”
“I am refusing you, but I am not rebelling. There is a difference.”
“Yes. I am aware of the difference, Axis. Very well then, if you will not fight for me, will you at least act as my…” He paused, looking for a suitable term.
“Adjutant,” said Axis with a smile, using a rather archaic word for a general assistant to a military commander. “Adjutant” covered a myriad of ills.