Lord Of The Silent Kingdom Part 70

"Once upon a time they didn't used to burn us."

"They don't do that much, now. More members of the Society get killed, one way or another, than Seekers do."

Scarre shrugged. Plainly uninterested in the tribulations of Brothen Episcopals. "If you stay with me I'm going to expect some help. The girl can do the household cooking while you work in here."

Brother Candle chuckled. "I don't think so, Scarre. Not if you want to avoid being poisoned. She can help in here. Like an apprentice. Only, you'll have to keep your hands to yourself."

Scarre bobbed his head, getting the message.

Socia did not like being discussed. But the world outside Caron ande Lette had hammered her long enough to teach her to manage emotion. For minutes at a time.

"Long as she earns her keep."

"She will. She's a good woman. She just needs to be shown what to do."

Madam Scarre was not convinced.

Scarre was not the best host. He worked his guests hard. Which explained why no refugees stayed with him. Most Maysalean households had a refugee family squeezed in. Brother Candle and Socia were exhausted when they joined the Archimbaults for their late meal.

Socia had complained just once. Brother Candle offered, "I'll take you up to the castle."

"No."

"No bread kneading. No Madam Scarre barking at you for being young and attractive."

"That woman is mad. Has she actually looked at him? All sweaty and covered with hair, like a bear? And fat? But I won't go up there. They'd use me to manipulate Raymone."

She had a point.

Which sparked a fresh worry.

The Society was strong in Khaurene. Those fanatics would have no reservations about using the girl as a weapon. And Raymone had shown weak that way already.

Brother Candle said little during supper, except to answer Kedle's questions about his adventures. Afterward, the leaders of the Seeker community began to arrive. Brother Candle found himself a place out of the light. He wanted to catch up. There had been changes. Despair and pessimism ruled.

Spiritual issues never arose. That was the most dramatic change.

Talk was iron-hard practical. Should the Seeker community emigrate now, before Patriarchal forces made escape impossible? Heading into winter, fleeing to fastnesses in the Altai that might not be adequately provisioned? Should they stay and hope that Patriarchal politics and Duke Tormond's stiffened backbone would make it possible to get through the winter here?

Brother Candle heard nothing to inspire faith in the Duke's steadfast determination to defy the invaders. Nor anything positive about the probable results. And little confidence in the friendship of Peter of Navaya.

"Peter needs the Brothen Church behind him to pursue his ambitions in Direcia," someone insisted when someone else suggested that Peter might send an army to enforce his rights in Castreresone.

Another someone said, "Peter can't turn his back on the princes of al-Halambra. And he has troops committed in Artecipea."

"Nothing will happen anywhere while there's no Patriarch in Brothe."

"The Captain-General isn't sitting on his hands."

"Duke Tormond will make all these worries moot."

"Excuse me," Brother Candle said. Silence fell. "These discussions remain speculative only until after the battle."

A puzzled Raulet Archimbault asked, "What battle, Master?"

"Sir Eardale Dunn is trying to engineer a decisive confrontation. Which, I think, the Patriarchals would rather avoid. They've done well with a pinp.r.i.c.k strategy. But there will will be a battle. And the pa.s.sion of the Khaurenese won't be enough. My advice? Be ready to travel but wait on the result of the fight. If Sir Eardale is successful, there's no need to suffer winter in the mountains. If it's defeat, the Patriarchals will need time to pull themselves together and move against the city. That would be time enough to go." be a battle. And the pa.s.sion of the Khaurenese won't be enough. My advice? Be ready to travel but wait on the result of the fight. If Sir Eardale is successful, there's no need to suffer winter in the mountains. If it's defeat, the Patriarchals will need time to pull themselves together and move against the city. That would be time enough to go."

A spirited discussion followed, a dozen people talking at once, all arguing with one another but all agreeing with Brother Candle. Though a few still heard the siren call of the Altai.

Brother Candle said, "I have carried the message through the Altai on occasion. I spent a winter there once. Not up in one of those drafty old ridgeline strongholds but down in a valley where the people know how to handle the weather. And it was still curdled misery."

More discussion. All the men had spent time in the Altai last summer, readying strongholds for the day when the failure of the weak Connecten state left Seekers at the mercy of a merciless, rapacious Brothen Episcopal Church. They were not ignorant of the harshness of the mountains. It was that harshness they had embraced when they chose the Altai as their final refuge.

"SO THAT WAS DEMOCRACY IN ACTION," SOCIA SAID AS she and Brother Candle walked back to Scarre the Baker's.

"It was, yes."

"I see why it's an uncommon way of making decisions."

"Some would say that the fact that nothing gets done is the strength of the process. People get too busy arguing to go make trouble."

The girl expressed her opinion with a contemptuous snort.

Day after day the men of Khaurene marched out of the city. Eventually, the streets seemed naked. Those who stayed behind remained in their homes, praying, suffering from escalating tension.

Brother Candle felt more tension than ever he had before. Duke Tormond had decided to do something. At last. And no one cared if it was the right thing. An entire country exulted because it was something. something.

He did not go out where he could hear rumors and misinformation from the field. He could imagine it. Inept bands of poorly trained men, under inexperienced captains, would rush around trying to catch enemy scouts and foragers and would get beat up in the process. Skirmishes between larger units would carpet the fields east of Khaurene with fallen heroes. The truth would not be seen because the little disasters would be scattered. At some point, the Khaurenese mob would force the Captain-General to choose between withdrawal and showing Khaurene the truth about warfare.

Brother Candle was not without hope. Isabeth's knights could provide experienced leadership. The Connectens would enjoy a big advantage in heavy cavalry. Plus, Tormond had reenlisted thousands of mercenaries and had found knights willing to serve for pay. Numbers would not favor the Patriarchals.

SOCIA WAS DISTRACTED. SHE COULD NOT DO THE WORK Scarre demanded. Fortunately, there was less call for Scarre's product. But he antic.i.p.ated a spike in demand when the hungry soldiers returned.

Brother Candle worked dough and roamed his memories, revisiting a thousand regrets. When the time came he knew there had been a battle before anyone brought the news. And he knew that it had not gone well. "Socia. Time to go. Get your things."

The streets were no longer empty. Everyone seemed to be pressing to the northeast, desperate to learn the fates of those they held dear. Wailing and panic were endemic. If the disaster was a tenth of what rumor claimed, Khaurene would never recover.

Those coming in now were men who ran before the fighting started. They had to tell stories that made their cowardice appear less foul. Rumor fed off that.

Though Brother Candle had spoken to no one but Socia he found himself at the head of a column of Seekers including all the regulars from the Archimbault meetings. The Archimbaults brought Kedle. They were not open to arguments about leaving her behind. In just days they had become convinced that Khaurene was doomed and the Society, backed by the Patriarchal army, would purge the city of heretics, Unbelievers, and adherents of the Viscesment Patriarchy.

Brother Candle told himself he was worried about the pregnant woman's welfare, not the chance that she would slow the party's flight. Told himself and wondered.

Fear stalked him. Gnawing, rationality-devouring fear. Partly because of his fall from Perfection. But just as much because of the presence of things of the Night.

They were always there, now. Always just round the corner, or just out of sight over the shoulder. For some, that was no problem. Those of a deeply superst.i.tious nature lived in that reality always. But for those who wanted to live in a rational, orderly universe the waxing influence of the Night was an aggressive spiritual slime mold gnawing the mortar from between the foundation stones of existence.

Kedle's husband did not join the exodus. Soames was one if those excited thousands who had marched out confident that righteousness must prevail. Without being eager to go. He had gone because it was expected.

Kedle was sure she would not see him again. That if only one Khaurenese fell out there, that one would be her Soames.

Brother Candle told Socia, "Here's your chance to be a big sister. Help the girl handle this."

Raulet Archimbault's att.i.tude was as bright as his daughter's was bleak. "The boy will catch up. He'll be fine. He knows the evacuation plan. h.e.l.l, he may get there before we do."

Getting there was an exercise in profound misery. More so than the flight from Patriarchal captivity. Though enemy patrols were fewer, the risk of butchery at their hands had worsened. The Khaurenesaine would suffer terribly for its defiance.

The band of Seekers was large enough to defend itself from brigands and small troops of Patriarchals. And had several times. A third of the company perished on the road. Night things tracked them all the way, first to Albodiges beside frozen Lake Trauen, then onward along the precipitous trail up the Reindau Spine to the fortifications called Corpseour.

News overtaking the band was disheartening. Connectens in general had plunged to the bleakest, most hopeless of despair.

Kedle's baby came early, while they were on the road. It was not an easy birth. The women feared she would not survive the bleeding. There was a worse fear among the men.

The birth drew the Night like a corpse draws flies. Even the learned, like Brother Candle, could not fathom why. He suspected, though, that it was just curiosity about intense pain and emotion.

The baby, named Raulet after his grandfather, was healthy enough. And arrived without birthmarks, a caul, deformities, teeth already developed, or other evil portent. To the great relief of the travelers.

Corpseour had been built along a knife edge of a ridge. Near vertical drops fell away to both sides. The path up from Albodiges was the only approach. That was watched over by outworks capable of laying down heavy missile fires. Corpseour had existed as an ultimate refuge since before man learned to write. It had been used a hundred times across the ages, though not since the disorders following the collapse of the Old Empire. Maysaleans had been refurbishing the fortifications for some time. Defenses had been improved. Stores had been laid in. Most of all, cisterns had been deepened and expanded. Each time an Altaian stronghold had fallen in the past, the cause had been thirst or treachery. Little could be done to prevent treachery. That last tiny seed of l.u.s.t, greed, or terror hidden deep inside a man's secret self, that made him willing to betray, just could not be known till it quickened. It might exist in every soul, awaiting the right conditions to sprout. been deepened and expanded. Each time an Altaian stronghold had fallen in the past, the cause had been thirst or treachery. Little could be done to prevent treachery. That last tiny seed of l.u.s.t, greed, or terror hidden deep inside a man's secret self, that made him willing to betray, just could not be known till it quickened. It might exist in every soul, awaiting the right conditions to sprout.

The overarching strategy of the Seekers was to outlast their enemies. Sublime V had pa.s.sed away. Without a Patriarch of his obsession driving a Connecten Crusade the wider interest should fade. Arnhand and Santerin were preoccupied with one another. Santerin had the upper hand. Charlve the Dim was said to be in the early stages of dementia. Meaning there should be little threat from the north.

The Patriarchal Office for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy ought to wither and die, too. It had no backers amongst the leading candidates for succession.

Cold and miserable as he might be, Brother Candle thought hope might return with the distant but inevitable spring.

Practicing his secondary profession of watcher atop the wall, Brother Candle stood in the highest lookout of Corpseour and surveyed his harsh new world. Mist filled the valley to the east. Snow clouds concealed everything beyond. That direction showed nothing but unreadable gray. Visibility was little better to the west. What was not covered in snow was weathered gray stone or scattered, weary green vegetation. A couple of villages lay partially obscured by wood smoke not moving because the air was deadly still.

Socia joined him. The girl looked tired and older than her years. Incessant dejection had ground her down. "What are you looking at?" There had been nothing different to see since they arrived. Just a little more snow every day.

"The future."

"Pardon?"

"All our tomorrows look like that."

"You do need to go off to one of your Masters' secret places for a spell."

"Want to know a secret, Socia? There are no secret places. Unless you count hideaways like this. They exist only in imaginations of those who fear the Path."

"There's somebody down there."

Specks of humanity marked the trail. Maybe refugees. Maybe someone bringing news. Maybe just men who made the climb each day to clear the trail of ice and to bring yet more water up to the cisterns.

"There's still spring," the old man said. "A new year always holds promise."

There was the hardest part, these days. Encouraging others when he had so little optimism left himself.

20. Artecipea: The Unantic.i.p.ated Crusade

The Captain-General was reviewing inventory lists payrolls. Scut work was the biggest part of his job. "How the h.e.l.l do one hundred fifty-eight crossbowmen use up eight barrels of bolts in one engagement?"

"They kill a lot of people," t.i.tus Consent replied. Sounding mildly amused.

He was, Hecht knew. Consent thought he was becoming a miser.

"Sure. But you'd think they'd get more of the bolts back after the dust settled."

"They probably missed twenty times for every hit. Those bolts aren't going to be recovered. Unless you put a thousand men out to glean the battlefield."

"Phooey. I'll make the Khaurenese buy me fifty new barrels when we take the city."

Consent smiled without being amused. It was an open secret: The Connecten Crusade had run its course. When elected, the new Patriarch would discontinue the war gainst heresy.

Reports had the balloting deadlocked. None of the Five Families could muster even a significant minority backing for their Princ.i.p.ate. All they could agree on was unity against the non-Brothen candidates. Neither the Brotherhood of War nor the Society had backed a candidate yet.

Princ.i.p.ate Delari had garnered the second biggest plurality in the initial poll, to his complete consternation. Hugo Mongoz was the front-runner, a compromise candidate who could be counted on to die soon. An interim figurehead to fill a role while the Collegium worked out a real succession. The Five Families could stomach Hugo Mongoz for a year or two.