Still, the high priestess wasn’t the only member of their company with a set of strict, prudish morals. The Emperor gave Erna’s hand a tight squeeze and leaned close to her. ‘What do you think of von Kirchof’s niece?’ he asked, nodding his chin towards the dainty young lady seated opposite them. ‘Pure as new snow, We understand,’ Boris continued. ‘Her uncle has been keeping a careful eye on her for Us. Can’t have any of these blue-blooded degenerates plucking the rose.’ He chuckled as he felt Erna’s nails dig into his palm as her body became tense.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Leave her alone. Don’t befoul her.’
Boris leaned back in his chair. ‘What a treasonous thing to say,’ he observed with feigned shock. ‘As though she could aspire to any greater purpose in her miserable life than a dalliance with her Emperor.’ He turned one of his mischievous grins on Erna. ‘They can’t all marry a dashing young peasant, after all.’
The Emperor relished the pain his remark inflicted, then sighed and released Erna’s hand. It was too easy to provoke her on that subject, stripping it of any degree of satisfaction. Rising from his chair, Boris swept his Imperial gaze across the great hall. The usual furnishings had all been pushed to the walls to make room for Otwin’s table, but a path had been left clear to the connecting passage leading to the tiny chapel of Sigmar. He glared impatiently at the doorway.
‘What’s keeping that conjurer?’ Boris hissed. He turned his head, nodding to the two Kaiserknecht who attended him. The knights stalked away, their hands closed about the hilts of their swords. The Emperor watched as they walked down the passage. A few minutes later, the knights reappeared, dragging a tall, gaunt man between them. With a final shove, they deposited the man on the floor near Boris’s seat.
‘We are waiting,’ the Emperor stated in a tone as cold as steel.
The man on the floor looked up at his sovereign with panic in his eyes. He was of indeterminate age, his long beard yet displaying streaks of black among its white, his face devoid of wrinkles beyond the crow’s feet attending the corners of his eyes. He wore a long blue robe, its folds adorned with stars and moons and yet more obscure esoteric symbols. In his arms he held a battered teakwood casket.
‘Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty, I was readying my paraphernalia for the experiment,’ the bearded man apologised. ‘Under ideal conditions, it takes a month to prepare for…’
Emperor Boris waved away his warlock’s excuses. ‘We are already becoming bored with your magic. If We are expected to wait a month for your conjurations, We may reconsider your usefulness to the court.’
Karl-Maria Fleischauer shivered at the Emperor’s threat. His studies of the black arts were well known, and only the protection of the Emperor kept the Inquisition of Verena and the witch-takers from burning him at the stake. To lose the Emperor’s favour would be a death sentence for the warlock.
‘Of course, of course,’ Fleischauer whined. ‘I shall make everything ready at once.’ He stared at the teakwood casket, doubt flickering across his face. Quickly he composed himself and scrambled to the high-backed seat that had been reserved for him.
Boris watched with undisguised impatience as the warlock took his place and opened the casket after a few muttered incantations and passes of his hands. Fleischauer removed an orb of polished crystal from the box, winding a strip of gauzy cloth around it before setting it on the table before him. The cloth gave off an offensive odour, and Boris realised it had been cut from a funeral shroud. Again he sighed. It was so like a warlock to collect such noxious trappings.
Holding a seance had seemed like such a novel idea when it occurred to Boris two days before. It would be just the sort of scandalous entertainment that would appeal to sensibilities that had become jaded to more mundane diversions. Now, however, he was becoming annoyed by the warlock’s foolish theatrics. He knew the peasant could work magic. It was time he stopped dawdling and got down to it.
After a few minutes, Fleischauer asked that the doors to the hall be closed and all the lights extinguished save two candles, one set to either side of the crystal ball. A murmur of anxiety passed through the guests assembled about Otwin’s table as the room was plunged into darkness.
‘All must link hands,’ Fleischauer said. ‘Those who would call upon the spirits of the dead must form an unbroken circle. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, do not break the circle!’ His warning given, the warlock began to chant in a sibilant, slithery language. His body went rigid, his eyes rolling back until only the whites were visible.
A clammy cold filled the hall. The crystal ball began to glow with a spectral blue luminance.
Boris couldn’t decide if the moan preceded the wispy, vaporous spectre or if the apparition formed before the sound. Certainly one impressed itself upon him before the other. The moan was a ragged, grisly noise, like a corpse being dragged across gravel. The ethereal image was no less uncomfortable, reminding the Emperor of the grave cloth Fleischauer had wrapped about his crystal ball.
Gradually, both the moaning sound and the apparition began to change, becoming somehow more distinct. Even with this impression of change, when the final resolution came, it was shockingly abrupt. The moan became the dry, brittle voice of a woman. The nebulous spectre became the semblance of a plump rural duchess.
‘Artur! Artur, you murderous cur!’ the ghost wailed, spinning around where she hovered a few inches above the table until she faced the trembling ruler of Nuln. The apparition raised a phantom finger and jabbed it at Count Artur. ‘I wait for you in the gardens of Morr, assassin! Adulterer!’
Boris chuckled as he listened to the ghost’s harangue. It seemed Count Artur had removed his domineering first wife through the expedient of poison, disguising it to look as though she’d succumbed to the plague. A delicious bit of scandal that the woman’s wealthy relations would be interested to learn. The Emperor was annoyed that he hadn’t had the foresight to have his scribe attend the seance.
After a time, Count Artur’s wife faded away, her voice evaporating back into the speechless moan, her form melting into the formless wisp. Soon another spirit manifested itself through the medium, another voice rising from the moan, another figure emerging from the wisp. Brothers, sisters, sons and daughters, friends and servants, many were the ghosts evoked by Fleischauer’s magic. Many were the dark secrets the wraiths related. Boris chuckled at each embarrassing revelation, promising himself he would make good use of all he learned when he was back in Altdorf. Indeed, he’d never imagined magic could be so useful. If Kreyssig wasn’t such a capable and dangerous man, he might suggest he add sorcery to his intelligence network. Handing such a tool to such a man wouldn’t be wise, however. Perhaps if he were removed and a more pliable commander put in his place…
Distracted by his plotting, Boris didn’t see the wisp form itself into the barbarous figure of Baron Thornig, Erna’s father. He didn’t hear much of what the ghost had to say to his daughter. What little he did hear made him curse his distraction.
‘Endure,’ Thornig moaned. ‘The night will end. The dawn will come. Wickedness and corruption will be purged from the Empire. He who loves you best will return. He will return what was stolen. Together you will have justice. Endure, and know you suffer so that Light may shine once more.’
The Emperor tightened his hold on Erna’s hand as the spectre of her father started to fade. Viciously, he twisted her arm, provoking a gasp of pain. ‘What did he say?’ Boris growled. ‘What did that hell-damned traitor say!’
Lost in his anger, Boris was again inattentive of the spirits. He didn’t see the wisp reform. Only when a familiar voice called to him did the Emperor turn away from Erna. He quivered as he found himself staring into the mournful countenance of his own father, the man who had been Emperor Ludwig II.