“When will he arrive, do you think?” Jemilla asked.
She was becoming a little familiar of late. He must watch that.
“Soon I hope, lady, soon. But he will be here no quicker for our watching. Come, let us warm ourselves and give our poor mounts a rest.” He kicked his horse into motion down the icy slope.
Jemilla did not follow him at once. She sat her shivering steed and stared at the King’s retreating back. One gloved hand felt her stomach tentatively, and for a moment her face became as hard as glass. Then she followed her king and lover down to the growing bustle of the camp, and the fires that were burning orange and yellow against the snow.
The wind had blown up into a gale. Abeleyn held his hands out to the glowing brazier-they would be running out of coal soon-and listened to the snowstorm that had come upon them with the swooping in of night. Perhaps he should have taken the sea route, south-east through the Malacar Straits, but then he would have needed a small fleet as escort. To the corsairs, a Hebrian king would have been too tempting a target to let by unmolested, despite-or perhaps because of-the longstanding accommodations they had had with the Hebrian crown.
And besides, he needed this chance to talk openly with King Mark before the intrigue of the conclave swallowed them all.
Something struck the side of the tent, seemingly propelled by the wind. It scrabbled there for a moment, and the steward came in from the adjoining extension. There was the clatter of plates from in there; they were clearing the remains of dinner.
“Was there something, sire? I thought I heard-”
“It was nothing, Cabran. Dismiss the servants, will you? They can finish in the morning.”
The steward bowed, then left for the spacious extension, clapping his hands at the serving maids. Abeleyn rose and let slip the heavy hide curtain that shut out their noise.
“Sire.” It was the bodyguard at the entrance. “We’ve something here. It struck the tent, and you told us to look out for-”
“Yes,” Abeleyn snapped. “Bring it here, and then let no others enter.”
The tent flap was thrown back and a heavily cloaked and armoured man thrust his way in, admitting a gust of snow and chill air. He had something in his hands, which he left on the low cot at a nod from Abeleyn.
“Thank you, Merco. Have you men a decent fire out there?”
“Good enough, sire. We switch round every hour.” The man’s voice was muffled in the folds of cloak he had wrapped round his face.
“Very well. That will be all, then.”
The man bowed and left. The snow he had let in began to melt on the thick hide of the tent’s floor.
“Well, Golophin?” Abeleyn said. He bent over the ice-encrusted gyrfalcon that crouched on the furs of the cot and gently wiped its feathers. The yellow inhuman eyes glared at him. The beak opened, and the voice of the old wizard said:
“Well met, my lord.”
“Is the bird drunk, that he crashes into my tent?”
“The bird is exhausted, lad. This damn snowstorm almost put paid to him for good. You will have a fine time forcing the pass if this keeps up.”
“I know. What word of King Mark?”
“He is only hours away. He travels with a smaller party than you. Perhaps his ideas as to the dignity of kings differ.”
Abeleyn smiled, stroking the bird’s feathers. “Perhaps. Well, old man, what news have you for me this time?”
“Momentous news, my boy. I have had the bird monitor Charibon as you requested. He has just come from there. I thought the flight over the mountains would kill him, but he had the east wind on his tail so he made good time in the end.
“You have to know, I suppose. The Synod convened eight days ago. Our good Himerius has been elected High Pontiff of the Five Kingdoms.”
Abeleyn’s hand went very still on the water-beaded plumage of the savage bird. “So they did it. They actually elected that slaughter-mongering wolf-livered bastard.”
“Guard your words, sire. You speak of the spiritual head of the Ramusian world.”
“By the blood of the Saints! Did no one object, Golophin?”
“Merion did, but he’s an Antillian of low birth, and thus an outsider. I had thought Heyn of Torunna would also, but he must have been bought off somehow. No doubt Himerius is even now doling out rewards to the faithful who voted him into office.”
“And the purges. I take it they will be extended continent-wide.”
“Yes, lad. A Pontifical bull is expected within a few weeks. It is a black day for the Dweomer-folk, and for the west.”
Abeleyn’s face was as white as bone in the scarlet shadow of the tent.
“I will not allow it. The kings will not allow it. I will put it to the conclave that we cannot tolerate this interference in the day-to-day running of the state. These people are our subjects; whether the Church considers them heretics or no.”
“Careful, lad. There is talk of excommunication in the air at Charibon, and Himerius has the power to issue a bull against you. A heretic king has no right to rule in the eyes of the world.”
“Damn them,” Abeleyn said through clenched teeth. “Is there nothing an anointed king can do in his kingdom without these God-cursed Ravens meddling in it?”
“It is the Inceptine game, sire. They have been playing it for centuries.”
“I will speak to Mark of it. He is a moderate like me. We may not sway Lofantyr of Torunna, for he needs the Knights Militant too badly at the moment, or Haukir of Almark-he is too old, too set in his ways. Cadamost of Perigraine, though. He may be open to reason; he has always struck me as an amenable sort of fellow. What news from the dyke, Golophin? Does it hold?”
“Shahr Baraz’s army is finding the passage of the Western Road difficult. The main body has begun to move at last and there is skirmishing at the dyke itself, but so far there has been no major assault. This is old news, sire, gleaned from a colleague of mine. The bird has been too busy in Charibon to have a closer look at the east.”
“Of course.”
“There is a rumour, though, from Ormann Dyke.”
“What? What of it?”
“It is rumoured that Macrobius was not slain in Aekir’s fall, that he is alive. As I say, it is a rumour, no more.”
“Macrobius alive? No, it’s impossible, Golophin! Torunnan wishful thinking.”
“Do you want me to look into it, sire?”
Abeleyn paused. “No. I need your feathered alter ego back at Charibon. I must be up to date with developments there when the conclave is assembled. There is no time to chase will-o’-the-wisps in the east.”
“Very well, sire.”
There was a silence. The gyrfalcon struggled to its taloned feet and shook its wings, spraying water over Abeleyn.
“Will the bird stay here tonight, Golophin?”
“If you please, sire. He needs a rest, and King Mark is on the right route to find you in the morning. I congratulate you on your navigating.”
“I spend my life navigating, Golophin, trying to keep the ship of state from foundering.”
“Then beware of shoals, my King. They are approaching by the score. Have you heard anything from Fimbria?”
Abeleyn rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary. “Yes. Narbukir is sending an envoy to the conclave. He travels with us, though he wants to remain as low-key as possible. From Fimbria proper there has been no reply to my emissary as yet. I do not honestly expect one, Golophin.”
“Do not give up hope, sire. The Fimbrians may yet be the answer to some of our problems. They have never loved the Church; they blame it for their downfall. They would be a powerful ally if the worst happened and Hebrion went its own way.”