“Lord Rudolfo,” a voice bellowed behind him.
He looked over his shoulder, and stood as the massive man pushed his way into the cave. Behind him, two Marsh women followed with trays of food and drink. Rudolfo extended his right hand to the Marsh King. “I do not know what to call you,” he said.
The giant looked at Rudolfo’s hand, then locked eyes with him. “I am the Marsh King.” He continued past him to sit heavily in the chair. He glanced to the idol, then back to Rudolfo. “What is your strategy to win this war?”
Rudolfo chuckled. “You do not waste time with pleasantries, do you?”
The two women unloaded the trays onto the small table. One poured a thick, amber-colored syrup into a glass and set it by Rudolfo’s right hand as the other placed bowls of poached salmon mixed with walnuts, apples and onions, loaves of black bread and wheels of strong-smelling cheese. Rudolfo picked up a bit of cheese and nibbled it.
“Pleasantries do not interest me,” the Marsh King said, again glancing to the idol. “Have you listened to my War Sermon?”
Rudolfo shrugged. “You speak the Whymer tongue most nights. It is not a language I’ve kept up on.” But I’ve kept up on this language, he signed, using the house language of Xhum Y’Zir.
The Marsh King’s eyes widened, but he did not sign back. “The world is changing, Lord Rudolfo. I have dreamed it. On the night before the pillar of smoke, I dreamed of fire consuming the Named Lands for the sins of a father that is worshiped yet forgotten.” The Marsh King looked to the idol. “Windwir is just the start of this. But in the end, it will close the Marshfolk’s sojourn in the land of sorrows.” He leaned forward. “And in my dreams, your blade guards the path to our new home.”
Rudolfo picked at the salmon mixture with a small tarnished fork. It had been poached in lemon juice, and tasted surprisingly sweet and sour. He washed it down with a cold brown liquor that turned out to be a thick whiskey. He felt the warmth move through him and he savored it. He looked at the Marsh King. “And because of this you have announced our unexpected kin-clave?”
Rudolfo watched this time, carefully. The eyes always went to the idol before speaking. And after a glance, the words followed. “Your resurrected Pope will save the light by killing it. After, a Gypsy blade will guard that light, and by guarding it, guard our way.”
He felt his eyes narrow. “Tell me about this resurrected Pope.”
Another glance. “You will know of this soon enough.”
“Regardless,” Rudolfo said, watching the idol out of the corner of his eye, “you can imagine how odd it is that after two thousand years of scorning the Named Lands and its obeisance to the Rites of Kin-Clave, suddenly when Windwir falls you are quick to ride south and take a side.”
Then, before the eyes could shift to the idol, Rudolfo signed: You are not the Marsh King.
The man looked to the idol, concern washing his face. He continued the stare at the idol and Rudolfo smiled. Finally, the giant spoke. “Dreams come when they come. I do not bid them.”
Rudolfo nodded. “I understand.” Then his hands moved. You are the Marsh King’s puppet, he signed. You read his hand signs in the mirror.
Now he looked something like a wash between anger, puzzlement and fear. His mouth opened and closed, his heavy breath rustling his beard and mustache.
Rudolfo sipped the whiskey, then put it down. “I know what you’re about,” he said, raising his voice. Tell your puppeteer that Lord Rudolfo has sniffed him out.
But before he could speak, the girl appeared from her place behind the curtain. She smiled at him, and Rudolfo saw it was the girl who had led him here. “Lord Rudolfo, my apologies for this subterfuge,” she said, striding forward and extending her right hand. “You can imagine why it is prudent for the Named Lands to see the Marsh King as something other than what she truly is.”
Rudolfo accepted her hand and forced himself to raise it to his mouth, despite the grime and mud. “I understand completely. As long as kin-clave exists between us, I will honor your trust.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I know you understand what it means to come into power young and alone.”
Rudolfo felt the sting of memory, remembering that first lonely day as the new Lord of the Ninefold Forest Houses. Gregoric’s father had been his strength, and not long after brought Gregoric into the position of First Captain so that he could become Rudolfo’s general by proxy. “Yes,” he said. “It is challenging to earn and keep respect.”
She looked at the large man who played her proxy. “My father chose Hanric to play the part of my shadow until I found my own strength. Of course, my people know.”
This surprised Rudolfo. “Really?”
She smiled. “Marshfolk are very different from Named Landers.”
“Aye,” Rudolfo said, chuckling. “As are the Forest Gypsies.”
“My role is more spiritual than directive,” she continued. “Most of my life is spent writing my dreams, both the waking and the dreaming. I also write out my glossolalia.”
Rudolfo pondered this. “These are the War Sermons we hear.”
She nodded. “They are. I’ve written these down for as long as I can remember. My Whymer Seers catalog them and assign them numbers, weaving my dreams into the matrix of dreams from the Marsh Kings that have gone before. My father chose Hanric as my shadow partly for his strength as a warrior, but also because, like me, he remembers everything he reads. He has spent his life preparing for the War of Androfrancine Sin, reading the dreams.” She looked to Hanric now. “I will draw numbers tonight and determine their sequence at random. And the Marsh King’s War Sermon will continue.”
Rudolfo laughed now. “I think we lead our houses very differently.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “We do.”
Rudolfo’s hand crept up to stroke his beard. “I must admit that this is not what I expected for my parley with you.”
“But you saw through my subterfuge soon enough.”
The Gypsy King shrugged. “I’ve had a life of statecraft and intrigue. Until now, I would imagine you spent your life away from that.”
“I have,” she said. “Though I had an Androfrancine tutor.”
Rudolfo raised his eyebrows. “That is quite curious given the history.”
“Yes.” She looked at Hanric. “I will come for you soon, Hanric.”
He bowed and quickly left the cave.
When he left she looked at Rudolfo, and for just a moment her hard eyes became soft. The Oeca was a certain prettiness beneath the dirt, and a coltish, awkward strength in her bearing. As young as she was, Rudolfo sensed that she already exhibited the trappings of formidability. “Now,” she said, “let’s talk strategy for this war of ours.”
Rudolfo smiled and reached for the bottle of whiskey.
Petronus
Petronus sat amid the rubble and ash and thought about the past.
He’d waited for Neb to return or for Gregoric to bring some word, but neither had happened, and eventually he’d wandered into the city. In addition to the boy’s disappearance, the work worried him. By his estimates they’d buried nearly a third of the dead, but it was obvious now that the winter was upon them, and their workforce dwindled with each day that the armies waited.
He’d often found that walking helped. One of the things he’d hated about being Pope was that he could no longer simply go for a walk. Gray Guard or archbishops or aides surrounded him everywhere he went, though from time to time he’d managed to slip past them. On those days or nights, he wandered a circuit of streets, always the same streets, head low and hands clasped behind his back, dressed in the simplest robes he could borrow.
Now he had done the same thing, his feet picking out a path that carried him along the backside of the crater where the great library had stood. Before he knew it, he was where the Garden of Coronation and Consecration had once been, where as a younger man he’d taken the scepter and the ring offered to him and had been proclaimed Pope Petronus.