“I am sorry to hear that,” Achmed said curdy. “Her son must be thrilled.”
“Doubtful,” replied the Sorbold soldier, abandoning royal protocol in the attempt to deliver the message. “He is dead himself.”
“What happened? Did they hire a new chef?”
The soldier paused long enough to recover from the insult. “Her Serenity had seen ninety-four summers, the Crown Prince sixty-two. It was the will of the All-God, nothing more.”
The Firbolg king eyed him in silence for a moment, then put out his hand.
“Do you have an official decree?” he asked.
“Yes, Majesty, and a request for you to attend the state funerals from the benison.”
Achmed broke the seal and opened the folded parchment, scanning it rapidly. It contained the same information that had been relayed to him orally, in more flowery language, with the addition of a single long sentence at the bottom of the decree.
As the Crown Prince left no legitimately recognized heir, a Colloquium is summoned by invitation to address the absence of a line of succession to the Throne of the Dark Earth, issued to the Lord and Lady Cymrian, sovereigns of the Alliance to which Sorbold is a sealed ally, as well as rulers of bordering nations, namely His Majesty, King Achmed of Ylorc, Her Majesty, Rhapsody, Queen of Tyrian, Lord Tristan Steward, Regent of Roland, and Viedekam, Administrator of the Nonaligned States as well as representatives of the Church, the Nobility, the Mercantile and the Army, to convene directly after the burial during the Period of Mourning, eleven days hence.
The Bolg king stared at the decree for a very long time, then looked up into the face of the messenger, almost as if he had had forgotten the man was there.
“You may go now,” he said, nodding to his own guards. The Sorbold representative bowed and left.
Achmed waited until the footsteps of the soldier from the rocky, secretive nation that bordered his own had died away, then sat down on the marble throne in the Great Hall, his stomach churning in rare-felt anxiety. He stared at the words on the parchment, words whose import he was only beginning to absorb, and swore in the language of the Bolg.
“Hrekin,” he said.
19
The royal coach, already traveling at half-speed, slowed appreciably. The small internal window slid open, and the driver’s voice could be heard over the noise of the decelerating caravan.
“One of your regiments is approaching, m’lord.”
Ashe, leaning back against the leather bench with Rhapsody propped up, asleep, in his arms, reached for the velvet curtain on the carriage’s side.
“One of my regiments?”
“Yes, m’lord. It appears that Anborn is at the lead.”
“Very well, slacken the reins and roll gently to a stop. Make it as gradual as you can.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
The sound of hoofbeats and shouted orders grew louder as the coach came to a halt, amid squeaking and the clattering of the horses and tack. Carefully Ashe slid his wife from his chest to the pillows, covered her carefully with the carriage blanket, and stepped quickly from the coach, endeavoring to keep the blinding sun from encroaching on the cool and comfortable darkness within.
As he came around the front of the carriage he could see the Lord Marshal in the fore atop his beautiful black stallion, leading the second regiment of Haguefort in a steady canter eastward to meet them on the thoroughfare; the General motioned to the soldiers behind him to slow to a walk, and spurred his horse onward in Ashe’s direction.
“Well met, Uncle,” Ashe said, shielding his eyes from the sun as Anborn approached. “Please keep the regiment back—Rhapsody is sleeping, and I do not wish her disturbed.”
The General laid on the reins and drew his mount to a brisk halt; the animal danced fluidly in place, then stopped completely, perfectly trained to the needs of the horseman who had lost the use of his legs.
“Sleeping?” he demanded, his voice terse on the hot summer wind. “Midday? Is she ill?”
Ashe motioned to Anborn to follow him out of the hearing of the carriage guards; when they were about fifty paces away, he glanced at the two regiments setting to a watch, then returned his attention to Anborn.
“She is not feeling well,” he said, looking up from the ground at his uncle. “She is with child.”
Anborn stared down at him from the stallion’s back, absorbing his words for a moment, allowing the horse to edge uncomfortably close to Ashe. Then, with a speed born of years of soldiering, he pulled the greave from his useless leg and heaved it at the Lord Cymrian, striking him square in the chest.
“Are you out of your misbegotten mind?” he hissed, fury evident in his tone. “What have you done, you idiot?”
Ashe inhaled deeply, struggling to remain calm, though his fists curled at his sides, and the dragon in his blood began to rise.
“If you need ask, Uncle, I am sorry for you,” he said as pleasantly as he could.
The General drew himself up in the saddle, anger radiating from his azure eyes. “You unspeakable fool! Did you forget, perchance, what happened to your own mother?”
Ashe finally took a step back. “Why are you here, Anborn?” he asked, the multiple tones of the dragon creeping into his voice. “I trust you have a reason other than to assail me with questions that are none of your concern.”
The General spat on the ground to his right side, as if trying to clear a bad taste from his mouth, then walked the horse in a tight circle to return to court distance, reached angrily into the folds of his jerkin and pulled forth an oilcloth packet, which he tossed to the Lord Cymrian.
“The Empress of Sorbold is dead, finally,” he said contemptuously. “As is her fat bump of a son.”
Ashe stared at him for a moment, then pulled the missive from the oilcloth and broke the seal, his dragonesque eyes scanning the document.
“This is worrisome,” he said as he read the missive. “There is more than just a lack of a direct heir; over the empress’s long life, even those distantly related to the crown have died out. Sorbold is a headless body now; it will be chaos there.”
“You have your father’s talent for understatement,” Anborn observed, staring down at him from the saddle. “Mark this moment in your mind, nephew; this is the day when the war that is to come began.”
“You see war in every waking moment, Uncle,” Ashe replied, the more human tone of annoyance in his voice now. “There is a council in place, an Alliance to which Sorbold is a friend, not only through Leitha, but those who came to the Moot and pledged their fealty. Let us not borrow trouble, shall we?”
“The second regiment is outfitted with the appropriate state mourning finery and all that other nonsense of protocol,” the General said, ignoring his words. “They are here to escort you both to the funeral.”
Ashe glanced over at the carriage. “We cannot possibly attend,” he said, rolling the parchment into a scroll and sliding it back inside its oilcloth sheath. “Rhapsody is fragile, ill, and I will not jeopardize her with such a long journey over mountainous terrain.”
“You cannot possibly not attend,” the General snorted, glaring down from the saddle. “This will be the moment when Sorbold’s destiny is decided, the genesis of a new dynasty, or a new form of government altogether. Those distant royals who may attempt to stake a claim to the throne will face a possibly bloody challenge from the nobility, who, as head of their own city-states, may seek to dissolve Sorbold as an empire altogether. Then there is the army, the mercantile, and the church, all of whom have interests they will want to advance. You are the bloody high lord of all this mess; you have no other choice but to go.”
“He’s right, Sam.” Rhapsody’s voice, weak but clear, caused both men to turn abruptly toward the carriage, where she crouched at the door, preparing to disembark. Her long hair, normally bound back in a simple black ribbon, hung loose down her back, but otherwise she seemed alert.