He repeated it until it made no sense, until long after he was capable of rational thought.
But even then, he didn’t stop moving. Only death could stop him.
Part III
The Recondite Stirs
The year 2,223 of Everon
The month of Ponthmen
When wakes the recondite world, the sword shall appear as a feather, the wolf as a mouse, the legion as a carnival. I shall laugh from my grave, and it shall sound as a lute.
1
In the Warhearth
William poured another goblet of his favorite Virgenyan wine and paced across the red marble floor of Warhearth Hall. He took a healthy swallow of the amethyst-colored vintage, then set the goblet down on the broad black table in the center of the room.
The paintings were looking at him again. Rebelliously, he returned their scrutiny.
They were everywhere; whole floor-to-ceiling panels of the wall were bracketed in gilded oak-leaf molding and painted in dense and murky colors, as if rendered with mud and soot and blood. In a sense they were, for each was a depiction of some part of the long history of his family’s wars.
“Would you rather look at those old pictures or me?” Alis Berrye inquired sulkily. She was draped upon an armchair, bodice unlaced so as to reveal her firm, rose-tipped breasts. She rolled off her stockings and threw one bare leg over the arm of the chair. It was a pretty leg, slender, white as milk. Her chestnut hair was mildly tousled, sapphire eyes languid, despite her vexed tone. She was nearly as full of wine as he, and totally unlike the paintings in character.
Well, not entirely true. She wasn’t murky, but she was a bit dense.
“I am sorry, my dear,” William murmured. “The mood is no longer on me.”
“I can put it on you, my lord, I assure you.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I’m certain you could. But I do not wish it.”
“Do you tire of me, Your Majesty?” Alis asked, unable to hide a bit of panic in her voice.
He regarded her for a moment, taking the question seriously. She was an exuberant, enthusiastic lover, if one without the skills of an older woman. Her political designs were charmingly transparent and naïve. She got drunk well, and when her guard was down she was unselfconsciously sweet, and her mind went down tracks strange to his, which he enjoyed on the pillows.
She was a welcome change from Gramme, whose mind had turned almost obsessively to her bastards these last few years. They were provided for, of course, and he liked them, especially little Mery, but Gramme wanted them to have the Dare name and said so far too often. Alis was less ambitious, and perhaps didn’t even have the intelligence for such ambition.
That was fine. Two intelligent women in his life were more than enough.
“No, not at all,” he told her. “You are a delight to me.”
“Then shall we to bed? It’s something past midnight. I can soothe you to sleep, if you don’t desire loving.”
“You go to bed, lady,” he said gently. “I shall join you presently.”
“In your chambers, Majesty?”
William turned an irritated frown on her. “You know better than that. That is my marriage bed, and I share it only with my wife. Do not presume, Alis, merely because she is away.”
Her face fell as she realized her mistake. “I’m sorry, Sire. You’ll come to my chambers, then?”
“I said I would.”
She swayed to her feet and picked up the stockings, then came over, stood on tiptoe, and gave him a little kiss on the lips. Then she smiled, almost furtively, and cut her eyes down, and for a moment he felt himself stir, but he was too drunk and too sad, and he knew it.
“Good night, Sire,” she murmured.
“Good night, Alis.”
He didn’t watch her go, examining instead the largest painting in the room. It depicted Genya Dare, burning like a saint, leading a great army. Before her towered the vague but threatening shadow of the Skasloi fortress that had once stood on the very spot where Eslen castle now stood. Against that dark red citadel, giant formless shapes of black were barely discernible.
“What shall I do?” he murmured. “What is right?” He took his gaze round the other paintings—the battle of Minster-on-Sea, with its rolling thunderheads, the fight at the Ford of Woorm, the siege of Carwen. In each, a Dare stood at the head of an army, resolute and steadfast.
A hundred years ago, these same walls had depicted scenes of Reiksbaurg victory. They had been stripped and painted over.
It could happen again.
He shivered at the thought, and wondered if it wasn’t time to go see him. The thing in the dungeon, the thing his father had shown him, so long ago. He found that thought nearly as troubling as a Reiksbaurg victory, however, and dismissed it.
Instead, William moved back to the table and unscrolled a map, weighting its corners with brass counters made to resemble ram-headed vipers, coiled to strike.
“Still up? Still brooding?” a faintly mocking voice asked.
“Robert?” William swung around, nearly lost his balance, and cursed.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I can hardly drink at all, these days. It takes no more than a bottle to give me clumsy legs. Where the saints have you been this past nineday?”
Robert smiled thinly. “Saltmark, actually.”
“What? Without my leave? For what?”
“It were better not to have your leave for this,” Robert said darkly. “It was more of my—I think you would say inappropriate—dealings.” He put on a grim smile. “You did make me your prime minister, remember?”
“Had this to do with Lesbeth?”
Robert fingered his mustache. “In part.”
William paused for courage before he asked the next question. “Is she murdered?”
“No. She is alive. I was even allowed to see her.”
William took a deep draught of the wine. “Thank Saint Anne,” he muttered. “What sort of ransom do they want?”
“May I have some wine?” Robert asked mildly.
“Help yourself.”
Robert glanced at the carafe on the table and made a disgusted noise. “Do you have anything else? Something from a little farther south? I don’t see how you stomach that sour stuff.”
William waved at the cabinet. “There is a freshly decanted bottle of that red from Tero Gallé you’re so fond of.”
“Vin Crové?”
“That’s the one.”
He watched impatiently as Robert produced and poured some of the sanguine liquid and tasted it.
“Ah! That’s better. At least your vintners have good taste.”
“How you can be so calm, when our sister has been kidnapped?”
“Don’t ever doubt my concern for Lesbeth,” Robert said sharply.
“I’m sorry—I was wrong to remark so. But please, give me the news.”
“As I said, she is well, and I was allowed to see her. She sends her love.”
“From where? Where is she?”
“She is a captive of the duke of Austrobaurg.”
“How? In the name of the saints, how? She was last seen on her horse, riding east from the Sleeve. How did they abduct her from this island?”
“That, Austrobaurg would not tell me.”
“Her fiancé from Safnia arrived, you know. A day ago. He is beside himself.”
“Indeed?” Robert’s eyes gleamed strangely.
“Well, come. What does the duke want?”
“What do you suppose? He wants a ransom.”
“What ransom is that?”
“He wants a ransom of ships. Twenty, to be precise.”
“Twenty sailing ships? We cannot spare them, not if we go to war with Saltmark. Or Hansa, saints-me-to-bed.”
“Oh, he doesn’t want twenty of our ships. He wants twenty Sorrovian ships. Sunken. To the bottom of the sea.”