His sprawling, black-shrouded tent was as large as a Bruallian manor. Stationed around it were more knights of the Dragonist Order. One took the bridle as Valdemar dismounted. He gave Fever a final pat between the eyes. The stallion was a fine steed, but not like Daemon — the stallion that Marcellus Admorran rode over the cliff. Valdemar clenched his fists.
Marcellus was never far from his mind. The man would never know how much trouble he had caused. Not only did he make a fool out of Valdemar, but the Komuran rebels had never openly shown such defiance until after the news of Marcellus' escape leaked out beyond Bruallia. Valdemar had appeared weak, and it had cost him much.
The other lords began to question his authority. He had been forced to be more ruthless than ever before to settle matters before they got out of hand. The debacle with Oebarsius was only the latest in a sequence of minor uprisings Valdemar had to quell.
Yet the fractured kingdoms had united because of Marcellus' actions. All agreed that the knight's trespass was unforgivable, a breach of any contract preventing them from crossing the Dragonspine. Declaring war against Leodia presented no problem. The Bruallians had long chafed from their history of being driven from the lush lands of Leodia to the harshness of the Eastern Wilds. All they needed was an excuse to raise arms against their hated enemies. Marcellus had provided just that excuse.
Valdemar hated him for that. Hated being grateful to the man who had shamed him in front of thousands, upsetting what was supposed to be his day of glory. He wondered what Marcellus was doing right then, and how long it would be before they met again. He knew the day would come. It was as the Rhoma said: life moved in circles.
The two Dragonists at his door saluted when he entered his tent. A horned owl turned its head around to stare with unblinking eyes from its perch in the corner. Valdemar walked through the sitting room past gilded tables, chairs, and satin cushions, all black against the scarlet silk that lined the interior. A marble fountain murmured as he strode through the council hall into his personal chamber. The room was rounded, and small enough to be comfortable. His eyes flicked across the shadows of the velvet curtains, the hidden corners for the assassin who might have made it past his Dragonists.
The room was empty. He relaxed and unbuckled his sword belt, hung his velvet cloak on the proper peg, and carefully laid his pearl-embroidered cap on the polished oak of the tabletop.
He paused to gaze at the painting that centered the room. His mother's saintly face stared back at him, framed with wavy raven hair. Her dark, penetrating eyes seemed to see beyond things, as they did when she lived.
Something moved in the shadows.
Delilah padded into the room. Her smoky velvet fur gleamed, and her emerald eyes glimmered. Her rumbling purr was the only sound in the room as she rubbed her head against his stroking fingers. He scratched her chin as he lifted her in his arms, feeling the faintest shadow of a smile curve his thin lips. Delilah's eyes were half closed as she thoroughly enjoyed the special treatment.
A shuffling sound caused her ears to prick forward.
An elderly woman slowly entered the room with a tray of steaming food in her trembling hands. Her breath wheezed, and her approach was slow enough to be near exasperating, but Valdemar waited patiently for her to set the tray on a stand beside him.
"Thank you, Mara."
A smile creased her wrinkled cheeks. Mara could not answer. She had been mute all her life, one of the reasons his mother had hired her. No gossip was possible when one had no voice. His mother was younger than himself at that time, and when she died Valdemar had retained Mara's services. His mother had trusted her and he, living among many who would kill him without a second thought, found that he could as well.
Mara should have been settled down somewhere living on her pension but had never indicated she wanted to be relieved of her duties. So he had never found cause to let her go. She could be trusted. Besides the Dragonist Order, he could say that of no one else.
Her body was failing, but her mind was still sharp. Her white hair was neatly pulled up in a bun, and her gray dress was clean and pressed. He watched her shuffle out.
How long will it be before she lays down and never rises again? How long until every meal, every sip of wine will be suspect to poison from a jealous rival or vengeful enemy?
He knew he should have let her go, let her live out her twilight years in peace. But he knew he would not. He hated to admit it, but he depended on her.
It would be some time before she made it back with his wine chalice, so he lifted the cover off the tray. The night's supper was thick slices of veal and potatoes, surrounded by buttered peas and bread. He ate ravenously, pausing only to tear a strip of veal and feed it to Delilah. She ate with the dignified manner of a lady of the court, something that never failed to amuse him.
A moment later she lifted her head, laid her ears back, and narrowed her green eyes into slits. She bared her razor teeth and emitted a venomous hiss before scampering out of the room as if her tail was on fire.
Valdemar sighed as the food turned to sawdust in his mouth. The shadows of the tent darkened as the familiar sucking of air through inhuman lips became audible, accompanied by the scent of rotted leather.
"Hello, father."
He did not turn. He had tried to see in the past, but the specter that haunted him wore shadows like a man wore a cloak. Only a pair of dimly glowing orbs was visible in the silhouette of what could have been a man.
Darroth Basilis was dead. Yet Darroth Basilis spoke to him through twisted, bestial lips.
"Greetings, Valdemar."
Valdemar was relieved to find his voice steady. "I did not expect to find you here."
"Someone has to be the hand that guides you. You are too headstrong, too reckless. You appear ready to cross the border before the order from your Mistress."
Valdemar nearly snarled. "Do you take me for a fool? One does not simply lead an army across borders in the winter, and especially not across the Dragonspine. But it takes time to gather this kind of force, and the Komurans needed to be punished. In this way, I get the soldiers ready for the spring crossing. The High King of Leodia is dead. Kaerleon is in chaos. It will be the perfect time to strike."
The shadowy figure's gaze was sharp. It caused Valdemar much more unease than he dared to show.
"You are a warrior with no peer, but you have no grasp of politics." Darroth's voice hissed through jagged teeth. "This is a game of timing and calculated moves. Should you come through the borders in all your force, you would succeed in taking some of the realm. But before you could get near Kaerleon, the remaining kingdoms would surely unite against you. Even your grand army would dash to pieces against such a force. But with the kingdom in peril, you must allow time for the separate provinces to muster the boldness to declare their own sovereignty and rebel against Leodia on their own. Then you will be able to gain allies in our drive of conquest."
Valdemar toyed with the food on his plate, though his appetite had failed. "My men did not come to the field of battle to wait. They anticipate slaughter and spoils, and I will feed them until their bowels rupture. The Komurans thought they could overpower us, but I left them dangling from stakes and drowning in their own blood. These kingdoms of Leodia will be no different."
Darroth's voice was a stern hiss from the shadows. "You will obey your commands without question. Remember, you are Property, and should you ever expect to receive the Gift you will do as I say. Men named me Basilis to revile me, but I embraced the name and became the very spirit of it, laying waste to all who stood against me. Now the task is yours, son of Basilis. Recall your failure to capture one of the most important players, this Marcellus Admorran. It was his hand that thwarted our allies in Kaerleon, slaying those who controlled the kingdom. Years of planning were ruined in a single day. It was from your hand that he escaped. You must bear the responsibility."