A Path to Coldness of Heart Read online

  Wicked Inger could fry in her own drippings. Machens Liakopulos was old. He was tired. And he was done with ungrateful Kavelin.

  ...

  One-time Lord Kuo Wen-chin was weary of exile but only exile let him enjoy any life at all. Once he had been overlord of all Shinsan. Those who had displaced him would eliminate him instantly should they learn that he lived. But the wishful heart will so often not attend the practical mind.

  Kuo’s world was a lifeless island off a desert coast far from civilization and farther still from the heart of his homeland. It was a storied island but most of its tales were ancient beyond recollection. Three living beings knew what part it played in the Nawami Crusades. A handful more had heard of the laboratories of Ehelebe. The most terrible horrors subsided into still darkness after a few millennia.

  Kuo amused himself by learning what he could from his surroundings. But months fled. Learning became tedious.

  He had moments when he cursed Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i for having harkened to his appeal for sanctuary.

  Kuo Wen-chin appreciated the honor his friend had done him. And Kuo was a patient man. But his patience was wearing.

  He was too much alone. Food came unannounced and anonymously, arriving through a one-way portal. Nothing left the island.

  Maybe Lord Ssu-ma had fallen fighting the Deliverer, or in the war with Matayanga. Or politics might have consumed him.

  Yet someone kept sending supplies.

  He shared the island with only one organism more complex than an insect or spider. Or the rare seabird that landed only perforce. Birds neither nested nor hunted here. They fled as soon as they had the power to go.

  Wen-chin had found a crazy old man in a cell beneath the fortress that slithered along the spine of the island. The old man was little more than a ghost, physically and mentally.

  Wen-chin found some purpose in nursing the ancient, who had suffered a mind-shattering trauma. He did not know who he was nor how he had come to be here, yet he had crystalline memories of things that had taken place thousands of years ago. He could describe forgotten storms of destruction in intimate detail, dropping the names of warlords and wizards whose empires and sorceries were less than an echo today.

  The old man also had plenty to say about Old Meddler when Wen-chin questioned him patiently, and could shape his questions cleverly enough to elicit answers that made sense.

  Wen-chin never realized who his companion must be. He did conclude that the halfwit might be valuable. And mining the ancient’s memories did pass the time.

  ...

  The King of Hammad al Nakir, Megelin, son of Haroun, held his mount’s reins. Dismounted, he stood atop a barren rise, stared across a brown waste, uphill, at el Aswad, the mighty eastern fortress, now abandoned. Beloul and the other old men who lived there when they were young called it the Fortress in Shadow because it had persisted defiantly in the shadow of the Disciple for years. El Aswad was where Megelin’s father had been born. The family had countless ghosts up there.

  Haroun bin Yousif first walked into the fires that forged the King Without a Throne there.

  Megelin was neither bright nor sentimental but emotion did move him now. He had brought his army far out of its way so he could see his father’s birthplace. Haroun had dedicated his being to destroying the insanity of a sun-stricken madman so audacious as to declare himself the mouth of God. A madman who became Megelin’s grandfather.

  The Royalists passed behind their King, headed north. Once the army reached Sebil el Selib it would exterminate the dregs of the madman’s fanatics. And Megelin would destroy his surviving relatives.

  Those who disdain history eat the same dirt twice.

  The trace from el Aswad to Sebil el Selib passed through country where salty lakes had lain in Imperial times. Today those were white pans sprawled at the feet of mountains where the marks of ancient shorelines could still be discerned. Most of the flats were white as swaths of linen. One, though, had discolorations flecking its face. Rust stains. No one in this army had seen the pan before. Rains, though rare, and wind had disguised the evidence of disaster.

  That place was hot despite the season. The air was unpleasant. Dust stirred by the horses burned noses and throats. Megelin had a presentiment that the place was more portentous than it appeared.

  Maybe he heard the screams of the ghosts.

  The animals sensed more than the men. They were reluctant to go on.

  The warriors of the Disciple materialized on the far side of the flat. They advanced slowly on a broad front. Their mockeries crossed the salt as though borne by the devils of the air. They numbered half as many as the Royalists men but their confidence was immense. God was at their back.

  The King’s warriors needed no urging to go punish those fools.

  When Megelin’s father was a boy still awaiting his first whisker another Royalist army had faced another force of Believers across this same white sheet. Those Royalists had been devoured.

  These Royalists reached that part of the lake where there was brine under the salt crust. Through they fell, struggling to avoid drowning and being turned into human pickles. Riders kept piling into the trap from behind. Even Magden Norath’s monsters died in the heavy brine.

  Times had changed. At the height of the Pracchia menace the only way to deal with Norath’s creatures had been to bury them alive in concrete. They had been possessed of a vitality that could not be defeated by weapons or sorcery.

  But those beasts had been unable to stand daylight. These, though terrible enough, had given up much to endure under the eye of the sun.

  In the earlier battle Royalist forces had pressed forward, taking the fight to the Faithful. This time they had no Guild infantry to stiffen their line. This time the fight lasted half as long.

  Modern results matched the historical except that no ambushes had been set to further humiliate those who fled.

  Only Varthlokkur, watching from Fangdred, fully appreciated what Elwas al-Souki had accomplished. Magden Norath saw only the destruction of his children, who could not be replaced. His laboratories were gone.

  For survivors on both sides the results were sufficient. There had been a winner, there had been a loser, and the loser had suffered badly. The loser would go away but the Faithful would take back nothing they had lost before. Both sides would hang up their swords for a while. Forever, if Yasmid could get her son to listen.

  ...

  One creature somewhere would be frustrated. Wars everywhere were winding down.

  He would not be seen much, though, if he understood that a lot of people were thinking about him. His great strength, over the ages, had been that people did not take notice. But that was changing.

  His hand had been too heavy lately.

  ...

  The Royalist survivors scurried back to Al Rhemish. They wasted a winter on recriminations. The old men, left behind when the “final campaign” launched, said much less than those who had ridden the salt. They had no need to say, “I told you so.”

  Was there a chance they would be consulted next time Megelin had a wild hair?

  Probably not.

  ...

  Credence Abaca summoned Kristen. The order was couched as a gracious request but the mother of the king-who-would-be knew she had no choice. While she and her friends, and the children, were guests of the Marena Dimura they were beholden and at the mercy of the forest people. They dared not put on airs. The Marena Dimura might just stop filling the extra mouths. And this would be a hard winter.

  All winters were harsh after dislocations during the benign seasons.

  Kristen did not go alone. That would not have been proper. Dahl Haas joined her trek through the cold forest. He entered the Colonel’s family cabin behind her. He was not allowed near the war chief but neither was he deprived of his weapons. He waited where he could see Kristen all the time. He was made comfortable.

  Credence Abaca was a small, dark man, famous for his vitality and energy.
These days, though, he was bent and wrinkled. He had a palsy in his left hand. Not good. He was left-handed.

  “Sit with me,” Abaca said. His voice had changed subtly, too, and he had difficulty seating himself.

  “Thank you, Colonel. You’ve had news?”

  “News?” Puzzled. “No. No news.”

  “Yet you asked me here.”

  “Yes. Pardon me in advance if, on occasion, I become a little brusque. You will understand why as we proceed.”

  Abaca’s tone worried Kristen.

  “There is news, good and bad, but not of the sort you meant. From my point of view, our partisans have enjoyed considerable success against the Itaskians, who have gone to ground in Damhorst. They have to stick together in groups of a dozen or more. Also, the Nordmen who allied themselves with the Itaskians are starting to reconsider. Greyfells seems unlikely to receive outside reinforcements.”

  “That means we’ve won!”

  “No, Kristen. It means we may be able to rid Kavelin of the Itaskians, in time. But Inger has distanced herself from her cousin already. She retains the loyalty of the strongest regiments. We have an unofficial truce with them, for now. They don’t want to fight us. We don’t want to fight them. We stood shoulder to shoulder on the same battlefields too many times.” He stopped. His left hand shook badly.

  Kristen said, “I hear a big ‘But!’ Is that the bad news?”

  “After a fashion.”

  Kristen strove hard to remain respectfully patient.

  “Kristen, I am the glue that holds your support together. I am, in fact, guilty of pulling you into my politics so I could put an acceptable figurehead out in front of my ambitions for my people.”

  Kristen nodded, surprised by his bald honesty.

  “I may have done you a severe disservice.”

  “How so?”

  Abaca was quiet for a time. His daughter brought tea that must have cost the tribesmen dear. Abaca Enigara was young and unattractive even by the standards of her own people. She seemed downright grim.

  Abaca finally said, “The monster Radeachar was seen again three nights ago. Scouts report the Hastin Defile blocked by snow.”

  “That’s weird. That’s the third time this winter.”

  “It does happen. Once in a winter, one year out of ten. We haven’t gotten unusual amounts of snow.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ve been slow catching on. But I get it, now. Varthlokkur doesn’t want us raiding in the vicinity of Vorgreberg.”

  “He’s taking Inger’s side?”

  “No. He’s keeping me from doing something desperate.”

  “Why would you?”

  “Because I’m dying. Because I want so badly to see things settled before I go. Because I am the glue.”

  Kristen did not argue. Neither did she spout upbeat nonsense. This was grim news. “I see.”

  “Again, I apologize for dragging you in when I couldn’t keep my promises. I wouldn’t have done it had I known then what I know now.”

  “I do have to ask if you’re sure.”

  “I am. This is in the blood. I deceived myself in thinking that it wouldn’t get me, I suppose. Putting a shine on it, I can say that I’ve gotten four years more than my father did.”

  “Oh.”

  “So what shall we do, girl? You don’t have to tell me now but you’ll need to decide within ten days. I’ll beat back the darkness as long as I can but that won’t be long. And once I go, everything else comes apart.”

  Because he was the glue. And there was no one to replace him.

  “Credence, there may be a positive possibility yet.”

  “I could use one. Please explain.”

  “The interest shown by the sorcerer.”

  “You think he knows about my problem?”

  Had he not said so himself? “Nothing escapes him.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “As you say, you are the glue. Attract his attention. Show him that you know he’s interfering. He might make contact. Then you can get his views on what you should be doing.”

  Abaca’s face darkened.

  “I don’t mean ask him to give orders. Find out what’s going on in the rest of the world. He knows more than you do. There might be a powerful strategic reason for avoiding hostilities. Maybe Inger’s regiments have begun to have a change of heart.”

  Abaca grunted. “I’ll think about that. You think about what’s best for you and yours. We can still get you out of the country and back into hiding.”

  Kristen and Dahl made the slow walk to their own cabin. Dahl asked no questions while they were in the open.

  ...

  The fugitive spent four days looking for a way to cross the Roë River without being noticed. There were no bridges this far south.

  Something dramatic had happened upstream. The water was high, filthier than usual, clotted with debris and the occasional rotting carcass with feeding birds aboard. The current was not swift but it was there. The flood was too wide to swim and dangerous in more than the obvious ways. There was a shark in the Sea of Kotsüm that did not mind the absence of salt in the river.

  A boat was his only option. That was a problem. There was little westbound traffic. That was all military. He did not feel daring enough to ferry over with Shinsan’s couriers.

  Hiring a rowboat might work. But with the river in flood no boatman would hazard a night crossing. He would be sighted by day. Someone would ask questions.

  He could kill the oarsman on the other side but that would cause excitement, too.

  He went back to the swimming option. Suppose he made a float, then crossed on a clear night, steering by the stars?

  No. Sharks or no sharks, that was begging for disaster.

  Almost despairing, he decided to take the long way. That might take weeks but he was not pressed for time. No one was waiting. He had been dead for a long time.

  He headed north.

  Eventually there would be a city. It would boast a bridge. There would be traffic and confusion. A foreigner would not be unusual. He could hire on with a caravan. And he could enjoy some real food for a change.

  His fourth day headed north, working back eastward in search of a ford across a small tributary, he stumbled onto a coracle hidden in the undergrowth. There was no one around. The coracle was neither booby-trapped nor cursed. It was just a tool belonging to someone with a penchant for going unnoticed. A gift from God.

  ...

  Nepanthe stepped back from behind Varthlokkur’s right shoulder. “That was cleverly done.”

  “I thought so myself.”

  “I’m going to go bake sweet cakes for the kids.”

  The wizard grunted. “You do that.” He wondered how indifferent a mother Mist could be. She had not yet, insofar as he could tell, made the least effort to find her children or to determine their welfare.

  It was possible, of course, that she knew they were with their aunt and were, therefore, already as safe as they could be in this dark world.

  †

  CHAPTER FOUR

  1017 AFE:

  DREAD REALM

  The Empress and two bodyguards left portals in the transfer staging chamber of a tower once owned by the Karkha family of Throyes. The duty section had received a warning only minutes earlier. Men were still scurrying around, trying to make the place more presentable. Officer in Charge, Candidate Lein She, was still fumbling with his laces. He had had no time to don his mask.

  Mist’s bodyguards made their disapproval obvious.

  Mist had no such sentiments. It was unreasonable to expect the tower and garrison to be drill ground perfect at short notice.

  She conversed briefly with a portal attendant while the Candidate pulled himself together. “No visitors? Not even a random attempt to come through, or to make contact?” She examined the transfer log. Only Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i had visited since the tower became the place where special prisoners were held.

  The Karkha
no longer existed. Their tower, which rose without outer defenses, could be accessed only by a ladder that had to be lowered from a doorway two stories above the street. It was invulnerable to the normal city threats: riots, jealous rivals, and local politics. It was not designed to withstand military operations.

  Lein She had himself together. The Empress said, “Good evening, Candidate. Your logs appear to be in order.”

  “Thank you, O Celestial.”

  Mist was taken aback. Was he making mock? No one had used that title since her father and his twin, the Princes Thaumaturge, had overcome their father. Celestial had been one of Tuan Hoa’s many titles.

  “I’m not my grandfather, Candidate. Relax. I’m just here to see the prisoner.”

  “Uh… Which one… Great One?”

  “You’re holding more than one?”

  “Seven. All politicals.”

  “The westerner.”

  “This way. I’ll have refreshments brought.”

  She ignored a temptation to be malicious. “Tea and rice cakes. Then show these two to the kitchen. Feed them lots of meat.”

  Legionary discipline triumphed all round. No one questioned her decision to see the prisoner alone. But, then, no one thought the Empress might need help.

  ...

  Ragnarson believed he understood the caged tiger’s mood. In the main, it would be rage.

  It had been a while since he had been installed here, wherever here might be. He had fallen asleep in a place where they had healed his war wounds. He had awakened here with no sense of time having passed. The few keepers he saw were strangers uninterested in chatting.

  He was not uncomfortable. His cell was an oval room thirty feet on its long axis, twenty on that with the one flattened side. There were three tiny windows. Each overlooked an unfamiliar city. The windows faced north, south, and east. There was no window in the flat west wall. Each window boasted thin bars and a vigorous sorcery that kept out all odor and noise. He thought he was about eighty feet above street level in an area that was sealed off.

  Only once had he seen anyone down there, and that had been one of the Tervola.