A Path to Coldness of Heart (16 page)

Kristen wept a long time. No one tried to stop her. Dahl and her children did what they could to comfort her.

She smothered herself in sorrow rather than endless rage and a hunger for revenge.

Vaguely, she hoped she was setting an example for her son, who would be king one day.

†

CHAPTER TEN

SUMMER, 1017 AFE:

IN THE EAST

L
ord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, just back from a surreptitious visit to the island in the east, was the first Tervola to hear of the violent demise of the last master of Ehelebe, Magden Norath. He did not shed a tear.

What could it mean?

Initial reports, as always, were confused. Divinations into the past were not instructive. Hours of hard work only left him exhausted and depressed.

The Star Rider was becoming meddlesome again and Norath’s killer could only be a man who should have died a long time ago, in prison in Lioantung.

He must have escaped during the final showdown with the Deliverer.

Old Meddler must have had a hand in that.

Ah, there was the villain himself. But…! He was not shaping the plot! He was just another piece on the board where the blood was flying.

Though it was not a critical interest, Shih-ka’i did try to put a tag onto the distracted Star Rider so his movements could be followed.

...

Mist passed the blackboard twice without noticing the added characters below
Varthlokkur: where are my babies?
As always, she was preoccupied. At the moment that was because of the death of Magden Norath. That could shake the foundations of the world.

The third time past her mind registered the message of the new characters:
Mother, we are well, with Aunt Nepanthe. We watch when we can.

Mist froze, transfixed by the multiple levels of meaning.

Her children were well and evidently happy.

They—and, by extension, Varthlokkur—could look in on her whenever they chose.

Varthlokkur had found a way of reaching into her powerfully protected private quarters to chalk a message on her blackboard.

She had to be afraid.

Not even the Star Rider ought to have that much power.

She collected herself, erased both messages, took up the chalk and, in elegant calligraphy, wrote:
I love you, Scalza and Ekaterina
. And felt just awful when she laid the chalk back down.

She could not be a normal mother while she was Empress of the Dread Empire. It seemed sinful to think she had any real claim on those kids.

She drifted into dark reveries about the horror show that had been her own childhood. She had not had the protection that Scalza and Ekaterina did. It was a miracle that she had survived to become an adult.

A racket drew her to the entrance to her quarters.

Two bodyguards awaited her there. One said, “Lord Ssu-ma has sent a message saying you should join him in the Karkha Tower. He says it’s urgent.” The other presented a card beautifully calligraphed with that message and Shih-ka’i’s sigil.

“Very well. You will accompany me. You have ten minutes to prepare yourselves. Meet me in the transfer chamber.”

...

Bragi Ragnarson was sick to the verge of puking of Bragi Ragnarson. Mist should be burned at the stake for wakening this Wild Hunt of introspection.

But there was nothing else to do.

The more he considered the Bragi Ragnarson of recent years the less he liked the man—despite having been the man. Today’s Bragi had serious difficulty understanding choices made by yesterday’s Bragi.

Back in what seemed antediluvian times Derel Prataxis had observed that power could warp and damage the most soundly grounded mind. Power was worse than opium. It twisted the mind and soul even more.

A morning spent contemplating his self-debasement, while watching an orange and blood-red sunrise, fell apart around him. Mist appeared.

He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not so soon, though the soon was an emotional age. It would be just a month or two in objective time

He had not kept track. Counting the hours only sparked a dismal melancholy. What he could see from his windows suggested springtime.

Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i followed Mist, then came two behemoths wearing badges identifying them as Imperial lifeguards.

The visitors so startled Ragnarson that, at first, he retreated like a threatened animal. Then, finally, “Mist?”

“Bragi.”

He eyed Shih-ka’i and the bodyguards. The general wore his boar mask. Nothing could be read from his body language.

“What’s going on? I thought I’d be in solitary forever.”

“That was the plan. But things keep happening. I found myself unable to be so cruel as to deny you the news.”

Something in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance suggested that he thought leaving the prisoner in ignorance would be the kinder cut.

“Tell me what you think I need to know.”

The natural observer inside marveled at his pretended calm.

He had not looked into the eyes of another in so long. His heart pounded. His breathing grew heavier.

The lifeguards moved up beside their mistress.

Not a good sign. Why so much muscle? He was one out-of-shape, middle-aged man.

The circumstances guaranteed that the news would be terrible.

Mist said, “Kavelin has fallen further into chaos. Ingrid has imprisoned her cousin, the Duke. In Itaskia vultures are feeding on the Greyfells family corpse. Meantime, Inger has been abandoned by most of her Kaveliner supporters. They haven’t turned on her, they’ve just gone home. If she tried to call up an army it’s unlikely that anyone would show.”

He did not care. The man who had loved Kavelin had been a fool who lived in an elder age.

“Your daughter-in-law has lost most of her support, too, because she hasn’t done anything to help those who stood by her. By autumn it will be every man for himself. There won’t be a pretense of authority outside Vorgreberg.”

“There is no way you can make me feel any worse or any more responsible. And I’m sure that isn’t the news you’ve brought to torment me. A collapse into a lawless Kavelin has been inevitable since I was dim enough to butt heads with Lord Ssu-ma.”

“That was the political update. The real news is that Magden Norath is dead. The man who killed him seems to have been your friend Haroun.”

“Haroun is dead.”

“Quite probably true. But an eyewitness insists that the man wielding the knife was bin Yousif.”

“That is a piece of news. If it’s true. It will rattle the world. But it’s insane. Where has Haroun been? Why? Why show himself now?”

Ragnarson noted a slight adjustment in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance. The Tervola knew something. He would volunteer nothing, though.

Mist said, “He didn’t announce himself. He was recognized. Maybe. He was one of several dozen derelicts living rough in a remote town. Megelin and Norath went there to meet the Star Rider. Haroun, if it was him, attacked so quickly and violently that the sorcerer had no chance to defend himself.”

Ragnarson gaped. This was unbelievable. There had to be some error, most likely by the witness. Maybe he was the killer. Passing the blame to Haroun bin Yousif would make a great distraction. But Haroun was dead.

“That feels like old news. In your world. There’s more, isn’t there? Something more personal and dark. Right?” He gestured. Four of them. Proof of his contention.

“You’re right.”

“Out with it, then.”

“An assassin employed by Dane of Greyfells found your daughter-in-law’s band in the Tamerice Kapenrungs.”

The floor seemed to go out from under Ragnarson.

He could not speak. Too much emotion rose up after so many months of nothing but mild disappointments over his meals.

“How bad was it?”

“There was one casualty.”

Ragnarson reddened. “Tell me!”

The bodyguards stepped forward. The nearest looked eager. Bragi calmed himself. Explosive emotionalism had gotten him into this fix.

These two would pluck him like a dead chicken.

Mist said, “The assassin was supposed to wipe out the whole party.”

Ragnarson’s vision began to go red. He growled. He leaned toward Mist.

The blow came quicker than a blink. He sprawled against the side of a divan, head spinning. His left shoulder was dislocated. That side of his face felt as though it had been branded.

Mist observed, “You are a slow study, Bragi. Let me explain this one more time. You prisoner. Me owner of prison.”

Ragnarson groaned, worked himself into a sitting position. His head began to hurt. “I’m beginning to catch on. Please tell me what happened to my people.”

“The assassin loosed one crossbow bolt, then vanished. We know that thanks to Varthlokkur. He informed us, presumably counting on us to pass it along.”

Ragnarson barely suppressed the urge to demand that she tell him, now!

“The initial target was your daughter-in-law but the bolt hit your leman instead.”

“Sherilee?”

“Yes. We won’t be able to bring her here after all.”

“Sherilee.” In a hollow, lost child voice.

The lifeguards readied themselves to deal with more bad behavior. But Ragnarson just melted. The concept of Sherilee with no life, going on ahead of him, was so alien that, though long experience had hardened him to the loss of comrades and loved ones, this touched him more deeply than had any but the deaths of his brother Haaken and his lover, Queen Fiana. He had visited Fiana’s grave frequently, up till the day he dragged Kavelin’s best off to their doom.

After a dozen seconds of silence, Lord Ssu-ma suggested, “Perhaps we should step out for a moment.”

“You go,” Mist told him. “You three. I’ll stay.”

Nobody moved.

Mist said, “I want you three up in the parapet. Varthlokkur is going to deliver that assassin here. Only the Darkness knows why. I’m at no risk here. This is a broken man.”

No one moved.

“Do execute your instructions before I become angry. And notify me when the captive arrives.”

The edge on her voice convinced all three. As they went, though, Mist noted, Shih-ka’i dropped a tiny scroll behind a decorative vase on the small table a step to the right of the doorway. That would be a passive alarm meant to warn him if emotions grew overheated.

Secretly, Mist was pleased.

Bragi did not weep. He just sat there staring into infinity. Had he begun to think he was the philosopher’s stone of death for those who got too near him? That those who had died around him had done so only because they were near him? A solipsist conceit impossible to refute logically.

Mist and Lord Ssu-ma had arrived soon after Ragnarson’s breakfast. The day was fading when the Tervola reported the arrival of the assassin. He found Mist settled on her knees two yards from Ragnarson, apparently watching the westerner sleep but probably meditating. Ragnarson lay on the divan.

“The prisoner has arrived, Illustrious.”

“Lord Ssu-ma? Was it the Unborn? Did it unsettle you that much?”

“It was. It did. And that despite the horrors of the war with the Deliverer.”

Mist said, “You do recall that the Deliverer was the grandson of the man who created the Unborn?”

“I do.”

Maybe he wished that he did not.

Maybe Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i had begun to wish that he had not allowed himself to be seduced away from his quiet life as commander of the Demonstration Legion.

“You would. You’re thorough. So, Lord Ssu-ma. What shall we do with this gift? What do you suppose the Deliverer’s grandfather had in mind?”

“I couldn’t guess his motives, Illustrious. Surely the killer will know nothing useful, and I doubt that the Empire Destroyer would expect us to use his skills.”

“Could we be expected to turn him over to Ragnarson?”

“I doubt that.”

“Then put him into an empty cell. But let me have a look at him first. Maybe I’m supposed to recognize him.”

She did not.

The captive was a gaunt, leathery man of advancing years who did not seem noteworthy at all. He was empty and maybe a little mad after his long flight from Tamerice.

Mist directed that he be cleaned up. She did not want parasites colonizing her tower.

...

In moments when he surfaced from grief Ragnarson realized that something was happening elsewhere in the tower. He heard what sounded like construction racket.

He passed several days in communion with despair. He dwelt, to the point of obsession, on what a different world it would be had he just not led his army through the Savernake Gap.

How many lives lost or ruined because of one fit of pride? And the full toll had yet to be paid. Sherilee was just the latest charge.

“How are you feeling?”

Bragi started. He had not heard Mist come in.

“Better than before. How long have I been feeling sorry for myself?”

“Five days.”

“You’ve been hanging around that long?”

“No. I’ve been attending my duties outside. Other duties brought me back. I thought I’d look in. You seem changed.”

In a voice edged with wonder, Ragnarson said, “I think you’re right. I feel different. I’m not all boiling inside. It’s confusing, but I seem to have been stricken by clarity.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s almost like waking up after a long fever.”

Mist considered him critically. “I hope so. You haven’t been you for a long time.”

Ragnarson paced. This was not his caged animal in a rage pacing. This was slow and thoughtful. “I’m probably not myself now, either. Do people get struck sane by tragedy?”

“Worthy thought. We’ll watch for a relapse. But do try to cling to the state you’re in now.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Unfortunately, you aren’t the reason for my being here. I just stopped to say hello.”

“Well, thank you for that.”

...

Mist went to the room that Shih-ka’i had remodeled. She looked around. “It looks good. Is that window big enough?”

Shih-ka’i replied, “It is. You aren’t a large woman.”

She snorted. A statement of fact, yes, but she was vain enough to take offense. She knew, though, that the pig farmer’s son would not understand even if she did explain.