Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (123 page)

He eyed her warily. “I don’t understand how that is supposed to make me feel any better.”

“It’s not, you idiot! It’s supposed to remind you that all we have is each other!” She glared at him. “Sextus, do you love me?”

“Well, yes,” he said.

“Are you going to betray the Senate and People? Are you thinking of running off to join Magnus?”

“Hell no! I’ll kill him myself if I get the chance.”

“Good.” She pulled him down to her and kissed him, hard, on the lips. “Then it’s settled.”

He pulled back, looking alarmed. “What’s settled?”

“We’re getting married next week.”

He sputtered. “But that’s…I mean, if I…Severa, we can’t do that!”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course we can.” She pointed back to the city. “Amorr needs some good news. Do you remember what you told me the war declaration meant? It meant the Houses are united. So it must be. You and me, Sextus. House Valerius and House Severus. United.”

She looked up at him expectantly.

He was staring out over the city again, but the pain and the shame were gone. Then he turned back to her and smiled.

“I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She kissed him again. “I do. I think it was extremely brave and noble and self-sacrificing of you. And I don’t ever want to hear anything like that again.”

He pressed her close to him, crushing her against his inflexible breastplate. And yet, for the first time since she’d seen him standing before the stairs, she felt she could breathe again.

Opta Jul watched with amusement as her beautiful young charge gamefully but incompetently attempted to put together a meal for her betrothed. She took pleasure in the mutual affection between Severa and Sextus. Young love was so clumsy, and yet that very clumsiness was part of its charm. Finally, she shooed Severa out of the kitchen with two goblets of wine and took over the task of slicing up some bread and cheese for the tall Valerian.

“Opta!” Severa called from the nearest triclinium.

“Yes, love?” she called back.

“Sextus likes grapes. Green ones. Do we have any?”

“If we do, I’ll bring them.”

A sharp pain unexpectedly struck her hand. For a moment, Opta Jul thought she’d been bitten by one of Regulus’s hounds that lounged about the residence. Then she looked down and realized she’d accidentally cut off the tip of her left index finger.

How annoying. She picked it up and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment.

Dust and water. That was all they really were, in the end. As short-lived as flies. And yet, endlessly intriguing nevertheless. That was what her brothers so often failed to see, why they so often found themselves beheaded or dismembered or burned to ashes blown on the wind.

She wondered if the brother she’d been hunting all these years had been the consul or His Holiness. Probably the latter, she reflected, though the former would have been more apropos. She would have to watch for his reappearance, of course, but in the meantime, there were others she must find. They were not in Amorr, but then, the Empire was not the only power on Selenoth.

She slipped the fingertip into a pocket in her dress. The finger had already stopped bleeding, but she would have to be careful to hide it from sight for the next few hours, she realized.

Until it grew back again.

THEUDERIC

It was springtime in southwestern Savondir. The rain had stopped three days ago and the morning sun was dawning over the hills of Bassas Vidence, a bucolic place Theuderic had never thought to see, much less visit in the august company with whom he now rode. Beside him, on a delicate grey mare, was the royal chancelier. Ahead of them both, riding a giant roan stallion that dwarfed both du Moulin’s mare and his own gelding, was de Beaumille, the elderly Marechal de Savonne. The two members of the Haut Conseil were accompanied by an honor guard of sixty royal men-at-arms, led by Sier Janequin de Recheusoir. The grandmagicien had also graciously permitted four of Theuderic’s colleagues from L’Academie to accompany the expedition. They were all inexperienced young battlemages, but under the circumstances, Theuderic considered they were potentially worth more than all the fighting men combined.

And neither the men-at-arms nor the battlemages were as important as the twenty wagons full of barrels containing meat, flour, and wine that followed them.

The winter had passed pleasantly enough once he was able to explain to the royal council why he was back in Lutece nearly five months before his return was expected. However, any suspicions about his unlikely story disappeared once word of the violent convulsions of the Amorran Empire began to make its way north and rumors of a vast army of orcs began to frighten peasants and nobles alike living on the edge of the great forest of the Grimmwalde. Lithriel was gone now, having departed with Caitlys to be sure the dwarf’s warning had been taken seriously in both Merithaim and Elebrion. But he had reason to hope that she would be back soon, although he was more certain that Lady Shadowsong would return.

Which, from the point of view of L’Academie, would arguably be preferable. The immortels were still attempting to refine the elven bird spell, but still hadn’t managed to make it work yet on so much as a little lizard. It would be years, he guessed, before anyone was bold enough, or stupid enough, to try it on another dragon. And when they did, Theuderic was determined to be as far away as possible.

“I couldn’t help but notice that your long absence prevented you from being with your colleagues when they swore their vows of loyalty to the new heir to the throne,” du Moulin remarked, as innocently as if he were merely commenting on the weather.

“Alas, I was otherwise occupied,” Theuderic felt rather like a mouse being stalked by a cat. “No doubt I shall have to rectify that upon my return to Lutece. I am, of course, a loyal subject of His Royal Majesty and delight in the happy news of His Royal Highness’s recent betrothal.”

“Are not we all?” The chancelier cleared his throat. “Naturally, the Marechal and I both bitterly regret the manner with which our responsibilities similarly stood in the way of our being able to do the same.”

Theuderic’s eyebrows seemed to rise of their own accord, and he couldn’t resist glancing at du Moulin, whose expression didn’t betray the least sign of a guilty conscience. Then again, from what Theuderic had observed in working for the man, he didn’t appear to have a conscience at all. Still, it was good to know he was not the only one with doubts about Etienne-Henri’s fitness for the throne.

“I trust the Haut Conseil always has the interests of crown and throne close to its collective heart.”

A flicker of a smile barely appeared on du Moulin’s lips before it vanished. “Well spoken, Sieur Theuderic. We do indeed.”

The crown and the throne, thought Theuderic. Which was not necessarily the king who wore the one and sat upon the other. “I am, of course, always delighted to be of service to the council.”

“I rejoice to hear it.” The chancelier adroitly changed the subject. “I can’t help but notice, Sieur Theuderic, that there does not appear to be anyone, let alone an invading army, anywhere in the vicinity. Are you certain we are in the location appointed?”

“I think so. We must be close.”

Theuderic looked around the empty field, which was bordered by budding trees to the east and a gentle, tree-covered hill to the south. As far as he could tell, they were approaching the location the dwarf had showed him three months ago. Indeed, the Lady Shadowsong’s hawk had landed on that very hill. He recognized a large rock about fifty paces away that might serve as a marker, but unfortunately, Lodi hadn’t told him exactly where the entrance was.

He pulled on his horse’s reins and called to the Marechal. “Monseigneur, I believe we’re here.” He very much hoped he had gotten it right. Otherwise he was going to look a dreadful fool before his four fellow mages, to say nothing of the two royal councilors. Then the ground began rumbling, as if the earth was quaking, and the horses flattened their ears and began to step nervously about.

He grinned at du Moulin. “Have I ever failed you, Monseigneur Chancelier?”

“Not yet, Magicien.”

There was a dull roar and the front side of the hill abruptly collapsed, causing the horses to shy. A large cloud of dust and debris billowed out toward them like a dirty brown cloud. It dissipated before it reached them and revealed a brick arch over a packed dirt ramp, from which two heavily armored dwarves were marching out. They were followed by ten more dwarves, then another ten, who spread out on either side of the hill and the opening that gaped like an open wound. Then a pair of taller figures strode out into the light, and they held their hands over their eyes to shield them from the brightness of the spring morning sun. They both wore tribune’s helms.

Theuderic dismounted, followed by the two royal councilors, and the three of them walked toward the two Amorrans. Both young men were as white as slugs and their faces were thin and drawn, as if they had not eaten well for months. Which, Theuderic considered, was very probably the case. But they were smiling as triumphantly as if they had won a great battle.

“Chancelier, Lord Marechal, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you the Tribunes Clericus and Trebonius, both formerly of Amorr.” Behind the two young officers, armored men were spilling out of the hill like ants when an anthill is disturbed. “And with them, the four thousand armed fighting men of Legio XVII!”

Valerius Clericus greeted him with the forearm grasp of the soldier rather than with a bow or the handclasp of civilized men. The gesture secretly flattered Theuderic.

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see a sorcerer’s face,” the tribune told him, still squinting against the sun.

“It is a handsome one, isn’t it?” Theuderic said, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard with his free hand. “Trebonius, I trust you enjoyed your stroll?”

“Next time, you walk and I’ll take the bird,” the young Amorran said with a scowl. But he grinned as he clasped Theuderic’s arm.

Then the lord marechal stepped forward and looked from one tribune to the other. He was old enough to be their grandfather. “Welcome to the Kingdom of Savondir, my lords. We have food and wine for your men, though you will have to provide your own accommodations. I am impressed. Never in all my years have I heard of an army marching six hundred miles below the ground.”

Or in such good order, Theuderic thought, as the Amorrans continued to come up out of the earth and fall into formations worthy of any parade ground, despite their filthy appearance.

Their discipline didn’t appear to escape the marechal’s attention. “I have heard that the legionaries of Amorr are unmatched in all Selenoth when it comes to killing, though I regret to say I have never had the privilege to witness them demonstrate their excellence in the art of war.”

Valerius Clericus bowed respectfully to the old general. “If you’ll give us a few days to recover and point us in the right direction, my Lord Marechal, I should be glad to arrange a demonstration. I am given to understand you may have a few orcs that require killing in the near future.”

“I fear that is indeed the case,” du Moulin said. “Here in Savondir, we appear to have rather a lot of killing that needs doing.” He coughed delicately.

“As it happens, not all of it necessarily involves orcs.”

closing time

APPENDIX

As is surely obvious throughout the text, the Amorran names are based on historical Roman ones, which can be more than a little confusing. This is because aristocratic Roman names during the Republic customarily consisted of three or more parts, the tria nomina of praenomen, nomen, and cognomen. Additional cognomen, or agnomen, were sometimes added as well. There were a severely limited number of praenomen used, which is why they were usually abbreviated in writing as follows: