Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1) (7 page)

BOOK: Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1)
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Barryn gasped and looked down at his feet when they passed through the gate and into the courtyard of the villa. A dozen or so casually nude women strolled or reclined or bathed among the greenery and fountains. Several more leaned on the balconies of the great house itself, chatting and brushing their hair. The guards assiduously ignored them and went about their duties.
 

“This, young man, will be your new home for the next year,” Dub told his charge as they dismounted the wagon and followed a pair of guards toward the great house. “You will learn, among other things, to be just as blissfully ignorant of beautiful, naked women as these guards. That indeed is a skill most of us never learn and yet desperately need.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
Mithrandrates

Emperor Mithrandrates absently twisted the dagger he had found under his pillow this morning in his strong, black hands. He was dark, even for a Taucethian; his shaven head and powerful forearms contrasted starkly against the white mantle that signified him emperor. His square-cut beard hung a handbreadth below the rest of his close-cropped jaw and jutted as he frowned and considered the blade. He paced the marble throne room, his lithe movements and powerful form as imposing as those of his own elite guards.

Mithrandrates, like his father Emperor Lucian, had been a soldier and general before he ascended to the imperial sovereignty. He led his father’s armies during the Crimson Rebellion fifteen years ago. Only the rebel provinces’ surrender had saved the northernmost province of Aternis
 
from annihilation at Mithrandrates’ hands. Alas, he had followed his father’s orders to spare the provincial capital, despite having it locked in a tight siege by land and its harbor blockaded by the powerful Imperial Navy.
 

Those heady days of martial glory were long past. He now drilled with sword and shield before dawn to stay physically fit and mentally sharp—and to work off aggression he could not manifest while clothed in the mantle of Imperial authority. His pell had taken many a vicious blow after frustrating audiences with his governors that would have been, under past emperors, directed at the poor fools who angered him.
 

But Mithrandrates was more than a military emperor. As he had ascended the ranks of the bureaucracy under his father’s reign, he forged alliances and showed himself a man who dealt fairly with ally and enemy alike. Not gently toward his enemies, but fairly. His network of assassins and informants ran deeply into even the hinterlands of the Empire and was paralleled by a system of loyal merchants, guildsmen, and Imperial functionaries. And it was by these systems that Mithrandrates solidified his father’s hold of Mergova’s newly annexed holdings and kept the provinces too busy bickering amongst themselves to pose a military threat to the Imperial seat.

Thus, when Lucian died and Mithrandrates took the mantle three years ago, he inherited productive lands, a well-disciplined professional army and a formidable navy. The capital could withstand assault from any three of the six provinces he ostensibly ruled, but there was no real danger of that happening. Only acts of tyranny far beyond anything Mithrandrates would stomach could unite the provinces against him. And in that case, it would be high time for a new emperor, he reckoned.

Father truly believed he was stern but just
, Mithrandrates thought. He often reminded himself never to allow his definition of “stern” approach his father’s.
     

The new emperor rebuilt roads throughout the provinces and had them patrolled by enough Imperial cavalry to keep them safe for travelers while posing no military threat to the skittish governors. He chartered new guilds not only for bakers, masons and wheelwrights but also assassins, courtesans and mercenaries. The guilds ensured quality control for customers and fair wages for tradespeople—and loyalty to the Empire, to which they owed their franchises.

The priesthood of Mahurin, however, had proven to be much harder to infiltrate. Primus Bergammon employed the same tactics as the emperor, rewarding loyalty where he could and crushing dissent where needed. Many of the lesser clergy could be bought and sold at will—some had even bought their way into their clerical appointments in the first place—but the upper echelons seemed to be members of an invitation-only secret society loyal only to the Primus.

The captain of the guard entered the great hall and announced the arrival of the Primus. Mithrandrates walked toward the middle of the white, gleaming chamber. “Good. See him in.”

Perhaps this audience will tip the scales in my favor
, the Emperor thought.

The pontiff of Mahurin paraded into the chamber with six Templars, the exact number of guards that Mithrandrates kept with him. All were clad in plate and mail, with the golden Sun of Mahurin emblazoned on their breastplates.

The Primus had a pink, kindly face that was clean-shaven and topped by a shock of white hair. He was one of the less ostentatious pontiffs, letting the simplicity of his white robes contrast with the ornate vestments of his clerics.
 

When the massive doors to the chamber were closed behind him, the Primus dismissed his guards. They fanned out and placed themselves among the columns at the periphery of the great hall, setting themselves at alternating positions with Mithrandrates’ guards.

“I am honored by your presence, Primus Bergammon,” the Emperor said. “Surely your duties to the Church permit you little time to visit laypeople such as I.”

“What are the duties of the priesthood if not to minister to the laity?” the Primus asked. His eyes glimmered with kindness, distraction and cunning all in the same moment. They barely rested on the blade in the emperor’s hand before taking on a quizzical air. “And what could be more pressing than a summons from the Emperor? It is urgent, whatever it is—too urgent to waste time with niceties such as a table, chairs and refreshment I see.”

“Not urgent, but informal. You’ll note that I stand, as well. And I have a perfectly serviceable chair in this room that I could avail myself of if I wished,” Mithrandrates said, indicating the spartan white throne with a slight sideways nod.
 

“Ah. Informal. Then let us make small talk. I trust you slept well,” the Primus said, glancing again at the blade that Mithrandrates still fiddled with.
 

“I slept well, thank you. But I had no appetite to break my fast.”

“The burdens of rulership weigh heavily on your mind, no doubt.”

“Yes. The burdens of ruling such a far-flung empire,” Mithrandrates said. “The sea hems us in on all sides of our island, and vicious little nobles rule most of it, not I. You are generous to call this an empire, let alone to say I ‘rule’ it.”

“Your governors serve you loyally,” the Primus said. “Why, none have dared revolt since your father was emperor.”

“The governors should not serve me. They should, as their titles imply, govern their slices of the Empire and nothing more,” Mithrandrates said. “Otherwise, it is only a collection of petty fiefdoms ruled by little lords and ladies feigning loyalty to a tyrant more vicious and devious than they.”

“Spoken like a true emperor,” the Primus said.
 

Mithrandrates could not tell if there was irony in the statement, but he did not worry about it. “I have something of yours, by the way, and I wish to return it to you.”

“Oh?”

Mithrandrates walked to one of his own guards and
 
handed him the dagger. “Take this to your master. It belongs to him.”

The guard swallowed and took the knife.
 

“Do not be afraid,” the Emperor said. “You served the Primus well. Go.”
 

He walked briskly to the Primus, took a knee before him, and presented him the knife. The guard then took up position beside the pontiff.
 

“I seem to have misplaced this,” Bergammon said, handing it back to the red-cloaked guard. “This indeed has been a productive conversation, but with your leave, my Emperor, I have church duties that require my attention.”

“By all means.”

The Primus turned to leave. Only four of his Templars followed.

Mithrandrates watched the pontiff and his depleted retinue go, then climbed the low steps of the dais and sat on the throne. He may never have a firm hold of the upper clergy, the Emperor thought, but he could still gain the loyalty of just about anyone who swung a sword.

CHAPTER NINE
Alcuin

Alcuin Darkwood stood in the solar of Falgren Keep, one of his least favorite castles in Brynn, and inspected his best suit of armor one last time before his valet packed it in a series of straw-lined trunks. They were preparing for the tournament celebrating the annual Imperial Council, and Alcuin trusted no one but himself to inspect his gear. This was his tournament armor—full plate, painted a glossy black with crimson detail work. He was the most renowned mercenary commander in the Empire, and for this occasion every year he needed his armor to show it. On campaign, Alcuin wore plate and mail, unadorned and blackened like the armor his men wore. The finish on the armor prevented rust and made its wearers look like pillars of black smoke frozen into human form, identifying him and his men as the fearsome Black Swan Company.
 

Alcuin handed the vambraces to Garthus, his valet, and picked up the helm. As the young mercenary wrapped the pieces carefully and packed them away, Alcuin took the sallet to the window and inspected its graceful curves and domed crown in the morning light. He lifted and lowered the visor, which made no sound but an assertive click when it snapped into the up position. Garthus had taken good care of the armor, which was worth more gold than the trooper had probably seen in his life. Alcuin had certainly never handled the likes of it when he was the valet’s age.
 

“You are doing an excellent job, Garthus,” Alcuin said as he handed him the helmet. “It will be a shame to lose you when it’s time for you to go back to the line.”

“I’m honored to be on your detail, sir,” Garthus said.
 

“How have you liked the duty?”

“May I speak freely, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Sir, I’m tired of being a bitch boy, even for you,” Garthus said as he carefully wrapped the helm and put it in the baggage. “I’m ready to go back to my platoon. This has been punishment enough.”

Alcuin smiled and shook his head. “You’re lucky you weren’t drummed out of the company for your insubordination. I suggest you make the best of this situation. If you keep your eyes and ears open, you’ll learn quite a bit that will serve you when you become an officer someday.”

Garthus stopped polishing and looked up. “An officer?”

“You’ve got more brains than the average mule, and you aren’t afraid to speak truth to your superiors,” Alcuin said. “Those unfortunate character flaws will continue to make you so fucking miserable you’ll have no choice but to rise through the ranks. Or quit this profession altogether.”

Alcuin left the rest of the packing to Garthus and went to the door. “Don’t fuck up my armor. I don’t want one of these milk-drinking princelings to land a blow on me and make us all look like a bunch of cunts,” he said and made his way down the spiral staircase. He went down the three floors of the main donjon until he reached the private conference quarters on the ground level of the castle. He strode through the door and into the great hall, a seemingly chaotic den full of maps, field tables, and scurrying officers. But the chaos was only an illusion. Alcuin kept his staff busy tracking the movements of every military unit in the Empire on a portable wooden wall painted with a map of the Mergovan Empire. The device separated into four pieces for traveling and was perforated with a grid work tiny holes. In these, officers stuck nails hung with painted chits representing the various armies that were afield at any given time.
 

Alcuin glanced at the board and stopped. “When did Lord Stoddard go on the march?” he asked the officer on duty.

The officer looked in the log book. “He left his hold two weeks ago to collect taxes. The dispatch just came in this morning.”

“He’s awfully close to Brynn territory,” Alcuin said. “Twenty crowns says he ‘accidentally’ strays across the border and collects from the wrong villages.”

“Do you reckon you will come back from the tournament with a new contract?”

“Why the hell do you think I go to these things? Just to beat the piss out of noblemen?”

“There are plenty of noble ladies to fuck after the lists,” the officer said.

“Yes, but I’m not married to any of them, and Livy would knife us both in our sleep,” Alcuin said. “Then where would that leave you blackguards? A leaderless, demoralized mob. Keep me informed on Stoddard’s antics while I am away.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alcuin ordered one of the other officers to find someone to help Garthus carry his armor down the winding stairs, then left the hall to find his mother and say goodbye. The commander walked out the massive double doors of the great hall and into the sunny morning air, crossing the yard to the apartments where she stayed. The living quarters Alcuin selected for his mother were built into the wall of the inner keep next to the chapel. She hadn’t been religious for a long time, but the placement kept her close to Stefan, the company’s chaplain. Alcuin heard the argument through the door before he entered.
 

“I know where he’s going, and I want to go with him,” the old woman yelled at Stefan, partly out of anger and partly because she was too hard-of-hearing to regulate her volume.
 

“But, my lady, the journey is long and dangerous,” the cleric said patiently. “The road is…”

Alcuin walked in, cutting off the chaplain’s explanation. “It’s very dangerous, Mother. You could get abducted by bandits and raped.”

The old woman looked up at her son and made a sound that was somewhere between a cackle and a giggle. “That would be fun.”

BOOK: Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1)
5.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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