The Tale of Krispos (146 page)

He watched Krispos suddenly seem to freeze in place, all except his eyes, which grew very wide. Then, as if to give himself time to think, the Avtokrator lifted his cup and drained it dry. “I’d wondered what you wanted,” he said at last. “I didn’t expect you to ask me that.”

“Are you?” Phostis pressed.

As young men will of their fathers—or those they believe their fathers—he’d always thought of Krispos as old, but old in the sense of conservative and powerful rather than actually elderly. Now, as the lines on Krispos’ face deepened harshly, Phostis saw with eerie certainty what he would look like as an old man.

“
Are
you?” Phostis said again.

Krispos sighed. His shoulders sagged. He laughed for a moment, quietly and to himself. Phostis almost hit him then. Krispos walked over to the wine jar, poured himself another cup from it, then peered into the dark ruby depths. When he looked up toward Phostis, he spoke in what was almost a whisper: “Not a week’s gone by, I think, since I took the crown that I haven’t asked myself the same question…and I just don’t know.”

Phostis had expected a
yes
or
no,
something he could get his teeth into either way. Being left with more uncertainty was—maddening. “How can you
not
know?” he cried.

“If you thought to ask the question, son, the answer should be plain enough,” Krispos said. He drank some of the wine—maybe he was looking for courage there, too. “Your mother was Anthimos’ Empress; if it hadn’t been for her, Anthimos would have slain me by magic the night I took the throne. She’d been his Empress for some years before she was mine, and never conceived. None of the other women he had—and believe me, he had a great flock of them—ever quickened, either. But what does that prove? Nothing for certain. I think you’re likely to be mine, but that’s the most I can say with any hope for truth.”

Phostis did some more quiet calculating. If Krispos had sired him, he’d likely done it before he took the throne from Anthimos…and before he’d married Dara. He’d done it adulterously, in other words—and so had Phostis’ mother.

He shied away from that thought; it was too uncomfortable to examine straight on. Instead, he said, “You always say I look like Mother.”

“Oh, you do, lad—the eyes especially. That tiny fold of skin on the inner corner comes straight from her. So does the shape of your face, and so does your nose. She’s the reason you don’t have a great beak like mine.” Krispos put thumb and forefinger on the tip of his nose.

“Unless you had nothing to do with the way my nose looks at all,” Phostis said.

“There is that chance,” Krispos agreed. “But if you don’t take after me, you don’t look like Anthimos, either. You might be handsomer if you did; nothing wrong with the way he looked. You favor Dara, though. You always have, ever since you were a baby.”

In his mind’s eye, Phostis had a sudden, vivid picture of Krispos studying the infant he’d been, trying to trace resemblances. “No wonder you sometimes treated me as if I were the cuckoo’s egg,” he said.

“Did I?” Krispos peered down into his wine cup again. He sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, son; I truly am. I’ve always tried to be just with you, to put aside whatever doubts I had.”

“Just? I’d say you were that,” Phostis answered. “But you didn’t often—” He broke off. How was he supposed to explain to Krispos that justice sufficed in the courts, but families needed more? The closest he could come was to say, “You always did seem easier with Evripos and Katakolon.”

“Maybe I was…maybe I am. Not your fault, though—the trouble’s been mine.” If without great warmth, Krispos had the strength to meet troubles head on. “Where do we go from here?” he asked. “What would you have of me?”

“Can you take me for what I am instead of for whose son I might be?” Phostis said. “In every way that matters, I’m yours.” He told Krispos how he’d found himself imitating him while a prisoner, and how so much of what Krispos said made more sense afterward.

“I know why that is,” Krispos said. Phostis made a questioning noise. Krispos went on, “It’s because the only experience anyone can really learn from is his own. I was probably just wasting breath beforehand when I preached at you: you couldn’t have had any idea what I was talking about. And when my words did prove of some use to you—nothing could make me prouder.”

He folded Phostis into a bear hug. For a moment, resentment flared in the younger man: where had embraces like this been when he was a boy and needed them most? But he’d already worked out the answer to that for himself. He wasn’t pleased with Krispos for acting as he had over the years, but now that, too, made more sense.

Phostis said, “Can we go on as we did before? Even with doubts, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have for my father than you—and that includes Anthimos.”

“That cuts both ways—son,” Krispos said. “With me or in spite of me, you’ve made yourself a man. Let’s hope it’s not as it was. Let’s hope it’s better. So it may prove, for much of the poison between us is out in the open now.”

“Phos grant that it be so—Father,” Phostis said. They embraced again. When they separated, Phostis found himself yawning. He said, “Now I’m going back to my tent for the night.”

Krispos gave him a sly look. “Will you tell your lady what passed here?”

“One of these days, maybe,” Phostis said after a little thought. “Not just yet.”

“That’s what I’d say in your sandals,” Krispos agreed. “You think like one of mine, all right. Good night, son.”

“Good night,” Phostis said. He yawned again, then headed back to the tent where Olyvria was waiting. When he walked in, he found that, almost certainly against her best intentions, she’d fallen asleep. He was careful not to wake her when he lay down himself.

“A
LL RIGHT, SORCEROUS SIR,” KRISPOS SAID TO ZAIDAS, “HAVING
learned what you did from my son, how do you propose to exploit it to our best advantage?”

He felt a stab when he spoke thus of Phostis, but it was not the usual stab of suspicious fear, merely one of curiosity. He was beginning to see he had a man there to reckon with, and if perchance Phostis was not his by blood, he certainly was by turn of mind. What more could any ruler—any father—want?

Zaidas said, “I will show you what I can do, Your Majesty. Not least by using the power he has gained from the transition of fanatical Thanasioi out of life and into death, this Makuraner wizard, this Artapan, has built his magic to a point where it is difficult to assail. This much, to my discomfiture, you have seen.”

“Yes,” Krispos said. Many times he’d resolved to treat Phostis as if he were certain of his parentage; as many times, till now, he’d failed. This time, he thought he might succeed.

“An arch has a keystone,” Zaidas went on. “Take it out and the whole thing crashes to the ground. So with Artapan’s magic. Take away this power he has wrongfully arrogated to himself and he will be weaker than if he never meddled where he should not have. This is what I aim to do.”

Krispos recognized the didactic tone in the sorcerer’s voice. It suited him: though he had no sorcerous talent himself, he was always interested in hearing how wizards did what they did. Today, moreover, it would influence how he conducted his campaign. And so he asked, “How will you manage it, sorcerous sir?”

“By opposing the power of death with the power of life,” Zaidas answered. “The sorcery is prepared, Your Majesty. I shall essay it tomorrow at dawn, when the rising of Phos’ sun, most powerful symbol of light and life and rebirth, shall add its influence to that of my magic. And your son, too, shall play a role, as shall Livanios’ daughter Olyvria.”

“Shall they?” Krispos said. “Will it endanger them? I’d not care to have Phostis restored to me only to lose him two days later in a war of sorcerers.”

“No, no.” Zaidas shook his head. “The good god willing—and so I believe the case to be—the procedure I have in mind will take Artapan altogether by surprise. And even if he knows Phostis has escaped and joined you here, your son gives the strong impression the Makuraner does not know his technique has been discovered.”

“Until the dawn, then,” Krispos said. He wanted immediate action, but Zaidas’ reason for delay struck him as good. It also let the imperial army advance farther onto the westlands’ central plateau—with luck, positioning the force to exploit whatever success against Artapan that Zaidas achieved.

Krispos wondered how much faith to place in his chief mage. Zaidas hadn’t had much luck against the Thanasioi. Before, though, he hadn’t known what he was opposing. Now he did. If he couldn’t do something useful with that advantage…“Then he won’t be any help at all,” Krispos said aloud. He breathed a silent prayer for Zaidas up to the watching sky.

R
ED AS BLOOD, THE SUN CRAWLED UP OVER THE EASTERN HORIZON.
Zaidas greeted it by raising his hands to the heavens and intoning Phos’ creed: “We bless thee, Phos, lord with the great and good mind, by thy grace our protector, watchful beforehand that the great test of life may be decided in our favor.”

Phostis imitated the gesture and echoed the creed. He fought to stifle a yawn; yawning during the creed struck him as faintly blasphemous. But getting up well before sunrise as spring grew toward summer was anything but easy.

Beside him, Olyvria shifted from foot to foot. She looked awake enough, but nervous nonetheless. She kept stealing glances at Krispos. Being around the Avtokrator had to add to her unease. To Phostis, his father—for so he still supposed Krispos to be—was family first and ruler second; familiarity overcame awe. It was just the other way round for Olyvria.

“Get on with it,” Krispos said harshly.

Used to any other man, it would have been a heads-will-roll tone. Zaidas merely nodded and said, “All in good time, Your Majesty…Ah, now we see the entire disk of the sun. We may proceed.”

A few hundred yards away, sunrise made the imperial army begin to stir in camp. Almost all the Haloga bodyguards stood between the camp and this little hillock, to make sure no one blundered up while Zaidas was at his magic. The rest were between the sorcerer and Krispos. Phostis didn’t know what their axes could do against magic gone wrong. He didn’t think they knew, either, but they were ready to try.

Zaidas lighted a sliver of wood from one of the torches that had illuminated the hillock before the day began. He used the flame to light a stout candle of sky-blue wax, one fat and tall enough to have provided imperial sealing wax for the next fifty years. As the flame slid down the wick and caught in the wax, he spoke the creed again, this time softly to himself.

Candles in daylight were normally overwhelmed by the sun. Somehow this one was not. Though when seen directly its flame was no brighter than that of an ordinary candle, yet its glow caught and held on Zaidas’ face, and Krispos’, and Olyvria’s. Though he could not see himself, Phostis supposed the light lingered on him, as well.

Zaidas said, “This light symbolizes the long and great life of the Empire of Videssos, and of the faith that it has sustained and that has sustained it across the centuries. Long may Empire and faith flourish.”

From under a silk cloth he took out another candle, this one hardly better than a tiny taper, a thin layer of bright red wax around a wick.

“That’s the same color as the sealing wax on that vaunting letter Livanios sent me,” Krispos said.

Zaidas smiled. “Your Majesty lacks only the gift to be a first-rate wizard. Your instincts are perfectly sound.” He raised his voice to the half-chanting tone he used when incanting. “This small, brief candle stands for the Thanasioi, whose foolish heresy will soon fail and be forgotten.”

Almost as soon as he spoke the last words, the little red candle guttered out. A thin spiral of smoke rose from it. When the breeze blew that away, nothing showed that the candle representing the Thanasioi had ever existed. The larger light, the one symbolizing Videssos as a whole, burned on.

“Now what?” Krispos demanded. “This should be the time to settle accounts with that Makuraner mage.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Zaidas was a patient man. Sometimes even the most patient of men finds it necessary to let his patience show. He said, “I could proceed even more expeditiously if I did not have to pause and respond to inquiries and comments. Now—”

Krispos chuckled, quite unabashed. This time Zaidas ignored him. He took a large silk cloth, big enough for a wall hanging, and draped it over both Phostis and Olyvria. The cloth was of the same sky blue as the candle that stood for the Empire and the orthodox faith. The silk’s fine weave let Phostis see through it mistily, as if through fog.

He watched Zaidas take up yet another cloth, this one striped in bright colors. It reminded him of the caftans Artapan had worn. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Zaidas declared, “Now we shall sorcerously show the wicked wizard of Makuran that he shall profit nothing from his courtship of death!” He dropped out of that impressive tone and into ordinary speech for a moment: “Now, young Majesty, comes your time to contribute to this magic. Take your intended in your arms, kiss her, and think on all you might be doing were the rest of us not standing around here making nuisances of ourselves.”