Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (26 page)

When the dance wound down, the king and queen returned to their seats at the front of the room, and the Red Prince returned the comtesse to the table where Fjotra was sitting. As he did so, he glanced at Fjotra and winked at her.

He knows, she realized with a jolt of excitement. He wants to help us!

Maybe none of the help she’d been providing was actually the comtesse’s doing. Could it be the prince who was behind her generosity and support? But why? She didn’t know much about Savonner royalty, but somehow, she found it hard to imagine that such a vain and self-centered people would be overly concerned about the fate of a centuries-old enemy, except to celebrate their demise. And yet, as the comtesse whispered some last minute instructions into her ear, she was almost certain the prince was watching over them with an approving, even a possessive, air.

To her surprise, Theuderic rose and strode to the center of the floor, not far from the king’s table. “Lords and ladies, your Royal Highness, and Your Royal Majesties, I am sure you all know our beloved Duchesse is a kind and generous hostess.”

The sorcerer inclined his head in her direction as the duchesse. She was a woman of an age similar to the queen, but rather more stout and practically draped in gold and emeralds. She smiled patiently as her generosity was noisily saluted by the guests, particularly the men who had spent most of the first hour drinking rather than dancing.

“And she is also one of the greatest Savondese patrons of the musical arts, which is why it is my very great pleasure to present to you, on the Duchesse’s behalf, a royal singer from the Iles des Loup, the Princess de Raknarborg and daughter of the Dalarn High King, Skuli Skullsmasher.”

For a moment, Fjotra was almost glad Brynjolf wasn’t at her side. He surely would have tried to correct the sorcerer. Then she saw the duchesse staring at her, her brow wrinkled with suspicion. For a moment Fjotra feared she was about to make a scene and protest that Fjotra was not the promised elven singer, but instead the noblewoman settled for directing a furious glare at Theuderic. The bearded magicien, unsurprisingly, appeared unperturbed.

Fjotra rose as gracefully as she could manage and did her best to pretend that the eyes of half the nobility of Savonne were not upon her. Whispers erupted, and there were even some who pointed at her, but no one dared to openly object. She walked toward the mage, as instructed, bowed to the duchesse, then turned to face the king and queen and bowed even deeper.

“I am Fjotra de Raknarborg, the Last Princess of the Iles des Loup,” she said loudly and clearly. “Tonight, I sing for you of the death of the Fifteen Clans and the triumph of the wolves.”

THEUDERIC

He could tell that the prince was irritated, although he wasn’t certain why. Charles-Phillipe, the Red Prince, future King of Savondir and Fourteenth of his Name, was a man of action, and as such, he was naturally impatient. As the heir to the throne, he faced few, very few, situations that demanded patience from him. But the Haut Conseil could do what even the fortified walls of Montrove could not, and force him to stew impotently outside closed doors.

If he dared, Theuderic would have smiled. The Red Prince paced angrily about the hall, scorning the chairs that had been provided for their comfort, glaring at the doors as if he were waiting for a battleram to arrive. Had his father ever been like this? It was hard to imagine. His Majesty was a strong man, and underneath all his fat there was no shortage of muscle, but whereas the Red Prince was all fire and vigor, his father was stone and stolid earth.

It had been hard enough for the prince to convince his father that a duc’s rebellion called for a violent response, so they both knew there was little chance that he could persuade the king to embark upon a more ambitious venture. But the drama with the Dalarns at the ball would at least permit him to broach the subject with the king’s councilors in the hopes that they would support his case when he brought it before his father.

“Blasted flock of withered old hens,” the prince groused. “If that damned archbishop so much as rattles his neck wattles at me, I swear I’ll strangle him like the turkey he was born to be. Don’t you think he looks like a turkey?”

Theuderic was not a religious man, nor did he shrink from many things up to and including murder, but openly comparing the Archbishop de la Royaume to a barnyard fowl in the heart of the palace was taking things a bit far for his liking. “I do wish you would have spared that assassin. We can’t be certain they were from Montrove.”

“Of course we can. You know perfectly well they were. He confessed didn’t he?”

“Under torture!” Theuderic shook his head. “A man will confess to raping the queen if he’s being tortured. Hells bells, Charles, a man will confess to
being
the queen if he’s pressed hard enough.”

“Well, if they weren’t Montrovian, they were bloody well hired by Montrovians. I’ve half a mind to go back there, dash the new duc’s brains out, and install someone halfway reliable to oversee the duchy.”

“You don’t think Sieur Charibert is reliable?”

“Not reliable enough or there wouldn’t be blasted nightstalkers sneaking about trying to kill me, would there? Anyhow, you’ll be glad to know the Dalarn boy is going to live. Roheis finally managed to drag him out of the Duchesse’s clutches. She said the lad was so well tended by his little nurses that she practically had to lay siege to his room before she could bring him back to her manoir.”

“Reavers are hard to kill. And having seen those little nurses, I find it hard to blame the lad. But he won’t win back his islands from his bed.”

“I thought you intended to do it for him.”

“You heard his sister’s song. Damn near brought a tear to my eye, it did. Of course, how do we know what is real and what is poet’s license? We both know there is only one way to find out.” The Red Prince laughed. “They’re certainly optimistic about the idea we’ll let bygones be bygones, aren’t they? Either they’re stupid or they’re truly as desperate as they claim. But who are we to turn down supplicants in need? Don’t you think the sister is a lovely young thing? Of course, she needs a bit of feeding and filling out to become interesting.”

“No doubt the Lady Roheis can teach her some interestingly bad habits.”

“A man can only dream.”

The doors to the council chamber began to open. A small man in an expensive, silver threaded tunic poked his head out, rather like a mouse looking out of its hole to see if any cats are lurking about. It was the King’s Chancelier, Francois du Moulin, who was arguably the least important member of the Haut Conseil, though far from its least intelligent. And, as Theuderic knew, easily its most ruthless.

The little man bowed.

“Your royal highness, the King’s High Council is grateful for your attendance upon it today. And you as well, Sieur Theuderic.”

Theuderic bowed even more deeply in order to greet the chancelier as befitted his high station—and the fact that he had seen the unassuming little man order the deaths of men with no more hesitation than an ordinary man brushed away a fly.

The Red Prince, on the other hand, practically ignored du Moulin as he pushed past him. “What have they been nattering on about for the last hour, Francois? Didn’t you know I was waiting outside?”

“It would be more appropriate for the king to tell you himself,” the chancelier replied, nonplussed.

“My father is here?” Theuderic was amused to hear what appeared to be a mild note of alarm in the Red Prince’s voice.

“He is indeed!” His Royal Majesty’s big bass voice echoed off the dark wood-paneled walls.

The Chambre de la Conseil was a much smaller and less imposing room than Theuderic had expected, but then, the king’s councilors had been meeting here for more than 150 years, and the realm was significantly larger and more prosperous now than it was back then. The table was a sturdy oak specimen with ornately carved legs, but it was not overly formal, while the chairs were a mismatched collection betraying signs of hailing from at least three different ages of fashion. Seated in those chairs were the four of the most influential men in the kingdom, as the king himself had risen from his chair to greet his son.

Without the least care for his dignity before the others, he embraced the prince with the fierce emotion of a mother bear.

“Charles, my dear Charles, I was beside myself when I heard it was those cursed Montrovians behind the attack on you. I vow I was of a mind to order Sieur Chalabert to take off the head of the new one, before your mother talked me out of it.”

“I trust His Royal Majesty would have thought better of it in his own time,” said Pierre-Gaston Bonpensier. The querulous old Archbishop de la Royaume was stroking the long flaps of excess flesh that hung down from his chin with one hand. “The duc is still at his mother’s breast and a most unlikely participant in the crime. One hardly wishes history to saddle one with a reputation as a child killer. To say nothing of one’s duty as a true and immaculate king who rules by God’s grace.”

“You can trust His Royal Majesty will personally strangle every child in Montrove with his own hands if that is what is needed to teach those rebels who is their rightful, God-given king,” the king said, making fists with both his hands. They were meaty enough to pass for an ogre’s. “Immaculean forgiveness does not extend to lese majeste, Bonpensier, so you can reserve the homily for your next mass.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that it proved unnecessary,” the prince said. “However, speaking of Montrove and its rebels, I should like to know how it is that an assassination attempt on the heir to the throne appears to be of less urgency than whatever this council has been contemplating since the fifth hour?” Charles-Phillipe attempted to present the question in a light and carefree manner, but he was clearly irritated at having been forced to wait outside.

“As difficult as it may be for you to imagine, I fear there are weightier events afoot, your royal highness,” said Theuderic’s master. Jacque-Rene d’Arseille was the grandmagicien of
L’Academie des Sage-Arts
. He was perfectly bald, elegantly attired in a black robe with scarlet slashes, and lethally intelligent. “Around the time you were occupied with obtaining confessions from your would-be killers, a church rider arrived from Amorr. It appears the Sanctified Father passed to his well-merited eternal reward last month. The college of electors has been summoned to select his successor.”

“Ah,” the prince nodded, somewhat mollified. “What a pity we merit no princes of the church, despite the Sanctal-scot we have so faithfully contributed to its coffers. How much did we send last year?”

“Three hundred pounds of silver, your royal highness,” answered the Chancelier promptly. He had returned to his seat between the Archbishop and de Beaumille, the Haut Connetable of the realm. “Three hundred and three, if indeed I recall correctly. We anticipate collecting a similar amount this year, perhaps as much as three hundred twelve.”

“We could maintain two legions with that much money, two royal legions. I imagine that would be rather useful in discouraging the ambitions of certain overly ambitious nobles, Father.”

“To be sure,” concurred the grandmagicien. “And it is the conclusion of this council that the influence of the crown is not what it should be, given the impact of decisions taken in Amorr that not infrequently lead to undesirable consequences in this realm. Decisions in which we not only have no voice, but of which we are often completely unaware until events have overtaken us.”

“I still cannot believe that oaf of a Sanctiff granted the ensoulment of the elves!” The Bishop de Chalaons was even fatter than the king but nearly a head shorter. He had a keen mind, though, and it was said that he was certain to succeed Bonpensier as the Archbishop de la Royaume. “Thank God he is at rest, bless his sanctified soul, before he managed to do the same for the dwarves.”

“Or, God forbid, the orcs,” D’Arseille said wryly, prompting a loud burst of laughter from the king.

“Do you intend to withhold the scot then, Father?”

“Withhold the scot?” The king laughed again. “Don’t be an ass, Charles. We seek closer relations with the Ivory Throne, not a break with it! You’re a fine general, son, but you still think like a general, all tactics and strategies for right now, today. A king is not like other men. He must think about tomorrow, next week, next year, and beyond! What we are attempting to plant here is a seed that will not flower in my time, or even in your time, but perhaps in your grandson’s time.”

“We have in mind a small embassy to the Sanctal Palace. Small, but influential. Our objective will be to strengthen our position within the Church, which at present is nearly nonexistent.” The bishop looked to the archbishop. “Sadly, at present, none of the current celestines in office have any ties to the crown. Since de Callix passed on to his reward five years ago, Savondir has not been able to boast a single prince of the church, whereas ten would barely suffice to properly reflect the king’s influence throughout the civilized lands. But we have reason to believe that one of the king’s subjects will soon be bestowed with the honor.”