…
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-inlaw’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.”