He was halfway back to camp when something she said struck him as odd.
I’ve seen it in the dreams.
Shrugging it off, Neb moved south at a quickening pace, anxious to see Petronus and tell him what he could about everything that had happened to him.
Rudolfo
Rudolfo studied the Marsher camp as he rode into it. He had not been sure what to expect and he openly admired their skill at camouflaging themselves and their tents. He and his Gypsy Scouts stayed near one another. They were unmagicked to honor the kin-clave the Marsh King had proclaimed between them, and they were careful to keep their hands in plain view as well as their sheathed weapons and unstrung bows.
He’d never crossed into their lands and his only encounters with them had been with the king his father had captured and the occasional skirmishers he’d faced over the course of his life. He knew what most of the Named Lands knew about their history, and in many ways, he realized there was more kinship between the Marshers and the Ninefold Forest because of the ties to Xhum Y’Zir. Some scholars traced the original Marshers to the house slaves freed by Xhum Y’Zir after his sons were killed by P’Andro Whym. They came to the New World close on the heels of the first Rudolfo so long ago, before the others came led by the Whymers to establish the Named Lands.
He knew little OHe ablof their culture. They were given to bouts of mysticism, following a system of beliefs unknown to most. Apart from skirmishing and scavenging they kept to themselves, though at one time their skirmishing and scavenging had been on a much grander scale. They used to bring down whole cities. Now they occasionally took farms or caravans but even most of that slowed down ten years ago or more.
Rudolfo brought his horse to a stop in the center of the camp and raised his voice. “I’ve come to parley with the Marsh King.”
The people moved around him, silent, though they watched the mounted riders carefully.
Gregoric leaned over. “They say nothing.”
“Marshers vow silence that their king be their only voice in time of war,” a girl said, stepping from the crowd.
“And yet,” Rudolfo said, inclining his head to her, “you are speaking to us.”
“I am.” She curtsied. “I will bring you to the Marsh King.”
Rudolfo dismounted, leading his horse behind him as he picked his way through the muddy camp. He’d chosen a golden rain robe, wool trousers and a silk shirt over the top of his armor. He’d thought about leaving the light breastplate off, but he’d decided it would be best to humor his Gypsy Scouts.
He followed the girl and his men did the same. They walked to a tent against the side of a hill, and the girl gestured inside. “The Marsh King will join you soon. I will have refreshments brought to you.”
Rudolfo nodded. “That would be most pleasant,” he lied.
The girl curtsied again and ran off. She was a waif if he’d ever seen one. Long brown hair, tangled and filthy. Dried mud and ash smeared into her face and her plain burlap dress. There wasn’t a clean patch on her. And even from the distance they’d kept, Rudolfo had worked hard not to wrinkle his nose at the smell.
He looked over his shoulder at his men, flashing hand signals to them. One of them stayed with the horses. The others took up their positions near the tent. Gregoric slipped into the tent, then slipped back out a minute later.
“It’s fine, General,” he said. “Filthy but fine. There’s a back entrance.”
Rudolfo nodded. “Very well. Wait with the men, Gregoric.” He brushed past his first captain and into the tent. At the end of the short passageway, he saw that a small table had been set, along with a stool. Nearby stood a massive chair, and near it a meditation statue of P’AndrO/a›paso Whym-the one with the mirrors of self-awareness. It was dented and dirty, but it spoke of centuries past and of the same mysticism that had paved the way for Whymer Mazes and the Physicians of Penitent Torture-dark sides of T’Erys Whym’s adoration of his brother.
Rudolfo went to the small table and sat, drumming his fingers lightly on the wood.
A most unusual kin-clave, he thought.
“Lord Rudolfo,” a voice bellowed behind him.
He looked over his shoulder, and stood as the massive man pushed his way into the cave. Behind him, two Marsh women followed with trays of food and drink. Rudolfo extended his right hand to the Marsh King. “I do not know what to call you,” he said.
The giant looked at Rudolfo’s hand, then locked eyes with him. “I am the Marsh King.” He continued past him to sit heavily in the chair. He glanced to the idol, then back to Rudolfo. “What is your strategy to win this war?”
Rudolfo chuckled. “You do not waste time with pleasantries, do you?”
The two women unloaded the trays onto the small table. One poured a thick, amber-colored syrup into a glass and set it by Rudolfo’s right hand as the other placed bowls of poached salmon mixed with walnuts, apples and onions, loaves of black bread and wheels of strong-smelling cheese. Rudolfo picked up a bit of cheese and nibbled it.
“Pleasantries do not interest me,” the Marsh King said, again glancing to the idol. “Have you listened to my War Sermon?”
Rudolfo shrugged. “You speak the Whymer tongue most nights. It is not a language I’ve kept up on.” But I’ve kept up on this language, he signed, using the house language of Xhum Y’Zir.
The Marsh King’s eyes widened, but he did not sign back. “The world is changing, Lord Rudolfo. I have dreamed it. On the night before the pillar of smoke, I dreamed of fire consuming the Named Lands for the sins of a father that is worshiped yet forgotten.” The Marsh King looked to the idol. “Windwir is just the start of this. But in the end, it will close the Marshfolk’s sojourn in the land of sorrows.” He leaned forward. “And in my dreams, your blade guards the path to our new home.”
Rudolfo picked at the salmon mixture with a small tarnished fork. It had been poached in lemon juice, and tasted surprisingly sweet and sour. He washed it down with a cold brown liquor that turned out to be a thick whiskey. He felt the warmth move through him and he savored it. He looked at the Marsh King. “And because of this you have announced our unexpected kin-clave?”
Rudolfo watched this time, carefully. The eyes always went to the idol before speaking. And after a glance, the words followed. “Your resurrected Pope will save the light by killing it. After, a Gypsy blade will guard that light, and by guarding it, guard our way.”
He felt his eyes narrow. “Tell me about this resurrected Pope.”
Another glance. “You will know of this soon enough.”
“Regardless,” Rudolfo said, watching the idol out of the corner of his eye, “you can imagine how odd it is that after two thousand years of scorning the Named Lands and its obeisance to the Rites of Kin-Clave, suddenly when Windwir falls you are quick to ride south and take a side.”
Then, before the eyes could shift to the idol, Rudolfo signed: You are not the Marsh King.
The man looked to the idol, concern washing his face. He continued the stare at the idol and Rudolfo smiled. Finally, the giant spoke. “Dreams come when they come. I do not bid them.”
Rudolfo nodded. “I understand.” Then his hands moved. You are the Marsh King’s puppet, he signed. You read his hand signs in the mirror.
Now he looked something like a wash between anger, puzzlement and fear. His mouth opened and closed, his heavy breath rustling his beard and mustache.
Rudolfo sipped the whiskey, then put it down. “I know what you’re about,” he said, raising his voice. Tell your puppeteer that Lord Rudolfo has sniffed him out.