But before he could speak, the girl appeared from her place behind the curtain. She smiled at him, and Rudolfo saw it was the girl who had led him here. “Lord Rudolfo, my apologies for this subterfuge,” she said, striding forward and extending her right hand. “You can imagine why it is prudent for the Named Lands to see the Marsh King as something other than what she truly is.”
Rudolfo accepted her hand and forced himself to raise it to his mouth, despite the grime and mud. “I understand completely. As long as kin-clave exists between us, I will honor your trust.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I know you understand what it means to come into power young and alone.”
Rudolfo felt the sting of memory, remembering that first lonely day as the new Lord of the Ninefold Forest Houses. Gregoric’s father had been his strength, and not long after brought Gregoric into the position of First Captain so that he could become Rudolfo’s general by proxy. “Yes,” he said. “It is challenging to earn and keep respect.”
lfoight="0em" width="1em" align="justify"›She looked at the large man who played her proxy. “My father chose Hanric to play the part of my shadow until I found my own strength. Of course, my people know.”
This surprised Rudolfo. “Really?”
She smiled. “Marshfolk are very different from Named Landers.”
“Aye,” Rudolfo said, chuckling. “As are the Forest Gypsies.”
“My role is more spiritual than directive,” she continued. “Most of my life is spent writing my dreams, both the waking and the dreaming. I also write out my glossolalia.”
Rudolfo pondered this. “These are the War Sermons we hear.”
She nodded. “They are. I’ve written these down for as long as I can remember. My Whymer Seers catalog them and assign them numbers, weaving my dreams into the matrix of dreams from the Marsh Kings that have gone before. My father chose Hanric as my shadow partly for his strength as a warrior, but also because, like me, he remembers everything he reads. He has spent his life preparing for the War of Androfrancine Sin, reading the dreams.” She looked to Hanric now. “I will draw numbers tonight and determine their sequence at random. And the Marsh King’s War Sermon will continue.”
Rudolfo laughed now. “I think we lead our houses very differently.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “We do.”
Rudolfo’s hand crept up to stroke his beard. “I must admit that this is not what I expected for my parley with you.”
“But you saw through my subterfuge soon enough.”
The Gypsy King shrugged. “I’ve had a life of statecraft and intrigue. Until now, I would imagine you spent your life away from that.”
“I have,” she said. “Though I had an Androfrancine tutor.”
Rudolfo raised his eyebrows. “That is quite curious given the history.”
“Yes.” She looked at Hanric. “I will come for you soon, Hanric.”
He bowed and quickly left the cave.
When he left she looked at Rudolfo, and for just a moment her hard eyes became soft. TheOeca" wre was a certain prettiness beneath the dirt, and a coltish, awkward strength in her bearing. As young as she was, Rudolfo sensed that she already exhibited the trappings of formidability. “Now,” she said, “let’s talk strategy for this war of ours.”
Rudolfo smiled and reached for the bottle of whiskey.
Petronus
Petronus sat amid the rubble and ash and thought about the past.
He’d waited for Neb to return or for Gregoric to bring some word, but neither had happened, and eventually he’d wandered into the city. In addition to the boy’s disappearance, the work worried him. By his estimates they’d buried nearly a third of the dead, but it was obvious now that the winter was upon them, and their workforce dwindled with each day that the armies waited.
He’d often found that walking helped. One of the things he’d hated about being Pope was that he could no longer simply go for a walk. Gray Guard or archbishops or aides surrounded him everywhere he went, though from time to time he’d managed to slip past them. On those days or nights, he wandered a circuit of streets, always the same streets, head low and hands clasped behind his back, dressed in the simplest robes he could borrow.
Now he had done the same thing, his feet picking out a path that carried him along the backside of the crater where the great library had stood. Before he knew it, he was where the Garden of Coronation and Consecration had once been, where as a younger man he’d taken the scepter and the ring offered to him and had been proclaimed Pope Petronus.
He sat down, thinking about what it meant then to be Pope, contrasting it to what it meant now.
Tonight, Rudolfo would raid the Entrolusian camp. Petronus had his doubts about the success of the operation, but rebuilding the library would be a popular cause in light of the Desolation of Windwir. And it was sound strategy to move the library north. The only unsound part of the strategy was the Androfrancines’ continued care of the light. Given their weakness now-from over a hundred thousand souls to maybe a thousand-there was no way they could keep the secrets of the Old World and even the First World safe from men like Sethbert.
You know what you need to do, old man, he told himself. You’ve known since you learned it was Sethbert. You’ve known since that clerk proclaimed himself Pope.
Petronus sighed. It was easier then, with the trumpets and the shouting and the crowds. Because on the surface of it, there was nothing to be done. Nothing to be responsible for, not really. Archbishops and Gray Guard and scholars and lawyers shielded him from any silent moment of accountability. The closest he’d come to it was the Marsher village, and only that because he’d commanded that captain to take him.
He heard movement behind him and turned. Neb made his way towards him, walking slowly. Petronus climbed to his feet and went to the boy. “You’re back,” he said, opening his arms.
Neb walked cautiously into the embrace, and pulled away quickly. Petronus saw that he had his hand in his pocket, fumbling with something.
“We’ve worried about you,” Petronus said. “Our Gypsy friends said they would inquire-I’ve been waiting for word.” He smiled, patting the boy’s back. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Neb nodded. “Lord Rudolfo approached to parley as I left.”
Petronus sat and pointed to the blackened piece of masonry nearby. As Neb sat, Petronus said, “The kings all met for parley this morning.”
Neb looked at him, and Petronus saw concern on his face. “What will you do?”
Petronus blinked, surprised at the boy’s sudden directness. He wondered what had happened to him in the Marsher camp, and would have asked, but Neb’s tone commanded honesty and attention. “I do not know what I will do,” he said.
Neb nodded. “The Marsh King talked about a resurrected Pope. He said that the end of the light is the end of their time in this land-that there is a new home for them.”
Petronus cocked his head. “Marsher mysticism and nothing more.”
Neb shrugged but didn’t speak.
“Something else happened,” Petronus said. It wasn’t a question.
Neb looked up, then looked away, his face awash with conflicting emotion. He doesn’t want to tell me, Petronus thought. “There was a girl,” he finally said.
Petronus chuckled. “This is the age it starts,” he said.
Neb looked away, and Petronus noticed that his hand was still buried in the pocket of his robes. “Do you believe that dreams are true?”
“Of course,” Petronus said. “The Francines teach us that the dreams are how parts of our mind work out the stimuli of our waking experience.”