“ ’Tis true that Sorbold has always allowed the practice of gladiatorial arena fighting, though it was discouraged, at least officially, by the late Dowager Empress. But now that this new emperor, Talquist, be awaiting the end of his regency year, the human traffic through our lands to the arenas has swollen like a river in spring. The crowds making their way to Jakar’sid be enormous and violent, drank with spirits and bloodlust. The forest fringe has been set alight several times, and the border guards have engaged in the repelling of quite a few raids, seemingly incited without reason, just from the ugliness that is building to the south. Additionally, the guardians of our western coastline have noted a substantial increase in ships sailing north.”
“North?” demanded Anborn. “Gwydion and I saw a mass-ing of them in the south—speak up, lad, report.” Gwydion cleared his throat. “In the harbor of Ghant, Anborn and I witnessed seventy-five three-masted cutters, sixty three-masted schooners, and at least four score heavy barges arrive and unload in port, all in the course of one day. That rivals the traffic of Port Fallon in Avonderre, the busiest seaport in Roland.”
“And dwarfs that of Port Tallono, Tyrian’s largest,” added Rial. “Not even Argaut, half a world away, traffics that many ships daily. Only Kesel Tai on the island of Gaematria has greater sea trade than that,” said Ashe, indicating the solitary land mass in the midst of the Wide Central Sea to the west “Or at least they did; the Sea Mages have been limiting their contact with the outside world of late. The shipbuilding schedule is dramatically behind, the vessels I’ve ordered are arriving a few weeks late consistently. Has Edwyn Griffyth indicated why to you, Uncle?” Anborn snorted contemptuously. “As if my brother communicates anything to me, and as if I would be interested in anything he says. Over the centuries the Sea Mages have been less and less interested in commerce with the outside world preferring to pass their days in the folderol of magical research, invention, and the science of tidal studies, or some such rot. They have been fairly useless for centuries now; they were famously absent in the Great War, and have been ever less interested in our plight ever since.” His azure eyes gleamed as a thought occurred, and he turned to Achmed “Except for that idiot ambassador my brother sent with the walking machine last autumn; he seemed quite intent on contacting you.” The Bolg king’s forbidding countenance soured even more “Oh, he did, rest assured,” he said. “I let him live in spite of it That’s your fault again, Rhapsody.” The Lady Cymrian kissed her new son’s downy blond hair ignoring him, maintaining her silence. “The ships were laden with human cargo,” Gwydion continued. “Slaves, or would-be slaves, it seemed, captives from entire villages, being transported in wagons like chattel. Men, women, children; the distribution seemed very efficient. They were split up at the docks and dispatched in many different directions.”
“So Sorbold has been building up its internal capabilitie for war, its army and naval forces, at an extreme rate in less than a year,” Ashe said, noting his uncle’s rising anger at the discussion of the slavery. “Anborn has always had his suspicions, but how did the speed of this escape our notice? Talquist isn’t even emperor yet; he chose to take only the title of regent for a year. All the ambassadorial meetings between the Alliance and the new Sorbold diplomatic mission have been cordial. There have been no hostilities in the time since the death of the Dowager Empress. There have been no raids that I have heard of in Roland, Tyrian, or the Nonaligned States except for the drunken thuggery during times of blood sport you just mentioned, Rial— and certainly none where captives were taken. And had there suddenly been orders for more ships by the crown of Sorbold placed in Manosse or Gaematria, surely the harbormasters and the Sea Mages would have alerted me.”
“One would hope so, given that Manosse is one of your late mother’s holdings, and Gaematria is a member of the Alliance,” agreed Anborn. “So where are these ships and slaves coming from?” As the words left Ashe’s mouth, he sat up suddenly as if shot by an arrow in the back. Gerald Owen is coming down the stairs,” he said softly. “I gave specific orders not to be disturbed.” Gwydion Navarne felt an old fear well up inside him, a dusty and atrophied panic left over from the slaughter at the Winter Carnival, causing the saliva in his mouth to taste of metal and cinders. His guardian’s dragonsense, set off by the action in the Great Hall above, left a cracking dryness in the dank air. Ashe rose and strode out of the glittering circle to the hid-den door. He opened it and stepped into the dark antechamber beneath the rough-hewn staircase, “What is it, Owen?” he demanded. The old man’s reply was soft. “A visitor is here to see you, m’lord,” he said. “This man knew you were meeting; he instructed me to beg an audience of you—when asked his name, he said merely that you and he had traveled the road as strangers and companions four year ago on the way to the Cymrian Council.” The Lord Cymrian stood silent for a moment, then looked back into the lamplit chamber where his councilors were waiting. “Perhaps the answers to some of these questions have just arrived,” he said. He turned back to Gerald Owen. “Send him down.”
6
The occupants of the hidden room looked at one another in amazement as footfalls could be heard descending the stone Is he mad?” Anborn said in a low voice. “It was his bloody demand that this meeting take place in secret; why in the name of every wench I’ve ever bedded would he be breaking the seal of this place to allow an interloper? Your husband is a fool, Rhapsody.”
“Won’t get an argument from us on that,” Granthor said. The Lady Cymrian rose, still weak, and stepped over to the doorway. From the darkness at the bottom of the staircase a figure emerged, cloaked and hooded. The man came immediately to Ashe and spoke a few soft words in a low tone, then followed him into the hidden chamber. The Lord Cymrian closed the door behind him. Even beneath the plain broadcloth cloak it was clear that he was tall and wide of shoulder, taller than any of the men present except for Grunthor. He did not bow, but turned in the direction of Rhapsody and the infant for a moment, then reached out a large hand, one sheathed in a lambskin glove, and rested it gently on the baby’s head. Gwydion Navarne watched the odd spectacle unfold in silence. With the other hand the man reached up and took down his hood revealing hair streaked gray and silver with age, though there was still enough white-blond hue to it to hint of hat it must have looked like in his youth. His beard was long, curled slightly at the ends, and his eyes were clear and blue as the cloudless summer sky, reflecting the flickering light of the lantern. Constantin, the Patriarch of Sepulvarta. For a long moment after he knew he should be kneeling, Gwydion remained frozen in place, finally rising long enough to sink to one knee. His father, Stephen Navarne, had been at. adherent of the Patrician religion, though he was also a good friend of Llauron the Invoker, the former head of the Filidic order of nature priests, and had been conversant in and respectful of the religious practices of both sects. Stephen’s attitude, unique as it was in the polarized world of faith, was unsurprising given both the geography of his duchy and his accepting nature. Navarne was located at the crux of the northern forest of Gwynwood, the eastern border of the neighboring duchy of Avonderre, and the northern fringe of Tyrian, making it the crossroads of the continent’s faiths. So the magnitude of the Patriarch’s appearance in his family’s home was not lost on Gwydion Navarne. The Patriarch only left the Basilica of the Star, Lianta’ar, in Sepulvarta for occasions of state, such as royal funerals, marriages, or coronations, or in the direst of emergencies. As far as Gwydion knew, no one royal was being buried, married, or crowned. The Patriarch’s white brows drew together, and gestured impatiently at Gwydion. “Get up,” he said tersely. “It’s far too crowded in here to be doing that, and inappropriate for a man who has been invested as duke of an Orlandan province. Rise from your knees and sit down.” Gwydion complied, abashed. “What brings you here at this time, Your Grace?” asked quickly, offering the Patriarch a chair. The holy man’s body, while elderly, still bore the signs of great strength from his youth; he waved a hand dismissively at the chair. “I can’t remain here long, lest it be discovered that I am gone from Lianta’ar,” Constantin replied. “I bring disturbing news-but by the look of things, I am not alone in that.”