Today I stood witness as the forces of Antea won their first battle against the defenders of Birancour. I presume, though I do not know, that we will turn south tomorrow for Porte Oliva. I hope to find a courier whom I may send north to Carse, and so to you. I will post to you what information I can in hopes that it will be of use in bringing this ongoing tragedy to an end.
It is important, as we consider our present conflict, that we understand it for what it is. The war now being fought is not with the people of Imperial Antea. Nor is it against the citizens of Birancour. These are the weapons that greater forces use against each other. Put two boys to fighting each other with sticks, and the boys may come away well or poorly, but the sticks will always be shattered. The enemy is within Antea, it has bored to the center of the empire, but it is not the farmers or the bakers or the beggars in the streets of Camnipol, nor even the court itself. This war is not fought against Birancour or the Timzinae or your colleague who has earned the Lord Regent’s particular wrath.
A cult of death has taken root in my kingdom, Geder Palliako at its center. And our present struggle is not how to defeat Antea, but how we may best rip out this weed and burn it before all that was once noble there is lost.
Geder
Geder woke on a low divan, his head aching. He had a knot low in his back from sitting too long without moving, and his shirt felt oily against his skin. He rose, stretched, looked out the window. In the north, the light of the rising sun was working its way down the Kingspire. The red banner of the goddess hanging from the temple at its height glowed like a fire. The rooms Lady Skestinin’s house master had given him were the best in the mansion. The bed was large, the mattress soft. Geder’s servants from the Kingspire had brought him his bedclothes. He couldn’t face the idea of sleep. Of rest. It had no place for him.
Neither did the rising flood of reports and letters, demands and imprecations that were the Lord Regent’s problem. Today, and for the past week, he had not been the Lord Regent. He’d been Jorey’s freind. And Sabiha’s. There was nothing he could do here. He wasn’t a midwife or a cunning man. All he could do, he’d done. All that was left was to be present. The empire wouldn’t fall just because he took his eyes off it for a few days.
Sabiha and the baby had had a rough week of it. The cunning men worked in groups, each taking turn over Sabiha’s distended belly. Some times were better, and Sabiha was able to sleep or eat, make little jokes through gritted teeth or hold Lady Skestinin’s hand as the older woman wept. Some times were worse, and Sabiha’s cries sounded like she was being beaten. The sunlight came down the great tower and flooded the city. Geder tugged at his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair. His chin needed shaving, and he was hungry. But later. That was all for later.
His guard waited outside the room, and Geder gestured that if they had to follow, they should at least follow quietly. The main stair was carved marble, and the echoes of their footsteps seemed thunderous to Geder. He heard the scuttle of servants in the passageway, fleeing before him like rats before a fire, and he strained his ears for the sound of Sabiha’s cries. He heard nothing, and a weary kind of relief passed through him. Today might be a good one after all. But the nearer he drew to her rooms, the more the silence followed him. There were no voices of servants. No clanking of dishes or closings of doors. Geder plucked at his sleeve, pinching cloth between thumb and forefinger. His heart rose to his throat. The constant murmur of cunning men easing mother and child was also gone. The quiet was terrible.
At the door to her chamber, he lifted his hand, afraid to go on and afraid not to. It swung open under the lightest pressure.
Sabiha lay on the bed where she’d been since the day Geder had come to see her. No cunning man stood over her, and she was curled on her side, knees draw in. Her eyes were closed, and so dark that the lids seemed blue. Her breath was deep and slow, and her hair clung to her forehead and neck like ivy against a wall. Beyond her, at the window, Lady Skestinin sat in a straight-backed chair, looking out at the garden. One of Geder’s cunning men—the Kurtadam with the greying fur—stood at her side. In her lap was a bundle of soft cloth. It was perfectly still. Geder put a hand up behind him, ordering his guards to stay back. He walked forward with the sense of being in a nightmare. His gaze was fixed on the little bundle. The baby. Her skin was wrinkled and yellow where it wasn’t an angry pink. Tiny stumps of hands curled against her chest. Geder felt himself start to tremble.
“What happened?” he asked. “What went wrong?”
“Nothing,” the Kurtadam said softly. “They all look like this at first.”
“They… they do?”
“She only needs a bit of sunlight to clear the jaundice away,” Lady Skestinin said in a gentle voice. “Her mother was just the same, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she, love?”
The baby’s eyes opened. Colorless grey and amazed. The tiny arms flailed in and out, and the vague unfocused gaze passed by Geder. Through him. The horror in his breast cracked, gave way, and an oceanic sense of relief flowed through him. The Kurtadam put a hand on his shoulder, smiling benignly.
“Give the child a bit of time and a bit more milk. She’s strong, only very new. The birth was less than an hour ago.”
“I didn’t know,” Geder said.
“I didn’t imagine you’d want to watch,” Lady Skestinin said.
“You were right,” Geder said. “Very right. I was only… Oh God. She’s all right. And Sabiha?”
“Resting,” the cunning man said. “The baby must nurse, and the mother must rest. The danger has passed, though. So much as it ever does.”
Geder reached down to the baby, thinking she might perhaps reach up and grab his finger with her own. Her tiny mouth opened and closed, and she made a small mewling sound. Behind them, Sabiha stirred.
“Where is she?”
“Here, daughter,” Lady Skestinin said. “She’s right here.”
“Bring her to me.”
“My lord, perhaps…” the cunning man said.
“One moment,” Geder said as Sabiha took her new daughter into her arms. The woman looked so tired and so pleased. I did this, Geder thought. I brought the cunning men. I made them care that they both lived. This moment is because of me. The tears in his eyes felt like pride. Sabiha tugged at the neck of her gown, preparing to bare her breast to the child. “Yes. All right. We should go.”
In the corridor, a Tralgu servant waited, her ears folded back against her skull in distress. “Lord Regent? There’s… there’s a man asking for you. Baron Watermarch?”
Geder patted her arm reassuringly. “It’s fine. I told Lord Daskellin he could find me here if he needed me. It’s not a problem. Nothing’s a problem.”
The servant bobbed her head. “Then, if you’ll… This way, my lord.”
Canl Daskellin sat in the withdrawing room, a cup of strong coffee in his hand. He wore a black leather traveling cloak of generous cut. It was a style Geder had started back when he’d returned as a hero from Vanai, and it suited Daskellin better than it did him. The baron looked older than Geder usually thought of him. Flecks of white dotted his temples and the stubble of beard like ice on dark water, and his smile was weary.
“Lord Regent,” he said, rising to his feet.