“Keep thy fingers to thine own self and open thy ears, beloved. This would be an ally of Rudenes Schneidel. They were after ascendance and supernatural power. Lord Arnmigal wrote Schneidel’s last chapter while he was Captain-General. Er-Rashal wants to restore the Dreangerean empire, too, which is a fool’s hope, my elders assure me.”
Brother Candle sensed a lack of conviction. Hope was not sure of her own tribe.
She added, “This er-Rashal is the cruelest, cleverest, most remorseless of his kind, excepting Tsistimed the Golden. But Tsistimed is an ascendant already.” Hope shuddered, obviously disturbed by that. “Fortunately for the middle world, er-Rashal has a knack for creating enemies and suffers from chronic bad luck.”
“Which means what?”
“He is so vile that he always has people trying to abort his ambitions.”
Kedle mused, “Sounds like a Dreangerean Anne of Menand, absent the redeeming quality of her bedroom skills.”
“Perhaps. He’s probably a eunuch, but that’s irrelevant. The important thing is, he is about to succeed. In only a few months, maybe even only a few weeks, he may manage his breakthrough.”
Kedle demanded, “So why hasn’t somebody done something?”
“They try, dear. The child’s answer is, he won’t let them. The unfortunate great obstacle, though, is the belief systems of the peoples in these parts. They won’t credit a threat from a sleeping god. They say there is only one god, and He is God. And a lot of them are willing to commit murder to decide His absolute true identity.”
Brother Candle strained to control his breathing and slow his heartbeat. Despite Hope, despite all else, he had trouble getting his mind around the fact that there was so much more to the Night than what he had believed just a few years ago.
That monster in what indigenes called the Idiam should not exist. Not in a truly Chaldarean or Maysalean universe.
Something clicked. It did not coalesce into anything concrete, yet it did add to his disquiet about Hope.
She was being so careful. Carefully careful, hoping not to be noticed being careful, tiptoeing through meadows of information. She did not want middle-worlders to see something to do with the Dreangerean, something not immediately obvious.
Kedle felt it, too. “I’m sure the Vindicated will agree. Any business will be preferable to what we’re enduring now.”
Hope seemed relieved momentarily, then slightly troubled, caught up in some internal debate. Kedle’s ready agreement solved an immediate vexation but stirred a possible new slate of problems.
Hope read his smile, more troubled. She failed to flirt, tempt, or taunt. Nor did she turn her allure upon Kedle.
She said, “I am obligated to report your choice. I suggest you start moving immediately. The weather will turn nasty in a few days. You won’t want to travel during the storms.” She surprised Kedle with a quick hug and peck on the forehead, strode briskly out of the tent.
Everyone inside saw her leave. No one outside saw her emerge. The guards were bracing for the blustery advent of the Brothen Captain-General, who seemed unable to understand that he was not the stallion of the herd.
The Widow seemed to like Pinkus Ghort, for no evident reason. His presence always complicated the moment.
Inside, Kedle told Brother Candle, “Hope is up to something.”
“Dear girl, of course she is. She can’t help it. She meant to use us from the start.” He rubbed the head of the snake tattooed on his left arm. A lesser serpent stirred, recalling that first encounter.
What had been in the air that night?
Kedle said, “With no more evidence than a gut feeling, I think she’s just another piece on the board, now, carrying out instructions sloppily enough that we can tell that her aunts are pushing her into something that doesn’t thrill her.”
“Your sense of it is finer than mine. Any idea what is really going on?”
Kedle laid a finger to her lips. Brother Candle thought she was concerned about supernatural eavesdroppers till Pinkus Ghort appeared, having talked his way past her guards.
Kedle growled, exasperated but not actually unhappy.
The Perfect suspected that the Captain-General had been touched by the Night himself. He had more substance than his reputation suggested.
Brother Candle’s tattoos moved. Responding to Ghort? Was he a danger? The snakes had not stirred since the Praman raid, when their poison had added several stains to the Perfect’s soul.
41. The Holy Lands: Ad Hoc Scrambles and Royal Mischief
Hecht was moments from descent into a deep sleep. That need was back. He hated it. It cost too much time. He dreamed dreams that were far too disturbing. He could not afford to waste the time and stress.
Something had changed. Something had shifted after Helspeth’s arrival.
The air stirred as someone materialized. So much for his drift toward slumber. Uncharitably, he hoped that it was not Helspeth with the time candle.
Uncharitable, yes, but he felt the same toward his sister and daughters though he had seen none of them since Hypraxium.
When rested and working he did miss them and Anna. He was starved for family closeness.
Strange. He was a split beast for sure, ever less at home inside himself, liking Piper Hecht less and less as he morphed more concretely into Lord Arnmigal, master of the Enterprise of Peace and Faith.
Hourli said, “I know you aren’t sleeping. You snore villainously.”
Hecht offered the universe a put-upon sigh, unwound, rolled to face the goddess. She glowed, putting the shine in Shining One.
“It can’t wait?” He felt ferociously cranky yet actually was pleased. He always started to feel better when Hourli came around. Much better if she stayed a while.
Was some destructive fragment of self, buried too deep to recognize, driving him toward another ill-advised liaison? He hoped not. He felt none of the obsession that had begun with his first glimpse of Helspeth, nor the comfortable correctness he had always known with Anna. Nor did he feel coerced, as with Katrin. Hourli was more like a lifelong friend whose presence eased his aches and cares.
The old friend was not above an occasional oblique suggestion that she would not mind amusing herself with a dalliance.
He shuddered.
That would not happen. He had female complications enough, and more.
Silence stretched. It did not become uncomfortable. He felt better by the moment.
This improvement in energy and mood and recession in weariness occurred with all of the Shining Ones, to a lesser extent, excepting Eavijne. Eavijne could be more refreshing than Hourli when she wanted.
Evie offered a suite of temptations, and was pliable enough …
Again, no!
But Evie smelled so good, like apples, pines, cherry blossoms …
He shuddered, bore down. “To what do I owe the pleasure, then?”
Hourli smirked. She produced a locally baked sweet seed cake, heavy with raisins and honey. He took it, knowing he would feel better for having gotten it down. She said, “You needed that. And I thought you might be intrigued by interesting things happening elsewhere.”
“Do they affect us?”
“Of course they do. Sooner or later. Maybe both. A grandson of Tsistimed the Golden has been given leave to raid Qasr al-Zed, to test its defenses.”
“There are Hu’n-tai At mercenaries with the Righteous at Shamramdi. No doubt they report to Tsistimed.”
“Would you like them to stop? It is a long, dangerous journey from Shamramdi to Ghargarlicea.”
“One of your better ideas. What else?”
“Pella handed Iresh abd al-Kadiri a serious rebuke today.”
“Oh?” He debated himself daily about the wisdom of having relented and let Pella command the falcon force harassing the Dreangereans. The boy should be safe if he did not decide to show off.