“That would be good. A situation is developing on the eastern route.”
Once across the Antal Land Bridges the Enterprise main body split to follow three separate routes through the central mountains, easing the strain on local populations. The easternmost route passed through small Praman states nomad tribes had hacked out of the Eastern Empire. That force would emerge from the mountains to threaten northern Qasr al-Zed and Shamramdi.
“What is it?”
“There’s the rub. We don’t know, exactly. We can’t quite get that far. We think the regional princes are gathering a host. They might outnumber us substantially. The ground is not well suited to western-style warfare, nor can the Shining Ones get there to help.”
Hecht knew that country only through travelers’ tales. Nevertheless, he could picture it. And he knew the tribal style of warfare. The allied princes would deploy their horse archers first, hoping the heavier western cavalry would chase them and wear themselves out.
“Kait Rhuk is out there. Here is what he should do-though I expect that he has seen to it already. First, he must make sure that he is in complete control, in my name.”
Hourli listened. “As you wish. Though getting your orders through will mean walking the last twenty miles.”
32. Khaurene, the End of the Connec
Brother Candle wakened in the wee hours, suddenly, not because of pressure in his pitiful old bladder. His tattoos itched terribly.
He was not alone. Had Bicot Hodier suffered a moral relapse?
The candle on his nightstand, beside his washbasin, strove valiantly against the darkness.
Imagination? Or the shredded remnants of a too-real nightmare?
He considered that candle. Why was it burning? A night light was too costly an indulgence, though it was not his indulgence.
He blurted, “Devil woman?”
Shreds of black swirled round the candle like moths. The Instrumentality appeared in the guise she had worn the night he had acquired his tattoos. His flesh responded again.
He was mortified, but filled with wonder. What sorcery was this? Mankind would embrace and venerate it if it could be made available.
The itching worsened. His snakes were restless.
The woman grinned wickedly. “I am sorry. I should not be so immature. I should not have to reassure myself all the time.”
Her speech was contemporary but with an odd rhythm.
Brother Candle was confused. An Instrumentality was trying to treat him with respect. He, a mere human, who considered her an agent of evil.
She flashed a spine-melting, manhood-stiffening smile. “Thee thinketh too much. Thee giveth too much import to our differences. All middle-worlders do. See me the way thee seeth Kedle and Socia. As thee would look upon thy daughter.”
“Now you mock me. You cloak yourself in that aspect of carnality…”
“Oh! I am flattered. And I do enjoy a sporting night.” The air shimmered. Moths no larger than fleas fluttered briefly. The Instrumentality stepped out of the dusky cloud an older woman, dumpy, missing an upper front tooth, wearing dark hair on her upper lip. “Better?”
“Some. My mind remains afflicted by memory.”
Had he really said that? He had not been that candid with his own wife when they were young enough to be tormented by fevers of the flesh.
“Ah, thee beeth too sweet.”
“Can you make these snakes lie still? And stop itching?” Then he groaned. What a thing to say to this sort of temptress!
She ignored the opportunity. “I come to warn thee that Kedle arrives tomorrow. She brings the captives from Arnhand. Thee will find her changed. She will be harder. She will be less patient. She is injured, too. She refuses to take time to let herself heal. I would see thee compel her to take the time.”
Brother Candle shook the erotic fog, some, though his memories would not go away.
The Instrumentality added, “She has been known to listen to thee,” and, “She is precious to me.”
“Oh?” The Perfect wondered if that meant what it sounded like. That sort of romance was uncommon in the Connec, where romantic love was the ideal but happened between men and women who worshipped one another from afar.
“She reminds me of my father.”
So. This Instrumentality might be capable of pursuing a dozen romances at once, with boys, girls, and goats.
She nodded slightly, with a thin smile.
“That is what I came to tell thee, Master.”
“Why must you use the dialect? You don’t do it very well.”
“Modern speech is confusing. Too formally informal. I am trying. I do not want to stand out when I would rather go unnoticed.”
Brother Candle forbore observing that her going unnoticed was highly unlikely.
She said, “Just make Kedle take care of herself. Make her stay with her family. She does love her children despite not knowing how to show it in ways thee find appropriate.”
He replied, “It may take a while to wean her off her taste for blood.”
“Thee hath no hope of that. She has drunk too much and found it too sweet. I must leave thee, now. I am needed in the east.” The moths stirred. The intensely desirable girl reappeared. She stepped closer, laughing throatily. “Would thee like a sweet memory to take to thy pallet?”
He could not make his voice work.
She said, “Sorry, Master. I cannot help it. It is my nature.”
She faded, but touched his cheek just before she vanished.
The serpent there extended its tongue to taste the back of her hand.
The shock was electric. Brother Candle did not sleep well afterward.
He needed to find another Perfect, to confess, and to be shown the way back to the Path.
But the only Perfect available was the loathsome Brother Purify.
* * *
Brother Candle, with the Archimbaults, was in the mob making it difficult for the Widow, the Vindicated, and their trophies to enter Khaurene.
Navayan soldiers helped make way. Their eyes hardened when they considered Anne of Menand. The caged woman did not understand that she had caused the death of their near-sainted King. She was a broken beast.
Brother Candle thought that he ought to stop the abuse, but he could not. The Khaurenese needed the emotional release. He told Archimbault, “I have to leave. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll beg the Countess to allow you to enter Metreliux. Or I’ll drag Kedle down to your house.”
Archimbault nodded grimly. He was a good Seeker. He would become an excellent Perfect one day. He should not condone his daughter’s actions. But he was a father and citizen of Khaurene and the Connec, too. He could not still his pride and gratitude.
The Widow and the Vindicated had worked wonders. They had ended a persistent, pervasive, relentless threat to the liberties and fortunes of the people of the Connec-for this generation, at least.
* * *
Brother Candle was there when Kedle presented herself to Socia and the new Duke. Lumiere was in a fine mood, gurgling and wiggling while his mother handled ducal business. He charmed the courtiers with his ready smile and flirty eyes. Only a handful thought his presence unseemly. The Countess was no day-laborer’s common-law wife.
Kedle, the Perfect noted, had clambered down the long slope to the mundane world of courtesies and courtly politics. She dressed as a woman and was appropriately respectful.
This was her first formal appearance before her Countess. Socia had trouble remaining formal when she would rather be hugging.
Both had been cautioned. The invisible observer, Queen Isabeth, would judge their behavior. If she found the Widow too disquieting she might leave a viceroy with troops sufficient to enforce his views.
The grand formalities, and the presentation of trophies, passed. Socia dismissed the court. She led Kedle and Brother Candle to a private room where bread, mutton, and pickled onions waited. “I wanted to make us a den like the one we had in Antieux.”