Lamentation (23 page)

Edrys thought about this for just a moment. “He always knows the path to take.” He paused. “And he always takes it, no matter what the cost.”

She nodded. This certainly seemed true of him. She’d been trained first and foremost to watch and to listen. She heard the things that were said and unsaid. She made a point of seeing the overlooked and underestimated. “Was Lord Jakob that way as well?”

Edrys chuckled. “I’m far too young to have known Lord Jakob. I was born the year he and Lady Marielle were killed.”

Jin Li Tam had certainly heard bits of the story whispered in her father’s house. An unexpected and violent coup in the Ninefold Forest led by a charismatic mystic named Fontayne. Fontayne’s cousin had been the steward at Glimmerglam, the first forest manor. First, they poisoned the Gypsy Scouts assigned to guard the manor and its family. Then, they butchered Lady Marielle in her sleep. They had not realized Lord Jakob and his heir had slipped out through a hidden passage in order to do some night hunting. Lord Jakob had returned at the sound of the alarm bells and was beaten to death in front of his son by Fontayne and his mob of insurgents.

Jin Li Tam had spent much more time watching and listening after her first visit with the River Woman. For the first time in her life she found herself doubting her father’s business, but she could not for the life of her understand why. Whatever must be done to move the world—that’s what her father stood by. And she did, too. Or at least she thought she did. It’s how she pleasured and occasionally took her pleasure from the men her father sent her to. She did her watching and her listening for him, first and foremost, and passed what she saw or heard along to her father for his work.

But now, she found that she questioned it. But why? It was perfect strategy at a level that not even the Francines could fully appreciate. For the price of a poisoned brother then, a formidable leader now walked the Named Lands. One who, according to the youngest of his Gypsy Scouts, always knew the right path to take and always took that path no matter what the cost.

And a part of that strategy, she realized, had always been that this leader be paired with a daughter of House Li Tam so that her father’s good work could be realized.

But
why
did he need this leader? What does he intend for Rudolfo?

And what did he intend for
her
? She thought about the powders that the River Woman made for her. She thought about the work ahead of her, quietly going about the business of giving him an heir. More than an heir, she realized. A child who would grow up to protect the light that grew where it had been transplanted.

Her head ached for a split moment as she thought of the very different life he would inherit. Rudolfo had ridden the plains, laughing and racing his Gypsy Scouts, living from manor to manor. That would change with the library. The seventh manor would become the new center of the world.

She shook her head, realizing she’d stopped walking, and she looked at Edrys, who had lapsed into silence. “I’m sorry, Edrys. My mind wandered.”

He nodded. “You were asking about Lord Jakob. My father served with him as well as Rudolfo. He said they were very much alike. According to him, Lord Jakob took the turban early as well, and it made him strong. He raised a strong boy and happenstance brought the same fate to Lord Rudolfo. My father thought he was much like Lord Jakob, only more ruthless because of the circumstances under which he came into his own.”

She stopped, and the words settled in. More ruthless because of the circumstances that brought him into his own.
Lord Jakob took the turban early and it made him strong.

Unexpected tears leapt to her eyes and she blinked into the cold, her mouth falling open with surprise, not from the realization but from her reaction to it.

She saw her father’s strategy now, and saw that he hadËsaw="0 skillfully intersected Rudolfo’s life at key points to move the river into the path he deemed best, a path toward a Gypsy King guarding the light of the world instead of a Gray Guarded Pope.

She also understood that she too was a part of his plan for Rudolfo, and she felt both gratitude and despair, a sadness for the price Rudolfo had paid in order to follow a path he had not chosen.

She looked away, wiping her eyes quickly. If Edrys saw, he’d say nothing. She knew this.

“Thank you for the walk, Sergeant,” she said, turning away.

He cleared his voice. “By your leave, Lady Tam?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“You could not want a better man. There isn’t a member of the Wandering Army that wouldn’t lay his life down for Lord Rudolfo.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Edrys,” she said.

As Jin Li Tam walked back to the manor, she wondered how it was that her mind could see so clearly the brilliance of this strategy and yet her heart could only grieve it.

Then she wondered: How could her father have known so long ago they would need a strong, non-Androfrancine guardian for the remnants of Windwir?

The first snowflakes of winter drifted down, and Jin Li Tam felt a deeper coldness washing through her heart.

Neb

Winters avoided Neb’s eyes until the Marsh King returned, then she disappeared entirely. They hadn’t spoken, they hadn’t known what to say, and all of it was just too new and strange for him. Cryptic prophecies, strange dreams, unexplainable fits of glossolalia were not what he’d expected when he’d run after the magicked Marsher scout.

Now, the Marsh King stood before him and held court, asking Neb about the gravedigging operation, about the armies and even a bit about Petronus. Neb answered carefully about the old man—describing him merely as a wandering Androfrancine—and spoke honestly about the Entrolusians and what little he knew of Rudolfo and the Queen of Pylos, the few scraps he’d picked up listening to the soldiers speak.

The giant fur-clad man paused between questions, glancing to the idol of P’Andro Whym and occasionally askingÎtif follow up questions. Finally they fell into silence, and after a few minutes of this, the Marsh King spoke.

“You are on the edge of becoming, Nebios ben Hebda,” the Marsh King said. “A man is shaped not only by his choices but by the choices of those around him. You are being shaped by the Desolation of Windwir, and where some have taken up the sword you have taken up the shovel. I have seen in my dreams that your shovel will be the salvation of my people.” Here the Marsh King leaned forward, lowering his deep voice. “And I have seen in
your
dreams, too, the great sorrow that you will bear because of your great love.” The Marsh King paused. “I will summon you again in due time, Nebios ben Hebda. For now, I will leave you to your work and return to mine.”

With that, the Marsh King stood and departed. Eventually, Neb left the cave and went to the foyer that the tent created. A few minutes later, Winters appeared.

“I will escort you to the edge of the plain,” she said.

They walked slowly through the camp, and once again Neb wasn’t exactly sure where the camp gave way to the forest. It was getting colder, and the pools of rainwater were now staying frozen longer into the day.

As they walked, Neb looked at her out of the corner of his eye. How was it that she seemed prettier each time he looked at her? How was it that the dirt and grime seemed less and less prevalent and her eyes and mouth seemed more? And how was it that it felt so good to be near her, to have the musky smell of her in his nose? It perplexed him.

Certainly, he understood human sexuality at least in theory. They’d covered it in school, and he’d seen a bit of it as it played out around him during his life in the city. And he knew that a lot of people followed those promptings of their nature, but everything he knew said that as an Androfrancine, he lived above such things. It never occurred to him to ask his father about his mother or to ask how it was that Brother Hebda had not kept his vows to the Order. It was simple: His father had made a mistake. And the grace of P’Andro Whym covered that mistake, even providing a home and food and education for the product of that mistake.

Perhaps these were the types of feelings that took men down the path of error. Or perhaps the fit of glossolalia they had experienced together somehow bonded them in a deeper way.

Neb wasn’t sure, but he did know that the awkwardness grew and that she must feel it, too.

As if reading his mind, she stopped walking and turned on him. “I sense discomfort between us.”

Neb stopped. He wrestled to find the words. “I’m not sure what it is.” He thought about it some more.

“Is it unpleasant?”

He shook his head. “No. Just uncomfortable. I don’t know what it means or what to do or how to act or what to say.”

She laughed. “I feel that, too.”

Now that he’d started, the words just kept coming. “And then there’s your king and his dreams. It’s a way of knowing that cuts across the grain of everything I’ve been taught.” He felt a lump growing in the back of his throat, felt water building in his eyes. “And I really just want to go home, to talk with Brother Hebda about his latest dig, to finish my schooling and join the Order as an acolyte. But I can’t. Because my home is a field of blackened bones, my father’s among them. And there is no school, there is no library and soon enough, there may be no Order. Everything I have ever known and loved is gone from the world.”

She nodded, her brown eyes soft with something that might’ve been concern. “Then you will come to know and love differently,” she said, “and learn to live around the chasms. These are hard days, Nebios ben Hebda, but they are the travail of a woman with child. Through this pain, you will lead your people into their new home and it will be a home to you as well. I’ve seen it in the dreams.”

“I don’t want to lead anyone anywhere,” he said, and he heard the voice of an angry child in his words.

Winters sighed. “I understand that feeling all too well. But we do what we are made for.”

Suddenly, her hands were sliding up and around his neck as she pressed herself closer to him. Stretching up on tiptoes, she kissed him lightly on his mouth. Then she stepped back quickly, her cheeks turning red despite the layer of mud and ash. Neb felt his own heat rising along with stirrings elsewhere. “Why did you do that?”

She smiled. “I already told you. We do what we are made for.” Then she dug into her pocket and pulled out a small silver vial. “The Marsh King wants you to have this.”

Neb took it, and looked at it. “What is it for?”

“It’s voice magicks,” she said. “You’ll need them.”

He slipped it into his own pocket, and was going to ask her what he would need the voice magicks for, but he swallowed the question when his fingers felt the ring there nestled beside the Marsh King’s gift. One more thing that Brother Hebda had told him in the dream, one more thing that the Marsh King knew without Neb saying.

Winters must have seen the look on his face. “Do not be troubled,” she said. She brought her hand up and touched his shoulder".

Then the sound of horses reached their ears and they turned. Moving through the forest, Neb saw a handful of horses—one large and white at the head of them. A slight, bearded man in a green turban and a long golden robe rode high in the saddle with an aloof confidence, surrounded by men dressed in multicolored wool uniforms.

“Is that—?”

Winters interrupted. “It’s Lord Rudolfo of the Ninefold Forest Houses. I’m afraid I will have to leave you here.” She took both his hands in her own. “Be well, Nebios ben Hebda.” She smiled at him, and for a moment Neb thought that maybe—just maybe—there could be some kind of peace or home at the end of this for him. “We will see each other again.”

Neb wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing. He felt her squeeze his hands and he tried to squeeze back but it felt awkward.

Releasing his hands, she turned and ran back toward the camp.

Neb watched her go, still trying to capture and label the strange feelings she evoked. Then he continued south, breaking from the forest and making his way through the bones and ashes of Windwir.

He was halfway back to camp when something she said struck him as odd.

I’ve seen it in the dreams.

Shrugging it off, Neb moved south at a quickening pace, anxious to see Petronus and tell him what he could about everything that had happened to him.

Rudolfo

Rudolfo studied the Marsher camp as he rode into it. He had not been sure what to expect and he openly admired their skill at camouflaging themselves and their tents. He and his Gypsy Scouts stayed near one another. They were unmagicked to honor the kin-clave the Marsh King had proclaimed between them, and they were careful to keep their hands in plain view as well as their sheathed weapons and unstrung bows.

He’d never crossed into their lands and his only encounters with them had been with the king his father had captured and the occasional skirmishers he’d faced over the course of his life. He knew what most of the Named Lands knew about their history, and in many ways, he realized there was more kinship between the Marshers and the Ninefold Forest because of the ties to Xhum Y’Zir. Some scholars traced the original Marshers to the house slaves freed by Xhum Y’Zir after his sons were killed by P’Andro Whym. They came to the New World close on the heels of the first Rudolfo so long ago, before the others came led by the Whymers to establish the Named Lands.

He knew little ÓHe ablof their culture. They were given to bouts of mysticism, following a system of beliefs unknown to most. Apart from skirmishing and scavenging they kept to themselves, though at one time their skirmishing and scavenging had been on a much grander scale. They used to bring down whole cities. Now they occasionally took farms or caravans but even most of that slowed down ten years ago or more.

Rudolfo brought his horse to a stop in the center of the camp and raised his voice. “I’ve come to parley with the Marsh King.”

The people moved around him, silent, though they watched the mounted riders carefully.

Gregoric leaned over. “They say nothing.”

“Marshers vow silence that their king be their only voice in time of war,” a girl said, stepping from the crowd.

“And yet,” Rudolfo said, inclining his head to her, “you are speaking to us.”

“I am.” She curtsied. “I will bring you to the Marsh King.”

Rudolfo dismounted, leading his horse behind him as he picked his way through the muddy camp. He’d chosen a golden rain robe, wool trousers and a silk shirt over the top of his armor. He’d thought about leaving the light breastplate off, but he’d decided it would be best to humor his Gypsy Scouts.

He followed the girl and his men did the same. They walked to a tent against the side of a hill, and the girl gestured inside. “The Marsh King will join you soon. I will have refreshments brought to you.”

Rudolfo nodded. “That would be most pleasant,” he lied.

The girl curtsied again and ran off. She was a waif if he’d ever seen one. Long brown hair, tangled and filthy. Dried mud and ash smeared into her face and her plain burlap dress. There wasn’t a clean patch on her. And even from the distance they’d kept, Rudolfo had worked hard not to wrinkle his nose at the smell.

He looked over his shoulder at his men, flashing hand signals to them. One of them stayed with the horses. The others took up their positions near the tent. Gregoric slipped into the tent, then slipped back out a minute later.

“It’s fine, General,” he said. “Filthy but fine. There’s a back entrance.”

Rudolfo nodded. “Very well. Wait with the men, Gregoric.” He brushed past his first captain and into the tent. At the end of the short passageway, he saw that a small table had been set, along with a stool. Nearby stood a massive chair, and near it a meditation statue of P’Andro Whym—the one with the mirrors of self-awareness. It was dented and dirty, but it spoke of centuries past and of the same mysticism that had paved the way for Whymer Mazes and the Physicians of Penitent Torture—dark sides of T’Erys Whym’s adoration of his brother.

Rudolfo went to the small table and sat, drumming his fingers lightly on the wood.

A most unusual kin-clave, he thought.

“Lord Rudolfo,” a voice bellowed behind him.

He looked over his shoulder, and stood as the massive man pushed his way into the cave. Behind him, two Marsh women followed with trays of food and drink. Rudolfo extended his right hand to the Marsh King. “I do not know what to call you,” he said.

The giant looked at Rudolfo’s hand, then locked eyes with him. “I am the Marsh King.” He continued past him to sit heavily in the chair. He glanced to the idol, then back to Rudolfo. “What is your strategy to win this war?”

Rudolfo chuckled. “You do not waste time with pleasantries, do you?”

The two women unloaded the trays onto the small table. One poured a thick, amber-colored syrup into a glass and set it by Rudolfo’s right hand as the other placed bowls of poached salmon mixed with walnuts, apples and onions, loaves of black bread and wheels of strong-smelling cheese. Rudolfo picked up a bit of cheese and nibbled it.

“Pleasantries do not interest me,” the Marsh King said, again glancing to the idol. “Have you listened to my War Sermon?”

Rudolfo shrugged. “You speak the Whymer tongue most nights. It is not a language I’ve kept up on.”
But I’ve kept up on this language,
he signed, using the house language of Xhum Y’Zir.

The Marsh King’s eyes widened, but he did not sign back. “The world is changing, Lord Rudolfo. I have dreamed it. On the night before the pillar of smoke, I dreamed of fire consuming the Named Lands for the sins of a father that is worshiped yet forgotten.” The Marsh King looked to the idol. “Windwir is just the start of this. But in the end, it will close the Marshfolk’s sojourn in the land of sorrows.” He leaned forward. “And in my dreams, your blade guards the path to our new home.”

Rudolfo picked at the salmon mixture with a small tarnished fork. It had been poached in lemon juice, and tasted surprisingly sweet and sour. He washed it down with a cold brown liquor that turned out to be a thick whiskey. He felt the warmth move through him and he savored it. He looked at the Marsh King. “And because of this you have announced our unexpected kin-clave?”