Lamentation

down.

“I am your Pope, Lord Tam,” he said, his voice taking on a tone that he’d not used in decades. “I would know of these matters.”

Vlad Li Tam laughed and turned his horse. “You are a fisherman, Petros, digging graves in the rain. When you openly declare yourself to be more than that, ask me again. Demand it of me, even, and under Holy Unction I will tell you everything.” He walked the horse in a wide circle around Petronus. “Rudolfo is taking back the mechoservitors tonight. The spell-caster is already in the Ninefold Forest, planning the library in the care of my forty-second daughter. They will want your input soon so that work can begin with the spring.”

Petronus nodded but said nothing.

“Declare soon, Petronus,” Vlad Li Tam said. “We’ve light to guard.”

As he rode away, Petronus realized two things. First, that once he declared he probably would not want to know exactly what Vlad Li Tam had done to prepare the Ninefold Forest for this time. Not just for the sake of being able to face Rudolfo, but also because of what it meant for the boy who had once been his friend, who had once shared his home and hearth and boat.

The second thing he realized was the more surprising of the two. The thought stayed with him long after Vlad Li Tam’s horse crossed the blackened landscape and galloped up the western hills to be swallowed by the forest.

As he played it out in his mind, following that river of reason with its many branching streams, Petronus realized that he would do whatever he had to do to protect the light.

Even if it meant letting the Androfrancine Order die where it lay, ending its backward-watching dream of two thousand years.

Resolute

Pope Resolute the First looked out at the blanket of white that covered the rooftops and courtyards of the Summer Papal Palace. The first snows of winter had fallen, and judging by the looks of it more would come soon. In the courtyards, staging areas had been hastily erected during second summer to catalog and inventory Androfrancine property returning by his order. From there, the goods were stored in barns, papers and books hauled into the Papal Palace itself. The migration north had grown to a trickle despite the invisible pretender’s support of the notion.

Now, another bird from the pretender called for the cessation of the migration as winter set in, deeming the northern routes too treacherous to risk what little remained of Androfrancine resources-human and otherwise. This new word called for Androfrancines to wait out the winter wherever they were, bidding them to remain patient and assuring them that new instructions would follow soon.

The order made sense. He’d sat down to write a similar proclamation, but Sethbert’s last message was insistent that he wait as long as possible to make sure the Order’s holdings were safe in his keeping, far north and ouEar hbet of the way of the brewing war.

But now, the pretender had given instruction of his own-countermanding Oriv’s-in this second proclamation from his so-called exile. Initially, Oriv felt confident of his cousin’s sense of statecraft and strategy, but keeping silent no longer felt appropriate.

He heard a quiet cough, and turned away from the wide window in his office. Grymlis, the newly promoted General of the Gray Guard, stood waiting.

Resolute studied the man. Grymlis was short and broad and powerful, especially for his seventy or more years. His short gray hair and beard bristled, and he wore his dress grays creased, the various bits of silver that decorated him shining brightly in the lamplight. He’d been in the service of the light probably longer than Oriv had been alive, retiring into recruitment activities and escorting high-ranking officials. He’d actually led Oriv’s caravan to the Palace, seemingly so long ago.

“We’ve another bird from Sethbert,” Grymlis said, extending the small rolled message.

Oriv took it, unrolled it and read it quickly. “Rudolfo is at Windwir without his Wandering Army.” He smiled. “Perhaps that bodes well for us.”

Grymlis said nothing, and Oriv could feel the hardness of his eyes as the general stared. “What?” the Pope finally demanded.

“I would worry less about where Rudolfo is and more about where the weapon is,” Grymlis said.

“It’s a mechanical,” Resolute said. “I’ve told you-the mechoservitor is harmless now. They can’t lie, you know. They’re machines. What they do, what they know, even what they can and cannot say is written onto tiny metal scrolls that they play out in their metal heads.”

Grymlis snorted. “Forgive me, Excellency, if I don’t share your trust of its word. It brought down a city. Genocide on a massive scale; over two hundred thousand souls lost along with the greatest repository of knowledge and artifacts this New World has ever known. I somehow doubt that lying poses any kind of obstacle in the course of its work.” The general’s tone softened. “If its script could be modified to recite the spell, then it certainly could be modified to lie.”

Oriv sighed. He knew the general was right. But the notion that things could go so very wrong in so many ways disturbed him.

Why? It was the question of the year and it applied to nearly everything these days. Why had Windwir fallen? Why had Oriv been spared? Why had this hidden pretender issued proclamations without having been pronounced and without having even submitted himself for investigation by what remained of the Order? Why had the Gypsy King come all tEKin wihis way under his own free will to turn himself in, only to escape as soon as the pretender emerged?

Questions. Nothing but questions. “I am the Pope of questions,” he said quietly. At Grymlis’s raised eyebrows he waved the old general off. “It’s nothing.”

“There may not be answers, Excellency,” Grymlis said. “If I may be so bold?”

Pope Resolute nodded. “Yes. Go on.”

“Your silence will be your undoing. People crave answers, but in the absence of answers, they will follow the loudest, clearest voice.”

“You believe I should answer the pretender’s challenge?”

Grymlis nodded. “More than that. If you are the Pope, be the Pope. If you are the King of Windwir in exile, then for light’s sake, be the King of Windwir.” His voice rose, taking on a sharpness that stirred Oriv.

“I am these things,” Oriv said. “I am.”

Grymlis’s next words marched out clear and slow. “You are a clerk hiding in the mountains, tallying up your leftovers while beggars and refugees bury your dead.” His voice became a growl. “While your cousin and his alliance play at army and tell you what they wish for you to know. While your banker diverts your Order’s funds into the pocket of a pretender you know nothing about. While the greatest weapon this world has ever seen walks and talks and serves Lord Rudolfo his chilled peach wine.”

The words stung him, and his first thought was to slap the general. His second thought was to demand his arrest. In the end, he did neither. He felt his shoulders slump. “What would you do?”

“Nothing… from here.” Grymlis strode forward, throwing open the doors to the balcony, letting the cold wind blow snow onto the thick Emerald Coast carpets that lined the office floor. “If you stay a week longer, you’ll have stayed too late. Leave the steward in charge. Leave a company of the Guard if you must. Set those who’ve come home to whatever work you will.” His eyes were sharper and harder now than a thousand angry dreams. “But for light’s sake, man, go out and be King and Pope. You’ll not sway the tide of loyalty up here in hiding.”

The words resonated. It was completely contrary to his cousin’s direction. But after the week with Rudolfo and the mechoservitor, he’d started doubting how truthful his cousin had been. And he still could not move past the fact that his cousin had known somehow that he was away from Windwir on the day if fell. He suspected strongly that Sethbert might even have had some hand in arranging that. Coupled with that, Oriv knew that hisEv k fr mother’s sister’s son had no love toward him and no loyalty to blood.

He’d even found himself wondering from time to time if Sethbert had somehow arranged the Desolation of Windwir as Rudolfo had maintained. Some of the refugees spoke of rumors, words passed from soldier to merchant to farmer and so on.