foundation of her rule. Without Habibul ah, she feared, she would be lost.
A second man was an enigma.
Elwas bin Farout al-Souki was a self-made champion. His mother had been a prostitute in the foreign quarter of Souk el Arba, beyond the Jebal, on the coast of the Sea of Kotsum. Elwas had risen from recruit to commander of ten thousand by acclamation of the men with whom he rode. He won battles and brought his fol owers home. That overrode al else with the war fighters.
Yasmid knew little about Elwas. His rise had occurred while she was elsewhere. He was a solid Believer. His coloring and shape said that his father was a black man. Other characteristics suggested that his mother had been a refugee from over the Sea of Kotsum. Those things mattered little in the forest of swords. They did matter at court, where men of old families felt slighted if an outsider received honors.
Yasmid refused to be distracted by pettiness, nor did she tolerate it.
The third man, able to stand only with assistance, unable to communicate rational y, was El Murid, the Disciple, Yasmid’s father, the salt trader’s son whose cal ing had set the west awash in blood. Whose inspiration, invoked, could send thousands to the slaughter even now.
El Murid was old before his time. He was crippled. He was partly blind. Incessant pain had led him to opiate addiction.
He was so enslaved by the drug he could no longer be drawn into the real world long enough to generate a useful thought. He had no say anymore but remained a powerful symbol. He could be shown and men would gal op to their deaths screaming his name.
That the Disciple was in bad health was no secret. But his appearances were staged to leave fanatic rank and file convinced that their prophet could not be overcome by mundane evils.
The warriors looking on today had not yet recuperated from the Throyen campaign. They had not had enough time with their families. They were tired of war but war was not tired of them. They were pul ing themselves together for one more campaign. If they did not, war would devour them and theirs.
The King, Megelin, son of Haroun, son of Yousif, would show his mother and grandfather no mercy. He would attack til he ended the long contest between Royalist and Believer.
Yasmid prayed that her son’s fol owers were more war-weary than her own.
In an introspective moment she wondered how much responsibility for the state of the world lay with her family. Of late, every people, every nation, every kingdom seemed to be at war al the time, indulging in civil strife when no other war was available.
Warfare had been much less common before El Murid began to preach.
Chapter Three:
Inger had schooled herself to be cruel when that was appropriate. Her attempt to produce a fierce face for her regime failed. Most supporters stil thought she was too soft toward her opponents and too entangled in her husband’s reforms.
Her enemies cal ed her a tyrant determined to eradicate al the good that Bragi had done.
She had support amongst the Wessons, regional y. That largest ethnic group had liberated themselves from feudal concepts in place since the Nordmen imposed themselves as the ruling class.
The Siluro were almost extinct. They played no significant political role anymore. The Marena Dimura had abandoned the cities after Bragi went down. They ruled the forests and mountains and made themselves obnoxious by supporting Bragi I . Inger’s advisors thought they would be nothing but a nuisance.
When it came to the day to day, only Wessons and Nordmen counted. Sadly, too many Wessons in the eastern and southern provinces al ied their ambitions with those of the Marena Dimura. Only the Nordmen Estates and Inger’s cousin backed Fulk. And the solidity of that might be more show than iron fact.
Rage seized Inger. This chaos existed only because one wild man had not been able to control his dick.
Heat fil ed Inger’s cheeks. She reddened further, recal ing a rumor that Bragi had found yet another lover when his lust for her cooled down. A brat barely old enough to bleed if the gossip was true. A girl younger than some of his children.
His dead children. The survivors were pre-adolescents. If they survived. Dane had tried to kil them.
Inger’s conniving Greyfel s blood considered starting a rumor that Bragi I had been sired by the King on his own son’s wife. She laughed. There was no chance that was true but it was the sort of canard that spread from border to border overnight. If she could produce one believable witness…
“Josiah, I can’t believe the ugly things I find inside my head.” Gales grunted, rol ed over. Only his eyes shone from beneath the covers. It was freezing. Servants did not visit the Queen’s bedchamber during the night.
He was not interested. He was being courteous because his lover was speaking. Al he wanted was to sleep. But that was impermissible. He could not be here when morning brought Inger’s dressers.
“Get up. You have to go.”
Grumpily, groggily, Gales dragged himself out, got halfway dressed. A peck of a kiss and he was gone, sliding out via one of the hidden passages that worm-holed Castle Krief and had played so large a role in the stronghold’s checkered history. Even the late Krief had not known them al .
Inger watched the panel shut, heard the catch click. She was not quite sure of Josiah. She did know he loved her.
He had since she was a maid. But she was a Greyfel s and the Greyfel s reality consisted of layered schemes, schemes within schemes, and conspiracies so convoluted the conspirators themselves lost track of what they hoped to accomplish.
Josiah said he was working for her. But he told Dane the same thing. He told each of them that he was setting the other up. He admitted that Dane was no longer confident of his loyalty.
But she was in no position not to rely on Gales.
Josiah was her best hope for maintaining herself and Fulk.
Inger was not religious. Few of her people were. The Greyfel s outlook was that God helped those who forced their way to the head of the line. But now she got down on her knees and prayed.
...
The Empress looked too young for the role. Her appearance did not deceive her associates. Her vanity was legendary. Her seventeen-seeming had aged only a year in centuries, though she had borne two children.
She was exhausted. She had not had a good night’s sleep in months. Neither had anyone else amongst the soldiers and lords of the Dread Empire. Top to bottom, frontier to frontier, wars and scrambles for power had imposed intolerable stresses. Only the hardy remained.
Beautiful even in distress, Mist asked, “They want a truce?” Lord Ssu-ma said, “They want to negotiate an armistice.” “That got lost in translation. Grant them twenty hours of peace. I’l pul rank and get some sleep. The rest of you should indulge yourselves, too.”
Lord Ssu-ma said, “An indulgence I mean to urge on everyone, Il ustrious. The Matayangans have no capacity to take advantage.”
“Can we get up and moving again if we lie down?”
“In a limited fashion. Local y. After further rest.” After a lot of rest, Mist suspected. Even the most hardened veterans had reached their limits. That Matayanga had begun to col apse was due entirely to the stubborn warrior culture of the legions. Matayanga had spent every treasure, every sorcery, every soul, trying to swarm and swamp its enemies before Shinsan, already battered and distressed, could steel itself on that frontier.
“I’m quitting now,” Mist murmured. She wanted to ask if she dared demand unconditional surrender. She wanted to ask if anyone had heard how her children were. She had not seen them in months. Most of al , she wanted to question the Tervola about the potential consequences of peace.
She did none of those things. She col apsed. Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, the pig farmer’s son, placed her on a field cot.
