"Nyphron rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sullivan Michael J.)

Chapter 6

The Word

As Amilia watched, the playful flicker of candlelight caught the attention of the empress, briefly replacing her blank stare.

Is that a sign?

Amilia often played this game with herself, looking for any improvement. A month passed since Saldur summoned her to his office to explain her duties. She knew she could never do half of what he wanted, but his main concern was the empress' health. She did look better. Even in this faint light, Amilia could see the change. Her cheeks were no longer hollow, her skin no longer stretched. The empress was now eating some vegetables and even bits of meat hidden in the soup, yet Amilia feared the progress was too slow.

Modina still had not said a word-at least, not while awake. Often, when the empress was sleeping she mumbled, moaned, and tossed about restlessly. Upon awakening, the girl cried, tears running down her cheeks. Amilia held her, stroked her hair, and tried to keep her warm, but the empress never acknowledged her presence.

Amilia continued to tell Modina stories to pass the time, hoping it would help. After telling her everything she could think of about her family, she moved on to fairytales from her childhood. There was Gronbach, the evil dwarf who kidnapped a milkmaid and imprisoned her in his subterranean lair. The maiden solved the riddle of the three boxes, snipped off his beard, and escaped.

She even recounted scary stories told by her brothers in the dark of the carriage workshop. She knew they were purposefully trying to frighten her, and even now they gave Amilia chills. But anything was worth a try to snap Modina back to land of the living. The most disturbing of these was about elves who put their victims to sleep with music before eating them.

When she ran out of fairytales, she turned to ones remembered from church like the epic tale of how, in their hour of greatest need, Maribor sent the divine Novron to save mankind wielding the wondrous Rhelacan to defeat the elves.

Thinking Modina would like the similarities to her own life, Amilia told the romantic account of the farmer's daughter Persephone, whom Novron took to be his queen. When she refused to leave her simple village, he built the great imperial capital right there and named the city Percepliquis after her.

"So what story shall we have this evening?" Amilia asked as the two girls lay across from one another, bathed in the light of the candles. "How about Kile and the White Feather? Our monsieur used it from time to time when he wanted to make a point about penance and redemption. Have you heard that one? Do you like it? I do.

"Well, you see, the father of the gods, Erebus, had three sons Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor; the gods of elves, dwarfs, and men. He also had a daughter Muriel, who was, of course, the loveliest being ever created and had dominion over all the plants and animals. Well, one night Erebus became drunk and raped his own daughter. In anger, her brothers attacked their father and tried to kill him, but of course, gods can't die."

Amilia saw the candles flicker from a draft. It was always colder at night and, getting up, she brought them both another blanket.

"So, where was I? Oh yes, racked with guilt and grief Erebus returned to Muriel and begged her forgiveness. She was moved by her father's remorse, but still could not look at him. He begged, pleading for her to name a punishment. She needed time to let the fear and pain pass so she told him, 'Go to Elan to live. Not as a god, but as a man to learn humiliation.' To repent for his misdeeds, she charged him with doing good works. Erebus did as she requested and took the name of Kile. It is said that to this day, he walks the world of men, working miracles. For each act that pleases her, she bestows upon him a white feather from her magnificent robe, which he keeps in a pouch forever by his side. Muriel decreed that when the day came when all the feathers were bestowed, she would call her father home and forgive him. It is said when all the gods are reunited, all will be made right and the world will transform into a paradise."

This really was one of Amilia's favorite stories and she told it hoping for miraculous results. Perhaps the father of the gods would hear her and come to their aid. Amilia waited. Nothing happened. The walls were the same cold stone, the flickering flames the only light. She sighed. "Well, maybe we'll just have to make our own miracles," she told Modina as she blew out all but a single candle then closed her eyes to sleep.

Amilia woke with a new-found purpose. She resolved to free Modina from her room, if only for a short while. The cell reeked of urine and mildew that lingered even after scrubbing and fresh straw. She wanted to take her outside, but knew that was asking too much. She was certain Lady Constance was dragged away because of Modina's failing health, not because she took her from her cell. Whatever the consequences, she had to try.

Amilia changed both herself and Modina into their day clothing and, taking her gently by the hand, led her to the door and knocked. When it opened, she faced the guard straight and tall and announced. "I'm taking the empress to the kitchen for her meal. I was appointed the Imperial Secretary by Regent Saldur himself, and I'm responsible for her care. She can't remain in this filthy cell. It's killing her."

She waited.

He would refuse and she would argue. She tried to organize her rebuttals: noxious vapors, the healing power of fresh air, the fact that they would kill her if the empress did not show improvement. Why that last one would persuade him she had not worked out, but it was one of the thoughts pressing on her mind.

The guard looked from Amilia to Modina and back to Amilia again. She was shocked when he nodded and stepped aside. Amilia hesitated-she had not considered the possibility he would relent. She led the empress up the steps while the soldier followed behind.

She made no announcement like Lady Constance. She simply walked in with the empress in tow, bringing the kitchen once more to a halt. Everyone stared. No one said a word.

"The empress would like her meal," Amilia told Ibis, who nodded. "Could you please put some extra bread at the bottom of the bowl, and could she get some fruit today?"

"Aye, aye," the big man acknowledged. "Leif, get on it. Nipper, go to the storage and bring up some of those berries. The rest of you, back to work. Nothing to see here."

Nipper bolted outside, leaving the door open. Red, one of the huntsman's old dogs, wandered in. Modina dropped Amilia's hand.

"Leif, get that animal out of here," Ibis ordered.

"Wait," Amilia said. Everyone watched as the empress knelt down next to the elkhound. The dog in turn nuzzled her.

Red was old, his muzzle had gone gray, and his eyes clouded with blindness. Why the huntsman kept him was a mystery, as all he did was sleep in the courtyard and beg for handouts from the kitchen. Few took notice of his familiar presence, but he commanded the empress' attention. She scratched behind his ears and stroked his fur.

"I guess Red gets to stay." Ibis chuckled. "Dog's got important friends."

Edith Mon entered the kitchen, halting abruptly at the sight of Amilia and the empress. She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and without a word pivoted and exited the way she came.

Amidst the sound of pounding hammers, Regent Maurice Saldur strode through the palace reception hall where artisans were busy at work. A year ago this was King Ethelred's castle, the stark stone fortress of Avryn's most powerful monarch. Since the coronation of the empress, it became the Imperial Palace of the Nyphron Empire and the home of the Daughter of Maribor. Saldur insisted on the renovations: A grand new foyer complete with the crown seal etched in white marble on the floor, several massive chandeliers to lighten the dark interior, a wider ornate balcony from which her eminence could wave to her adoring people, and of course a complete rework of the throne room.

Ethelred and the chancellor balked at the expense. The new throne cost almost as much as a warship, but they did not understand the importance of impressions the way he did. He had an illiterate, nearly comatose child for an empress, and the only thing preventing disaster was that no one knew. How much silk, gold, and marble did it take to blind the world? More than he had access to he was certain, but he would do what he could.

These last few weeks, Saldur felt as if he were balancing on his head while standing on a stool with one leg missing, strapped to the back of a runaway horse. The Empire went up practically overnight like a barn-raising. Centuries of planning had finally coalesced, but as with everything, there were mistakes, errors, and circumstances for which they could not possibly account.

The whole fiasco in Dahlgren was only the start. The moment they declared the establishment of the New Empire, Glouston went into open revolt. Alburn decided to haggle over terms, and, of course, there was Melengar. The humiliation was beyond words. Every other Avryn kingdom fell in step as planned, all except his. He was Bishop of Melengar and close personal adviser to the king and later his son, and yet Melengar remained independent. It was only Saldur's clever solution to the Dahlgren problem that kept him from fading into obscurity. He drew victory from ashes, and for that the Patriarch appointed him the church's representative, making him co-regent alongside Ethelred.

The old king of Warric maintained the existing systems, but Saldur was the architect of the new world order. His vision would define the lives of thousands for centuries to come. It was a tremendous opportunity, yet he felt as if he was rolling a massive boulder up a hill. If he should trip or stumble, the rock would roll back and crush him and everything else with it.

When he reached his office, he found Luis Guy waiting. The church sentinel had just arrived, hopefully with good news. The Knight of Nyphron waited near the window, as straight and impeccable as ever. He stood looking out at some distant point with his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he wore the black and scarlet of his order, each line clean, his beard neatly trimmed.

"I assume you've heard," Saldur said, closing the door behind him and ignoring any greeting. Guy was not the type to bother with pleasantries-something Saldur appreciated about the man. Over the last several months, he had seen little of Guy, who the Patriarch kept occupied searching for the real Heir of Novron and the wizard Esrahaddon. This was also to his liking, as Guy could be a formidable rival and his travels kept the sentinel from the center of power. Strangely, Guy appeared to have little interest in carving out a place for himself in the New Empire-something else to be grateful for.

"About the Nationalists? Of course," Guy responded, turning away from the window.

"And?"

"And what?"

"And I would like to know what-" Saldur halted when he noticed another man in the room.

The office was comfortable in size, large enough to accommodate a desk, bookshelves, and a table with a chessboard between two soft chairs where the stranger sat.

"Oh, yes." Guy motioned to the man. "This is Merrick Marius. Merrick meet Bishop-forgive me-Regent Saldur."

"So this is him," Saldur muttered annoyed the man did not rise.

He remained sitting comfortably, leaning back with casual indifference, staring in a manner too direct, too brazen. Merrick wore a thigh-length coat of dark red suede-an awful shade Saldur thought-the color of dried blood. His hair was short; his face pale, and aside from his coat, his attire was simple and unadorned.

"Not very impressive, are you?" Saldur observed.

The man smiled at this. "Do you play chess, your grace?"

Saldur's eyebrows rose and he glanced at Guy. This was his man after all. Guy was the one who dug him up, unearthing him from the fetid streets, and praised his talents. The sentinel said nothing and showed no outward sign of outrage or discontent with his pet.

"I am running an Empire, young man," Saldur replied, dismissively. "I don't have time for games."

"How strange," Merrick said. "I've never thought of chess as a game. To me it is more of a religion really. Every aspect of life, distilled into sixteen pieces within sixty-four black and white squares, which from a distance actually appear gray. Of course, there are more than a mere sixty-four squares. The smaller squares taken in even numbers form larger ones, creating a total of two-hundred and four. Most people miss that. They see only the obvious. Few have the intelligence to look deeper to see the patterns hidden within patterns. That's part of the beauty of chess-it is much more than it first appears, more complicated, more complex. I've heard how some bishops base sermons on it, explaining the hierarchy of pieces and how they represent the classes of society, and the rules of movement depict the individual duties ordained by Maribor.

"Have you ever done that, your grace?" Merrick asked but did not wait for an answer. "Amazing idea, isn't it?" He looked down at the board. "The world at your fingertips, so manageable, so defined. It has such simple rules, a near infinite number of possible paths, but only three outcomes." He leaned forward over the board, his eyes searching the field of black and white.

"The bishop is an interesting piece." He plucked one off the board and held it in his hand, rolling the polished stone figure back and forth across his open palm. "It is not a very well-designed piece, not as pretty perhaps as say the knight. It is often overlooked, hiding along the corners of the board appearing so innocent, so disarming. But it is able to sweep the length of the board at sharp unexpected angles, often with devastating results. I've always thought that bishops were underutilized through a lack of appreciation for their talents. I suppose I am unusual in this respect, but then I'm not the type of person to judge the value of a piece based on how it looks."

"You think you're a very clever fellow, don't you?" Saldur challenged.

"No, your grace," Merrick replied. "Clever is the man who makes a fortune selling dried up cows, explaining how it saves the farmers the trouble of getting up every morning to milk them. I am not clever-I'm a genius."

At this, Guy decided to interject, "Regent, at our last meeting I mentioned a solution to the Nationalist problem. He sits before you. Mister Marius has everything worked out. He merely needs approval from the regents."

"And certain assurances of payment," Merrick added.

"You can't be serious." Saldur whirled on Guy. "The Nationalists are sweeping north on a rampage. They've taken Kilnar. They are only miles from Ratibor. They will be marching on this palace by Wintertide. What I need are ideas, alternatives, solutions-not some irreverent popinjay!"

"You have some interesting ideas, your grace," Merrick told Saldur, his voice calm and casual as if he had not heard a word. "I like your views on a central government. The benefits of standardizations in trade, laws, farming, even the widths of roads are excellent. It shows clarity of thought that I would not expect from an elderly church bishop."

"How do you know anything of my-"

Merrick raised his hand to halt the regent. "I should explain right away that how I obtain information is confidential and not open for discussion. The fact is, I know it-what's more, I like it. I can see the potential in this New Empire you are struggling to erect. It may well be exactly what the world needs to get beyond the petty warfare that weakens our nations and mires the common man in hopeless poverty. At present, however, this is still a dream. That is where I come in. I only wish you came to me earlier. I could have saved you that embarrassing and now burdensome problem of her eminence."

"That was the result of an unfortunate error on the part of my predecessor, the archbishop. Something he paid for with his life. I was the one who salvaged the situation."

"Yes, I know. Some idiot named Rufus was supposed to slay the mythical beast and thereby prove he was the fabled Heir of Novron, the descendent of the god Maribor himself. Only instead, Rufus was devoured and the beast laid waste to everything in the vicinity. Everything, except a young girl who somehow managed to slay it, and in front of a church deacon no less-oops. But you're right. That wasn't your fault. You were the smart one with the brilliant idea to use her as a puppet-a girl so bereft from losing everything and everyone that she went mad. Your solution to this is to hide her in the depths of the palace and hope no one notices. In the meantime, you and Ethelred run a military campaign to take over all of Avryn, sending your best troops north to invade Melengar just as the Nationalists invade from the south. Brilliant. I must say, with things so well in hand it is a wonder I was contacted at all."

"I am not amused," Saldur told him.

"Nor should you be, for at this moment King Alric of Melengar is setting into motion plans to form an alliance with the Nationalists, trapping you in a two-front war, and bringing Trent into the conflict on their side."

"You know this?"

"It is what I would do. And with the wealth of Delgos and the might of Trent, your fledgling Empire, with its insane empress, will crumble as quickly as it rose."

"More impressed now?" Guy asked.

"And what would you have us do to stave off this impending cataclysm?"

Merrick smiled. "Pay me."

The grand exalted Empress Modina Novronian, ruler of Avryn, and high priestess of the Church of Nyphron, sat sprawled on the floor feeding her bowl of soup to Red, who expressed his gratitude by drooling on her dress. He rested his head on her lap and slapped his tail against the stone, his tongue sliding lazily in and out. The empress curled up beside the dog and laid her head on the animal's side. Amilia smiled, it was encouraging to see Modina interact with something, anything.

"Get that disgusting animal out of here and get her off the floor!"

Amilia jumped and looked up horrified to see Regent Saldur enter the kitchen with Edith Mon at his side, wearing a sinister smile. Amilia could not move. Several scullery maids rushed to the empress' side and gently pulled her to her feet.

"The very idea," he continued to shout as the maids busied themselves smoothing out Modina's dress. "You," the regent growled pointing at Amilia, "this is your doing. I should have known. What was I expecting when I put a common street urchin in charge of…of…" he trailed off, looking at Modina with an exasperated expression. "At least your predecessors didn't have her groveling with animals!"

"Your grace, Amilia was-" Ibis Thinly began.

"Shut up, you oaf!" Saldur snapped at the stocky cook, and then returned his attention to Amilia. "Your service to the empress has ended, as well as your employment at this palace."

Saldur motioned to the empress' guard, and then said, "Take her out of my sight." The guard approached Amilia, unable to meet her eyes.

Amilia breathed in short, stifled gasps and realized she was trembling as the soldier approached. Not normally given to crying, Amilia could not help it, and tears began streaming down her cheeks.

"No," Modina said.

Spoken with no force, barely above a whisper, the single word cast a spell on the room. One of the cooking staff dropped a metal pot that rang loudly on the stone floor. They all stared. The regent turned in surprise, and then began to circle the empress, studying her with interest. The girl had a focused, challenging look as she glared at Saldur. The regent glanced from Amilia to Modina several times. He cocked his head from side to side as if trying to work out a puzzle. The guard stood by awkwardly.

At length, Saldur put him at ease. "As the empress commands," Saldur said without taking his eyes off Modina. "It seems that I may have been a bit premature in my assessment of…" Saldur glance at Amilia, annoyed. "What's your name?"

"A-Amilia."

He nodded as if approving the correct answer. "Your techniques are unusual, but certainly one can't argue with results."

Saldur looked back at Modina as she stood within the circle of maids who parted at his approach. He circled her. "She does look better, doesn't she? Color's improved. There's…" he motioned toward her face, "a fullness to her cheeks." His head was nodding. He crossed his arms and with a final nod of approval said, "Very well, you can keep the position, as it seems to please her eminence."

The regent turned and headed out of the scullery. He paused at the doorway to look over his shoulder saying, "You know-I was really starting to believe she was mute."