Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

With Archbishop Galien’s death, the command of the church’s interest in Dahlgren fell to Saldur and Guy. The two inherited a disaster of mythic proportions. They were alone in the wilderness, faced with crucial decisions. How they handled them would decide the fate of future generations. Who actually held authority remained vague. Saldur was a bishop of the church, an appointed leader, while Guy was only an arm of the security branch. Still, the sentinel actually spoke with the patriarch. Saldur liked Guy, but appreciation for his effectiveness would not prevent him from sacrificing the sentinel if necessary. If Guy still had his knights about him, Saldur was certain the sentinel would take command and he would have no choice but to accept it, but the seret were dead and Guy himself wounded. With Galien also dead, a door had opened, and Saldur planned to be the first one through.

Saldur looked at Guy. “How could you let this happen?”

The sentinel who sat with his arm in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in bandages stiffened, “I lost seven good men, and barely escaped with my life. I wouldn’t call that allowing it to happen.”

“And how exactly did a bunch of farmers defeat the infamous seret?”

“They weren’t farmers; two were Pickerings and there was Hadrian Blackwater.”

“The Pickerings I can understand, but Blackwater? He’s nothing but a rogue.”

“No, there’s more to him-him and his partner.”

“Royce and Hadrian are excellent thieves. They proved that in Melengar and again in Chadwick. Poor Archibald still has fits over it.”

“No,” Guy said, “I think they’re more than that. Blackwater knows Teshlor combat, and his friend, that Royce Melborn is an elf.”

Saldur blinked. “An elf? Are you sure?”

“He passes as human, but I’m certain of it.”

“And this is the second time we’ve found them with Esrahaddon,” Saldur muttered in concern. “Is this Hadrian still here?”

“He is in the infirmary tent.”

“Put a guard on him at once.”

“I had him under guard since he was dragged to the tent. What we need to concern ourselves with is the girl. She is going to prove an embarrassment if we don’t do something,” Guy said and slipped his sword part way out of its sheath. “She is in grief over the loss of her father. It wouldn’t be surprising if she threw herself over the falls in a fit of despair.”

“And Tomas?” Saldur asked, reaching for another handful of berries. “It is clear he won’t be quiet. Will you kill him too? What excuse will you give for that? And what about all the others in this camp that heard him going on all morning about her being the heir? Do we kill everyone? If we did, who would carry our bags back to Ervanon?” he added with a smile.

“I don’t see the humor in this,” Guy snapped letting his sword slide back down in its sheath.

“Perhaps that’s because you are not looking at it the right way,” Saldur told him. Guy was a well-trained and vicious guard dog, but the man lacked imagination. “What if we didn’t kill her? What if we actually made her the Empress?”

“A peasant girl? Empress?” Guy scoffed. “Are you mad?”

“Despite his political clout, I don’t think any of us, including the patriarch, was particularly happy with the choice of Rufus. He was a fool to be sure, but he was also a stubborn, powerful fool. We all suspected that he might have had to be killed within a year, which would have thrown the infant empire into turmoil. How much better it would be to have an empress that would do whatever she was told right from the very start?”

“But how could we possibly sell her to the nobles?”

“We don’t,” Saldur said, and a smile appeared on his wrinkled face, “we sell her to the people instead.”

“How’s that?”

“Degan Gaunt’s Nationalist movement proved that the people themselves have strength. Earls, barons, even kings are afraid of the power which that commoner can gather. A word from him could launch a peasant uprising. Lords would have to kill their own people, their own source of revenue, just to keep order. This presents them with the undesirable choice of accepting either poverty or death. The landholders will do almost anything to avoid such an event. What if we tapped that? The peasants already revere the church. They follow its teachings as divine truth. How much more inspiring would it be to offer them a leader plucked from their own stock? A ruler who is one of them and able to truly understand the plight of the poor, the unwashed, the destitute. Not only is she a peasant queen, but she is also the Heir of Novron, and all the wonderful expectations that go with that. Indeed, in our greatest hour of need, Maribor has once again delivered unto his people a divine leader to show us the way out of darkness.

“We could send bards across the land repeating the epic tale of the pure, chaste girl who slew the elven demon that even Lord Rufus was powerless against. We’ll call it Rufus’ Bane. Yes, I like it-so much better than the unpronounceable Gilarabrywn.”

“But can she be made to play her part?” Guy asked.

“You saw her. She’s nearly comatose. Not only does she have no place to go, no friends or relatives, no money or possessions, she is also emotionally shattered. She’d slit her own wrists, I suspect, if she gets a knife. Still, the best part is that once we establish her as empress, once we have the support of the people so fervently on our side, no noble landholder would dare challenge us. We can do what we planned to do with Rufus. Only instead of a messy murder that would certainly invite suspicion and accusations, with the girl we can simply marry her. The new husband will rule as emperor and we can lock her in a dark room somewhere, pulling her out for Wintertide showings.”

Guy smiled at that.

“Do you think the patriarch will agree?” Saldur asked him. “Perhaps we should send a rider back today.”

“No, this is too important. I will go myself. I’ll leave as soon as I can saddle a horse. In the meantime-”

“In the meantime, we will announce that we are considering the possibility that this girl is the heir, but will not accept her unconditionally until a full investigation is conducted. That should buy us a month. If the patriarch agrees, then we can send out rabble-rousers to incite the people with rumors that the church is being forced by the nobles and the monarchs to not reveal the girl as the true heir. The people will be denouncing our enemies and demanding that she take the throne before we even announce her.”

“She will make the perfect figurehead,” Guy said.

Saldur looked up, picturing the future. “An innocent girl linked with a mythic legend. Her beautiful name will be everywhere and she will be loved.” The bishop paused and thought, “What is her name anyway?”

“I think Tomas called her-Thrace.”

“Seriously?” Saldur grimaced. “Well, no matter, we’ll change it. After all, she’s ours now.”

Royce looked around. There was not a single sentry left outside. Several still moved about on the hilltop, but they were far enough away to ignore. Satisfied, he ducked through the flap of the white tent. Inside he found Tobis, Hadrian, Mauvin, and Hilfred on cots. Hadrian was naked to his waist, his head and chest wrapped in white bandages, but he was awake and sitting up. Mauvin, though still pale, was alert, his bandages bright white. Hilfred lay wrapped like a mummy and Royce could not be sure if he were awake or sleeping. Arista stood bent over his cot checking on him.

“I was wondering when you would get here,” Hadrian said.

Arista turned. “Yes, I thought you would have arrived much sooner.”

“Sorry, you know how it is when you’re having fun. You lose all track of time, but I did locate your weapons, again. You know how upset you get when you don’t have your swords. Can you ride?”