Sara Douglass - The Serpent Bride

Perhaps Ishbel believed that ij she repeated it enough times, over and over, the words would take on the power of prophecy.

“When the Great Serpent sent me to fetch you from Margalit,” Aziel said, “he told me that you would eventually need to leave — perhaps even then he foresaw this disaster. And it is true enough he said you would eventually return.” He smiled. “I hope you will not stay too long away, Ishbel.”

“I also hope I shall not stay away long,” she said, and Aziel laughed a little at the depth of emotion behind those words.

“Besides,” Ishbel continued, “perhaps Maximilian of Escator will not accept me.” She paused. “There would be few men willing to wed an archpriestess of the Coil, surely.”

“Ah,” said Aziel, “but I do not think we shall be offering him the archpriestess, eh? You are a rich noblewoman in your own right, and I think it is as the Lady Ishbel Brunelle that you should meet your new husband. We shall call you … let me see … ah yes, we shall call you a ward of the Coil. That should do nicely.”

Maximilian Persimius, King of Escator, Warden of Ruen, Lord of the Ports and Suzerain of the Plains, preferred to keep as many of his royal duties as informal as possible. He met with the full Council of Nobles thrice a year, and the smaller Privy Council of Preferred Nobles once a month. Maximilian respected, listened to, and acted upon the advice he received from both those learned councils, but the council he leaned on most was that which he referred to as his Council of Friends — a small group of men that, indeed, made up Maximilians closest circle of friends, but were also the men he trusted above any else, for all of them had been involved to some extent in his rescue from the gloam mines eight years earlier.

These men knew Maximilian’s past, knew where he came from, had seen him at his worst, and they still loved him despite his occasional darker moments.

Today the king was in a light-hearted mood, and none expected any of his dark introspections on this fine morning. Maximilian sat in his chair, one long leg casually draped over one of its arms, his fine face with its striking aquiline nose and deep blue eyes creased in a mischievous grin, his dark hair — always worn a little too long — flopping over his brow. He was laughing at Egalion, captain of the king’s Emerald Guard, who had hurried late into the chamber. Egalion was now making flustered excuses as he dragged a chair up to the semicircle seated about the fire that had been lit in the hearth.

“You must be getting old, my friend,” Maximilian said, “to so oversleep.”

“Out late, perhaps, with a lady friend?” said Vorstus, Abbot of the Order of Persimius. In his late middle age, Vorstus was a thin, dark man with sharp brown eyes and the distinctive tattoo of a faded quill on his right index finger. The Order of Persimius was a group of brothers devoted to the protection and furtherance of the Persimius family. Maximilian owed Vorstus a massive debt for aiding the effort to free him from the Veins, and sometimes, when Vorstus looked at Maximilian with his dark unreadable eyes, that debt sat heavily on Maximilian’s shoulders. When first Maximilian had emerged from the Veins he had trusted Vorstus completely. Now he was not so sure of him, for he felt Vorstus watched him a little too carefully.

Maximilian ignored Vorstus’ comment, “Perhaps you need the services of Garth, Egalion. A potion, perhaps, from the famous Baxter recipes, to soothe you into an early sleep at night so that we may not be deprived of your company at morning council?”

That was as close to a reprimand as Maximilian was ever likely to deliver to any of these three men.

“I apologise, Maximilian,” Egalion said. He was a tall, strong, fair-haired man who had served the Persimius throne for over thirty years, but now he reddened like a youth. “I have no acceptable excuse save that I did, indeed, oversleep, and no excuse for that — no woman or wine —” he shot a sharp-eyed glance at Vorstus, “— save a need to compensate for a late night spent at the bedside of one of the Emerald Guard.”

“And that late bedside vigil spent in my company,” said Garth Baxtor, court physician and the fourth member of the group sitting about the fire. “One of the men developed a fever late yesterday afternoon, Maximilian, and Egalion and myself spent many hours in his company until we were satisfied he was not in any danger to his life.”

“Then I am the one to apologise,” said Maximilian, all humour fading from his face.

“You were not to know,” said Egalion. “The man, Thomas, asked that you not be disturbed.”

“Nonetheless,” said Maximilian, “I should have known.”

“Thomas is well this morning,” said Garth, “and after a day’s bed rest should be able to recommence light duties tomorrow. I think his fever nothing more than a passing autumnal illness.”

“But one that kept you and Egalion for hours at his bedside,” said Maximilian. He studied Garth a moment, wondering at his luck that eight years ago the then seventeen year old should have believed in Maximilian so much that Garth had managed to persuade a diverse and powerful group of people to support his endeavour to free the king from the Veins.

Garth Baxtor was now a fully-fledged physician, second only to his father in the use of the Touch, a semi-magical ability to understand the precise nature of an illness and to help soothe away its horrors. He lived permanently at Maximilian’s court, but, apart from treating Maximilian himself as well as other members of the court, Emerald Guard and royal militia, he also spent two days a week treating the poor of Ruen for free. Garth, still only in his mid-twenties, was Maximilian’s closest friend.

Garth grinned at Maximilian, his open, attractive face appearing even more boyish than it normally did. “It is too early in the day to succumb to guilt, Maxel. You didn’t need to be there.”

Garth and Vorstus were among the very few who used the familiar “Maxel” in conversation with the king. Egalion, who had permission to do so, only rarely managed to take such a huge leap into familiarity.

“Well, at least let me be cross,” Maximilian said, “that you don’t have any shadows under your eyes, Garth. Ah, the resilience of youth.”

Garth laughed. “You are hardly old yourself, Maxel!”

“Almost forty,” Maximilian said, his eyes once more gleaming with humour. “About to tip over the edge.”

Now everyone laughed.

“Well, now,” said Maximilian, “since we’re all finally here, is there any business to discuss or can we give up governing as a bad idea this fine day and go visit the palace hawk house and admire my newest acquisition instead?”

Garth and Egalion brightened, but Vorstus glanced at a small satchel that lay beside his chair, and Maximilian did not miss it.

“My friend,” the king said in a soft voice, “why do I fear that that satchel at your side contains dire news?”

Vorstus gave an embarrassed half laugh. “Well, hardly ‘dire’ news, Maxel.” He paused, glancing at the satchel yet one more time. “A document pouch arrived late yesterday afternoon, from your ambassador to the Outlands.”