Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

The seers claimed that all prophecy was vain because the gods could not be bound. There was some truth in that, and at times Ingeld thought she could watch sixty-sixty futures dancing, as if the Bright Ones debated their plans in a vast divine committee. But the Maynists were not entirely correct, for Veslihans never claimed to see beyond their own realms. The peasant wife muttering prayers to her cooking fire differed only in degree from Ingeld, initiate of the highest level and first among the Daughters, seeking guidance on the future of Kosord in the sacred flames at the summit of the temple. One ruled a hovel and the other a palace, but both of those were households sacred to holy Veslih. If the goddess chose to make Her intentions known, the other gods would not interfere.

Last night, as was her custom, Ingeld had led the acolytes in prayer in the adytum. Inexplicably, she had seen Benard Celebre in the dark between the embers, indicating danger. That he was in peril was no surprise and she was overdue to warn him of the latest troubles, but the omens seemed to imply that the danger was to the city, which made no sense. She had been sufficiently concerned to send a herald around to his shack. He had not been home and she needed no divine guidance to guess that he was sleeping elsewhere, for he still had an astonishing ability to inspire women to mother him. At dawn she had visited the adytum again; again she had seen him, and this time heading for the palace. Images in a brazier could not compare with those in the sacred hearth itself, so she had decided on a full pyromancy, sending Sansya to the assize in her stead and warning Molith to admit Benard when he arrived.

That he was bound for Horold's audience had never occurred to her, but in the very first true images, she spied him already in the balcony of the court. The portents for Kosord were clearer than any she had seen in years—a baby shining, a letter shadowed, a boat that was sometimes good, sometimes bad. Those would be the sparks to ignite the blaze, but beyond them she spied only tumult and confusion and shadow. Time and again as images formed, the coals collapsed, obscuring them as if the gods had determined to set great events in motion without agreeing upon their outcome. But why everywhere Benard? Wherever she'd looked, there was Benard in the background. Baby, letter, boat, death, death, death... and always Benard. Why was he suddenly so important?

♦

Pyromancy was an ordeal that left her simultaneously exalted and exhausted. When it was over, two acolytes supported her while she addressed the anxious crowd that had gathered.

"I foresee no great evil," she told them. "Unsettled times approach, but the gods are merciful. Be mindful of them and the troubles will pass." They knelt to her as she descended the steps; she entered thankfully through the bronze doors, out of painful sunlight into the women's quarters, shadowed and cool.

Fortunately, she had other—mortal—sources to inform her what had been happening in Horold's audience, and old Molith nodded when queried with an eyebrow. So Ingeld was forewarned not to go charging into her bedchamber with a retinue.

Pleading a need to rest, she entered the room alone and even managed to close the door without slamming it in fury. Just as she had feared, Bena was stretched out on her sleeping platform, dead to the world. No doubt he had spent most of the night rollicking with some slut. Oh, that young idiot ! Could even Benard Celebre be so blind to danger? Horold would see this as deliberate provocation, and his seers would tell him of it.

She swept across the room like a pillar of fire, fully intending to haul him off the platform by his ear. But the closer she came, the more her resolution faltered, until she came to a stop, staring down at him in aching wonder. Oh, Bena, Bena! He was no beauty by day, being dark and hairy even by Florengian standards, with quarryman chest and shoulders that belied his noble birth. His face was as solid as battlements, all jaw and forehead and cheekbones. And yet, boy and man, he had always been beautiful in sleep, with those incredible lashes spread on his cheeks; awake, he could melt any woman with one glance of an artist's eyes—gentle, limpid, all-seeing.

She turned to look at the twins' smiling faces in the tiles. Had they lived, they would be this age now—mature but still young, in the prime of their strength and yet untamed by the withering of dreams. And back to Benard... Strong but never aggressive, easygoing in most things and infinitely stubborn in the rest, combining wrestlers' brawn with the delicate touch of butterflies.

Especially she remembered Benard in that terrible summer six years ago, when Finar and Fitel had set off to join their uncle in Florengia. Horold had been away suppressing some minor revolt or other, but word of the avalanche had gone first to him. Ingeld had learned of it from his letter ordering Cutrath into Werist training, breaking the promise he had given her when she agreed to bear him another son. One blow had deprived her of all her children and all pretense of a marriage.

In her agony and rage, she had sought comfort from a boy half her age, a boy even younger than the twins she mourned. Benard had given it unstintingly, knowing his compassion might cost him his life. At first she had asked only the solace of holy Nula, but as he held her in his arms through a long night of tears, holy Eriander had come to offer support also. If either mortal had invoked that god, it had been she, not Benard, although even then he had been no innocent. He could easily have refused her, telling her to remember her age, and his, to reflect that she was the light of Veslih on Kosord, who performed countless marriages every year and lectured every bride on the importance of fidelity.

For a season they had been lovers. With Benard she had found the happiness her marriages had lacked. Many in her household must have guessed, but there had been no open scandal and holy Veslih had not burned Kosord to the ground in retribution.

Horold had found out, of course. All he needed to do was ask his resident seer what his wife had been up to—those busybodies . The brutish-looking man who had left in spring to go campaigning had returned in fall as a thing that walked on its hind legs. Their ensuing battle had been as memorable as any he could ever have fought, with him calling her a whore and her demanding to know what sort of shoats he expected her to farrow. In the end they had stopped fighting without ever making peace. He had known that any harm to her would cause the people to rise in a rebellion that he could suppress only by crippling the city for years to come.

Fortunately Benard had been the one man in the satrapy beyond his reach, a state hostage whose death would rouse the fury of his brother Stralg or, worse, their sister. Horold was terrified of Saltaja. So the unspoken terms had been that there would be no open break, that Benard would not die, and that Ingeld would sleep alone in the future. Horold had not set paw in her bedroom since. Ironically, she knew that she was married to the best of the four sons of Hrag, that none of the others would have been so forgiving.

It had been a very long time since a man lay where Bena lay now.

"Benard Celebre!" she snapped. "You are a fool!" She whirled away, marching across the room in sudden rage. When she turned, he was upright already, feet on the floor, swaying as he peered at her with sleep-sodden eyes.

"Uh? You told me to come here."

"That was before I knew that Horold was going to send you!" She swirled over to the arches, around by the bathtub, back to the door again, robes dancing.

He sat down heavily and mumbled at his toes, "You are not making a huge quantity of sense, my lady."

"Fool! Can't you see the danger?" she shouted, still pacing wildly. "He insulted Cutrath and forbade him to hurt you. He heaped gold on you so the court cheered in wonder. He even sent you to me. Simpleton! Half-wit! Jar-head! You must go. Now!"