Pawns in a Larger Game (Immortal Wager Saga, Book 1)

By Eric Michael Brehm

Fortune and Death each claim to be the more powerful god. But when they begin a game to settle the matter, not even they can know how it will end or how much damage it may cause along the way. For when gods play games, the pieces on their board are nothing less than mortal lives...

So begins the Immortal Wager Saga, a sprawling work of epic fantasy that spans continents and crosses both the mortal and immortal planes, and where even death may not be enough to escape the machinations of the gods.

As her game moves closer to becoming a war, Fortune needs an army, and when her brother Peace falls in love with a mortal, she seizes her chance. In exchange for his beloved, Peace delivers a host of undead to fight on Fortune’s behalf. Not to be outdone, Death enlists the aid of an ancient power imprisoned in Damnation, and sets it free upon an unsuspecting world.

On the mortal plane, a monk named Geiseric Cole travels to Castle Greydawn to help lift the interdict from which its inhabitants have suffered for forty years. But the monk is more than he seems, and when an attempt is made on his life, Geiseric must wonder if all is well within the Holy Church.

Far to the east, Fortune’s army begins to infiltrate the mortal plane, and a soldier named Atticus becomes the first in a thousand years to kill a vampire. When he reports to the Emperor of Sarha, however, he finds that undead are not easily killed, and the empire itself may be in peril.

As the contest continues, everyone—gods and mortals, living and undead—finds their fates altered in ways they could never predict and their lives thrown together in combinations they cannot escape. Fortune favors some, and Death waits for all, but when gods are at play, mortal lives are little more than pawns in a larger game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Michael Brehm
• Release date: Jul 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310221330

Eric Michael Brehm

Eric Brehm lives in Wisconsin. When he is not writing, he is doing something else.

Book preview

Pawns in a Larger Game

Book I of The Immortal Wager Saga

by E. Michael Brehm

The Immortal Wager Saga

Pawns in a Larger Game

E. Michael Brehm

Copyright Eric Brehm 2015. All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced without permission of the author.

For further information and updates on the Immortal Wager Saga:

Like the Immortal Wager Saga page on Facebook

Follow the author on Twitter @BrehmEM

For maps of the realms and other information, please visit the author’s website at www.brehmwrites.com

Part One:

Opening

FORTUNE

Fortune’s footsteps fell noiselessly into the mist as she strode down the corridor with Death at her side. The cloud-shouldered castle of her father, Lord Sky, seemed especially mutable this evening; its walls and floors and ceilings churned with movement and changed in color as thunderheads prepared to deluge the unsuspecting world below. Lightning rippled beneath her feet as she walked, then chased its quicksilver self away and into the distance.

Our brothers and sisters will be jealous, she said, her steps causing the misty veil to swirl about her feet, leaving a wake of raindrops as she passed.

When are they not? Death asked. He caused no noticeable disturbance as he moved. Had it not been for the force of his presence, he would have left no trace of his passage at all. If it is not this, they will find some other petty grievance to bemoan.

Above her, eagles with wings held wide and still circled on thermals of air that only they could detect. You’re being cruel.

I’m being honest. Come, Sister: It is a simple wager: We each claim to be more powerful than the other, and we propose a game of caissa to settle the matter. If they are jealous, they may make their own wagers. We need not convene a council over such a thing.

She nodded. There we agree.

They came to the collection of rooms that made up her apartments. The cloud walls parted to reveal an exquisitely furnished antechamber in shades of blue and white, almost an extension of her chosen clothing, the dark accents of the room perfectly matching her hair. She stepped aside, allowing her brother to enter before her, then followed him in as the mists closed like curtains behind them.

I am only suggesting that the potential familial discord such a wager is bound to create might be diffused should we provide advance notification that it will occur, she continued. We need not seek their permission, but any number of them do not like surprises, and they can be most unpleasant when they are perturbed.

Death moved further into her chambers, coming to the sitting room. He moved toward the caissa set along the far wall. The board sat on an ornately carved pedestal, its black and white squares—nine wide and nine long—gleaming expectantly in the light of the star which peeked through her wall. In their beginning positions along the back two rows, the pieces of alabaster and onyx—the castles, knights, cantors, kings, queens, avatars, and of course the pawns—stood complacently, waiting to commence the battles they had rehearsed for millennia. A matched pair of dragonskin chairs sat one on either side, worn smooth and supple from centuries of use.

It is none of their concern.

I did not say that it was, Fortune replied. Though it seems fair to suggest they might feel otherwise. They will be angry.

"Then let them be angry, Death said. Truth be told, Sister, are you not bored? Doesn’t the possibility of doing something different stir you toward some small measure of excitement? I would prefer their anger to the placid and vapid interaction that shrouds our current discourse. Wisdom with her smug superiority, Light smiling like a fool, and Father’s voice booming over it all, of course. Let them be angry, Sister: I would prefer an argument to more of the same countless days."

You might not get an argument. You might get a war.

Come, over a wager?

You and I both know how difficult it can be to predict the responses of our siblings, not to mention our parents. Fortune frowned as she moved to fetch a decanter and looped the stems of two crystalline glasses between the fingers of her left hand. The wager intrigues me: This you know. Like you, I find our current situation wearisome. I am merely saying it serves no real purpose to be secretive.

You’re afraid.

And you’re absurd, if you think that, she said, her voice crackling across the space that separated them like the lightning that sizzled through the walls all around. If my company is so displeasing, you may leave.

She turned her back to him and poured herself some wine. She brought the glass to her face, savoring the bouquet for just a moment before bringing it to her lips.

Forgive my words, Sister, he said. In the monotony that has become my existence, I find our proposed wager excites me more than I care to admit. I am anxious to go forward, and as such I spoke in haste. I did not mean to offend.

She turned back to him then, smiling slightly. As you say. She moved the rest of the way toward the pedestal and sank into one of the chairs, its soft surface welcoming her as an old friend. Back to our wager, then.

You’ll take it?

That depends. We have yet to discuss the stakes. They should be something encouraging, don’t you think? What will you give me if I win?

What do you want?

She lifted her glass once again and allowed the chilled liquid to glide across her tongue before swallowing. Your power.

You can’t be serious.

"I can. My own seems capricious. All they pray for is good luck, of course, but I simply cannot work that way; if there is to be good, there must be bad by which the good is measured against. But of course if I fail to deliver their good fortune—or worse, if I must deliver bad fortune—they turn against me. To a certain extent it seems self-defeating. By nature, I must disappoint, which weakens their belief. You have no such difficulties."

Silence hung in the air for a moment before he said, It seems as though you’ve already given this some thought.

"Don’t tell me you’re afraid, dear Brother?"

No, no, he spoke quickly. You are perhaps right: If the stakes are not high enough, what is the point in the game?

Then it seems you have also given this some thought. If you win, what shall I give you?

Your name.

She took another sip of the wine, hoping that her hand remained steady as she did so. Names were his stock in trade; if he had hers, he could claim her at any time. Suddenly, she had far more to lose than he did. If she won and took his power, he would become superfluous, but he would not cease to exist. If he won, however, it would only be a matter of time before she died.

But of course, first he would have to win.

Done, she said, her voice sounding more confident than she felt. I accept.

As do I.

She reached for the decanter and refilled her wine. Incidentally, Brother, I cannot say I entirely approve of this new penchant you display for the ethereal form.

Death laughed, though it came out as little more than a hiss upon the wind. As though the form you have chosen is any more corporeal than my current state. Stripped away of all the trimmings, my dear, what am I if not ethereal?

You are a god.

"Of course I’m a god. But what use do I have for a body? They fear me enough in any state; I am already little more than a phantom against which they hurl their little prayers, which—should you take my power—you will soon find tedious and disturbingly similar. ‘Not today. Please, a little more time. I’m not ready,’ and so on. To them I am little more than an idea, though I admit even in that state they find me potent enough; all I need do to claim them is make them think they are being claimed. What use have I for a body? What use have you, really? None, and you know it."

Fortune shook her head, setting the decanter down on the pedestal to the side of the board. Not so, my clever brother. If you had a body now, for instance, I would be able to offer you a drink.

He laughed again, which caused a smile to cross her face. I stand corrected, my dear sister. But which one? Perhaps this?

The air near the other chair shimmered and drew form, and Fortune found herself sitting across from a coiled serpent, ready to strike. She scoffed. No doubt terrifying to the mortals, but the lack of appendages might make it difficult for you to lift the glass.

Of course. This one, then?

The air shifted again and he became a corpse, bloated and gassy, his eyes all but plucked out by the insects which crawled over his skin. She wrinkled her nose. Please, no. Plague is so messy.

This one.

Fortune leaned back in her chair, sipped at her wine, and favored her brother with a smile. He had taken his natural form. His hair was dark, like Fortune’s own, but where her skin was fair, his was a dark and radiant olive in color. She had not seen his true face in some time but it remained as striking as ever, both handsome and boyish, like the mortals at the beginnings of manhood. Tonight, however, he wore black leather armor that gleamed from a recent polish, and the hilts of knives and swords bristled across his body.

"Oh, I like this, Brother, she said. Something new."

Yes.

A Talon. It does seem fitting, somehow.

I’m glad you approve.

And such long, graceful fingers. Will you take a glass, then?

Of course, Death said. He waited, smiling while she poured, then leaned forward and curled his fingers about the stem as his sister stoppered the decanter and set it aside. A toast then, dear Sister: To new things.

Fortune took up her glass once again, and the two of them pinged together softly above the caissa board. To new things, she said, and they both drank. How shall we determine our colors? Perhaps flip a coin?

Have you ever lost a coin toss?

She smiled. No.

Play the white, then. I prefer the black, myself.

Very well. So it begins, Fortune said, and she reached for her queen’s pawn.

GERGEN

It began as any other day. Gergen awoke on his cot in the midst of the barracks, the stale air reeking of leather and steel, the exhaled scent of last night’s wine, the farts and belches of sleeping men. He cursed the daylight for having come too soon and rolled over, pulling the blankets tighter about him. He tried to find some small measure of warmth and comfort to coerce him back to sleep, but it was no use. His back was stiff, his blankets thin and threadbare, and the fire—which only last night had seemed welcoming and jovial—had turned to dull grey ash in a cold stone pit.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot, then leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands. Aging was like drinking cheap wine; one could claim happiness while doing it, but it made the mornings difficult. He raised his head just a little, slightly opening his eyes to allow them to become accustomed to the morning light, and took in the sight of his fellow sleeping guards and a room of damp stone. As often happened now that he had reached the middle of his life, his thoughts drifted toward the past.

In Adavinda, he would have awakened as naked as the day he was born, the smell of the sea coming through the open window on the warm tropical breeze. He would have had a real bed, and he would have shared it with a brown-skinned woman with amber eyes whose breasts would be ample enough to provide all the pillow he needed.

He sighed. He was no longer in Adavinda. He would never be in Adavinda again.

Not for the first time, he rehearsed the litany of mistakes that had led him to Kersen and to Castle Greydawn, where even the summer mornings put a chill in his bones. He found his boots underneath his cot and slipped them on. Both their leather and the ankles inside of them creaked and popped when he finally stood. He looked to his chamber pot and thought better of it. Filling it would only mean having to empty it again, so even though his manhood was swollen and stiff with the urge to eliminate, he took his sword from where it leaned against the wall and snatched a cold biscuit from last night’s rations as he made his way outside.

His sword was really the best part of his job, and the finest he had owned in years. Gergen didn’t care much about the interdict; he had been a half-continent away and still at his mother’s tit when it happened. According to the tales the old-timers told, those with both faith and means had left the realm overnight, leaving Greydawn Castle with more arms than men to wield them. Four decades later that condition still persisted, which was why an old sellsword like himself could still find a blade of Nourellian steel to sport upon his hip. As far as he was concerned, the interdict had worked out just fine.

Outside, the early morning air hung cold and thick with mist, as it always seemed to in Kersen; Greydawn Castle continued to earn the name. Gergen couldn’t fault its locale, really: It was far enough from the cliffs that no one could drop anything on the castle, but close enough that no one could mount an attack from that direction. The river below the falls flowed swift and clean and cold, and kept them supplied with fresh water. But the falls roared constantly in the background, coating everything with a layer of moisture, and shrouding the mornings in fog that sometimes did not burn off until close to midday. Even in the midst of high summer, Greydawn could still find a way to be chilly and damp.

If the stories told around the barracks were true, then once upon a time Greydawn had been a proper castle. It still had all the required trappings. The keep and the chapel were housed in the inner bailey, with walls separating them from the stables and barracks and dwellings of the small town that resided in the outer bailey. It could have been any other castle anywhere, except a closer look showed just how far it had fallen. The walls had been hastily patched a number of times—usually by robbing the stone from the unused chapel—and yet they still required further repairs that no one seemed in a hurry to make. Any number of the town’s dwellings stood vacant, and even mounting a proper guard was difficult with the manpower they had.

Still, it was home, and had been for over three years now, the longest he had resided in any one place since leaving Adavinda. Greydawn might not be much, but it meant a cot and a fire and plain but regular food. It meant the chance to have a drink every now and again with men who might not be friends, but seemed close enough. It was better than some of the other places he had been forced to sleep in his life, and after all of the poor choices he had made, it did little good to complain.

Gergen found a spot on the outer wall and undid his trousers, pissing with his right hand and eating his biscuit with his left. The wall already wept, the damp seeping into the stones and then coming out again. His own offering made very little difference except for the steam released as the warmth of it splattered against the cold rocks. He held the last bit of his breakfast between his teeth as he tied his trousers back together, then turned and made his way toward the gates. Crandall, his commanding officer, had already arrived, and Gergen raised a hand in greeting.

Well, you’re looking almost fresh-faced this morning, Crandall said, clapping the younger man on the back. And you’re the first of you louts to wake up. I’m feeling generous today, so you get to choose. What’s it going to be: The gates, or the wall?

Gergen paused. He’d never been given the option. Not that there was much to do in either place. Once the fog lifted, the gates would mean a little more dust. The wall, however, meant stairs, and first thing in the morning.

Gates, he said, and then moved to take his post.

Balderick and Davis showed up shortly thereafter, both of them looking as though they had spent the previous evening with only a bottle for company. Crandall didn’t like Balderick, so he assigned the large man to the gates with Gergen, while he and Davis climbed the steps to the top of the walls.

After that, it was another boring day. Nothing seemed to happen at Greydawn. Before the interdict, two Patriarchs and a Matriarch had been chosen from Kersen, and being archcantor here had been a sign of prestige. The castle had bustled with life, its tournaments and festivals renowned throughout the west. In those days, the walls had been repaired, and the chapel had been busy, its pews polished by well-dressed behinds and its floors cleaned by penitent knees.

Count Merrick had changed that. You couldn’t live in Kersen for more than a fortnight before the old-timers told you the story so often you knew it by heart. The Patriarch had died. At the time, the Archcantor of Kersen was a man named Oswin, and there were many—Count Merrick included—who believed he might be selected the new Patriarch.

As was custom, all archcantors were summoned to Nicanor for the selection. A delegation from Gyasi, the realm to the north of Kersen, had come south with its archcantor so that the two priests could travel together under honor guard. Flush with wealth and the prospect of a Patriarch from his home, Merrick had invited the entire Gyasian delegation to stay on while the selection process took place.

Some of the old folks could still find their eyes filling with tears when they remembered the festivals that had been thrown while the delegation stayed. The food had seemed never-ending. The joust between Sir Landon Donegal of Gyasi—called the Bear for his prodigious strength—and Sir Tiernan Panchal of Kersen was the stuff of legend, as both men broke three lances and killed horses before Ser Landon had yielded. They said the cheering that broke out when Ser Tiernan agreed to spare the Bear’s life echoed along the cliffs for three days. Of course, old-timers said a lot of things.

Nevertheless, that was the last of the good memories for Kersen. While hosting the delegation, word reached Greydawn Castle that a Patriarch had indeed been chosen. But it was not Oswin Black of Kersen, but rather Lambard Comnena, who had only been a cantor before being elected to the highest post in the Church.

Merrick had been celebrating prematurely; some said he was drunk and some not, but upon hearing the news he chose to publicly curse the Church in the presence of witnesses. Once the news reached Ilaadris, Count Merrick had swiftly found himself excommunicated for heresy. A prudent man would have sent a heartfelt apology to the Church Council and the new Patriarch, and even Archcantor Oswin, who had returned in the interim, recommended that course of action. But Merrick had instead sent a message saying that the Council was unfit to rule and that Ilaadris was nothing more than a den of thieves, and that missive had brought interdiction down upon all of Kersen.

Archcantor Oswin left at once for Ilaadris, throwing his lot in with the Church and not with his lord, and all of the lessor cantors had followed dutifully behind. Since that day the Church had had no presence in the realm. No services were performed, no rites undertaken. Those who could do so had fled, of course, but those who could not had stayed, and had since existed in a place where they were banned from ever receiving salvation, where their deaths meant that Peace would be denied them and their souls would be forever given over to the Triplets of Agony, Torment, and Despair.

The Church had also forbidden trade with any member of its diocese, and so with one stroke of a pen it had doomed Kersen to both religious perdition and economic isolation. Some trade had continued, mostly westward with the heathens in Zamora, but Kersen had been a realm in decline ever since. Each year some peasants went missing, fleeing to some realm in the diocese where they could confess their sins and seek absolution, hoping for the promise of Peace to be restored to them. Some farms grew larger as others moved in to take over, but much of the land lay fallow and unused. Yields grew smaller, the land either overworked or underutilized. Less trade and less peasants naturally meant less taxes, and so the cycle grew worse with each passing year. The family line had continued—the current count, Maddock, was old Merrick’s grandson—but Count Maddock ruled over a land of poverty and want.

Kersen had become a desperate land full of hard men and bitter women, protected by sellswords like Gergen who ‘guarded’ gates that almost no one ever passed through. It wasn’t difficult work, but the shifts were long and dull. Gergen tried not to think about what might happen if Kersen ever came to war, because in truth the realm would be hard-pressed to defend itself. Perhaps the only blessing which the interdict provided those who remained was that they lived in a place no one wanted to conquer.

The morning passed, as many before had done, and nobody came or went. Crandall and Davis took turns relieving themselves over the side of the walls, while Balderick and Gergen walked into the roadside bushes to do so. The fog lifted as the sun came up, and still the four guards had nothing to do. Balderick brought out a set of dice, and the two of them took to gaming while Crandall and Davis paced back and forth above them.

It was the same as any other day, until Gergen happened to look down the road on his way out into the bushes. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, so he ignored it and unlaced his trousers anyway. But it was still there when he laced back up again.

Ho! he called to his companions as he jogged back to his post. Do you see that?

What? Balderick cried.

Look down the road!

Any change in routine was something new and potentially exciting, so Balderick and Gergen stood at the gates and peered into the distance while Crandall and Davis gathered above them to do the same. Gergen could see little more than a dark shape and a small cloud of dust on the road. It seemed to be getting closer, but at the pace he was setting, whoever this rider was would need turns to make it to the gates.

What is it, do you think?

Dust, Balderick replied with his usual succinctness.

Well, I know that. What do you suppose is making it?

I don’t know. He’s coming this way, but he’s not in any hurry.

Gergen called up to his commanding officer. Ho, Crandall! Put your glass on him!

Crandall was old enough to remember the good years, more than a decade older than Gergen. Still, his age and his rank entitled him to a spyglass, and all three of them stared at him as he took it out of its pouch. He put the cylinder to his eye, twisting it this way and that way until he finally held still.

"Gergen, he said sharply. Get up here."

What is it?

"You saw it first, lad, now come see it. Get up here, quick-like."

Gergen moved under the portcullis and through the gates, cursing under his breath. He just wanted to know what it was; he didn’t want to have to climb the stairs to find out. Still, orders were orders, and it was the first bit of adventure he had had in weeks, so he moved to the stone stairway on the inside of the wall and began to climb. Davis passed him, the other man on his way down. Gergen raised an eyebrow, but Davis just shrugged and kept going.

Crandall hadn’t moved in the time it took to get there. Gergen set his hands on his knees and sucked in breath; aging was not for the timid. When he could breathe again, he stood and moved toward the older man, who held out the spyglass without even glancing in his direction.

Take a look, Crandall said. Tell me what I’m seeing.

Gergen took the cylinder from him and brought it to his eye, momentarily disoriented by the size of the objects within the small circle of his vision. He spied a tree, which was no help, so he swept the glass right and left until he found the dirt strip of road. He moved along that until he saw the cloud of dust, and then focused on what was causing it.

Mother’s tits, he swore.

You know what that is?

Well, I’ve never seen one before, he said, but unless I miss my mark, that’s a monk.

You don’t miss your mark, Crandall said.

Gergen heard something in the old man’s voice, and when he moved to hand the glass back he saw a tear roll down his commander’s cheek. Crandall wiped at it hurriedly, and Gergen pretended he had never seen a thing.

Why would a monk want to come here? Gergen asked.

I don’t know, but a Churchman in Kersen is a sight I never thought I would see again. So you’ve got an errand to run.

Me? Why?

Crandall lowered his voice. One: You saw him first. Two: As commander I shouldn’t leave my post. And three: That monk’s donkey is smarter than the two dolts down below put together. You go quick now. Make yourself presentable. Wash your face.

Why?

Because someone needs to tell the count, and you’ve been selected. That’s an order.

ERINN

My lady? Are you coming down?

The countess paused in her embroidery, taking a moment to insert her needle into the fabric so she would not lose her place. Is it time?

Well, no, to be honest, Kayla—the one chambermaid she was allowed—said. I am told the rider is still some distance away, and traveling slowly. But your lord husband has asked for you.

She sighed; of course he had. Then it would seem it is time, after all, she said, setting the needlework aside. Maston?

With your lord husband already, my lady.

Very well. She rose and smoothed the front of her dress. Am I presentable enough to welcome a monk?

I—forgive me, my lady—I do not know the etiquette of such things.

The countess smiled. None of us do, I fear. Very well then, please lead me to my husband. We may as well get this over with.

Kayla said nothing, merely turned and moved out into the hall. Erinn, Countess of Kersen, took one last look into her sparsely-furnished room, cast a longing glance toward her small fire, and then donned a cloak and followed.

All of this seemed ridiculous. Only in Kersen, she thought, and not for the first time. In her home realm of Teremun, she had seen Churchmen of all kinds and at regular intervals. Every Firstday, she and her family had sat as still as possible on the hard wooden seats, nodding solemnly and attempting to look earnest while the priests had droned on about sin and licentiousness. The monks she had known were docile creatures who kept bees and copied books and otherwise seemed to exist only to beg alms from local families, a practice which must have been successful, because in her mind she could not recall ever seeing a monk who wasn’t fat. Here in Kersen, though, one little Churchman sent the whole castle bustling as though the Patriarch himself was riding toward them at the head of a full procession.

Like any newcomer to Kersen, she had certainly heard of the events surrounding the interdict. She had had to gather what she could from servants and craftsmen, however; her lord husband rarely spoke of it. Even one as untutored as she could notice the effects that falling out had had upon her adopted home. She was by no means worldly, but she had been to other castles; as she walked through her own, she noticed the lack of tapestries and other artwork, which had been sold to meet expenses. The torch brackets mounted to the walls held no torches whatsoever, since burning extra fuel was expensive. She might be a lady in name, but she was no stranger to poverty, and Kersen had experienced little else since trade with the Church had been forbidden.

Her slippered feet stepped nimbly down the stairs, but she did not hurry. Her realm might be a poor one and its lady might lack the niceties of formal etiquette, but appearances must be kept. It pleased her lord husband when she played as proper a lady as she could manage. She would do that much, largely because it was simpler to give him his way in these things than it was to have him rave at her when she did not. If appearances were all that was left of both her title and her marriage, then she would cling to them and keep what peace she could.

She wondered sometimes if her life might have turned out better if she had honored the Church more. It wasn’t that she was not religious—she prayed as often, and as fervently, as anyone else—but she refused to believe that the gods could somehow turn a deaf ear to her simply because she did not say those prayers inside of an actual church. As a young woman she had chafed at the required Firstday meetings, preferring to honor the gods in the quiet of the woods or alongside a rippling stream. It was one of the reasons she had not balked at being sent to a land under interdict. As she had often told her lord husband in the days following their marriage, one did not need a church in order to pay homage to the gods.

Perhaps, though, one did. She had now been nine years in Kersen, and though she still found a quiet place to pray on a near-daily basis, the gods had given her no indication that they had ever heard a word.

It did little good to complain, and in truth there were any number of people who would gladly exchange their lives for hers. By many standards, she was quite comfortable. She had her own room in a castle and servants to see to her needs. Her clothing and food were simple, but she had them, as well as a place to sleep that stayed warm most nights. None of those things were as fine in Kersen as they might be in other realms, but she had managed to fulfill the dreams that all of the young girls in her village had, including herself: She had grown up to marry nobility.

Still, every so often—when she heard the kitchen maids laughing, or when she saw two lovers holding each other’s hands, or any number of other things like that—she wondered why she had ever believed that marrying a noble would be enough to make her happy.

Leaving the stairs, they entered what served as the main corridor of Greydawn Castle, the first place it was possible for both of them to walk side-by-side. Kayla went so far as to drop a half-step behind, allowing her to take the lead, as was fitting the lady of the castle. They moved through the oaken double doors to the vestibule, and then through another set of doors and outside and down the steps to the bailey.

The late afternoon sun hid behind what remained of the chapel, only occasionally sneaking a peek while the building cast its shadow over the courtyard. She hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come. Aside from that, however, Greydawn Castle looked as inviting as it could be made to look. For the first time in years, standards flew from all three of the castle watchtowers, bearing an image of Greydawn itself against a lighter grey field. Banners hung from the crenels, flapping in the light summer breeze, making the castle seem almost inviting. If a closer look revealed that the standards and banners were frayed and thin with age, it mattered little; she found her spirits lifting just to see her husband make an effort.

She moved toward the outer bailey with Kayla at her heels, a cacophony of sounds reaching her ears. Laborers and even guards had been assembled to sweep the courtyards. More banners hung on the inner walls, and some carpenters had hastily erected a small dais and were tacking bunting around it that probably had not been used since tournaments from a time before she was born. Once she left the shadow of the church, the sun was warm enough that she began to regret wearing the cloak. Still, it was her best cloak, and it looked more regal than the modest dress she wore under it. If she drew it about her throat it might even conceal her lack of jewels.

She spied her husband quickly enough. Count Maddock looked the part, anyway. He wore chainmail that had been buffed to a high shine, with his large two-handed sword hanging at his back. He remained fit despite knowing over forty winters, and he towered over most of those who served under him. His long hair and mustache stirred in the light summer breeze as he barked orders at soldiers and laborers who scurried to and fro, trying to keep up with his many and sometimes conflicting demands. She knew him well enough by now to know that the more he blustered, the more nervous he was, and she had never seen him this nervous; those who served him were definitely earning their keep for the day.

She recalled meeting him for the first time. It had seemed as though all of the fairy tales of her youth had come together to form her own story. She’d had humble beginnings, the daughter of a farmer. Her father’s land was rocky and poorly suited for farming, though gods knew the man had tried; except for Firstdays, all she had ever seen him do was work. When not farming, he tried prospecting, taking a hammer and pick to the stony hills around their home.

She had known twelve winters when his pickaxe bit into a vein of gold. She had come into her womanhood at the same time her father came into wealth. She had been young and beautiful, and her father had been flush with the sort of reckless bravery that comes from instant riches. Count Maddock’s first wife had died of the wasting disease the year previous, leaving him without an heir. Brashly, her father had had a letter drafted to the count, offering an extravagant dowry and her hand. Everyone in Teremun knew there was no trading with Kersen, but a dowry wasn’t trade. Her father wanted her to be nobility, and Count Maddock wanted gold, and so it was that as a young woman of thirteen years she had come to Greydawn Castle on a day in late spring, riding in a carriage purchased with the proceeds of her father’s mine.

The flowers had just begun to shake off the chill of winter and don their brazen summer garb as she rode into Kersen. Coming from the south, she had seen the cliffs first, and of course the waterfall. As they had drawn closer, Greydawn Castle had seemed like a tiny jewel, which had only grown more impressive and imposing as they traveled. How far removed it had seemed from her former life in Teremun! It was a real castle, and she would be its lady; she could still recall how her young heart had swelled at the thought. When Maddock rode to greet her on his newest stallion, she could barely speak. He had been so handsome, so large, as imposing as the wall of rock under which she would come to make her home.

He still was handsome, she supposed; other women told her so. It mattered little. After a few days of wedding festivities her fairy tale had ended quickly. She should have known that a nobleman whose realm suffered from interdiction would have a far greater interest in the gold of her dowry than in her. Oh, the marriage took place, and her dowry had managed to keep the castle afloat for a little while longer. She had done her wifely duty, and had given her lord husband a son and heir the very next year. Once that was accomplished, however, he had less and less use for her. She knew he visited other women, or arranged for them to visit him. She imagined he took more pleasure in them; she was as unschooled in love as she was in manners. Maddock remained civil to her, mostly, but civility was not the same as affection.

Her father had returned home from the wedding and in less than two years his newfound boldness had seen him gamble away the family lands and all the gold within them. Somehow, Count Maddock had come to blame her for that failing, and he stopped coming to her chambers altogether. She kept on, managing her household to the best of her abilities, always keeping an eye on expenses, always finding ways to make do with less. As her son Maston grew, she had pleaded with her husband to allow him a tutor, that learning his letters would be important one day, but no money could be found for such niceties, and her son remained as illiterate as she was.

She moved across the outer bailey toward the dais, where two wooden chairs were being set into place, a tall one for him and a smaller one for her.

My lady wife.

My lord and husband, she replied, curtseying before him.

He gestured with his large right hand, turning a half-circle. What do you think? Fit for a monk?

I think it looks lovely, she said, and in truth she did; it added some color to an otherwise-drab existence. She held out a hand to Maston and her son came to hug her about the waist. I shudder to think of what these people would need to do for a full delegation.

Agreed. It is too much, he said. He smiled in a way that she didn’t quite like, something almost wolfish. But we must try to make our visitor feel welcome, I suppose.

Is there anything that you would like me to do?

He turned his head and spat onto the cobblestones. No, nothing special. Sit with me here, but I’ll do the talking. Perhaps I’ll have a bit of sport with him first.

Nothing too rough, I hope, she said. He’s only a monk, after all.

We don’t know what he is, exactly, the count said as he moved to sit on his makeshift throne. We’ll have to wait to find out.

She ruffled her son’s hair. Run off while you can. But be back here before the monk reaches the gates. Maston smiled and scampered off in to the crowd, and she moved to sit next to her husband. Ever the dutiful servant, Kayla moved with her, standing behind her chair on her right side.

You pamper that boy too much.

If you say so, my lord.

He stayed with her for another moment or two of awkward silence, but then found something that needed his attention, someone he could yell at, anything to keep from sitting next to her longer than necessary. She rose when he left, and sat down again when he was gone.

You gods, she prayed silently, the words forming inside of her head. Let this monk mean a change in my life, or I shall die of boredom.

She had no way to know it at the time, of course, but that prayer was both heard and answered.

GERGEN

Gergen stood on the opposite side of the gate from Crandall, who had decided that as the first to see the monk he should be the first to greet him. Davis and Balderick prowled the walls above them, grateful that their morning shift allowed them to be included. Personally, Gergen didn’t think meeting the monk was all that important, but it seemed important enough to Crandall, and it did no harm to do as the older man commanded. In any event, his posting here meant he was spared the many other duties which the guards had been pressed to do.

Gergen’s day had noticeably improved since witnessing the stranger who still approached at a snail’s pace. He had cleaned himself up as best he could—which meant he had changed tunics and washed his face—and then been allowed into the keep, where he had never been. His audience with the count had been enriching, as well; his news had been rewarded with a new helm and a cloak bearing the sigil of Greydawn. The count had requested that he return to his post, and Crandall had ordered him to stay there, so he got to stand in the shade and do nothing while everyone else in the entire castle bustled about in order to sweep the courtyard or muck the stables or hang bunting in preparation for their guest.

Until that morning, Gergen had not known that Greydawn even had a sigil, but now he, Davis, Balderick, and Crandall all wore matching cloaks showing a dark grey castle on a light grey field. After three years in the service of Count Maddock, this was the first time he had had any semblance of a uniform. He liked it. The matching armor and cloaks made them look professional, and in doing so made the castle look more stately.

Still, even though they looked professional, they didn’t have to act like it. The four of them had long since given up any pretense at actual guard duty; until the monk arrived, there was absolutely nothing to guard. The only thing there was to do was share Crandall’s spyglass from time to time, then send one of the others running to update Count Maddock with an estimate of the monk’s arrival.

That estimate had been pushed back again and again as the morning progressed; the monk was proving to be a horrible rider. The donkey seemed to be picking their destination, and was none too concerned about how or when they got there. Midday had come and gone by the time the spyglass was no longer necessary, and it was close to midafternoon before the end of their vigil seemed at last to be approaching.

Is he drunk, do you think? Crandall said in a low voice. Horsemanship was greatly admired in Kersen; its mounts were practically the last thing of value it produced. What kind of man can’t even ride a donkey?

Maybe the donkey’s drunk, Gergen said, and was pleased to hear his commander snort in response.

The monk was tall enough that his feet almost touched the ground as the donkey came forward. In fact, every once in a while they did touch the ground, as the man adjusted in the saddle or seemed to try to direct the animal using that method. But there was nothing remarkable about him. He wore a dark tunic and dark breeches and dark boots and a brown robe made of poorly-spun cloth. Gergen had never seen a monk before, and yet this man was exactly what he would have pictured if asked to do so. The man had been traveling for some time; his clothes were dusty and worn, and he sported several days’ growth of beard. Even his tonsure had started to fill in.

Crandall surprised him by drawing steel and stepping into the middle of the road. Not wanting to be left behind, Gergen followed suit, the two men placing themselves directly in the monk’s path.

Whoa, Jeffrey, the monk said, pulling at the reins. The donkey did not seem to hear. Whoa! Jeffrey, whoa! Damn it, Jeffrey!

Gergen suppressed a smile at hearing a monk curse, and then tried not to laugh as the man simply gave up and scooted off the back of the donkey, landing on his feet in the middle of the road. Once it had discharged its passenger, the donkey seemed quite content; it wandered to the side of the road and began to graze.

Forgive me, the monk said, smiling at them. He pulled at his robe, trying to adjust it into a more presentable form, but without success. I’ve been fighting that animal for more leagues than I care to count.

State your business, Crandall said, though Gergen knew the old man well enough to know that it pained him to do so. His commander had been moved to tears just to have a monk back in Kersen; Gergen figured that if he hadn’t had a role to play, Crandall would have walked into the road and hugged the man.

My name is Geiseric, the man said, sketching a slight bow. I am a traveling monk and scribe in service of our Holy Church and of the Patriarch Lambard Comnena, and I have come to request an audience with Count Maddock.

I am Commander Crandall, and my associate is Gergen. What is your purpose in seeking an audience?

Begging your pardon, but that is best kept between the count and me. I am unarmed, as is Jeffrey. We understand that you may need to search us. Personally, I have no quarrel with that, but as you’ve already seen, Jeffrey has a tendency to make up his own mind.

Gergen, search the man for weapons.

Gergen looked at his commander with surprise, but he did as he was told. He sheathed his blade and approached the monk, who spread his arms wide as Gergen came forward. The man stood placidly while Gergen looked him over.

No offense, Gergen said.

None taken, the monk replied.

Gergen patted the monk on his arms and chest, searching for hidden blades, but there were none. He moved to the donkey and looked over the saddle and saddlebags, as well, but the monk seemed to have been true to his word. The only thing he seemed to possess was another brown robe that was even dirtier than the one which he currently wore.

Nothing, Gergen reported.

Thank you, Sir Monk, Crandall said. I hope we don’t seem inhospitable, but I’m sure you can understand that relations between our lord Maddock and the Holy Church are not the best.

Indeed. Fear not, gentlemen. I’m sure you have your orders, and I am not in the habit of berating a man for doing a good job at his duties. Is it possible to see your lord?

It is, Crandall said. Come with me please, Sir Monk. Gergen, bring the donkey.

Crandall led the way, followed by the monk Geiseric, and Gergen and Jeffrey brought up the rear. The donkey seemed willing to follow him, and was docile enough now that the monk had slid from its back. Gergen thought that perhaps the monk would do better on foot. He would certainly travel faster that way.

If Geiseric was surprised to see almost every occupant of Castle Greydawn assembled in the outer bailey, he took it well. Crandall led him across the open area as hundreds of eyes followed his every move. Count Maddock and the Lady Erinn sat together on a small dais; a chambermaid that Gergen didn’t know stood behind her, and Tomas—the aged chamberlain of Greydawn—stood behind him. The young lord Maston stood in front of his mother. To the left and right of the dais, soldiers fanned out in a long line. Behind them came the cooks, cobblers, wheelwrights, and other workers. Many were young enough that they had never before seen a Churchman. He wondered what kind of impression they made on their visitor. Among the older residents, the monk was looked at with a kind of reverence. Hope was writ so large on some of their faces that Gergen forced himself to look away.

Crandall moved in front of the dais and stood up tall before the count. Count Maddock, I bring you the monk Geiseric, a traveling scribe in the service of the Holy Church and the Patriarch.

It felt as though everyone assembled held their breath as Count Maddock rose to his feet. His lord was easily the tallest man in their assembly, taller than the monk by more than a hand. Gergen watched as his lord strode to the edge of the dais, put both hands on his hips, and spoke.

Arms, he said.

By the Triplets, what was this? Gergen thought, but duties were duties. He dropped the reins and stepped to the side, his sword leaving its scabbard at the same time as every other guard. All of the blades pointed directly at the monk. Gergen could tell that Crandall felt uneasy, and Countess Erinn seemed positively horrified. Jeffrey the donkey brayed once and trotted all the way back to the gates.

I carry no weapon, my lord, Geiseric said clearly. To his credit, the Churchman seemed completely calm. Gergen could see Crandall’s hand shaking. Your good men Crandall and Gergen here searched me at your gates.

After forty years, do you think it matters to me if you’re armed or not?

The monk bowed. It seems that it does not, my lord.

Count Maddock stepped down from the dais. Behind him, the Countess Erinn looked at the count with obvious distaste. She had clearly had no idea of her husband’s intentions. Several of the townspeople seemed ready to come to the monk’s defense. The count played a treacherous game; if he could not even hold his own people, the afternoon could get dangerous. Everyone looked on with wide and nervous eyes as their lord and master strode across the distance that separated him from the Churchman. He stood before the monk and drew himself to his full height. The monk did not move.

You’re a bit unkempt for a monk, aren’t you?

And I ask your lordship to forgive my appearance. I was robbed on the road five days ago. I did not have much, but apparently the brigands liked my shaving blade.

Maddock traced a slow circle around the monk, his hands on his hips. If indeed the count feared that the monk meant him harm, then that was a stupid move. Over fifty blades were drawn, but not one of them could reach the count in time if it was needed.

And why did you wish an audience with me? Why, after all this time?

My lord, the monk said, keeping his eyes forward, with all due respect, I think that is something that is best discussed in private.

How unfortunate for you, then, that I rule in Kersen and you do not. We have lived without your Holy Church and your Patriarch for four decades, and can do so for four more, if need be. You will state your business clearly, or you will go your way. Talk, monk.

Very well, Geiseric said. Gergen could only see him from the back, but he stood up straight and seemed utterly without fear. It looked as though he might be addressing his words to the countess. My business concerns the same four decades you reference.

What do you mean?

I was not obligated to come here, the monk said. However, I don’t think I am violating any portion of the interdict merely by being here, provided that I offer you no services of worship.

Count Maddock completed his circuit around the man. He stood directly in front of the monk and crossed his arms. Speak clearly.

"I do not come to offer false hope, nor do I speak with the authority of the Patriarch, the Council, or the Holy Church. But I believe I have found something that might—again, my lord, merely might—lead the Church to lift the interdict. I came because however you decided to proceed, I thought it right to make sure that you knew."

Gergen doubted that anyone other than Crandall, Count Maddock, or himself heard the last portion of what Geiseric said. After the words lift the interdict came from the monk, the gasps and mumblings of those assembled drowned out everything else. Some among the ring of swords began to lower their blades, then quickly raised them again as Count Maddock turned to look at them. The count leaned forward, his massive frame towering over the monk, his face less than a cubit away from the man.

How?

Again, my lord, with all due respect, I think that would better be discussed—

"How, damn you!"

Geiseric took a deep breath, then exhaled. I believe that your grandfather’s actions and words against the Holy Church can be excused.

On what grounds?

Insanity, the monk said.

The look that Count Maddock gave Geiseric in that moment was enough to make Gergen afraid. He had a fleeting image of the count drawing his massive sword and running the monk through in front of all of them.

But then the count surprised him. He took a step back and looked to the guards. Stand down.

The collective sigh of relief that moved through Castle Greydawn as the guards moved to sheathe their blades was louder than the sound of the blades themselves.

Very well, Sir Monk, the count said. You requested an audience, and you shall have one. Tomas?

Gergen had never heard of anyone at Castle Greydawn who knew how old Tomas was, and the man himself wasn’t telling; all anyone knew was that he had been chamberlain since before the interdict. He moved slowly, but he still managed the castle’s affairs with skill. Gergen watched and waited along with everyone else as the old man slowly made his way to the front of the crowd. Yes, my lord?

You will give our guest Geiseric a room and allow him to refresh himself. Find him clean clothes, if he desires, and food to break his fast.

Yes, my lord.

Crandall.

My lord?

Choose one other and offer our guest your protection. When he is rested from his journey, you will show him to my chambers.

Of course, my lord. Gergen, you’re with me.

I am certain you can understand why I might not feel kindly toward the Church, the count continued, turning back to the monk. I have no idea if I will feel any differently later today, but I will hear you out. Welcome to Castle Greydawn, Geiseric.

The monk bowed. Thank you, my lord. I hope you will find my visit to be a valuable one.

Count Maddock turned and walked back toward the castle without another word. After a moment, the countess and her son followed, and after that all those assembled found better places to be.

This way, sir, Tomas said to the monk, and the four of them moved inside.

ERINN

The countess watched her husband pace back and forth, his long strides swiftly traversing the width of his chambers and forcing him to turn again. She wondered how much time had passed since she had been in this room. She had been here, of course, though she did not recall many of the objects in it. The rug in the center of the floor was made from the skin of a lion, for instance; when had he acquired that? Certainly she had never seen it before. She had maintained separate quarters on the opposite side of the keep for all of their nine years as man and wife; even when doing her wifely duty, he came to visit her. This room seemed as foreign to her as another country.

The whole room seemed an homage to manly pursuits, a room of dark stone and darker wood, starkly furnished with minimal attempt at decoration. It was a purposeful room; everything in it was useful for something or designed to honor something, even if she did not recognize what either of those somethings might be. Her husband was not one to waste time on those things that she might find pretty or charming; to him, they were superfluous. She believed the room would benefit from a woman’s touch, but knew enough not to broach the subject. He was not going to change it for her; he would simply tell her to do it in her own chambers, and then only if it was something they could afford.

So she sat quietly and watched him pace, his male energy filling this male room, seeming every bit like trapped but dangerous prey. If he would just sit down it would be more bearable, but he prowled the room, peering in every corner as though the answers to what troubled him could be found there. She waited with her arm around young Maston, knowing that he would not wish her to speak.

Insanity! he cried, one of several outbursts which had erupted in the last quarter-turn. He pivoted on his right foot and moved back toward them. This time he actually looked at his wife and son, so she knew he was talking to her and not merely yelling. We’re standing there in front of the gods and everyone, and he announces that Grandfather was insane?

She tried to keep her voice calm, and she kept her eyes cast toward the floor. Your people will not hold that against you, she said, placing her hand on her son’s shoulder. They were so concerned with lifting the interdict that the reason for doing so did not matter to them.

But to announce it so openly! he cried as he turned and began to stride across the room once again.

She hated conversations like these. She supposed that a dutiful and loving wife would take her husband’s side in all circumstances; she had sworn to honor him, once. But in this instance he was plainly and obviously wrong, and it might serve as a better lesson to point that out to him. Perhaps he would like her better if she chose the former route, but throughout their marriage she had repeatedly taken the latter, though her efforts had done little to change him. My lord husband, he did request private audience.

I know, Maddock laughed. "Twice! Gods help us all, I’ve made a tangle of that one, haven’t I?"

She ventured a look at him, and found him actually smiling, as though somehow pleased to have upped the ante between himself and