CHAPTER TEN

The Road from Kyros to Escator, the Central Kingdoms

M aximilian remained unconscious for a good six hours after Ishbel’s kidnap and, because no one had thought to disturb the king and queen in their bedchamber, there was no alarm raised until Maximilian stumbled out of the chamber door, yelling for Egalion and the Emerald Guard.

There was instant commotion. Not chaos, for Egalion took command, directing the Emerald Guard to search the inn, all outbuildings, and the surrounding countryside.

“Are you certain these were Malat’s men?” Egalion asked Maximilian, now back in the bedchamber, sitting on the edge of the bed, with Garth holding a compress against the swollen, broken skin at the back of his head.

Maximilian nodded, then instantly regretted it, groaning. “Yes. Yes, they wore Malat’s livery and badges.

Shit! They said…they said that Malat sent greetings, and that he wants me to suffer the same pain that he suffers. They said I would not see Ishbel again.”

Egalion and Garth exchanged a look.

“Maxel,” said Garth, “it might be that these were not Malat’s men at all, but—”

“Do not blame Ishbel for this!” Maximilian seethed, wrenching himself away from Garth’s hands. He stopped, taking a deep breath. “I apologize, Garth. I should not have spoken that way. I am racked with guilt at the way I treated Ishbel over the past few days…and you did not see her face as those men held her. She was terrified. Gods, I am terrified for her now.”

Again a pause. “I find I do not much like the idea of never seeing her again,” he said softly.

Garth gently put the compress back on Maximilian’s head. “There was nothing you could have done, Maximilian. Do not blame yourself.”

“Yes, I blame myself,” said Maximilian. “What a muddle I have made of my marriage. How could I have mismanaged it so desperately?”

“Maxel—” Garth began.

“And I should have known better than to lie so unprotected in a public inn. The assassin who murdered Allemorte had been sent for Ishbel, I know this. Why did I not realize they would try again?”

Egalion squatted on the floor in front of Maximilian so he could look him directly in the face. “Maxel,” he said, “almost seven hours have passed since they stole Ishbel. They could be anywhere. I have set the Emerald Guard to searching the inn and surrounding area, but I do not expect to find them. Whether Malat’s men or others, they will be well away by now.”

Maximilian said nothing, and Egalion and Garth exchanged another look.

“We need to decide what to do,” said Egalion. “Whether to continue on for Escator, or…”

Maximilian winced as Garth moved the compress, then waved at him to take the thing away.

“Everything is going wrong,” Maximilian said. “Too many things.”

He stopped, and the other two waited.

After a long moment Maximilian sighed, gingerly stretching his upper back and shoulders. “I need to go back to Malat,” he said. “Maybe they were his men, maybe not, but I need to see him. And…maybe he can give me some clue as to what is going on.”

Maximilian’s voice broke on that last, and Egalion stood up, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll find her, Maxel,” he said.

“I doubt that very, very much,” Maximilian said softly.

Malat could not believe it when he heard that his soldiers had apprehended the King of Escator a mile out of Kyros and that Maximilian was requesting to see him.

“He was heading back?” he said. “To see me? Does he have a death wish?”

“He has been injured in some fight,” said the captain of the guard. “Perhaps he is looking for sympathy.”

Malat cursed. “Then I wish well to whoever injured him, but they could have done a better job and stopped his heart entirely.”

“What should we do with him, sire?”

“Is his entire retinue with him?”

“Several of his Emerald Guard,” said the captain, “but none of his other companions. Maximilian said they waited for him at an inn some distance along the road.”

“What the fuck does he want?” Malat muttered. “Why disturb me in this fashion? Oh, damn it, put him in a dungeon—the coldest, dampest one you can find—and tell him I will consider his request for an audience over my evening meal.”

“Sire,” the captain said, “Maximilian said the matter was desperate.”

“Desperate is the state of my heart,” said Malat. “Maximilian has no right to use the word.” He fell silent, studying the captain of the guard, who was now looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Oh, very well, bring him in an hour to the smaller audience chamber—and empty it of any servants, guards, and courtiers beforehand. I will see him then.”

“Sire, do you think it wise to talk with this brigand without protection?”

“If he so much as takes a step in my direction,” Malat said, “I’ll run him through with a sword. Now, go, and leave me in peace.”

The smaller audience chamber was an unadorned room with few windows, paneled in dark wood, and with an air of such somberness that very few people had ever dared laugh in its confines.

It suited Malat’s mood perfectly.

One of the double doors at the other end of the chamber opened, and the captain of the guard escorted Maximilian through.

At Malat’s tip of his head, the captain retired, closing the door behind him.

“To what,” said Malat, his voice underscored with venom, “do I owe this honor?”

“Ishbel has been taken,” Maximilian said, walking forward from the far end of the chamber, “by your men.”

“What!” Malat leapt from his chair. “How dare you—”

“They told me,” said Maximilian, stopping halfway down the chamber, “that you wanted me to suffer the same pain as you suffered, and that I should never see Ishbel again. I want my wife, Malat. I did not murder your son, and now I want my wife back!”

Malat stopped a few paces away, studying Maximilian carefully. He was disheveled and dirty, his face tired and drawn with both physical and emotional pain, and the neck of his shirt appeared crusted with dried blood.

Malat walked forward, held Maximilian’s eyes for a long moment, then slowly walked about him, noting the deep bruising and scabbed abrasion at the back of his head.

“What happened?” he said.

“Your men came, on your orders, and took my wife, beating me that I might not rescue her.”

Malat was now back in front of Maximilian. Again, he spent a long moment holding Maximilian’s eyes.

“You don’t believe that,” Malat said.

“I am left to believe only what my eyes showed me and my ears told me,” Maximilian snapped. “Did you send your men to take my wife and threaten her death?”

“No. Do you believe me?”

Maximilian took a deep breath, passing a trembling hand over his eyes. “Yes. If you’d sent men, their orders would have been to murder me, not take my wife.”

“Correct. These men looked like mine?”

“They wore your livery, badges…perfect replicas of the uniform your guards wear.”

“What is happening, Maximilian?”

“I…don’t…know.”

Malat sighed, then took Maximilian by the elbow and led him to a chair. He sat him down, then went to a sideboard and poured each of them a glass of wine.

“All right, then,” Malat said, handing Maximilian his wine, then sitting down in a chair opposite. “Tell me what you think is happening.”

“Someone has tried before to kill Ishbel. Someone is trying to implicate me in the deaths of Allemorte and Borchard. People are dying in a trail from the Outlands to Kyros, and the trail of death is following me. I don’t know why. I don’t know why, Malat.” Maximilian was now almost certain that these deaths were tied in with Elcho Falling, or whatever was going wrong with the world that required Elcho Falling to stir into life, but that Maximilian could not discuss with Malat. “Now Ishbel has gone. I don’t understand…why take her?”

Malat could think of several highly carnal reasons a group of men might want to seize Ishbel, but thought it best not to share his thoughts with Maximilian.

“Apart from Ishbel,” Malat said, “the other three men share something in common.”

Maximilian just looked at him. He was too tired and disheartened to speak.

“They’re all highborn,” said Malat, “but…they’re all good generals. Some of the best.”

Very carefully Maximilian put his wineglass down on the floor, then rested his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He should have seen that. Rilm Evenor had been the best war general in the Outlands, and the one with the most experience and the wisest head. Allemorte did not have the wealth of experience that Evenor did, but he’d proved himself on several occasions to have a cool head in battle and a superb eye for battle command. Borchard similarly. Malat had been at formal war with no one during his long reign, but Borchard had taken part in several campaigns in…

“Oh, gods,” Maximilian murmured. “Borchard served as Evenor’s lieutenant for a year, didn’t he?”

“Yes, and you can be sure I was none too pleased about it then, or now. But Evenor trained him well, and spoke highly of his capabilities.” Malat paused. “I think you can thank your lucky stars, Maxel—”

Maximilian noted, somewhat numbly, that Malat was now using the familiar contraction of his name.

“—that you are not a highly skilled battle general yourself, or otherwise I think you, too, would be dead.”

Hardly the best compliment, Maximilian thought, but true enough.

“Why Ishbel?” Malat said. “What part does she have to play in this?”

“Ishbel is a mystery to most people, including me,” Maximilian said. “She was offered to me by the Coil—”

“What?”

“—as their ward. They’d raised her after she lost her family at the age of eight.” Maximilian hesitated, wondering how much he could say, then decided he was tired of dissembling. Besides, Malat had lost a son, and deserved to hear as much as Maximilian could reveal. “But I think she might actually be a priestess of the Coil, not just a ward.”

Malat swore, his face shocked. “Why send her to marry you?”

Maximilian phrased the response as best he could. It might not be the full truth, but it was still truth enough. “Our families were connected many years ago. The Coil apparently thought it would be a good thing to reunite blood and fortunes again.” He gave a wry grin. “I was happy enough about the fortunes.”

Malat ignored the poor attempt at humor. “By the gods, Maximilian, what have you been dragging through the Central Kingdoms? A priestess of the Coil? A—”

“I do not know if she is or not. Ishbel denies it, but I suspect it.”

“Maximilian, my son died with a sword through his belly…are you trying to tell me now that he died, in that manner, with a priestess of the Coil close by, and that Ishbel was not involved?”

Maximilian now regretted telling Malat of his suspicions.

“I suspected her,” Maximilian said, wishing he need not say this also, “and all but blamed her. I was a fool. When I woke to see her seized by brigands, when I saw her face as they threatened her life, I knew I’d been wrong. She was terrified, Malat. Genuinely terrified. I think she is as much a victim as—”

“No priestess of the Coil is a victim of anything.”

Maximilian did not respond. There was nothing he could say to that.

Malat muttered yet another curse. “Sirus is moving ever closer to war with the Outlands, and dragging luckless Fulmer of Hosea with him. They should be stopped, but they are not going to believe what you’ve just told me. I don’t know that I should believe what you’ve just told me. Gods, Maximilian, a priestess of the Coil? Of what were you thinking?”

“I don’t know what to do, Malat. I don’t know how to find her. I don’t know why she was taken.”

“Snap out of it, Maxel. You’re a king and a husband. Do whatever you have to. Right at the moment, though, I’m just too tired and too old and too heartsick to help you.”