Lord of the Silent Kingdom

10. Caron ande Lette: Flood Tide

News seldom reached Caron ande Lette in a timely manner. Few travelers came through. The little the Raults knew of the world came to them courtesy of messengers jogging up from Antieux.

For Raymone Garete the saw about absence and hearts grown fonder was an understatement.

Socia alternated between excitement at so much attention and fright because Raymone was so intense.

Emperor Lothar had been dead a month before word came.

"This isn't good," Brock said seconds after a courier delivered the news. Brother Candle suspected Brock had reflected on the possibilities from the moment that sickly boy took the ermine.

All the west had.

"I can't see any good coming of it," Brother Candle confessed. "This news will trigger all kinds of mischief." Because no one, anywhere, believed that Johannes's daughter could pull on the black boots and show the iron hand.

Brother Candle knew nothing about the girl. Catherine? Something like that. But he had roamed the world long enough to grasp the essence of human nature.

All those people starting to wind the engines of conspiracy eyed reality through a fog of wishful thinking. Expecting the world to conform to their imaginings.

Reality enjoys harpooning self-delusion.

Usually silent, Thurm Rault observed, "Interesting times are sure gonna get more interesting."

Brock said, "We need to put out more patrols. Trouble out of Grolsach is a sure thing once they hear the news. Thurm. Spread the word to the hamlets. The peasants need time to get ready. And we need to get their provisions safely in here."

"Will they go for that?"

"I hope they still trust me." Chaos had come close to prevailing during his absence. "I should've left you here." The people did not understand why he should be so completely subject to the whims of Tormond IV. The Mad Duke was almost mythological at this remove from Khaurene. Count Raymone was more real. Mainly because he had helped destroy Haiden Backe.

A less traveled, more ignorant and inflexible people Brother Candle could not imagine. That the Maysalean Heresy had taken root in a single generation was an amazement.

The Path did present a vision sharply at odds with the routine despair of everyday life.

The Raults prepared. The people joined in reluctantly. The threat had to be exaggerated. But what harm in making ready?

"Your layabouts are grumbling," Brother Candle said one morning, on the parapet. Facetiously. "If it didn't take so much effort, the peasants would revolt."

Almost true. The Connec was generous, even here. People did not have to drudge and scratch from dawn to dusk every day of the year to barely subsist. Human nature being what it was they thought being asked to do anything extra was grossly unfair.

"Here comes Socia, riding like all the Instrumentalities of the Night are after her."

They might be. The gentler sort. The peasants kept reporting strange lights and odors.

Socia always rushed when she rode. Brother Candle thought she was overdoing it this time. Feeling compassion for the horse.

The girl joined them, puffing from the climb. She reported all in a gush. "It's starting, Brock. We ambushed some Grolsachers up by Little Thysoup. They were scouting."

Brock said, "Little Thysoup would be a waste of time. What have they got out there? A few scrawny chickens and a three-legged dog?"

Socia resumed, "There were four of them. A family, I guess. There was a fight. They wanted to get away. We didn't let them."

Brock started to ask about prisoners. Brother Candle said, "There's one. A child."

Several peasants, all women, drove the prisoner toward the stronghold gate. They had ropes around his neck. And were not being kind.

Peasants seldom were when given a chance to express anger normally kept in check.

The prisoner was a child. A boy. Eleven at the oldest. He was injured, terrified, pale, and shaking. Tear tracks streaked his dirty face. He had just witnessed the brutal killings of his father, his grandfather, and his uncle.

"Show a little gentleness," Brother Candle suggested, iron in his voice. Socia nodded, thumped back downstairs. Brock and the Perfect followed at a pace in keeping with the capacities of an older man.

Socia was not all blood and ferocity. When Brother Candle reached the forecourt behind the gate he found that she had separated the prisoner from his captors. She was examining his wound. The boy shook so badly he could barely stand.

Brother Candle said, "Get some soup into him. Just broth, to start." Signs of starvation were there, though not advanced. "Move him somewhere warmer. Give him some wine and wrap him in blankets."

Brock said, "Put salve on those rope burns, too. How bad is he, otherwise?"

Socia replied, "One shallow cut, shouldn't need sewing. A lot of bruises and scrapes. They beat him."

Brock turned to the cowed peasant women. "Good work, ladies. But this is only the beginning. You need to do two things more. Make the dead out there disappear. Then warn all the farms to prepare hiding places. And let me know immediately if anything else happens."

Brock had no worries about being able to handle the raiders if he knew where they were. His people were a match for ten times their weight in hungry Grolsachers worn down by travel.

"How do you suppose they got here?" Brother Candle wondered.

"They walked, Brother. If they had horses they would've eaten them."

"I meant their route, Seuir. The direct way would be across Imp or Manu. That would raise alarums."

"Then I expect they're taking the long way, around the west end of Ormienden. Through Arnhand, with the connivance of the Arnhander nobility."

"It could be a plan that kicked in when the Emperor died."

"Could be. We'll ask. Socia. How soon can our guest talk?"

"Depends on how much you care about his health."

"Let him worry about his health. He won't stay healthy if he doesn't talk to me."

Brother Candle murmured, "You can't scare him, Brock. He's already too terrified to think. And he can't see anything left to lose."

"Do you ever get tired of always being right?"

"Not often. Though that's a very Count Raymone thing to ask."

"Socia. Mother the boy. Sweet-talk him. Bring him around so we can open him up."

A SECOND SKIRMISH OCCURRED FOUR MILES WEST OF Little Thysoup, in the evening. It involved an indeterminate number of Grolsachers, who suffered only because the alert from Caron ande Lette had reached the area shortly before. Peasants, armed no better than the invaders, fought back. Four Connectens died. The raiders left four of their own behind. Those who escaped were all injured.

Brother Candle and Socia Rault took turns sitting with the boy. He called himself Gres Refello. His terror never faded completely but he believed a Perfect Master when Brother Candle promised no further harm would touch him. He had Seekers After Light in his own family. Nor did he possess the guile to lie to save countrymen he did not know.

When questioned, he answered. Mumbling.

"Must be a lot of them coming," Brock Rault said over supper. There had been several more incidents.

The grand hall of Caron ande Lette contained leading men from the surrounding country, the Raults, Brother Candle, a courier from Antieux, and Seuir Lanne Tuldse, who had brought up a handful of fighters after hearing that there were Grolsacher raiders north of him. These men were eating whatever they could grab. Free food was not common.

The grand hall was not large. Caron ande Lette was not large. The grandest thing about it was its wall.

"I need a little quiet," Brock bellowed. "The Perfect Master spent the morning with the boy we caught yesterday. You need to hear what he has to say."

Wearied by life, tempted by despair, Brother Candle abandoned his cluttered platter and rose. He was not in the mood for roast hare.

"The Seuir is correct. A lot of them are coming. But not in any organized fashion. Most are bringing their families." Which meant having women and children underfoot when the bloodshed started. "They've been promised land and plunder by Anne of Menand. Arnhanders, in general, have decided that, religion aside, the Connec is properly part of Arnhand. Sublime has encouraged this belief. Arnhand is letting the Grolsachers pass through. They're providing supplies to any Grolsachers who swear allegiance to Anne and to the Brothen Church.

"The boy isn't sophisticated enough to understand any of that, except on a personal level. But there are broad implications for everyone in the west." Brother Candle did not tell them he thought Anne of Menand was positioning herself to be the mother behind what she hoped to make the most powerful monarch in the Episcopal world.

"The invaders will come down the Sadew Valley. There's game and water. They think we won't expect them to come that way."

Haiden Backe and Bishop Farfog had arrived using the easier route farther east.

Brock Rault said, "I'd assume that, after the recent skirmishes, they'll pile up somewhere till numbers force them to come on. We can deal with that. Our real problem is what comes along behind. Brother?"

"The boy doesn't actually know anything more than your children do about your plans. But he does believe that an Arnhander army is going to come in behind them, to protect them. And to restore order." That excuse had been used to justify previous Arnhander incursions.

Brock said, "Ralph, take the boy to Antieux with you. I'll have a letter for the Count, too. The rest of you, bring your men to the Catna Calci spring before sunrise tomorrow."

Brother Candle was not pleased. He feared Brock wanted to repeat the Black Mountain Massacre.

He would argue but knew that was a waste of breath.

Grolsachers entering the Rault demesne arrived under sentence of death.

Socia Rault, in ill-fitting boiled leather armor, turned up once it was too late to make a scene about the impropriety. Brother Candle strained to hide his amusement. Brock Rault was too young to have forehead veins stand out like that.

Had he truly expected that confiscating the mail she had worn before would hinder her?

It was chilly for the time of year. Teeth chattered. Mist lay in patchlets in the hollows along the creek in the Sadew Valley. As had been the case three mornings running, a trickle of invaders passed without hindrance. They would be dealt with a few miles farther on. Some would be allowed to go back to report that the folk of the Connec were making no organized effort to defend themselves.

Three days of waiting left Brock's followers impatient. Everyone kept quiet while three men passed, arguing bitterly. Once they were out of earshot, Brock asked, "What language was that, Brother?"

Brother Candle had to admit, "I don't know. That's the second group that talked like that." And that made the incursion more disturbing. Fugitives from the advancing ice would grace the Connec's enemies with more power to destroy.

After quelling a belated response to Socia's arrival, Seuir Brock told his family, "I can't keep these men restrained much longer."

The force numbered thirty-five. Thirty-three armed men, a woman, and one Maysalean Perfect Master. Some were from neighboring holdings and felt little need to defer to Seuir Brock's leadership.

There was an invader camp up the valley, in a marshy meadow. And someone was in control. There were pickets. They were not well posted or alert, but they were there. They made scouting the camp difficult. Scores of women and children were among the several hundred people there.

For differing reasons Seuir Brock and Brother Candle each wanted a closer look at that camp.

Thurm said, "That ground is too boggy for a decent camp. There's springs all over. You can sink in up to your hips some places. There's a million mosquitoes. If they stay there very long they'll all come down with dysentery or malaria or something."

Brock replied, "I only pray there's that much stupid among them."

Brother Candle muttered, "So do I."

"God should take the stain from our souls before we smear it on ourselves?" Brock chuckled. "Yes. I'm starting to see how your mind works."

There was no opportunity to debate the rights and wrongs and costs, of defending today's Connec. How many times round the Wheel of Life would it take to expiate the evil that would happen here?

One of the scouts came scooting down the hillside. The needle-strewn slope was steep. "Seuir, some people showed up at the Grolsacher camp. Better clothes, horses, twenty to twenty-five of them. At least eight are knights. Their pennons weren't recognizable."

"Arnhanders," Thurm said. Socia spat to her left like a man sealing a curse.

Brock said, "I didn't expect them to turn up yet. What was that?"

A roar had come rolling down the valley.

"Just guessing," Brother Candle said. "The raiders have been turned loose."

"All in a mob, you think?"

Socia said, "The healthiest will be the first ones here. And the most dangerous."

Brock was not pleased. "The Arnhanders won't be part of the first rush." Meaning the ambush could not be as successful as he wanted. He made a decision. "Put the barricades up." He had kept his men gathering brush and deadwood to create a barrier across the valley. It would not stop the invaders but would create a chokepoint where archers would be more effective.

The Grolsachers came in a racing flood. There were other foreigners among them. Cruel poverty was the commonality of the horde.

A dozen archers went to work. Ten men with shields and spears protected them. The archers seldom missed.

Those invaders who escaped climbed the steep far slope, then fled downstream. Very few broke through the barrier.

The other Connectens struck farther up the valley, hitting the tail-enders of the mob. They pushed downstream. Brother Candle and Socia Rault were tasked with guarding their backs.

There was but one incident involving the two. Brother Candle avoided getting blood on his hands or soul.

"Booga-booga?" Socia demanded in a mocking tone. "What the hell was that?"

"He ran away, didn't he?"

"Right back to the meadow. Where he'll complain that he ran into a ferocious sorcerer."

"Foo."

"You think he'll admit he ran away from a Maysalean Perfect?"

"The thing is done. Don't!"

Too late. Socia had stabbed the moaning, wounded old woman. The lives of these desperate intruders meant no more to her than did those of roaches or rats.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"We need to get back to Caron ande Lette. Fast." Only women, children, and a few old men were there to defend the fortress.

Brock Rault had a different idea.

The butchery was over. The Sadew Valley was now a vale of the dead. Brother Candle knew the mind exaggerated horrors but still thought there were at least a hundred dead. Moans and whimpers came from hiding places in the undergrowth. Brock ignored them. After excusing six men who had been injured, he murmured, "I'm going after the men behind this."

"Oh. No," Brother Candle muttered. "That'll only make it worse."

"Brother, nothing will make it worse. They mean to kill us, take everything we own, and make the Connec part of Arnhand. With no leftover heretics. Self-defense is not a sin. Your own Synod of St. Jeules so ruled."

The Perfect bowed his head. That was true.

And he no longer deserved the title Perfect. His thinking had become dominated by emotion.

Rault continued. "We aren't asking you to cut throats. Just get out of the way." Irked.

"That I can do." But he did not stay behind when the healthy and willing headed for the meadow camp.

The camp was a sprawl of pathetic shelters built of deadwood, brush, reeds, and ragged blankets. A nest for misery unimaginable.

The new arrivals were not alone. Scores of sick, elderly, women, children, and even healthy men had not joined the rush down the Sadew Valley. The camp was in an uproar.

Socia glared at Brother Candle. "Booga booga."

"What?" Brock asked.

"Private joke."

Brock looked at her askance but addressed Thurm. "You know this ground. Can mounted, armored men operate on it?"

"Not most places. Not well."

After consultation, Brock chose a direction from which to attack the camp. He approached boldly. His archers launched fire arrows, starting several blazes. Some Grolsachers came out, angry. They accomplished nothing. Several got killed for their trouble.

Brock let fly a few more fire arrows, then began a slow withdrawal.

"Ah. Here they come."

A parade of horsemen left the camp, spread out abreast. Knights, squires, and mounted sergeants, they numbered eighteen. Thurm said, "They don't look much more prosperous than the Grolsachers."

"Paid fighters," Brock said.

"Most likely." Meaning they would be clever and cruel.

Changes were going on in Arnhand and the Empire. Younger brothers with nothing to inherit traditionally went to the Holy Lands or joined the Grail Knights in their wars to convert the pagans of the east. But those journeys into a brief, brutal, lethal exile had lost their emotional appeal. Still, one had to make a living. Having been raised up to follow only one trade.

Thurm said, "They plan to carve out chunks of the Connec for themselves."

"Let's see if we can't disappoint them."

The Connectens kept backing away. The day was near its end. The sun's lower limb settled into the pines behind them.

Brock had his archers launch a flight at the Arnhanders. Most of the shafts fell short. The few that did not miss or, in one instance, strike a shield, shifted to intercept it.

Socia complained, "These damned mosquitoes are driving me crazy!"

Swallows ripped the air overhead. Soon bats would come , to the feast. But not ravens, Brother Candle hoped. Ravens lived on both sides of the boundary with the Night. Human faith had endowed the birds with vast symbolic and oracular power.

The horsemen began their advance. In no hurry. Measured. Which was not what Brock wanted. "Loose another flight, then run for the trees. But watch where you put your feet down."

The horsemen were closer. Most of the arrows reached. Only one found a living target, however, and that a horse when a shaft ricocheted off a shield.

Several Arnhanders spurred their mounts, knowing the odds were too dense for a successful pursuit there.

Others followed.

Within a minute two-thirds of the animals had bogged down in the narrow, sluggish streams meandering under masking surface vegetation.

Those hazards were obvious enough in a good light, when one was unhurried and watching.

Brock ordered, "Archers, turn and loose. Concentrate on the horses."

There was grumbling. The animals were more valuable than the men riding them. But there would be no prizes taken here.

Rault's order was sound tactically but difficult practically. The archers had scarcely a dozen arrows left amongst them.

Brock swore. "Damn! I was hoping more would go down. And that some would drown. That we could finish them off while they were tangled in their harness, in the peat and the mud."

The Arnhanders did not let that happen.

One man and four horses did suffer. Those Arnhanders who remained mounted declined further pursuit.

"At least their damned camp will burn down," Socia grumbled.

Brock Rault insisted on traveling through the night. Progress was slow and exhausting. And often painful. In the wee hours Brother Candle told Seuir Brock, "Leave me. I can't keep up. I'll be all right. They won't harm a holy man."

"You're whistling in the night, old man. You're exactly what they're hunting. The only way you'd survive is if they sent you to Salpeno for a show trial."

Rault ordered an hour's rest. While he and Thurm scouted ahead.

The break gave Brother Candle a chance to become so stiff he could hardly move. Nor did he have the energy to swat mosquitoes. "They're going to suck me dry," he muttered to no one in particular.

Despair threatened him. He thought about Margete, began suffering worldly regrets about the choices they had made. Margete was now Sister Probity in the Maysalean convent at Fleaumont. He had not seen her for years. Had she seen any of the children lately? He had not. One of his sons, the wholly materialistic Aimechiel, refused to acknowledge him because he had given his wealth to support the Seekers.

He was ashamed. He no longer knew where to find any of his children.

The Perfect jerked out of his reverie, smitten by sudden fear. There was a huge absence in the night. The mosquitoes were gone.

The Sadew Valley lay in the embrace of a silence as absolute as that of a crypt. As the darkness grew deeper.

No insects buzzed. No owls gossiped about where to find the fattest mice. Nothing scurried through the leaves and needles, trying to find a meal without becoming a meal. And the darkness deepened.

Leaves crunched, then, as Brock and Thurm returned. Brock whispered, "We're two hundred yards from the edge of the woods. We'll be home before dawn, easy. Even if we have to carry our chaplain. What?"

Brock froze, finally sensing the horror. The deep horror. Which came without accompanying menace.

It did not come near enough to be seen. It wore darkness like a disguise. But darkness did not mask its smell, nor the soft sounds it brought along when it came close.

The stink was that of summertime death a week old. The sound was the hum of ten thousand flies.

Brother Candle shook his head violently, as though to fling the stench out of his nostrils while rejecting the power of ancient Night. Those old gods were gone! Rook had been disarmed, dismembered, constrained, in the very earliest days of the Old Empire. Not even another god could shatter the mystic shackles holding defeated Instrumentalities.

Those harsh old gods had been conquered by men. Only human instruments could loose them again.

The stench drifted onward, following the trail of corpses down into the Connec. The darkness faded back to normal. Sound returned.

The Connectens resumed travel. Not one of them believed the real Rook had passed by, dripping maggots on the forest floor. They would rather believe their priests than their senses. To them that Instrumentality was too awful to bear thought. Someday they could garner the notice of the Lord of Flies. Unless they prayed very hard to their own greater god.

The Arnhanders did not believe, either, though something so terrified their horses that most fled despite the darkness. The surviving camp folk, now without shelter, had less trouble believing. Quietly, beneath Grolsach's placid Chaldarean surface, some recollection of the old gods soldiered on. In circumstances as woefully reduced as those of the Grolsachers themselves.

The mosquitoes returned. As they did, Brock Rault insisted, "Get up, Master. We don't have far to go. And the worst is behind us. You'll be asleep in a feather bed before the sun comes up."

Brother Candle clambered to the parapet overlooking Caron ande Lette's gateway. The sun was going down. He had slept eleven hours. Every joint still ached. As did every muscle. He was too old for adventures.

Before coming topside he had eaten till he was ready to burst. Now, content despite his discomfort, he stood in twilight considering the besieging mass pathetic despite its numbers.

There were hundreds of Grolsachers out there. More were off foraging, finding neither food nor plunder. Those on hand were not in a bellicose mood. They were the tailenders. Yesterday's survivors. There were not a lot of healthy adult males among them.

Wailing broke out whenever a corpse was found and identified. Though how they recognized their dead after Rook's passage was beyond Brother Candle.

He had not seen a corpse touched by the Instrumentality. He had heard a description. While eating. The Great Demon left only a dried husk so desiccated that it could be hoisted with one hand.

Brock Rault was on post. As always. The Perfect asked, "You've decided to live up here, now?"

"I can see from here, Master. Not a lot, but enough to follow what's happening right around here."

"Which would appear to be not much."

"Correct. Pretending, but nothing of substance. We broke their spirit."

Thurm and Socia arrived, Thurm teasing crumbs out of the red brush at the corners of his mouth.

"And the Arnhanders?" Brother Candle acknowledged Socia with a nod.

"Trying to forage. Having no luck. If they work in small parties they get attacked. If they go in number they only find people too stupid or stubborn to go hide in the woods."

"So someone deluded the Grolsachers into thinking they'd just stroll into milk and honey. And the Arnhanders into believing that there would be no resistance."

"That isn't wrong. We can't do much but sit here." Brother Candle did not believe him. Sitting was not in keeping with the Rault character.

Socia said, "You've got plenty of initiative left, big brother."' She gestured. Barely discernible in the failing light were' earthworks the invaders had begun that day, without enthusiasm or urgency. Only a fraction of the foreigners had pitched in. The more hale had gone looking for food and plunder. Many foragers failed to return to their loved ones. "Yes?" Brock asked.

"If the Arnhanders go foraging, sortie. Destroy their camp. Steal or kill their extra horses. And their grooms and servants."

Thurm grunted. "Only, why take risks? If we just wait… How long before Count Raymone rescues his precious Socia?"

Socia punched him. An argument ensued. Socia was full of bloodlust. Ready to fling one-woman sallies at the Grolsachers. 'To keep the weeds down. So they don't get too numerous to handle."

Brother Candle feared the truth of her central argument. What they saw was the first lapping wave of a flood. The Sadew Valley could become a river of desperate humanity that would come till they overwhelmed the Connec.

Providence knew, the province could not mount an organized effort to defend itself. The central authority remained confused and irresolute, if not moribund. Foiling the poison plot had not paid off in a ducal resurrection. Many lesser lights remained interested only in making their neighbors miserable. Those who did retain a sense of responsibility mostly were content to wait for trouble to come to them. Only Count Raymone Garete, because of past successes, could rally many followers. But he had no legal power to raise levees or give orders outside his own county.

Count Raymone was the most dangerous man in the Connec, from the viewpoint of the Brothen Church. Which explained why Antieux attracted so much attention from the Society.

Campfires appeared as darkness deepened, all round Caron ande Lette. They were too few to establish a blockade.

That could change.

Brock had no intention of letting an investiture develop. He collected a volunteer force of five. He and they went down ropes on the south side of the fortress, where the wall was shortest. Rault explained, "They should be watching for a sally from the gate."

Brother Candle spent hours, waiting, listening, watching. There was nothing to hear. And only lightning bugs to see. Brock was working with admirable stealth.

The old man wore out before midnight. His body still had a thousand repairs to make.

The Perfect wakened once, round what was called the witching hour. He had felt something terrible in the night. But it was gone before he wakened fully. He drained his bladder, returned to bed. He shivered like it was the heart of a cold, damp winter till sleep returned.

Brother Candle rose with the sun. Despite all the sleep, he was weak and groggy and inclined to lie down again.

Thurm and Socia joined him for breakfast. That included fresh bread, preserves, and bacon in quantity. Brother Candle felt compassion for the Grolsacher families outside.

Thurm said, "That thing was out there again last night."

"Thing?"

"From before. Up the valley. The Lord of Maggots."

Socia said, "Oh, stop pussyfooting and say it. Rook! Rook! Rook was out there, following Brock around while he exterminated the vermin."

As Brother Candle opened his mouth, Socia barked, "Don't even bother. You might be more clever than the average Episcopal priest but you just aren't gonna twist things around so you can say that that wasn't Rook."

Brother Candle responded, "The Instrumentality we call Rook can't exist in today's world."

"Go tell it that, dipshit. I'm sure it'll be embarrassed and go lie down again."

Thurm slugged his little sister on the upper arm. "A little respect there, girl child."

Brother Candle said, "I'm not saying that something big isn't crawling around in the dark. And it does present similarities to the old pagan god of corruption. But that god doesn't exist anymore."

Socia sneered. "If it looks like a turd, smells like a turd, and draws flies like a turd, I'm gonna call it a turd."

Thurm said, "Maybe not all of Rook got bound. Or maybe part of him got loose. Something weird happened in the White Hills when the Amhanders came down on Antieux that time. The ones that ended up getting killed in the Black Mountain Massacre. They say a bunch of old graves opened up and evil things came out."

Could be, Brother Candle thought. The White Hills, on the northeast edge of the Altai, were also called the Haunted Hills. For all its stench and psychic impact, the thing did not seem particularly powerful. Could it be just a tiny shard of a god, driven by its original instinct?

Would it try to grow? Was that even possible? Would it hunt for scattered bits of itself? Would it free other old terrors from its youth?

"I'll stop wishful thinking and defer to my own ignorance at this point," the Perfect said. Though he despaired of the answer, he asked, "Did Brock enjoy any success last night?"

Thurm showed fresh excitement. "He did. He got into the Amhanders' paddock and stole some of their horses. Which he killed where the Grolsachers could grab them and eat them."

That ought to sow seeds of distrust.

Thurm's face closed down. The Perfect sensed that there was more, of a nature so dark he did not want to share it with a holy man.

"I see. Maybe that's all I need to know."

Brother Candle made his way to the parapet over the gate. The invaders were digging a trench around Caron ande Lette. Piling the earth on its far side. If the siege lasted long a palisade would be raised atop that earth. Others worked on what, even from afar, was obviously a cemetery. And a few Amhanders were adding to the defenses of their camp.

Horsemen gathered in the small court behind the fortress gate. To the east, near the river, a file of ragged people trudged southward, ignoring Caron ande Lette.

The gate swung open. Socia Rault and a dozen youths burst out. They ignored besiegers. They galloped over and scattered the people by the river, killing the men, then ran away before the Amhanders could ready themselves for a light. Socia committed atrocities along the developing trench until the Arnhanders did come after her.

Keeping low so as not to be seen, archers jostled Brother Candle as they took position. Others came to operate the ballistae.

Socia tried to lure the Arnhanders into range. They would not come.

Seuir Brock showed up. Livid. When Socia arrived, grinning wildly, he told her, "You won't do that again. Am I understood? Brother Candle. Would you be violating Count Raymone's instructions if you were to escort my sister out of here?"

Socia shut Brock out the instant he started telling her what she would not be doing anymore.

"Would that be wise? With all these lawless folk roving the countryside?"

Softly, Brock said, "They'll be the lesser risk."

"Seuir?"

"We can't survive here. Not if this keeps on. They're disorganized and incompetent. I'll kill thousands. But I'll lose a man sometimes. And get no replacement. They'll wear me down. Like a riverbank devoured by a never-ending stream. They'll find the hiding places in the woods. I don't want Socia here when that happens."

Brother Candle opined, "If I take her to Antieux and you fall, don't doubt that you'll be avenged." Socia struck him as the sort who would slash and burn all Arnhand if Charlve the Dim or Anne of Menand irritated her sufficiently. "She'll find a way."

"You might be right."

"What are you two muttering about over there?" Socia demanded. "Are you talking about me?"

"In a way. I'm trying to get the Perfect to leave while he still can."

"That's a big puff of wind, brother. What are you really saying?"

"Every minute. She has to be contrary. Every minute of every day."

Brother Candle nodded. That would be the way to get the girl to do the necessary.

Seuir Brock said, "Little sister, come share a bowl of wine. I need you to do something. Maybe the most important thing you'll ever do."

The heights of Artlan ande Brith fell behind. Brother Candle admired Seuir Brock Rault's manipulative skills. Rault had sold him on saving Socia. Then he had sold Socia the notion that Brother Candle was too important a Maysalean philosopher to lose. He was a moral giant, to be preserved at all cost. Only she had influence enough with Count Raymone to see that he was protected.

Letters each carried to Seuir Lanne had convinced that worthy to send them on, disguised, accompanied by a pair of Tuldse nieces and two donkeys. Their horses remained at Artlan ande Brith.

Socia's war gear, however, was in the packs on one of the donkeys.

The girl and nieces were disguised as peasant boys. Brother Candle wore what he had for years. All Perfect wore the same gray robe.

Care was necessary even south of Artlan ande Brith. Grolsachers had gotten past the Tuldse stronghold.

Seuir Lanne was every bit as pessimistic as Seuir Brock Rault.

Count Raymone was pleased to see Socia but not the Perfect Master. The Tuldse nieces did not enter the equation. Those had been delivered to local relatives.

Count Raymone was almost obsequious toward Socia while apologizing for having sent no troops north.

The man was smitten.

Then, "Nobody's listening, Master. Tell me the truth. What happened? What's really going on up there?"

Brother Candle left out nothing.

Count Raymone goggled at Socia's behavior but asked only, "Rook? Really?"

"Some part of him, possibly. Or something that wants him remembered. Maybe something meant to spread fear and chaos by wakening our dread of the old evils."

"I think it's the real thing. A sliver of the real thing."

"But…"

"I get news from a hundred sources, Brother. This tale of an awakening Instrumentality isn't unique. It's happening all over, wherever there are old stories about hauntings. I think there must be some truth in all the reports."

Brother Candle asked, "Why didn't you send troops to Caron ande Lette?"

"Because Sublime's villains have kept me too busy here. These are some nasty churchmen. They adapt every day, finding ways to be irritating without offending temporal law to the point where I can round them up. And more and more keep turning up. I don't know where they find them all."

"The monastic orders are turning applicants away. You don't go hungry when you belong to the Church. And a certain sort enjoys having petty power over the rest of us."

"Not what I want to hear, Master. But I don't get the good much anymore. Just yesterday I heard that the new Empress, Katrin, was crowned by Sublime himself. In return, she bent the knee to the Brothen Patriarchy."

"That could mean civil war inside the Empire."

"It could. It definitely means that the Empire won't shield the Connec anymore. Which leads to the other bad news. Sublime is ready to preach a crusade against the Maysalean Heresy."

Brother Candle shuddered and sighed. Seekers could be found everywhere but the Connec was where they were most open, numerous, and in control. The Connec would be where the main blow fell.

"One way or another, the false Patriarch will plunder our land."

The Count said, "He'd better hurry. Before it's all eaten up in our little country wars."

The Society received instructions from Brothe. The latest Brothen Episcopal Bishop of Antieux issued an order for Count Raymone to present himself. But the Bishop's messengers could not find him. And several messengers failed to return.

Count Raymone had handled two problems with one quick sidle, summoning those who were willing to join a small army he took north. Bernardin Amberchelle and his betrothed stayed to deal with the importunities and expanding arrogance of Brothe's agents. Then Amberchelle, in turn, disappeared. But rumor saw his savage hand behind the killings and disappearances that continued to plague Antieux. Fewer and fewer Society brothers came to the city. Those already there began wearing disguises and moving around in groups.

And still there were casualties. Some quite gruesome.

Amazing how much Church blood could be let when those doing the bloodletting were neither afraid of excommunication nor intimidated by their own consciences.

Socia caught Brother Candle several weeks into what she called her regency with her in charge. "It's all a big damned conspiracy, Master! These people tell me I'm the lady of the city, now! They go through all the motions, asking me for orders. Then they go do whatever they want!"

"Raymone set it up that way, dear girl. So he can't be blamed for the wickedness. He isn't here to stop it And, of course, you can't because you're only a woman."

After a pause during which she fought her anger, Socia said, "I can honestly say I understand that. It's clever enough. What I can't get a handle on is all the foreigners involved in the struggle with the Society."

That baffled the old man. Count Raymone had hired no mercenaries. "Foreigners? You lost me, child. What foreigners?"

"Being a girl I guess I'm supposed to be too dim to notice. Before he disappeared Bernardin was chummy with some outlanders who spoke a dialect harder to follow than Firaldian. Men who looked like they'd butcher and roast their own mothers if they missed a meal. Bernardin disappeared but those men are still around."

"I haven't been paying close enough attention, obviously. I haven't noticed them."

Naturally, when Socia tried to point them out not a one could be found.

But the war on Sublime's running dogs never abated.