The stone of authority c.., p.46
The Stone of Authority Complete Set (The Stone Cycle Complete Sets Book 2), page 46
Pisander controlled Arnost and the surrounding countryside. She was not aware of any organized resistance. She had briefly visited the dungeons to observe Lord Bottren, the man placed in charge of Arnost by King Steffan when he left for Paradise Valley. She didn’t understand the reasons why Pisander kept him alive, but whatever they might be it was clear that Bottren offered no threat. He was a shell of the man he must once have been.
Two Arvenian armies still existed, both under the control of men appointed by Pisander. One was camped to the west outside Erestor, and the other to the north on the border with Castel. She had learned that these armies largely consisted of veterans of the war with Rogand, which suggested they were formidable fighting units. However, since they had been given no recent tasks to perform, it was impossible to form any assessment of their new leadership or their current effectiveness.
One very serious concern had emerged. The attempt to assassinate the rulers of Arvenon, Castel, and Varas had met with limited success, with the king of Castel the only confirmed kill. No one could state with certainty that either King Steffan or Queen Essanda was dead.
In view of that, Lygell had sent two large squads to Paradise Valley with orders to finish off the Arvenian king and queen. Neither squad had reported back.
Unconfirmed reports suggested that a large body of men had been seen riding in the opposite direction, away from Paradise Valley. No reports of any kind had been received since then. Lygell’s men had apparently vanished from the face of the earth.
If Lady Ona had been placed in charge of Arvenon, she would have found this information very disturbing indeed. She would have placed the highest priority on getting to the bottom of it.
Decisive action was clearly needed in a number of crucial areas. Lygell held the reins of power, but the man was paralyzed. He seemed more concerned about Lady Ona’s indifference toward him than about fulfilling his responsibilities.
Pisander clearly harbored many frustrations about his underlings, and with good reason. It wasn’t difficult to see why he had tried to recruit her.
In spite of the challenges faced by Pisander, Lady Ona could only marvel at how much the disgraced exile had achieved. It was true that King Steffan and Queen Essanda had not yet been accounted for, but Pisander’s accomplishments were nevertheless remarkable. He had wrested control of Arvenon, or at least Arnost and most of Arvenon, from the ruling monarchs. The assassination attempt had been accompanied by a smooth and rapid takeover of the capital. The entire Arvenian army had quickly been placed under the command of men loyal to Pisander. The magnitude of these achievements should not be understated.
At the same time, it was equally obvious that after seizing power so effectively, Pisander was finding the task of wielding power considerably more challenging.
To function well, a kingdom required more than just willing leaders. An endless list of routine but essential roles needed to be carried out by competent people. The garbage disposal system in Arnost offered a perfect example. Until her intervention, it had been heading for collapse. Sooner or later the result would have been disease and death, with the rich and powerful suffering along with the poor.
There was a limit to how much she could achieve, and it had become obvious to Lady Ona that little could be gained by remaining in Arnost. She accordingly began making preparations to return to Rog. Pisander offered no response of any kind when she notified him of her plans. She didn’t bother even to inform Lygell.
King Agon had sent her to review the overall strategic situation in Arvenon, and to get the measure of Pisander and his henchmen. She had done what she came to do.
The king wasn’t going to be at all happy when he heard her report.
King Agon stared wildly at Ennawi, his eyes almost popping out of his head. Agon’s heart was pounding, and he could feel his veins standing out. He ground his teeth noisily before tilting his head back and shouting at the top of his voice.
The king turned away without bothering to see if his mute servant had registered a reaction. A response of any kind was so unlikely it wasn’t worth checking for.
A small figurine lay on a side table in his apartments. Reaching down for it, the king hurled it across the room. The sight of the ornament hitting the wall and shattering into pieces felt intensely satisfying. His breathing began to slow, and his heart gradually stopped racing.
When he was almost feeling normal again he turned back to his servant. “Did you know who summoned Krasmir to Rog?” he asked calmly. “It was me! I wanted to brief him on the practicalities of ruling. I can’t hand over power without some kind of preparation.”
He threw up his hands. “I even thought I might pass on some of the subtleties. What made me think it was going to be straightforward?”
Agon drew closer to Ennawi and peered into his eyes. “Krasmir’s a complete idiot. Why didn’t any of my servants warn me?” He jabbed a finger into Ennawi’s chest. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
The king released a huge sigh. “I’m meeting with the fool again in the morning. Did you know I’ve been avoiding my sword, Ennawi?” he asked. “Sometimes I feel my hand twitching for it.” He reached out a trembling hand and examined it.
“I can’t trust myself with a sword. It wouldn’t matter if I decapitated one of my servants—you, for instance. No one would care. But I’d end up lopping off Krasmir’s head, and that would make the last three weeks a complete waste of my time. Worse, I’d be leaving for Arnost without a regent.”
He clenched and unclenched his fists. Then he closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Finally he left his apartments, still struggling to keep his composure.
Two agents were brought to the king as soon as he had settled himself into the small reception chamber adjoining his private apartments. The king came immediately to the point. “Well? What have you learned about Krasmir?” he asked bluntly.
“He has a reputation for brutality, Your Majesty,” one of them said.
“I know that,” snapped the king.
The agent hesitated. “It seems that the reputation is not well founded,” he finally added.
Agon frowned. “What? Impossible! What are you talking about?”
“Our sources suggest that Lord Krasmir has encouraged false rumors to reinforce his reputation for barbarity. One of his servants claims he even intentionally dresses like a brute to support the idea.”
“Why would he do that?” demanded Agon.
“Apparently to discourage people from daring to challenge his authority, Your Majesty.”
The king shook his head dismissively. His own opinion of Krasmir was nothing new—he had believed for many years that Krasmir was little better than a beast. Other members of the Rogandan nobility saw it the same way. His agents had more than once reported comments to that effect. It was impossible to believe that Krasmir had been putting on an act all along.
“What of his wife and children?”
“None of them have ever uttered a word on the subject, Your Majesty. But we secretly observed him with his family. He appears to treat them with great gentleness. And he has an old mother. All of his servants claim that the two of them dote on each other.”
The king fell silent.
“Not one of his household servants has ever been heard whispering about the way their lord treats them. We learned that positions among his household servants are greatly coveted. Once he appoints a servant, they never want to leave.”
The king’s brows were furrowed. “What about his intelligence?”
“He is regarded as sharp-witted and shrewd, Your Majesty. Those who know him best all agree on that.”
“And his estates?”
“Well managed by all accounts.”
The king dismissed his agents, struggling to fully grasp the implications of all they had said.
Their reports had shaken him. Was it actually possible that Krasmir’s reputation was nothing more than a clever pretense? Had the nobleman truly succeeded in deceiving everyone, including the king?
The most important question was whether Krasmir could be trusted. Was he a danger to Agon or his interests? He quickly dismissed any such notion—without the Stone of Authority he might have considerable cause for concern. Having subjected Krasmir to the stone, he had no doubt that the nobleman could be trusted to act in the royal interest.
As he pondered it further, he reminded himself that the nobleman had never been known to act in either an aggressive or a duplicitous manner. He was wealthy and powerful, but he had not attained that status at the expense of his peers among the nobility. His deception—assuming that’s what it truly was—seemed primarily defensive in nature. He apparently wanted to make others think twice before moving against him.
It did give the king pause. He had spent a lot of time with Krasmir in recent weeks, and he had witnessed the stupidity of the nobleman for himself. It now occurred to him that other explanations could also be offered.
Was it possible that he had misjudged Krasmir? He instantly discarded the thought. No king worthy of the name doubted himself.
“I have already explained that, My Lord,” snapped Agon, eyeing Krasmir closely as he said it.
Krasmir gazed back at him, his eyes glazed.
There was no fight at all in the nobleman, and Agon knew he could thank the Stone of Authority for that. But Krasmir appeared obtuse and uncomprehending, and if the reports of Agon’s agents were to be believed, the man was anything but dull-witted. The stone was surely not to blame either. According to the scroll, the stone neither diminished nor enhanced the intelligence of the people it influenced.
Was Krasmir putting on another act?
Agon groaned. Whether Krasmir was dull-witted or not, the king had little choice but to persevere with these briefings in the hope that the nobleman would finally begin to make sense of it all.
“I will explain it again,” said the king irritably. “Pay attention this time!”
Lord Krasmir walked beside the king, working hard to conceal his boredom. The last few weeks had felt like the longest of his life. The king intended to bring Arvenon finally to heel, and he expected it to involve a long absence from Rogand. With that in mind he had approached Krasmir to explore the possibility of appointing the nobleman as regent.
Krasmir supposed he should have felt honored, but it increasingly felt like a bad dream. The regency itself wasn’t the problem. It was the time preparing for it with the king.
“As my representative, you will be expected to attend the solstice festivals at the temple,” the king was saying.
Krasmir was familiar with the solstice festivals, but on the rare occasions he attended he had paid no attention at all to the role of the king. He therefore found himself wondering what he would be expected to say, what symbolic acts he might need to perform, when he should arrive, and how long he would need to stay at the festival.
If only he dared ask.
Krasmir knew that the king believed he was providing a detailed briefing. As far as the nobleman was concerned, Agon did little more than ramble on endlessly, usually without addressing the most important questions. His long-winded explanations were rarely useful, yet he apparently felt the need to repeat himself over and over again. More often than not, Krasmir found it almost impossible to make sense of any of it. Worse, any request for the tiniest clarification inevitably led to Agon rolling his eyes and repeating everything again with exaggerated patience, each time without making it any clearer.
The king wasn’t stupid. He just wasn’t naturally gifted as a tutor. And having always done whatever he pleased without question, he’d never developed the skill of explaining himself.
Even when Krasmir did understand the king’s ways of doing things, they didn’t always make sense to him. Every one of Krasmir’s peers on the Great Council had recognized for years that the king was often his own worst enemy. No one was more practiced than Agon at working against his own best interests.
Not one of the nobles was foolish enough to say so. The king derived far too much delight from ordering executions.
It was frustrating, because Krasmir intended well. He didn’t at all understand why he had the king’s best interests at heart, especially in light of their shared history, but the truth was that the king could trust him completely.
Krasmir could only carry on in the hope that it would all work out somehow.
12
Kernon peered toward the lone figure of Will Prentis standing on the outskirts of the forest. “That’s him all right,” he said.
Lord Redfass looked at Jonas. “So you were on the level,” he said.
“We had our doubts,” Namor added coolly.
Jonas shrugged.
Kernon ignored them. He had eyes only for Will Prentis. “He’s making no attempt to flee,” he observed, shaking his head.
“That makes no sense,” said Namor, frowning. “If he’s entirely alone, why is he so calm?” He began peering around uneasily.
“I have no idea,” Kernon replied. “But we need to take him down before he decides to make a run for it.”
Jonas pulled his sword. “Who said he’s entirely alone?” he asked fiercely. Kernon looked at him blankly.
Swinging his horse around, Jonas dug in his heels and charged at Redfass. The expression of the mercenary leader changed in an instant from puzzlement to fury. He raised his sword defensively, but Jonas drove furiously through his guard and sent him crashing from the saddle. Both Kernon and Namor watched open-mouthed. Before they could react, Jonas turned away and galloped toward the lone figure among the trees.
With a cry of rage, Kernon rose in his stirrups, calling the men forward. A shout arose, and the entire line of horsemen charged after Jonas.
As Kernon galloped forward, he noticed something happening along the line of trees. His eyes went wide as horsemen streamed out from between the trees, surging past both Jonas and Will Prentis.
A huge soldier rode at their head, and Kernon’s heart abruptly missed a beat when he realized who it was. Rufe Sarjant was leading the charge. Where had he come from?
A hunting horn sounded from somewhere behind them, then another. They were surrounded. Kernon saw then that they had been outwitted and deceived.
It made no difference. Victory or death, there was no backing out now.
Kernon galloped forward, screaming his defiance.
The lines crashed together, and Kernon’s world descended into a confusion of shouting men and screaming horses. He had fought before, but the fury of the men before him was unlike anything he had encountered. His attackers were literally howling for blood. And there were so many of them.
Assaulted from two sides, Kernon cast his eyes around frantically, searching for support. No help would be coming. All of the mercenaries were equally beset, and men went down even as his glance fell on them.
Taking advantage of his distraction, his attackers broke through his defenses. He toppled to the ground, agonizing pain overwhelming him. Before everything went dark a face he recognized flashed briefly into view. His fading thought was the realization that he had been brought low by his own soldiers—the men he had left waiting in the camp below Steffan’s Citadel.
Thomas remained among the trees when the fighting started. He had never witnessed a battle on this scale before, and even as a distant observer he found the experience confronting. The chaos bewildered him—how could any commander make sense of what was happening?—and the harrowing cries of men and horses oppressed him.
To his untrained eye there was little to distinguish between the two sides, and when the fighting eventually ended he wasn’t at first certain who had won. It was with enormous relief that he eventually spotted Will. The commander stood on a low mound surveying the scene, Rufe and Jonas beside him. All of them appeared unharmed and in control of the situation.
Thomas eventually mustered the courage to approach them, although he stayed out of the way, both to avoid distracting them and because he felt completely out of place.
After the battle, soldiers collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. Others tended to the wounded. No one seemed to notice his arrival, and he was happy to remain inconspicuous.
Thomas’s attention was soon drawn to Will. The commander mounted his horse and rode slowly among the men, greeting them and thanking them for their efforts. A murmur of voices rose in anticipation as he drew near. Hands reached out to touch his horse as he passed. Even the faces of gravely wounded men lit up when he turned their way, his regard somehow dulling their pain for a time.
Was it always like this after a battle? Thomas had heard about Will’s reputation, but he’d always assumed it arose from his uncanny strategic abilities. He saw now that there was more to the commander than he’d ever imagined.
“They claimed you were a traitor,” one of the soldiers called to Will, shaking his head.
“Yeah. Supposedly you’d run off to Varas!” scoffed another. “Rufe too.”
“None of us believed it. Not for a minute,” said a soldier. Loud grunts of assent accompanied the remark.
“I am grateful to you all,” Will told them. “After the lies you’d been told, we didn’t know what to expect,” he said frankly.
Many of the soldiers looked baffled at the idea there could be any uncertainty about their response. “‘Will needs your help,’” one of them said simply. “That’s what Rufe told us.” He said it as if no further explanation was necessary.
The men around him grunted their affirmation.
Will nodded gravely, and moved on.
Thomas looked on in astonishment. How could any leader inspire such devotion from battle-hardened warriors? He felt like he was seeing Will properly for the first time.
These men called him ‘Will’, not Lord Torbury, and Will made no move to correct them. Thomas guessed that many of the soldiers had served under him at Torbury Scarp. Will was the kind of man to value the bond he shared with his men far above any formal title.
