In the Ruins (Crown of Stars 6)

So silent was it in the hall that Antonia heard horses stamping outside. So silent was it that when someone coughed, half a dozen courtiers started as at a thunderclap. It was almost dark now and in this silence a score of servants began lighting lamps.

“This I know,” said Adelheid at last. “There is long enmity between your people and mine, General. There is the matter of church doctrine, not easily put aside. But these are things, now, that matter less than the evils that besiege us. This is why I sent my envoys to ask for an alliance.”

He nodded again, as if to seal a bargain. “For myself, I admit I care little what the priests and deacons sing. I care little whether the blessed Daisan is a man such as myself or mixed with the substance of God.”

Before Antonia could speak, Adelheid reached to fasten a hand over the skopos’ wrist. Such a tiny, petite hand, to have such an iron grasp. Antonia did not like this man, but she knew that to object now would destroy her tenuous alliance with Adelheid. How bitter it was to rely on earthly power! If only God had given her the means to smite her enemies more comprehensively than with individual galla, she would take to the task with a vengeance.

The general nodded as if to show he understood Antonia’s disgust. He indicated her with an open palm, showing respect in a way that won her grudging admiration. “Here are those who will fight for God. Let them battle where they can do good. As for me, I will use my sword where I can and my wits where I must. Are you agreed to the marriage?”

It was a swift thrust, but it did not take Adelheid by surprise. “My daughter Mathilda, to be betrothed to the young Emperor Niko. Yes. She is young yet, not more than five, but she will grow.”

His good eye narrowed. Where the scar damaged his face, he had no expression. It appeared that the muscles were somehow paralyzed. “Your daughter is of no use to me. She is a child. You are a woman.”

That fast, everything changed. Just as a wind will overset the careful preparations of a farmer who has not yet bundled his hay, so the plans agreed between Antonia and Adelheid flew away to nothing.

o;Once?” Adelheid asked quickly. “No longer?”

He smiled, as if Adelheid’s question were suggestive of brilliance. How easily men of a certain age were dazzled by young, pretty women. Henry had fallen in just such a manner, it was said.

“This is what I say,” he continued. “Lady Eudokia prefers blindness. She walks in the ruins and calls them a palace. I cannot be blind to what I see.”

“What do you want, General?” Antonia asked, seeing it was wise to intercede before the conversation ran out of her control. “I believe that the Empress Queen Adelheid has made a rash suggestion that her daughter might marry the boy who is now Emperor of Arethousa. Is that what you have come to speak of? If so, let us move directly to the point. Speak bluntly, as you soldiers phrase it!”

That one good eye fixed on her briefly and disconcertingly, and he marked her and acknowledged her, but he shifted his attention back to Adelheid.

They always did! Men were fools, not to see where the true power lay. They were unbelievers, not placing their trust in God’s servants first. Not reaching for faith before earthly lusts. Always humankind failed, and it irritated her so much!

“This I hear also on my journey,” he said. “Darre, this great city, also lies in ruins. Poison smoke kills the people who live there. Every person must flee. The city is dead.”

Adelheid did not move, not to nod, not to shake her head. She had grown tense. The pearls pooled in her lap, but she was no longer touching them but rather the arms of her throne as she glared at him.

“What do you want, General? Have you come to mock me?”

“I want to live.” He patted his chest. “I—and you, Your Majesty—stand atop these ruins. Two great cities. Two noble and ancient empires. All ruins.”

She nodded but did not trust herself to speak. Tears filled the queen’s eyes. She had seen so much and lost so much, and his words affected her deeply. All there, in that assembly, strained to listen. He had that capacity, as did Adelheid: that he could draw to him those willing to follow. Like the pearls, he had luster, difficult to see when one first looked at his stocky body, bushy black beard, and terribly scarred face.

“Ruins, yours and mine. To the north, these Ungrians and Wendish, perhaps not so badly harmed. To the east, the heathen Jinna and their fire god. These also, perhaps, have not suffered so badly as we do, but it is hard to say. Last, heed me. Listen well. To the south, the Cursed Ones return. There is land where once there is sea. Already they raid into the north. When they gather an army and move in force … we will be helpless.”

So silent was it in the hall that Antonia heard horses stamping outside. So silent was it that when someone coughed, half a dozen courtiers started as at a thunderclap. It was almost dark now and in this silence a score of servants began lighting lamps.

“This I know,” said Adelheid at last. “There is long enmity between your people and mine, General. There is the matter of church doctrine, not easily put aside. But these are things, now, that matter less than the evils that besiege us. This is why I sent my envoys to ask for an alliance.”

He nodded again, as if to seal a bargain. “For myself, I admit I care little what the priests and deacons sing. I care little whether the blessed Daisan is a man such as myself or mixed with the substance of God.”

Before Antonia could speak, Adelheid reached to fasten a hand over the skopos’ wrist. Such a tiny, petite hand, to have such an iron grasp. Antonia did not like this man, but she knew that to object now would destroy her tenuous alliance with Adelheid. How bitter it was to rely on earthly power! If only God had given her the means to smite her enemies more comprehensively than with individual galla, she would take to the task with a vengeance.

The general nodded as if to show he understood Antonia’s disgust. He indicated her with an open palm, showing respect in a way that won her grudging admiration. “Here are those who will fight for God. Let them battle where they can do good. As for me, I will use my sword where I can and my wits where I must. Are you agreed to the marriage?”

It was a swift thrust, but it did not take Adelheid by surprise. “My daughter Mathilda, to be betrothed to the young Emperor Niko. Yes. She is young yet, not more than five, but she will grow.”

His good eye narrowed. Where the scar damaged his face, he had no expression. It appeared that the muscles were somehow paralyzed. “Your daughter is of no use to me. She is a child. You are a woman.”

That fast, everything changed. Just as a wind will overset the careful preparations of a farmer who has not yet bundled his hay, so the plans agreed between Antonia and Adelheid flew away to nothing.

The empress laughed. Her nearest courtiers, seeing and hearing the words not spoken, set hands to faces, or hid their eyes, or chortled, or exclaimed, each according to their nature.

Antonia fumed. She must remain silent or lose all. She saw her own power eroding so quickly that she knew she must cling to the shoreline before the entire sandy cliff collapsed beneath her. It was no good to protest that the queen must not trust Arethousans or that her beloved Aostans would never trust her again should she marry one, because she had already considered and approved the idea of marrying her young daughter to one of them. To a foreigner! A heretic!