The Gathering Storm

“All things die, Your Majesty.”



“As God will it, so shall it come to pass. But are we not creatures of free will? I acquiesced to my first marriage. I thought I had no choice in the matter, I thought those who chose for me must know best, until I discovered that my noble husband was no better than a rutting stag, bellowing and roaring. I swore never to acquiesce again.” Her white scarf fluttered as a wind rose off the river, bringing with it the stench of the city’s sewage, but Adelheid did not flinch, although Antonia felt compelled to cover her own nose with a corner of her sleeve. “Nor will I. Now that I have tasted the sweetness of freedom, I cannot return to the bitter plate.”



“God demand obedience.”



“God demand that we do what is right.”



“The Enemy tempts with sweet things.”



“Yet so do God, for what is right must seem sweet to us. So the blessed Daisan preached.”



Voices rang in the hall beyond the closed doors. The servants leaped aside as the doors were flung open and a captain wearing the tabard of the palace guards strode in, dropping to his knees before the empress. Like all her captains, he was a solid, competent man, neatly dressed and devotedly loyal to his young queen.



“Your Majesty! A messenger from the north. From Zuola.”



“Zuola!” The county of Zuola lay north and east of Darre, near the border with Dalmiaka, on the plain below the easternmost extent of the Alfar Mountains. “Is it news of the emperor?”



“Alas, no, Your Majesty. Ill news, I fear.” He looked back toward the door, hearing the jingle of mail, and a weary man clattered into the room with a guard on either side. The messenger’s dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat, and sweat had made runnels through the dust staining his face. Dust spit from his boots with each step; he shed it from his clothing onto the rugs.



“Your Majesty,” he croaked.



“Give him wine,” said Adelheid.



“Nay,” he insisted, kneeling beside the captain. Dust shook from him. Antonia coughed. “I’ll take wine after, if it pleases you, Your Majesty. Dire news.”



She was pale but not cowed. “Go on. Is it the emperor?”



“Nay, I have heard nothing of the emperor, Your Majesty. I am one of those you posted in the Brinne Pass.”



“An army! Has it come?”



“A large army, Your Majesty.” He began coughing too hard to continue.



One of the guards was so excited he could not contain himself, but blurted out rash words. “Rumor says it is led by a sorcerer who commands two griffins.”



“Griffins!” The servants exclaimed in wonder.



Adelheid’s face changed color, but she said nothing.



“Hush!” Captain Falco gave the guard a sharp look, and he flushed, shamefaced, and stepped back.



“Rumor delights in false words.” The empress turned her attention back to the messenger. “What is your name?”



He bent his head, acknowledging her intent notice, the honor she did him by asking who he was. Most men and women lived and died without ever coming to the attention of their noble ruler, and often this was to their advantage, but Adelheid was a different kind of ruler, one who liked to know to whom she spoke, even if they were the lowest laboring serf.



“I am called Milo, Your Majesty.”



“Drink first, then tell me only what is known for certain.”



He dared not disobey, and in truth it was clear that he was grateful to drain two cups of wine and wipe his neck and face with a damp linen cloth. Adelheid waited patiently, as still as a cat watching a mouse which has not yet realized that it is intended to become dinner.



“It is better to consider your words than to speak in haste. Captain Falco, send for Duke Burchard, Count Tedbald, and Captain Lutfridus.”



He sent a guard on the errand, then knelt again beside Milo. Already word had run through the palace that a messenger had come bearing ill tidings, and a murmur of voices betrayed the gathering of servants, guardsmen, and courtiers come to lurk outside the doors, although none dared enter the empress’ private apartments without explicit permission.



“Go on, then, Milo. Do not fear to speak before me.”



“Your Majesty.” He wiped his forehead one more time, more for courage than to cool himself. “We camped many months in the pass. The winter wasn’t so hard, for it snowed less than usual. We placed ourselves with a good view of the trail, so we might see scouts or the van of an army coming long before they might chance to see us. So it proved. A large army is crossing the pass. In truth, they may have come down into Zuola in the days it has taken me to ride here, although over the months we rigged traps to create as many obstacles as we could manage. My comrades have ridden according to our orders. I came here.”