The Necromancer’s Will – Excerpt

Chapter 1
Kingcraft

It was not always that meetings of the King’s Council were as agreeable as the room itself, sunlit and well-appointed. In fact they were, for the most part, civil. Today’s fracas made the tapestries of battle seem tame.

“And what do you propose?” Lord Curita countered in casual irreverence. “March an army to Vinicadd? I believe they already have one there. Two might be excessive.”

A jolt of anger shook Dondaros to the jowls. “That land is overrun with assassins and Dark worshipers. By the grace of The Light, the whole of it should be cleansed by fire!”

Beside Dondaros, Lord La Mir held up a hand for peace, and said in his gentle voice, “Work is already underway to purify Vinicadd and its holdings. Sir Balthazar Maskin of the Basilica is leading the effort to expunge the Brotherhood of Krad from those lands.”

“One knight? That is all?” Dondaros demanded, indignant. “There should be a legion!”

La Mir dipped his balding head, to which he was prone when yelled at. “I am assured that Sir Balthazar is the man for this task. He is a fully trained knight vigilant of the Order of the Holy Shield, and has all the forces of Vinicadd at his disposal, and it was her Holiness herself — Light bless her — who selected him. Moreover, a contingent of Scriers has been dispatched to assist.”

“If the report from Archbishop Tarkain is to be believed,” Curita added, “Sir Balthazar himself tracked this ‘brotherhood,’” he flicked his hand in a castoff gesture, “to their lair, rescued the good archbishop from imprisonment, made haste back to Vinicadd, stopped the archbishop’s impersonator from poisoning a host of nobles, then single-handedly slew the imposter after the rabble employed sorcery to transform into a monster.” Curita chuckled, and glanced around the table with his mismatched eyes, one blue, one brown. “If even half of that is true, it would seem Sir Balthazar is more than equal to the task.”

Lord Dondaros frowned. “Perhaps,” he allowed, his ire beginning to cool. “But that land has plainly been left wanting of our authority. We should ready the holdings around Vinicadd, as a measure of precaution, Scriers or no.”

“A prudent measure,” Lord Stonehand agreed. He stroked his thick gray beard out of habit. It was a handsome beard, worth stroking contemplatively. “Yes, prudent. I also suggest we enquire as to how this Brotherhood was able to amass such a presence from the first. And, perhaps, we should call on the Basilica to order any knights they have near Vinicadd to proceed there with haste.” He glanced across the table at Dondaros. “As a precaution.”

“Mm,” Dondaros nodded. “As a precaution.”

At the head of the table, Domenico III Selva, King of Silmar, wondered if there was, in fact, anything to be done on this subject. Vinicadd was four hundred miles removed from Ilkoten, seat of the kingdom, and the report that so interested his councilors was a week old. It had arrived through the Siad of the Ilkoten cathedral days ago, but an accumulation of accounts, petitions, appointments, and other business of court had kept this report in waiting. It had not warned of war, and so had languished. Yet the matter itself seemed well in hand.

Watching Lord Stonehand prompted the king to stroke his own beard — trimmed and oiled, with only a few speckles of gray beneath the gaunt panes of his cheeks. The king kept his hands on the arms of his chair, his rings hard against the polished wood. He glanced between his councilors, who now seemed content to agree with themselves that precaution was in order, and was a satisfactory compromise between doing nothing or committing a major force of arms. The king looked past them to the foot of the table. His son sat there, watching them all, saying nothing, slender in a red and gold raiment like his father’s. He had not spoken throughout the meeting. He rarely did when he attended.

“Precaution is wise,” the king said at last, “and so I am placing all holds and forces within a week’s ride of Vinicadd on alert for suspect activity. However, a brave knight also needs our aid. I am ordering a detachment of two hundred men-at-arms from Dawnhill to reinforce Vinicadd in whatever way needed by the local authority and by Sir Balthazar Maskin, until such time as this Brotherhood of Krad is destroyed. As well, word is to be sent along the roads that the lands of Vinicadd may not be safe for unguarded travel. The Royal Patrol will increase its presence in that area for the time being. I will also speak with her Holiness to see if there are any Knights of the Basilica near Vinicadd who might lend aid.”

The council members glanced at each other, weighing with their eyes how their fellows took the decision. They were practiced at this, and they all nodded. All save the king’s son. His eyes had not moved from his father.

“As you command, my King,” said Lord Dondaros, mollified for the present.

“Thank you for your time and counsel, my lords. That is all for today,” said the king.

He rose, noticing how deeply gold the sunlight had become on the silver-gray walls of the council chamber. His councilors rose with him and bowed. The prince was the only one to follow the king from the room; two guards waiting in the hall accompanied them.

It was a long walk up flights of stairs and through grand corridors to the king’s chambers. Guards and servants bowed as they passed, handmaids curtsied. Nobles there were too, most of some far-flung relation to royalty, and priests and courtiers aplenty. They filled the halls like walking coffers: their garments strewn with gemstones, encrusted with pearls, stiff with embroidery of silver and gold. In company of their retinues, the lords and ladies of the kingdom were like some farraginous army that had invaded the palace and made itself at home. At least there was no shortage of music or perfume.

As was his custom, the king favored his people with a kind word. He asked after the newborn of a lady in waiting and congratulated a steward on his recent marriage. For the aristocracy he offered no more than a smile; they would attach themselves like leeches if there was even a chance for an audience with his royal person. The supplicants as well, and the men of the cloth.

It was fortunate, then, that the higher one ascended in the palace, the more the halls emptied. Only the greatest rose to the top. The king often evaded callers by dodging up the nearest flight of stairs. Today was no different: that agent of the Apothecary’s Guild was back, flashing his saccharine smile as he complained of infringement by those upstarts of the Alchemist’s Guild. The king got out of there.

Up a floor, up a floor, the crowds thinning, the air becoming cooler. They would be lighting the hearths soon. At the end of a hall, King Domenico noticed his daughter. She was followed by her customary train of damsels, their voices light as the chirping of sparrows. There was a young man on the princess’ arm. Her suitor. Her current suitor. The king wondered how long this one would last.

By the king’s side all this time, the prince had said not a word. His hands he kept clasped behind his back, and his eyes were distant. A long stretch of silence meant he was thinking.

Not until they were alone on the king’s private balcony did the father ask his son, “Your thoughts on Vinicadd?”

“You chose prudent action for the situation,” said the prince. He gazed out over the parapet as if mapping the temperate lands by sight. “At present, the local authorities appear to have events in hand. A modest force to bolster their own — with the promise of further reinforcement, should they need it — will allow them flexibility. They will know best how to put their resources to use. Attempting to control the situation from afar will only result in a blunder. For the nonce, it is better to observe. What needs be addressed is the abhorrent length of time it took the report to reach your hands. The actions of this Brotherhood were nothing less than an attack upon the Kingdom and the Alliance. It should have been brought to you the moment it arrived.”

Side by side with the prince, King Domenico nodded. “A sound assessment. I agree.”

They watched ships ply the waters of the Crowned Lake far below the palace, so named for the five mountains that framed the circular lake. The king could not help but smile at his son. Domenico IV Selva was his father’s secret joy. He was youngest of the king’s children at thirteen: intelligent, proud, quick, disciplined, beautiful. He had his mother’s blue eyes and gentle face, and his father’s gold-auburn hair, like sunlight on strands of copper. He was small now, but he was growing into a fine lad.

The king added, “I will have it decreed that all matters concerning such things as rebellious groups, Dark powers, or anything akin to this incident with the Brotherhood of Krad be given the foremost priority.”

“Agreed,” said the prince, his voice smooth and clipped. He smiled a little, and his father smiled, and together they watched as ships crossed the vast lake to the three great rivers that would take them beyond the mountains into the lands of the Kingdom of Silmar.

It warmed the king’s heart to hear his child sound so much like a ruler already. Domenico III had not yet made it known that he wanted his youngest to be his heir. Domenico IV was everything a king should be. He was upright, just, practical, rational, austere yet not unapproachable. He had learned the value of people and of trade, of words and mathematics, of administration, farms, architecture, science, and philosophy. He had a mind for philosophy. Swordplay as well.

So much praise for his youngest son brought the faces of his other children to the king’s mind, accompanied by a pang of guilt. A familiar feeling. He loved all his children, even if his eyes were for his youngest most of all. He missed how they used to run and shriek with delight when they were little — all but Domenico — and it had never failed to fill a room with laughter when he would spin them round so much they flopped on the floor like fish. The memories were warm, a pleasant distraction, though temporary. For despite a parent’s shame of admiring one child over his others, the king knew he was not in error. It hurt more, but he knew.

While there were no dullards among the royal progeny, Basilicata, the eldest, was too proud. How prone he was to take offense at even perceived slights. How tightly he held to rigid, particular notions of honor. Oh, Bas, dear boy. The First Prince was more apt to settle differences with duels instead of words, a given among the young and the noble. Impetuousness and a tetchy disposition made a recipe for blood: the most recent victim being a visiting scion who had mocked the prince’s aim at bowls. There were few better swordsmen in the kingdom than the First Prince, it was true, and few better commanders. Basilicata had taken to heart his lessons of warcraft. He could defend the kingdom without fail, but the king would not give his eldest the throne by choice. The man was apt to start a war over an improper greeting.

Uberto, the second born, was too quick, often preoccupied with his own thoughts. Erudite, he had so well learned the ways of court that he could prise out hidden meanings in the words of others, sometimes before they even spoke. He had acquired a taste for spycraft, and cultivated secrets as a gardener would vegetables. The Royal Shadow, some called the Second Prince. Uberto might become the best master of intrigue ever seen, but if given the throne, was likely to empty the capital for fear of assassins.

The Royal Shadow… an apt cognomen. He had always hated being called “Ubi” anyway.

Hellena was the third child. She the king’s only daughter, alone in inheriting her mother’s golden hair. If it was possible to be too beautiful, Hellena was. At first sight of her, men would stop and stare, as if struck upon the head; women as well, though more in shock and envy. For better or worse, Hellena knew she was astoundingly attractive, and it was her greatest weapon. How sweet she could be — she had always been the sweetest of the children — papa’s little princess. Sweet, yes, and cunning. Whatever she desired she could have from any man outside her family. Hellena kept her ambitions close, but the king knew, with the intuition particular to a parent, that if her welfare clashed with that of the kingdom, it was the kingdom that would lose.

The sun began to set behind one of the mountains crowning the lake. It set Prince Domenico’s hair aflame. Seeing those sea-blue eyes within that gleam of hair sent a throb of pride through the king’s chest. For no other reason than the want of a father, the king stroked his son’s hair. The prince smiled at his father, and for that moment all was right with the world.

“Father,” the prince said when the king’s hand fell away, “there is another matter I wish to discuss.”

“Oh?”

“You know I have been making adjustments to the administration of the capital: lifting tariffs, easing taxes, removing restrictions, and so forth.”

“And striking down the king’s laws as well?” the king added; his raised eyebrow warned of rebuke, his smile said it was only half in jest. His youngest had been coming to him of late with books of kingdom law, opening them to one law or another, explaining why said law was inefficient or unjust, then striking it off with a quill.

A smile quirked a corner of the prince’s mouth. “Not without your Majesty’s approval.” He did, in fact, wait for his king’s permission before striking a law.

“Of course,” the king said. He nodded for his son to continue.

“There is a decree I would ask you to annul. It was not your doing, nor that of my Lord Grandfather, but by the members of his council. I do not know if they enacted it with his knowledge, but if he did know, he did not care to overturn it.”

“And this decree?”

“Do you recall the White Foundation?”

The king’s smile dipped somewhat as he searched his memory. “I do, yes — a special school of some sort.” He leaned a little on the parapet, watching his son’s eyes.

The prince never looked away from him. The prince never looked away from those to whom he spoke. “By this decree, they are barred from establishing a chapter house within the capital, or anywhere within ten leagues of the capital.”

“Why would my father’s council forbid a school from establishing itself here?” the king wondered, as much to himself as his son.

“I have the original decree in my study, although its wording is so vague that I can hardly understand it. The only reason it seems to give for denying the White Foundation is that,” the prince frowned briefly, as at a bitter taste, “‘it would threaten the balance of equitability and prosperity of the capital and its holdings by introducing a dangerous, competitive element.’”

The king blinked at hearing words like that from his youngest; it had the ring of something a courtier would say, or perhaps Uberto. “Sounds like such a thing an oversmall official with an overlarge head would conjure to keep his smallfolk too confused to question whether they needed him or not.”

Domenico smiled to have his father understand. “Yes, exactly! I suspect the wording is deliberate, and, although I cannot prove it — being that my Lord Grandfather and his councilors are all deceased — I also suspect my Lord Grandfather’s councilors profited from hindering the White Foundation.”

King Domenico crossed his arms, his smile fading into a look of attentive curiosity. “A serious charge, corruption, even when laid upon the dead. What has aroused your suspicions?”

“When we traveled to Teraden last year, I spent much of my time visiting a Foundation chapter house in the city.”

“I remember being sick with worry while my guards scoured the city for you,” the king chided.

Briefly did his son glance away, eyes downcast — his way of apologizing. “After that, I began investigating the history of the Foundation. In every city in which they established themselves, they have been opposed by guilds, nobility, the Basilica, and officials of the local governance, some of whom conspired to oust the Foundation through ill-means. Yet in every city that hosts the Foundation, within the first year personal income, revenue, and public order improves, and crime decreases, particularly murder and theft. These trends not only continue in following years, but increase as the prosperity of the people increases.”

“Where did you learn all this?”

“I contacted the magistrates, treasurers, and registrars of each city.”

The king laughed out loud. It was so clear that he, with his years of experience in statecraft, should have thought of it first. If there were any records that would never lie, they were tax records. “Magnificent.”

“Then you will?” the prince asked hopefully.

The king put his arm around his son’s shoulders and guided his child from the balcony. “First, I will see this decree, and all of your findings, and I will hear your entire explanation of how you arrived at this decision. Then, when I inevitably succumb to your logic, I will agree.”

The prince smiled at the praise, showing teeth that glowed white in the sun. “Yes, Father.”

The king stopped suddenly as they passed into the shade of his solar. The setting sun and the positions of the furnishings conspired to cast shadows throughout the room. Dark forms, beastly forms, brooding. Especially in the corners. They gave the king a moment’s unease before he understood why. He leaned down to put a kiss upon the prince’s brow.

“My son,” he sighed. “My son. It shames me, but I wish at times your eyes were not so clear, so you would not see the darkness that lives in our world.”

It was not merely talk of petty corruption that sparked such thoughts. The king had felt for some time that something was… wrong in the world. Word of dark things used to reach him every month or so. Only a few. Often such things were far afield, and when dealt with by knights of the Basilica they did not seem so terrible. Now the reports came by the week, of foul murders and sorcery, dread beasts and hauntings. Some mentioned the Dark Organizations. A few rumored of witches, necromancers. Curious that the accounts with too few details should concern him the most. He ordered the roads and towns watched, and the Basilica of Holy Light sent out their knights and Light Priests. Yet it seemed to no effect. It made him think of an old prophecy: of darkness swallowing the world.

Prince Domenico regarded his father with thoughtful eyes. He asked, without arrogance or fear, “If I cannot see the darkness, Father, how can I vanquish it?”

That earned the prince another kiss. “My perfect son,” the king said, now wearing a warm smile. His boy would be fine. Surely, such darkness that he feared was as nothing to the viper’s nest of politics. “Come. You must tell me what has so piqued your interest in this White Foundation,” he said as they continued into the solar.

“That much is easy, Father. I met a boy at their chapter house in Teraden.”

“Oh? You have never said so. Who was this boy?”

His son’s eyes brightened. “He was the most intelligent person I’ve ever met. The most fascinating, and two years my younger. We talked for hours every day I was there.”

“What about?”

“Everything!” the prince beamed. “Anything I wanted to discuss he knew like a scholar. Anything at all. I offered to hire him as my personal aide… but he refused.” A pang of longing there.

“He refused you?” the king said lightly. “With your charms?”

The prince’s smile dipped. Not vanishing, but the yearning was real. Real, for something treasured, now lost. “He said he was honored, but he had a grand plan, that it would soon come to fruition, and that he could not remain in one place.” He was silent a moment, before adding softly, “He said we will meet again. I hope we do.”

“So do I,” said the king.

It made him happy beyond words that his son had made a friend. The Third Prince had always preferred study to games, work to idle pleasures; inefficient, he had called such things, from the minute he had learned the word. For him to find someone of an age who shared his interests was surely a rarity. How joyful his son had looked just now. Such a precious thing, worth preserving for as long as it would last.

“Pray tell,” the king asked, “what was this boy’s name?”

Prince Domenico smiled to recall the one person he had ever found worthy of being his friend. “Rubin.”