Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(99)

“Cleansed?” Strangward raised an eyebrow.

“Cleansed,” Fosnaught repeated. When Strangward kept looking at him, as if puzzled, he snapped, “We burn them.”

“And so then they are dead?”

“But cleansed. And, therefore, saved.”

“Fascinating,” Strangward said, rubbing his chin.

Fosnaught fondled the keys to the kingdom that hung at his belt. “What religion do you practice in the Northern Islands, if I may ask?”

“In the east, the empress is the religion,” Strangward said. “She is not one to share power, not even with the gods.” He turned back to Ash. “Why is it that you—and these guardsmen—wear metal collars? Is it a mark of rank, or personal fashion, or do you belong to a particular tribe that—?”

“That’s enough!” Montaigne roared, having reached the end of his patience. “If you would like, Emissary, we can assign one of our clerics to explain to you some of our customs,” he said testily. “My time is limited, however, and I would like to proceed to the main topic of this meeting, that is, an agreement between the empress and ourselves.” He gestured to a grouping of chairs. “You may sit.”

The emissary sat, thrusting his legs out in front of him, but his companions remained standing. “Forgive me,” he said. “Where I come from, it often takes several days of tay drinking and storytelling to get down to business. I can see that your habits are different, and clearly much more . . . efficient.”

The emissary had an oddly formal and self-deprecating manner of speaking, and yet hidden in every line was a rather sharp point.

Fosnaught, Botetort, and Karn sat as well. Lila and Ash remained standing, while Montaigne stayed where he was, on the dais, with his guard of blackbirds around him.

“I appreciate your seeing me at what must be a busy time, given the events in the north,” Strangward said.

Montaigne’s eyes narrowed. “What events?”

“The loss of Delphi must have been a blow, given its importance as a source of iron and steel.”

“News travels fast, it seems,” Montaigne said, pretending to straighten his cuffs.

“Bad news, especially. That’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”

He’s laying the groundwork for a better deal, Ash thought, with grudging admiration. You need us, is what he’s saying.

“Delphi is a miserable place to campaign in the winter,” Botetort said. “We’ll clear out the rebels when the weather warms.”

“Of course,” Strangward nodded politely. “Unfortunately, the northerners do not seem to mind the cold.” He sighed. “So much trouble with the Fells.” The words were delivered carelessly, but the smile had bite.

“If the witch queen has captured Delphi,” Montaigne said, “she won’t hold it for long. War is a constant series of advances and retreats.”

“I agree,” Strangward said. “In that sense, warfare is like the course of true love. You’ve been knocking on this queen’s door for a good long time, yet she will not open the gate.”

Blood and bones, Ash thought. Strangward knows that my mother spurned Montaigne’s offer of marriage a quarter century ago. He’s done his research, and he is not afraid to go for the throat. Poking the king of Arden is a dangerous game.

But perhaps Strangward was dangerous, too. There was something that lay beneath his calm and undecorated exterior, some elemental power that rippled the surface like a serpent swimming in a quiet pond. Strangward bled confidence, as if he knew that, despite his almost frail appearance, he was the deadliest predator in the room.

What would that mean for Jenna? If this is the emissary, what must the empress be like?

“Your point is . . . ?” Montaigne’s voice penetrated the ear like slivers of ice.

“My point is, perhaps we can help . . . move things along.”

“We had specifically discussed an army,” Montaigne said. “While your personal guard is no doubt highly skilled, six soldiers will hardly suffice.”

“The empress worried that the sudden appearance of a foreign army would be poorly received in the absence of an agreement,” Strangward said. “Celestine will want to see the magemarked girl before she makes that kind of commitment. If she is the one the empress is seeking, make no mistake, the army will come.” Strangward leaned forward. “Now. You refer to her as a girl. How old is she?”

“Perhaps sixteen or seventeen,” Karn said.

“Ah,” Strangward said, his face unreadable. “Is she gifted?”

Karn shook his head. “No. At least . . . not in the usual way.”

“Meaning?”

“She is not a mage.” And then, as if realizing he should make a better pitch, added, “However, she may have other gifts that have not yet . . . made themselves apparent.”

Ash frowned. Karn was not his usual smooth self. His face gleamed with sweat, and he kept fingering his amulet and looking from the king to the emissary as if unsure who his audience was.

The king shifted restlessly in his seat, looking more and more annoyed at Karn’s clumsy attempts to make the sale. “Given that the empress was the one who asked us to find the demon-marked girl, perhaps you should tell us why she is of value,” Montaigne said.