Queen of Storms. Raymond E. Feist

shadows from torches in sconces flickered in grotesque parody of the king’s naturally awkward walk. Bernardo was aware of the shadows annoying the king, even though he had endured it since he came to the throne thirty years before. He occasionally wondered why Lodavico hadn’t ordered his architect to design some other type of lighting, but he didn’t linger long on the question; it was possible that Lodavico endured the daily passage as a reminder of his own self-loathing.

      Entering the chamber, they found a tray laden with fruit, cold meats and cheese, a loaf of warm bread, a bottle of wine and a pitcher of cool water.

      ‘Good,’ said Lodavico. ‘I’m famished.’

      ‘Anticipating Your Majesty’s needs is always my aim,’ said the episkopos.

      Lodavico indicated that Bernardo should sit in the chair to his right hand at the end of the council table. The Privy Council had consisted of up to a dozen nobles of the kingdom from dim antiquity right up to his father’s rule. Lodavico had named several nobles to various positions, but rarely convened the entire council, having only done so once after the war against Ithrace, just for public show. Most of the time he preferred to be in consultation with a few advisers at a time, and lately with just one of them: Bernardo. The truth now was, after a little over ten years together, the episkopos and the king made every decision in Sandura.

      Lodavico said, ‘What news?’

      Bernardo unfolded a leather portfolio he carried. He knew the king expected him not to discuss matters of state while his portrait was being painted, but now that they were alone, Lodavico was anxious to hear the day’s reports.

      Bernardo had long since come to understand the king’s preferred order of reporting, and the usual accounts of trade, taxes, and other mundane matters were always subordinate to intelligence, news, and even rumours about anyone Lodavico considered a threat.

      ‘Little new to report on, Majesty. Some of the companies of mercenaries who’ve been employed in the north are taking ship to come and join your campaigns.’ He paused. A tightening around Lodavico’s eyes communicated clearly what the king desired to hear.

      ‘No news from Marquensas, Majesty. Our agents report … everything is calm.’

      ‘What about that … company Daylon assembled in that town …’

      ‘Beran’s Hill,’ supplied Bernardo. ‘Not really a company, sire, rather a local militia of sheriff’s men, though there is no proper sheriff. A young smith has been given command, a fellow named Declan.’

      Lodavico waved away the detail. ‘Beran’s Hill is an invitation of sorts, I’m certain.’

      Bernardo had listened to this conjecture countless times, but knew his best course was to simply let the king continue his speculation without interruption and to reassure him that everything that could be done was being done.

      ‘Daylon Dumarch has magnificent defences in every port, garrisons of size in key locations, cities, trade route intersections, and active patrols everywhere but in the north, along one particular trade route. Why?’

      Bernardo hesitated, waiting to see if the question was rhetorical. Seeing that the king expected an answer, he shrugged. ‘He faces very little real threat from the north. His only neighbour of consequence is Rodrigo of Copper Hills, and he is one of Baron Daylon’s closest friends. Dumarch would as soon expect a brother to turn on him as Rodrigo Bavangine.’ He paused, gauging the king’s reaction.

      Lodavico nodded. ‘The governors and rulers of the northern ports are scattered and more prone to welcoming smugglers and traders than armies. Besides, none of the ports are large enough to accommodate a flotilla that could put a substantial force at Marquensas’s rear. Port Colos is the largest, and it is so close to Marquensas’s border it might as well belong to Daylon.’ He stroked his chin, a habit Bernardo had seen countless times when the king was lost in thought. ‘Daylon is …’ He looked at the episkopos as if at a loss.

      Gently, the cleric said, ‘I think he is taking care of what is his and guarding it.’

      Lodavico shook his head. ‘No, I know he is planning something. He’s amassed wealth and has sway over many of the barons. He’s making Marquensas the new Ithrace. I’ve read the reports …’

      Seeing that the conversation was taking a familiar turn, the cleric sat back, keeping his features a mask as he resigned himself to another pointless harangue about Daylon Dumarch’s close friendship to the dead king Steveren Langene, the ruler of Ithrace, real intelligence commingled with imagined slights and insults, turning into a rant invoking every possible reason to hate the most powerful baron in the twin continents.

      When at last the king’s ramblings tailed off, Bernardo gladly turned the conversation to other matters the king needed to consider, not urgent, but important, and called in a scribe to record the king’s decisions. As the meeting came to a close, the episkopos waited for the king’s permission to rise – they had worked together so often, this amounted to the cleric inclining his head slightly and the king nodding – and as he stood, Bernardo said, ‘Majesty, I shall have the edicts recopied and returned before nightfall for your seal.’

      ‘I expect I should return to sit for that wretched artist. The sooner I’m done with this exercise in vanity, the better I’ll like it.’

      Bernardo bowed slightly, and the king departed.

      After the monarch was gone, the episkopos waved the scribe away, then lingered, enjoying the silence and solitude, if only for a few moments.

      He refused to wallow in his transitory frustrations over dealing with a monarch who by any reasonable measure was on the fringe of madness. Bernardo Delnocio of Poberto had quickly recognized that Lodavico was a truly lonely man, hated even by his own family, surrounded by those who feigned loyalty and affection for him only out of fear. Rather than be another attention-seeker, Bernardo had patiently provided counsel and the Church’s support, ensuring that Lodavico became more dependent on him over each passing year.

      Many times the king had asked the episkopos what he desired, to which Bernardo had always answered, ‘Only to serve,’ and every time a gift had been offered, Bernardo had declined it.

      In truth, the gift came the other way; it was the cleric who gave the ruler what he most craved: Bernardo listened. No matter how preposterous or deranged Lodavico’s rant, Bernardo listened and the king needed this indulgence.

      After Bernardo had spent almost two years on Lodavico’s council, the monarch had come to view him as the only being on all of Garn who didn’t hate him, fear him, or want anything from him, the only one who truly cared for his wellbeing. In short, Lodavico had decided that Bernardo was his only friend.

      And this was when the manipulation had begun.

      Over the last twenty years Bernardo had contrived to get rid of anyone who might prove an obstacle to his control of the king – a timely accident, an assignment to a particularly dangerous frontier post, a sudden illness. A great deal of patience had brought the cleric to almost complete mastery over the most powerful kingdom in North Tembria.

      Bernardo could finally see his goal on the horizon: the Church’s control of Sandura, and his control of the Church. These two aims were intertwined, and he knew the closer he got to his goal, the more his deadliest foe would be his own impatience.

      Should the cathedral under construction next to the king’s castle be completed in his lifetime, Bernardo already had plans to annex this monstrosity of a castle to it, tearing down walls, replacing dark corridors with passages of light, ancient dark stone with massive windows of the finest glass. He knew that would be completed years after he had left this existence but was content that whoever he appointed to follow him would share that view. When the Church was supreme, ruling over all Garn, there would be no need for castles, fortresses, or armies.

      His plan extended beyond his own lifetime, which was more of a vainglorious desire to be remembered in the Church than for any personal gain. The rulers of Sandura would be so submerged in the culture of the Church that they would