Queen of Storms. Raymond E. Feist

around he asked, ‘What news, Belli?’

      Marco Belli, Bernardo’s most trusted and deadliest servant, spoke softly. ‘More rumours from the west.’

      ‘Marquensas?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Bernardo turned to face him. Marco Belli, known as ‘Piccolo’ for obscure reasons, stood motionless before his master. He was a smaller man than Bernardo, but of less than average height, wiry and agile. Belli’s eyes were his most deceiving feature, for he could look innocent, or jovial, even while planning how best to kill you. He sported a red cap with a hawk’s feather, a dark blue tunic, and leather leggings. At his side hung a short sword, but Bernardo knew he was an expert in many other weapons. Piccolo was the only man the cleric fully trusted and would permit in his presence alone and armed.

      ‘Tell me about Marquensas,’ said Bernardo as he reseated himself.

      ‘For months now a town in the north of the barony, Beran’s Hill, has been very busy.’

      ‘This I know,’ said the cleric. ‘Rumours, little more.’

      Piccolo nodded. ‘True, but persistent rumours, Your Eminence.’ He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘There is no pattern nor is there any one item worthy of serious consideration, but in total …’

      ‘A design?’

      ‘Not apparently, but … something is taking shape. Though if someone is behind it, it isn’t obvious.’

      Bernardo nodded. ‘Something is going on in that town.’ He also organized his thoughts before adding, ‘It’s where Lodavico and I expect the lure to be. If Baron Daylon expects Sandura’s attack, and with Copper Hills’s aid, he could trap Lodavico’s forces there.’

      ‘Lose the town, but win the war,’ agreed Piccolo.

      ‘Exactly. Lodavico loses a huge number of his military, enrages allies expecting an easy victory, and convinces others of Sandura’s perfidy when whatever excuse Lodavico dreams up is exposed as a lie, so it’s a victory both militarily and politically. At worst, Sandura is wounded and weakened, perhaps enough for old enmity to rise and former allies to turn on Lodavico. At best, Dumarch has allies ready and launches a counter-offensive …’ He spread his hands slowly and moved them outwards, as if wiping away game pieces from a table. ‘… leaves Sandura much as Lodavico left Ithrace …’ Bernardo let out an audible sigh. ‘And that we cannot have.’

      Piccolo glanced around the dark room. ‘Can’t say I’d miss this castle.’

      ‘On that we agree. But when the cathedral is finished and blessed it will be the seat of the Church’s power in the twin continents. And that must be protected.

      ‘This war is inevitable, given our king’s obsession with all things related to the fall of Ithrace. Even the suggestion that Daylon Dumarch is becoming the next King of Fire …’ Bernardo paused. ‘I have little problem with them making war on each other. I just wish it to be on my terms, at a time of my choosing. Remember, the perfect plan executed at the wrong time has another name.’

      Piccolo raised an eyebrow. ‘A disaster?’

      Delnocio chuckled. Piccolo was as lethal an agent as he could have wished for, but he was also clever, and occasionally amusing. ‘Yes.’

      Piccolo nodded; then he asked, ‘Do you wish me to go?’

      ‘I do not; I would rather keep you here, but I think there is a need. We have rumours of odd comings and goings. The agents of Coaltachin are apparently poking around, and they have no business we know of that far west. I’ve also received reports of … those who are best kept under watch.’

      ‘The Azhante?’

      ‘I still employ their services. They are not a risk … yet. They are the ones sending me intelligence.’

      ‘Whom do they suspect?’

      As if fearful of saying the name too loudly, Bernardo almost whispered, ‘The Flame Guard.’

      Piccolo’s shoulders dropped slightly. ‘Is there no end to them?’

      ‘Apparently not. Most we killed or captured when Ithrace fell. But …’ He moved his hands again, this time in a vague sweeping gesture, wiggling his fingers. ‘Some seem to have been carried away on the wind.’

      ‘A few,’ observed Piccolo.

      ‘But with … magic. Power. Whatever you wish to label it.’ Bernardo remained silent for a moment then said, ‘I don’t suppose there are any reports of a young man or woman with copper-and-gold hair, by chance?’

      Piccolo shook his head. ‘Even if there were, that doesn’t make them true. A Firemane heir conveniently landing in Marquensas, or even more so in Beran’s Hill, would spur Lodavico to act rashly, I would wager. Even your influence would barely slow him. If that rumour suddenly sprouted up, it very well might be Dumarch’s lure.’

      ‘Yes, agreed.’ Bernardo’s brow furrowed slightly. Then he said, ‘Not if we steal a march, and look for the man or woman. Ensure the rumours are false.’

      ‘So, I should leave now?’

      ‘Yes.’ Bernardo stood up. ‘Go, take a thorough look, then return with haste. I need to know if any of the rumours are true.’

      ‘If they are?’

      ‘Do nothing. Observe, then come back and we shall consider our position. Send word by pigeon and courier, stating clearly the time you will arrive outside Beran’s Hill. Take an armed escort, but look as if you’re travelling as mercenaries, then meet our agent outside the town; whoever arrives first must wait for the other. I’ll leave it to you to work out the details. Now, go.’ He made a dismissive gesture, hand held fingers downwards, then a flip up towards the door.

      Piccolo bowed and slipped through the hidden doorway. Bernardo was always slightly amused at his agent’s use of ancient passages not known even to the king.

      Alone again, he put his mind to matters of the day. In the end the Church would rule Sandura and he would rule the Church, but until that time, he was His Most Holy Majesty’s loyal adviser. It was time to go and advise. Or at least sit feigning attention while watching a bored man pose for a portrait. And ponder this persistent rumour about a man with copper-and-gold hair in a small town half a world away.

      • CHAPTER ONE •

       Hunting and an Unexpected Encounter

      The sound of a twig cracking underfoot made the deer’s head jerk upright from grazing, its ears moving as it looked around, seeking the source of the noise. Its nostrils flared as it tested the wind.

      Hava froze, her bow halfway to a ready position, not wishing to startle the young buck. After a moment of sniffing the air, the deer started to wander away. Hava stole a glance at Molly Bowman, who looked back at Hava and with an inclination of her head indicated she would move off to her right, then with her lifted chin communicated that Hava should keep stalking the deer.

      All this was new to the girl from Coaltachin: her home islands had no forests like this. Here the trees were so much bigger; the boles were massive compared to the smaller pines, balsams, and fir trees that littered the relatively small mountains on the islands. The lowlands had been cleared centuries earlier for farms and orchards.

      She wended her way between massive oaks, while avoiding the sprawling beech trees and their multiple roots and low-hanging branches. Hava understood how easy it would be to get lost in this forest. This area, with its interlinked forests, woodlands, small hills with dells and dead-end canyons, was called the Wildlands and had once been a haven to savage tribes and outlaws. While the western half of the region was relatively peaceful, due to the Dumarch family’s pacification of their