The Serpent Bride

In the morning Aziel met with Ishbel again. He would not have been surprised to learn she had changed her mind yet again, but to his relief, and his pride, she remained resolute.

“I will marry this Maximilian,” she said. “I will do what is needed. After all, has not the Great Serpent said that I will return to Serpents Nest eventually? This shall be a trial for me, yes, but marriage cannot be too high a price to pay for saving Serpent’s Nest and the Outlands from the ravages of both Skraelings and ancient evils.”

That was a pretty speech, Aziel thought, and well prepared, and he wondered if it was less for him than for Ishbel herself.

Perhaps Ishbel believed that ij she repeated it enough times, over and over, the words would take on the power of prophecy.

“When the Great Serpent sent me to fetch you from Margalit,” Aziel said, “he told me that you would eventually need to leave — perhaps even then he foresaw this disaster. And it is true enough he said you would eventually return.” He smiled. “I hope you will not stay too long away, Ishbel.”

“I also hope I shall not stay away long,” she said, and Aziel laughed a little at the depth of emotion behind those words.

“Besides,” Ishbel continued, “perhaps Maximilian of Escator will not accept me.” She paused. “There would be few men willing to wed an archpriestess of the Coil, surely.”

“Ah,” said Aziel, “but I do not think we shall be offering him the archpriestess, eh? You are a rich noblewoman in your own right, and I think it is as the Lady Ishbel Brunelle that you should meet your new husband. We shall call you … let me see … ah yes, we shall call you a ward of the Coil. That should do nicely.”

5

THE ROYAL PALACE, RUEN, ESCATOR

Maximilian Persimius, King of Escator, Warden of Ruen, Lord of the Ports and Suzerain of the Plains, preferred to keep as many of his royal duties as informal as possible. He met with the full Council of Nobles thrice a year, and the smaller Privy Council of Preferred Nobles once a month. Maximilian respected, listened to, and acted upon the advice he received from both those learned councils, but the council he leaned on most was that which he referred to as his Council of Friends — a small group of men that, indeed, made up Maximilians closest circle of friends, but were also the men he trusted above any else, for all of them had been involved to some extent in his rescue from the gloam mines eight years earlier.

These men knew Maximilian’s past, knew where he came from, had seen him at his worst, and they still loved him despite his occasional darker moments.

Today the king was in a light-hearted mood, and none expected any of his dark introspections on this fine morning. Maximilian sat in his chair, one long leg casually draped over one of its arms, his fine face with its striking aquiline nose and deep blue eyes creased in a mischievous grin, his dark hair — always worn a little too long — flopping over his brow. He was laughing at Egalion, captain of the king’s Emerald Guard, who had hurried late into the chamber. Egalion was now making flustered excuses as he dragged a chair up to the semicircle seated about the fire that had been lit in the hearth.

“You must be getting old, my friend,” Maximilian said, “to so oversleep.”

“Out late, perhaps, with a lady friend?” said Vorstus, Abbot of the Order of Persimius. In his late middle age, Vorstus was a thin, dark man with sharp brown eyes and the distinctive tattoo of a faded quill on his right index finger. The Order of Persimius was a group of brothers devoted to the protection and furtherance of the Persimius family. Maximilian owed Vorstus a massive debt for aiding the effort to free him from the Veins, and sometimes, when Vorstus looked at Maximilian with his dark unreadable eyes, that debt sat heavily on Maximilian’s shoulders. When first Maximilian had emerged from the Veins he had trusted Vorstus completely. Now he was not so sure of him, for he felt Vorstus watched him a little too carefully.

Maximilian ignored Vorstus’ comment, “Perhaps you need the services of Garth, Egalion. A potion, perhaps, from the famous Baxter recipes, to soothe you into an early sleep at night so that we may not be deprived of your company at morning council?”

That was as close to a reprimand as Maximilian was ever likely to deliver to any of these three men.

“I apologise, Maximilian,” Egalion said. He was a tall, strong, fair-haired man who had served the Persimius throne for over thirty years, but now he reddened like a youth. “I have no acceptable excuse save that I did, indeed, oversleep, and no excuse for that — no woman or wine —” he shot a sharp-eyed glance at Vorstus, “— save a need to compensate for a late night spent at the bedside of one of the Emerald Guard.”

“And that late bedside vigil spent in my company,” said Garth Baxtor, court physician and the fourth member of the group sitting about the fire. “One of the men developed a fever late yesterday afternoon, Maximilian, and Egalion and myself spent many hours in his company until we were satisfied he was not in any danger to his life.”

“Then I am the one to apologise,” said Maximilian, all humour fading from his face.

“You were not to know,” said Egalion. “The man, Thomas, asked that you not be disturbed.”

“Nonetheless,” said Maximilian, “I should have known.”

“Thomas is well this morning,” said Garth, “and after a day’s bed rest should be able to recommence light duties tomorrow. I think his fever nothing more than a passing autumnal illness.”

“But one that kept you and Egalion for hours at his bedside,” said Maximilian. He studied Garth a moment, wondering at his luck that eight years ago the then seventeen year old should have believed in Maximilian so much that Garth had managed to persuade a diverse and powerful group of people to support his endeavour to free the king from the Veins.

Garth Baxtor was now a fully-fledged physician, second only to his father in the use of the Touch, a semi-magical ability to understand the precise nature of an illness and to help soothe away its horrors. He lived permanently at Maximilian’s court, but, apart from treating Maximilian himself as well as other members of the court, Emerald Guard and royal militia, he also spent two days a week treating the poor of Ruen for free. Garth, still only in his mid-twenties, was Maximilian’s closest friend.

Garth grinned at Maximilian, his open, attractive face appearing even more boyish than it normally did. “It is too early in the day to succumb to guilt, Maxel. You didn’t need to be there.”

Garth and Vorstus were among the very few who used the familiar “Maxel” in conversation with the king. Egalion, who had permission to do so, only rarely managed to take such a huge leap into familiarity.

“Well, at least let me be cross,” Maximilian said, “that you don’t have any shadows under your eyes, Garth. Ah, the resilience of youth.”

Garth laughed. “You are hardly old yourself, Maxel!”

“Almost forty,” Maximilian said, his eyes once more gleaming with humour. “About to tip over the edge.”

Now everyone laughed.

“Well, now,” said Maximilian, “since we’re all finally here, is there any business to discuss or can we give up governing as a bad idea this fine day and go visit the palace hawk house and admire my newest acquisition instead?”

Garth and Egalion brightened, but Vorstus glanced at a small satchel that lay beside his chair, and Maximilian did not miss it.

“My friend,” the king said in a soft voice, “why do I fear that that satchel at your side contains dire news?”

Vorstus gave an embarrassed half laugh. “Well, hardly ‘dire’ news, Maxel.” He paused, glancing at the satchel yet one more time. “A document pouch arrived late yesterday afternoon, from your ambassador to the Outlands.”

“Another request for a swift return to civilisation?” Maximilian said. The Outlands were not renowned for their creature comforts and Maximilian’s ambassador to the region, Baron Lixel, had sent plaintive requests to return home at regular intervals over the past year. Maximilian knew he should allow him home soon, but there were so few men better equipped with such a smooth diplomatic tongue for dealing with the notoriously touchy Outlanders that Maximilian felt he could barely spare him from the duty.

“Among other things,” Vorstus said. “And one of those other things …”

“Do we have to drag it out of you with blacksmith’s tongs?” Maximilian said.

Vorstus took a deep breath. “One of those other things is a somewhat unexpected offer of a bride.”

Garth and Egalion shot careful glances at Maximilian, gauging his reaction to this news.

Maximilian had been singularly unlucky in finding a bride. It was eight years since he’d been freed from the Veins, and he was still wife-less. Garth knew it niggled at him. It wasn’t so much that Maximilian wanted a woman by his side, as welcome as that might be, but that he was desperate for a family. Maximilian had once confided to Garth that when he’d been trapped down the Veins, he’d occasionally overheard guards talking about their children. It had made him long for a family and children of his own, although, imprisoned in the Veins as he was, Maximilian could barely imagine a world where that might be possible.

Now that it was possible, it was proving difficult beyond anyone’s wildest imagining.

“A bride?” said Maximilian. “How many negotiations have we opened and lost these past eight years? It must be all of … what … twelve or thirteen?”

“Fourteen,” Vorstus muttered.

“Fourteen,” Maximilian said. “All of them eligible, and all of them deciding for one reason or another, that I wasn’t quite ‘right’ for them.”

His voice was so bitter that for a moment Garth more than half-expected Maximilian to wave away the offer without even considering.

But then Maximilian sighed. “And here we have a new offer. From the Outlands of all places. They’re such a strange nomadic people, Vorstus. What manner of Outlander woman would want to spend her life as queen in my staid — and stationary — court? And why would I want her?”

Vorstus had by now retrieved a sheaf of papers from his satchel. “The lady in question’s name is Lady Ishbel Brunelle, and she is the surviving member of an ancient family who for many centuries resided in Margalit.”

“Margalit? The only place even faintly resembling a city in the Outlands?”

“Yes,” said Vorstus. “It’s the only place where families actually settle — as you say, everyone else lives a virtually nomadic life.” He rustled through the papers. “Lixel has investigated the Brunelle family … let me see … ah yes, here it is … eminent and highly educated —” Vorstus looked up at Maximilian “— well, as highly educated as an Outlander family can get, I imagine.” He looked back down to his papers. “Very distinguished. Somewhat cultured — I have no idea what Lixel means by that — and remarkably fecund.” He chuckled. “Lixel patently thought that a point in the woman’s favour.”

“Yet this Lady Ishbel is the only remaining member of her family?” Egalion said. “That doesn’t seem very fecund to me.”

“A plague went through the Outlands twenty years ago,” said Vorstus. “I don’t even need to consult Lixel’s report to remember that. Half the Central Kingdoms were affected by it as well, and Escator was damned lucky to escape its ravages. Anyway, the plague took out everyone in the Brunelle family except Ishbel, then an eight-year-old girl. So,” again Vorstus looked at Maximilian, but now with some humour twisting his mouth, “the Lady Ishbel comes with a considerable dowry along with her other attributes, which Lixel claims are a fair face and form, a decent education, and a pleasing manner of character.”

“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” said Maximilian.

Vorstus put down the papers, and sighed. “There is a problem.”

“Yes?” said Maximilian.

“The Lady Ishbel is currently a ward with the Coil at their base in Serpent’s Nest. It is the Coil who offers her to you, Maxel.”

There was utter silence, everyone staring at Vorstus.

Egalion finally broke the quiet. “I thought the Coil was a myth! You can’t tell me that the vile … gut gazers … actually exist!”

Vorstus looked down at his hands, now folding the papers over and over in his lap.

“Vorstus?” said Maximilian softly.

Vorstus sighed. “The Coil do exist. I have always believed them fact, and Lixel confirms it here.”

“But they’re nothing like the myth,” said Garth. “Right, Vorstus?”

The abbot remained silent.

Maximilian gave a soft humourless laugh. “Do you — or Lixel — actually suggest I take to wife a woman who lives among those who slice open the bellies of the living in order to foresee the future?”

“And who in the doing turn the entrails of the still-living into snakes?” said Egalion. “I can’t believe you — or Lixel — have actually thought to take this cursed offer so seriously as to bring it to the king’s attention.”

Maximilian waved a hand. “Vorstus must have a reason. Let’s hear it”.

“The lesser of the reasons is that the Lady Ishbel is not a priestess. She is not a member of the Order. The Coil took her in during the dark days when much of the Outlands was in turmoil. When Ishbel had no one, the Coil offered her a home.”

“And a warm place to sleep amid the steaming entrails of their victims,” muttered Egalion.

“The Coil’s priests and priestesses never leave their Order, Maximilian,” Vorstus continued. “The mere fact they offer her to you indicates that Ishbel has been their ward, but not their trainee.”

Maximilian gave a shrug. “Why should I consider her? Gods, Vorstus, she comes tainted with all the vile reputation of the Coil … how could I take such a woman as my queen? No one would accept her.”

“The Lady Ishbel comes with an added extra to her dowry, Maxel. The Brunelle family, as well as owning half of Margalit, also controlled vast estates in the principalities of Kyros and Pelemere in the Central Kingdoms, as well as the full manorial rights to Deepend. She would bring much-needed riches to Escator.”

Maximilian said nothing, regarding Vorstus with unblinking eyes as he slowly stroked his chin with a thumb as he thought. Vast estates in Kyros and Pelemere. And full manorial rights to Deepend, the town and its land, which in turn controlled the trading and shipping rights to Deepend Bay to the south of Escator.

Riches indeed, particularly to a king who, in the very act of escaping and then destroying the rich gloam mines, had virtually crippled Escator’s economy. Most of the past eight years had been spent, relatively unsuccessfully, trying to repair the country’s finances.

What a difference this dowry could make.

“How is it a lady from the Outlands manages to control the rights to Deepend?” Maximilian asked. He’d known there had been an absentee lordship on the place — Escator had the right to use the bay for its shipping but each year Maximilian paid heavily for the privilege to the steward of Deepend — but had always believed it belonged to one of the more reclusive Central Kingdom families.

“The Brunelle family has lineage that stretches back many centuries,” Vorstus said. “Lixel writes that they picked up the Deepend rights via a fortuitous marriage two hundred years ago.”

“And now the Coil, via Ishbel, offers those rights to me,” said Maximilian. “Why? Of what benefit can this be to them?”

“You’re the least objectionable man on the aristocratic marriage market,” said Vorstus blundy, and Maximilian laughed, now with genuine amusement.

“Ah!” he said. “Now I see. The Coil doesn’t want anyone from the Central Kingdoms getting them, eh?”

“Indeed,” said Vorstus. “There’s bad blood between the Outlands and the Central Kingdoms, as well you know —”

Maximilian grunted. The various kingdoms and principalities of the two regions had been posturing and threatening each other with war for years.

“— and perhaps the Coil, who Lixel says are closely allied with the Outlanders through blood and geography, think to establish an alliance with Escator so that they may have a friend on the rear flank of the Central Kingdoms.”

“So we get to the heart of the matter,” said Garth, silent until now as he studied Maximilian’s reactions. “Is the thought of the economic advantage of the woman enough for Maxel to forget her more ghastly acquaintances?”

“There is no need for anyone beyond this room to know of the Lady Ishbel’s ‘more ghastly’ acquaintances,” said Vorstus softly. “She is the well-dowered Lady Ishbel Brunelle, of Margalit. An Outlander, to be sure, but one wealthy enough, and well-mannered enough, for that slight geographical stain to be conveniently forgotten. Maximilian,” Vorstus leaned forward, “no one need ever know of her time with the Coil.”

“You really want me to consider this, don’t you,” said Maximilian.

“Aye,” said Vorstus, “I don’t think you can ignore it. Escator needs her wealth, and you need a wife to mother you a family. Damn it, all you need do is meet with her, talk, and if you don’t like her then walk away.”

“How would I know,” said Maximilian, “if she really is ‘just a ward’ of the Coil, and not some fully blooded member of their vile Order? I don’t want some witch slitting open my belly in the middle of the night to see what the weather will be like for her tea party the following week.”

Vorstus held out his right hand, showing Maximilian the mark of the quill on the back of its index finger. “If she was a priestess of the Coil then she would be marked with the sign of the Coil, the coiled serpent, somewhere on her body, just as I am marked with this as a member of the Order of Persimius. Just as you are marked with the Manteceros.”

Maximilian absently touched his right bicep, where, just after his birth, the mark of the Manteceros — the semi-mythical protector of the Escatorian throne — had been tattooed in blue ink made from the blood of the creature itself.

“She would have to be marked, Maxel,” Vorstus continued, “and if she isn’t, then she is truly what the Coil claims her to be — a simple ward when no one else was left to ward her.”

Egalion grinned. “Does that mean Maximilian gets to spend his wedding night going over her with a magnifying glass?”

Maximilian smiled politely, but his eyes were far distant.

The group broke up a half hour later. It was not a moment too soon for Maximilian, who needed to be by himself to think.

Egalion and Garth left, but Vorstus hung back a moment to hand Maximilian the sheaf of documents.

“Maxel,” Vorstus said softly, “when you go through these papers, do be sure to cast your eyes over the map of the Outlands that Lixel enclosed most helpfully. I’m sure it will prove … interesting.”

6

THE ROYAL PALACE, RUEN, ESCATOR

Late that night Maximilian moved restlessly about his bedchamber. The palace at Ruen was a massive structure of dark red stone, rising more than five windowless storeys from street level before splintering into fifty-three towers and spires. Maximilian could never quite decide whether it was the most beautiful structure he’d ever seen, or the ugliest, but he loved it. He’d been born within its walls, and raised here by loving parents for his first fourteen years before Cavor snatched him and condemned him to the Veins. Now, once more encased within its red stone walls, Maximilian appreciated the palace for the isolation it allowed him. Maximilian liked people, but he also loved solitude, and at night in his bedchamber, which rested at the summit of the highest of the palace towers, he could indulge that to the fullest.

There was something about living at the pinnacle of the tower, about being so high and having the castle stretch down beneath his booted feet, that sated some deep need within Maximilian.

But tonight that isolation irked him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Coil’s offer of Ishbel Brunelle as a bride. His first instinct was to refuse her: he was repulsed by her association with an order as abominable as the Coil. Even if she had taken no part in any of their murderous ceremonies, nor even if she swore horror herself at their activities, Ishbel would always be tainted in his mind with their depravity.

But on the other hand she did come from a good family — Maximilian had spent an hour this afternoon poring over the information Lixel had sent … if not poring over the map that Vorstus was so eager for him to read. Vorstus could annoy Maximilian at times with his secretive eyes and his ambiguous words, and Maximilian was in a perverse enough mood that he did not want to immediately do what Vorstus wanted.

The documents kept Maximilian occupied enough. Gods, this Ishbel came with such wealth trailing at her skirts! Escator’s economy was virtually moribund. It had depended so greatly on the gloam mines, and when they had been destroyed during Maximilian’s release there was nothing to take their place. Maximilian had worked hard to increase trade, but he’d concentrated on trade alliances with Tencendor, and when that country had sunk beneath the waves five years ago then so also had Maximilian’s hopes of an economic resurgence in Escator within his lifetime. The Central Kingdoms to the east, his only other useful trading partners, were locked in exclusive trading alliances with the far northern nations of Berfardi and Gershadi. The Coroleans were too hopelessly unreliable and treacherous to consider as allies in anything, and as for the great southern lands beyond the FarReach Mountains … well, they were so isolated by reason of both the mountains and lack of ports, as well as being totally uncommunicative, that Maximilian had never even considered them as potential trading partners.

Besides, what did Escator have to trade with anyone? A tiny surplus of agricultural produce and a surfeit of geniality essentially encapsulated all Escator had to offer, and Maximilian honestly couldn’t think of anyone desperate for a bucketful of beans delivered with a smile.

Lady Ishbel Brunelle, ward of the Coil, offered Maximilian and Escator a lifeline. Perhaps some of the eastern princelings would smile disdainfully at a handful of vast estates and the Deepend manorial rights, but to Maximilian they represented salvation. The income would make all the difference to the country.

They would make all the difference to Maximilian’s guilt. Although he knew he had no need, he did feel guilty about the loss of the gloam mines. Yes, they were vile, but they had kept Escator rich, and it was now Maximilian’s task to replace those lost riches.

A ring on Ishbel’s finger would do it.

Ah! Maximilian paced restlessly about the chamber, his thoughts tumbling. Marriage to a woman tainted with the Coil to restore Escator’s riches, or continued personal isolation and poverty for so many of his subjects?

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t I have found someone else with that kind of dowry who was interested in me?”

He paced about for a few more minutes, stripping off his jacket and shirt and tossing them over the back of a chair, running his hand through his too long hair and thinking he really ought to get it cut, rolling the Persimius ring around his finger, over and over.

Finally, coming to a decision, Maximilian walked to one of the high windows and opened wide the glass panes. He stared out into the night for a moment, then returned to stand by his bed, his back to the window, the fingers of his left hand absently running over the ungainly outline of the Manteceros on his right bicep.

He waited long minutes, finally relaxing when he heard the faint sound of movement in the window.

“How arrogant you are,” she said softly, “that you were so certain I’d be crouching on a rooftop somewhere waiting in hope that you’d open a window for me.”