Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,134

any charm.” She counted on her fingers as she talked, dropped the doeskin sack at a hundred beats. The creatures began to crawl back inside it. “We can talk, now. They ate everything spying on you.”

Brother Candle did not understand, had no idea. “You’ll have to explain someday. Though I’m not sure I want to know.”

“It isn’t just the Old Gods wanting to come back. Little things are stirring, too. They didn’t interest the Captain-General. He was after big revenants.” Then, “Is it true? Duke Tormond adopted Raymone? He sent Raymone everything he needs to become the next Duke?”

“It’s true. All wrapped up in a legal package so neat that the only way to break it is to voluntarily, publicly, choose eternal damnation.”

“Meaning a lot of people are going to be unhappy.”

“A lot of people are thoroughly unhappy already, child. Ask Bernardin. He’s already run into squads of agents sent to get me before I turned the baubles over. Expect a flood of immigrants now that my whereabouts are known.”

“Bernardin and I will enjoy the hunt.”

The old man shuddered. Socia was almost a daughter. He loved her like his own. But the more he heard about Socia today the more troubled he became.

She was possessed of a soul both dark and cruel. Her husband’s enemies had cause for dread.

* * *

Winter was cruel in the Connec. Even the old folks admitted that its like had not been seen before. There were ices floes in the Dechear. At Viscesment citizen crews worked for weeks to keep the ice from damaging that city’s precious bridges.

The cold forced an end to all campaigning. Even Count Raymone Garete’s hardiest fighters abandoned the field once they started losing fingers and toes.

The Arnhanders harassing the Khaurenesaine suffered the worst, though winter was less harsh in the west. They had failed to show the season adequate respect when they wasted the countryside. Depriving the enemy meant depriving oneself. Food, fuel, and fodder had to be dragged in from far away. Other than in the few overcrowded castles shelter was hard to come by. Huddling for warmth elsewhere could turn fatal. Well-fed and well-clothed Navayans or Khaurenese almost always attacked when smoke gave a gathering away. They tried to recapture the castles whenever it looked like they could manage cheaply.

Despite all, King Regard kept a force in the field. He stayed in the End of Connec himself. Which occasioned humor on both sides.

There would be an invader army on hand when spring came. The Arnhanders believed the campaign would go their way once the weather turned. Then Khaurene would pay the butcher’s bill.

* * *

Count Raymone came home at last, compelled by the cold outside and the heat within. He and Socia were shameless in demonstrating their affection.

* * *

Brother Candle was one of a dozen guests at a small feast. Something private was being celebrated. No one said what. Brother Candle suspected that Socia was pregnant. He was not sure why he was present. The other guests were all intimates of Count Raymone.

The merry mood was unjustified, in the old man’s view.

This was no world to bequeath a child.

Something he said inspired Socia to poke him in the ribs and declare, “You’re the perfect pessimist. The world is going to hell in a chamber pot. You ought to be dancing a jig. Every gloomy day we get more evidence that Seekers have it right. The world is the Adversary’s playground. You get validated anew before every sundown.”

“That may be, child. But I don’t exult in the torment of my fellows.”

Bernardin Amberchelle laughed like that was the joke of the decade.

“These are apocalyptic times,” Count Raymone said. “And the most learned Perfect is here to witness and to guide us through.”

Sarcasm? Hard to tell. Brother Candle could not help saying, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Socia responded, “That’s because you’re a sour old badger who only expects the worst.”

“And the worst is about to rain down like a ton of gull droppings, isn’t it?”

Count Raymone said, “This once your pessimism may be justified.”

“Just this once, though, of course. Right?”

“Of course.” The entire gathering showed amusement, though the Perfect could tell that only Bernardin, Socia, and the Count knew the secret.

“Maybe you ought to give me the really bad news.”

Amberchelle shifted his bulk. “You look a lot better than when I saved you from the Bishop.”

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

Count Raymone combed his fingers through his thinning hair. “This is the plan, Brother. I want you to get yourself