Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,196

wouldn’t want to be in the Patriarch’s shoes right now.”

Brother Candle received that news with less joy than did the others. He knew such things became exaggerated. Likely the news would go through several serious transmutations before curdling into its historical form, which was sure to be its least dramatic shape.

Even in a tepid form, though, this was good news for the Connec. The Patriarchal forces harassing Count Raymone would have to be recalled. Faced with the wrath of the Grail Empire Serenity would have neither a man nor a ducat to spare for anything but self-defense.

* * *

The travelers reached country where Patriarchal troops had expressed their displeasure with Count Raymone.

Word was, the Captain-General’s initial instructions had been for Ghort to remain in place and waste the countryside. Then he had been directed to launch an all-out attack on Antieux. He refused. That would waste his soldiers’ lives. Given no other option, though, he had attacked, achieving the predicted results. His force had been decimated. It never came close to succeeding.

Then Serenity ordered the Captain-General back to Brothe, fast, collecting the full feudal levy of every Patriarchal State along the way. He was to accept no excuses and make no exceptions.

“Desperation,” Brother Candle said.

Gaitor agreed. “Sounds like Serenity’s fortunes went into the shitter, fast.”

Brother Candle saw what Count Raymone would surely see. An opportunity granted by God Himself. A respite while Serenity fought for his life. A chance to throw light into the nooks and crannies where Society vermin hid and bred.

Briefly, Brother Candle wondered what kind of noble Raymone would have made had he lived in a peaceful age.

News from farther east became the subject of so much speculation that time just flew. There were no adventures other than a brush with a band of Society brothers fleeing retribution. They lacked the courage of their convictions that morning.

Brother Candle saved their lives. He talked Gaitor into letting them go. “Ye reap what ye sow.”

Kedle responded, “What we’ll reap is rats bred up a hundredfold. Remember those faces, old man. See if they aren’t in the mob that ties you to the stake someday.”

“Blood drinker, that one,” Geis whispered.

Brother Candle nodded. And could not shake the truth underlying what Kedle said. Someone would pay for his kindness.

* * *

A patrol from Antieux found them ten miles west of the city. The soldiers had heard of Brother Candle. They formed an escort and sent a rider ahead to report the coming of an important messenger.

Count Raymone was away harassing stragglers from the Patriarchal force, Society fugitives, and brigands. His prey often fit multiple categories. Socia, though, was in the city, busy being pregnant. She came out to meet Brother Candle. She was as effusive and excited as if he were her own father. Her pregnancy had begun to show. She was sensitive about that. She had dressed to make it less obvious.

She asked, “You’re carrying communications from the Queen?”

“I am,” Brother Candle replied.

“We’ve been hearing a lot from her. I expect your message won’t be anything new. But she says you speak for her. She thinks we’ll trust you to do what’s best for the End of Connec.”

“Oh, no. Socia … Countess … no! I was born on the third day after Creation. I’m old. I need to rest. It’s a miracle the Good God hasn’t called me during this journey.”

“He left you in place because He knows you have work to do.”

Kedle chuckled.

Brother Candle said, “These people saw me through. They’re good people, mostly. Though that girl with the baby needs some rough corners knocked off.”

Socia grinned at Kedle. Kedle grinned back. Socia’s chief lifeguard whispered to her. She said, “I know who she is. We spent a winter in the Altai together. Kedle. Two babies now. So either Soames turned up or you found out that he didn’t have the only one.”

Storm clouds crossed Kedle’s face. But she nodded. “He turned up. Got me another baby, then got himself killed. By the very King of Arnhand. Six kinds of poetic and ironic justice there.”

“Ha! They’re calling you the Kingslayer. You know that? So I like you even better. But I’m jealous. I wish it’d been me. Well, maybe someday. The Arnhanders won’t stop coming till we’re shut of Anne of Menand.”

Brother Candle eyed Socia narrowly. Was there a sinister inflexion there?

He said only, “Some of these people are almost as old as I am, Countess. And we’re all exhausted. And it’s going to rain. Again.” Wet weather had