Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,75

brother was there. The Duke and the Perfect were there. Where twenty to thirty usually gathered, raucously, with fires roaring in the fireplaces.

Brother Candle observed, “Between us we have over two centuries of experience. And the priest is just a boy.”

The healing brother said, “I can give him an infusion that will restore his control of his body briefly. We seldom use it. It sucks up what resources he has left. Is now a good time?”

The priest had bent to ask that question beside Tormond’s ear.

Brother Candle caught a flash of mischief in Tormond’s rheumy eye as he managed a tiny nod.

The priest hustled away.

Hodier said, “This infusion does work wonders. But the cost is cruel. Hours like this, or worse, after barely a quarter hour of creeping over just this side of the far frontiers of normal. Don’t waste what time you get.”

Brother Candle could think of no appropriate response. He shifted the Duke’s chair so they could face one another once he parked himself on a bench so he did not have to grind his knees into the hard oak floor.

“We’ve all enjoyed several seasons since last we met.”

Tormond offered a gurgled grunt.

The healing brother rematerialized. “This won’t look good. But it’s how the job has to be done.” He seized Tormond’s wispy hair and forced his head back. Tormond’s mouth opened as his head tilted. The priest gave him five heartbeats to clear his windpipe, then dumped a small clay cup into his mouth. The contents looked like dark tea. Brother Candle smelled nothing. That meant little. His own senses were not what they used to be.

The priest pinched the Duke’s nose, forced a swallow response.

Tormond downed his medicine without choking or aspirating.

His response was not long coming. And was dramatic.

“Almost magical,” Hodier opined, perhaps tongue in cheek.

Color came to Tormond. His slight palsy stopped. His drooling ceased. Then, laboriously, his chin came up off his chest. “Charde ande Clairs. My most faithful friend.”

There was a pathetic indictment of relations between Tormond IV and his world. And the Duke’s own fault. He never took charge. He let himself be managed and manipulated and got stubborn over the wrong things at the wrong times. Everyone tried to take advantage, excepting Sir Eardale Dunn, who had died defending Khaurene. And Brother Candle, who had been Charde ande Clairs in an earlier life, when he and the Duke-to-be had shared childhood adventures in contravention of the rules of station.

“I’m here.”

“But, almost certainly, had to be dragged.” Tormond could not overcome a slur and a lisp, nor did he rattle on as was once his wont. He could, however, be understood. And it was clear that he wanted to speak directly to Brother Candle. “Bicot, find Isabeth. Bring her. No excuses. Fornier, go get coffee. That was supposed to be here by now.”

The priest inclined his head. “As you wish, Your Lordship.”

“He took that gracefully,” Brother Candle said. While searching the room for shadows that did not fit.

“He’s a good man, Charde. Unlike most of his tribe. We have little time. I need you to listen.” Tormond beckoned the Perfect closer. “Among my many ills, lately I’m cursed with glimpses of what the Instrumentalities of the Night see when they look into the face of tomorrow. Usually while this drug infusion is fading.”

“Uhm?” Carefully neutral.

“Charde, the future is not a friendly place.”

Not exactly an epiphany.

Tormond took Brother Candle’s hands into his own. He eased something out of his sleeve into that of his guest. The Perfect concealed his surprise.

“Not friendly at all. Great sorrow is coming. Fire will scourge the Connec. There is no way to avoid it. Tell Count Raymone that I regret everything. Though I don’t see what I could have done to make things come out better. Give him my blessing. Tell him to salvage what he can.”

A wisp of darkness stirred behind the Duke’s eyes. The effect of the infusion was approaching its peak already.

Fornier returned with coffee service so fast Brother Candle had to believe coffee preparation had been in progress after all.

Queen Isabeth and several Direcians blew in moments later, all frowns. As Tormond failed his demesne became, ever more, an extension of Navaya. King Peter’s men would not be pleased with random old contacts who wandered in and caused distress.

Brother Candle recognized none of the Queen’s men.

He eased the packet in his sleeve to an inside pocket.

Brother Candle had known Isabeth since birth, though never familiarly. For reasons he never understood there was more