‘What is amiss?’Torin asked, settling into the seat he had been offered.‘Perhaps my knights and I might help and speed all our ways to Parwys.’
Glascoed made to answer, but Afondir cut him off.‘Three days ago, as I was nearly to depart for the king’s funeral, word reached me that a shipment of raw iron had not been delivered on schedule to the port of Ispont.I sent riders to the Count of Glascoed immediately—the shipment being due from mines in his lands.Time is of the essence to hunt down these brigands before their trail vanishes in the autumn rains, you see.Else we would not have delayed.Despite the woodcraft of Ifan’s housecarls—which I am sure he does not exaggerate—they only today found the trail leading to these woods.We suspect our quarry keeps a hideaway near Woodsman’s Hearth.Far enough from the gaze of either Glascoed or Afondir, but near enough to the main road to allow for easy transport of illicit goods.’
Afondir’s gaze told that there was more, left unsaid.Some facet of the story he did not wish to voice in front of Glascoed.Torin let the issue lie, but resolved to press him on it at the first opportunity.Afondir’s ambitions were the means by which the Church might find its foothold in Parwys, but, unchecked, they were as likely to undermine those efforts.
Torin gestured to Orn.‘My knight of stillness is skilled in such matters,’ he said.‘And granted boons by the example of the Agion which might aid in this pursuit.I would lend him to you, if you will allow us to accompany you and make our case to the crown prince.’
Glascoed scoffed.‘We are capable of meting out our own justice.We’ve no need for aid from you or your church.’
An excess of courage and intemperance, Torin noted, to begin young Ifan’s ledger of failings.
Afondir made a show of mulling over Torin’s offer.‘I do not disagree, Ifan, but if there is a chance their aid might speed things—whether in seeking these bandits or the question of the haunting—I see no reason to reject it.Neither you nor I wish to insult the king-in-waiting by our absence at his father’s funeral.Very well, Sir Torin.’
‘We are not all willing to permit their meddling in our affairs,’ Glascoed said, leaning forward, his hands under the table.
Afondir regarded him coldly, the smile gone.‘Only a fool rejects aid when it is needed.Your father would not have been so stubborn.’
Glascoed flinched as though the older man had raised a fist.Hard words burned behind his eyes, but he tamped them down.After a moment he rose from his seat and stalked off—to precisely what purpose was unclear to Torin, though he was glad to see the young count go—and his housecarls fell in after him.
Afondir sighed and shook his head.‘Raised to power too young, I’m afraid,’ he murmured.‘I hope our crown prince has a better temperament for rule than his old friend the count.’
A few quick orders later, Orn and one of Afondir’s housecarls followed the Count of Glascoed from the camp on horseback to join the hunt.Anwe, seeming to sense that they would be staying a while, deposited herself in one of the empty chairs and brusquely asked for a bowl of something hot and meaty.Though it showed a measure of weakness, Torin accepted one as well—humility was not an orthodox virtue of the Agion, but temperance often demanded it.The stew from the camp pot was certainly hot and meaty, but little else, with thick globules of fat drifting in the broth.
‘I can have better fare prepared,’ Afondir said, watching Torin eat.
‘I am only a servant of the Church, My Lord,’ Torin said, trying to keep the nausea from his voice.He coughed, then went on more quietly.‘And often forced to endure much worse.Such as travelling nearly an entire day without warning.’
Afondir’s nearly constant smile took on a venomous twist.‘There is an opportunity here, though you are blind to it.’
At last, the Count of Afondir’s true face.
Torin smiled back.‘Enlighten me.’
Afondir swept his gaze to be sure no unwanted ears were lingering near the pavilion.‘These bandits in Glascoed are more than that.A rebellion has long simmered in the woods and is near to boiling.Now they steal raw iron openly—entire wagons of it!With the king’s death, they see a moment of chaos in which to strike, and make their preparations.That iron was bound for Cilbran and its constant war against the rimewolves of the northlands, but it will be just as useful in a war against the crown.Parwys retains control by the threat of ancient magics.To have any hope of success—whatever they aspire to—these rebels will need a shield of raw iron against the magic of the druids and a sword to carve through their defences.’
‘I see.’Torin stirred his viscous stew, glad that intrigue had blunted his hunger.‘And what opportunity do you see in this?’
Afondir chuckled softly.‘Why do you think young Ifan is so agitated?So desperate to handle the search himself?’
Torin let himself absorb Afondir’s insinuation.An opportunity indeed, though more for the count than for the Church.The path to bringing Parwys into the light of virtue would be easiest if Owyn’s rule was strong.His embrace of the Church would then filter down to the rest of his court, and the loyal nobility, and thence to the common folk.That was the strategy that had won Alberon, and the Ecclesiarch had hope for much the same here.The days of the Church’s growth by the sword and blood had passed.Afondir’s intemperate ambition would complicate things.While his mind followed myriad implications, Torin thoughtlessly spooned stew into his mouth, and nearly gagged.
‘Still no interest in a better meal?’Afondir said, and Torin smoothed away the scowl that had crept on to his face.
‘You are certain of this?’Torin said.‘I thought you said the count and Prince Owyn were friends?’
Afondir made a dismissive gesture.‘In their youth.No longer, I think.Not, at least, since Ifan’s father died.The rumours from Glascoed say he went mad for the better part of a year, and since then a dark cloud has hung about him.I doubt he aids this rebellion from ambition—it is a trait that recognises itself, and I see none of it in him.His motives are opaque, but not his methods.’
‘So you will collect evidence that the count rises in rebellion?’Torin asked.‘To what end?Civil war?In the midst of this haunting?’
‘Only to keep Prince Owyn’s attention away from our own efforts.’Afondir chuckled again and stroked his beard, but there was no glint of mirth in his hard eyes.‘A thing far more easily achieved if you had done as I asked and not blundered into the midst of things.Now Ifan has his own rumours to spread about me.Do you think he will believe that little story you told of benevolent purpose?The more closely we are seen to work together, Anakriarch, the greater the danger our own conspiracy will be found out.’
Torin’s anger burned.Intemperate words flitted through his mind, seeking his mouth.What conspiracy?Afondir would never sit on the throne if things went the Church’s way—he was only a vehicle to deliver Torin to the court.Alone, Torin would be turned away from the castle gates, barred by the decree of the queen regent.As the Count of Afondir’s guests at such a momentous and weighty occasion as a royal funeral, Torin could gain access and convince the young crown prince to let the Mortal Church save his kingdom from the nightmare that plagued it.
If Prince Owyn proved intractable, the Ecclesiarch may see fit to convert the kingdom by violence.A tragedy Torin hoped to avoid.Then Afondir might have his civil war—and thousands would die for it.But in victory his rule would be short, soon replaced with a High Templar who could shepherd the kingdom into peace.
‘It will be a subtle game, now,’ Afondir said.‘I suggest you stay out of it until I call on you.’
‘My only interest is in healing the kingdom,’ Torin said.‘Of this haunting and all else that plagues it, in the end.’
