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“You are either with us, or you stand against us. The Imperial Order views it the same.
“Tell the assembly of seven that Mardovia now stands against us. One of us, either D’Hara or the Order, will conquer Mardovia. Direct them to pray to the good spirits, and ask that it is we who conquer you and take Renwold instead of the Order. We will impose harsh sanctions for your resistance, but your people will live. Should the Order set upon you first, they will annihilate your defenders and enslave your people. Mardovia will be ground into the dust of the past.”
His indulgent smile widened. “Fear not, Mother Confessor. Renwold will stand against any land, even the Order.”
Kahlan regarded him with cold ire. “I have walked among the dead inside the walls of Ebinissia. I have seen the slaughter at the hands of the Order. I have seen what they did to the living, first. I will pray for those poor people who will suffer because of the mad delusions of the assembly of seven.”
Kahlan angrily gestured to the guards to escort the man from the chambers. She knew what would happen to the Mardovian people if the Order attacked first. She knew, too, that Richard could not risk the lives of allies simply to take Renwold in order to protect it. It was too distant a land. She would advise against it, as would any of his generals.
Mardovia was lost; their neutrality would draw the Order as the scent of blood drew wolves.
She had walked through the gates in the massive walls of Renwold. The walls were impressive. They were not invincible. The Order had wizards, like Marlin. The walls would not stand against wizard’s fire, despite those of magic’s talent defending Renwold.
Kahlan tried to put the fate of Mardovia from her mind as she called the pair from the royal house in Grennidon forward.
“How does Grennidon stand?” she growled.
Walter Cholbane cleared his throat. His sister spoke.
“Grennidon, a land of great importance, a land of vast fields which produce—”
Kahlan cut her off. “I asked how Grennidon stands.”
Leonora dry-washed her hands as she considered the resolve in Kahlan’s eyes.
“The royal house offers its surrender, Mother Confessor.”
“Thank you, Leonora. We are gladdened for you and for your people. Please see to it that my officers here are granted any information they need so that your army can be brought under coordination of our central command.”
“Yes, Mother Confessor,” she stammered. “Mother Confessor, are our forces to be bled against the walls of Renwold to bring them down?”
Grennidon was north of Mardovia, and in the best position to attack, but Kahlan knew that Grennidon would not relish attacking a trading partner. Moreover, some of the family of the assembly of seven had married into the royal house of Cholbane.
“No. Renwold is a city of the walking dead. The vultures will pick it clean. In the meantime, trade with Mardovia is forbidden. We trade only with those who join us.”
“Yes, Mother Confessor.”
“Mother Confessor,” Walter, her brother, interjected, “we wish to discuss some of the terms with Lord Rahl. We have things of value to offer, and matters of interest to us that we wish to bring to his attention.”
“Surrender is unconditional. There is nothing to discuss. Lord Rahl has instructed me to remind you that there will be no negotiations. Either you are with us, or you are against us. Now, do you wish to withdraw your offer of surrender before you sign the documents and instead cast your fate with Mardovia?”
He pressed his lips together as he took a deep breath. “No, Mother Confessor.”
“Thank you. When Lord Rahl has the time, soon, I hope, he would very much like to hear what you have to say, as a valued member of the D’Haran empire. Just remember that you are now part of D’Hara, and he is the Master of D’Hara, the master of that empire.”
She had treated them with less respect than the two small lands who had offered their surrender; not to do so would have resulted in emboldening them, and inviting trouble. These two were among those who always requested red rooms.
Walter and Leonora seemed to relax, now that Kahlan had their acquiescence. The Cholbanes could be tenacious and stubborn to the end, but once an agreement was reached and their word given, they never looked back, never second-guessed what might have been. It was a quality that made dealings with them bearable.
“We understand, Mother Confessor,” Walter said.
“Yes,” his sister added. “And we look forward to the day that the Imperial Order no longer threatens all our people.”
“Thank you, both of you. I know this must seem harsh to you, but know that we rejoice to count you and your people among us.”
As they moved off to sign the papers and talk with the officers, Kahlan turned her attention to Tristan Bashkar, of Jara.
“Minister Bashkar, how stands Jara?”
Tristan Bashkar was a member of the royal family of Jara. In Jara, the position of minister was one of high rank and trust. Of those gathered, he was the only one with the authority to change his land’s commitment without returning home for consultation. If he thought there was reason enough, he could alter the royal family’s instructions, and thus, Jara’s stand.
Hardly out of his thirties, he wore his age well. He also used his looks to distract people from his quick mind. After people had been disarmed by his likable smile, bright brown eyes, and smooth-spoken flattery, he would extract concessions before they realized they had parted with them.
He brushed a thick lock of dark hair back from his forehead—a compulsive habit. Or possibly a way to draw interest to his eyes, where people were often distracted.
He spread his hands apologetically. “Mother Confessor, I’m afraid it’s not as easy as a simple yes or no, although I wish to assure you that we are in harmony with the great empire of D’Hara, and admire the wisdom of both Lord Rahl, and of course, yourself. We have always put the advice of the Mother Confessor above all others.”
Kahlan sighed. “Tristan, I’m in no mood for your usual games. You and I have sparred in these chambers more times than I can remember. Don’t test me today. I’ll not have it.”
Being a member of the royal family, he was well trained in all the ar
ts of war, and had fought with distinction in the past. Broad-shouldered and tall, he cut a handsome figure. His easy smile always carried a playful twist that cloaked any threat, were there one, and there sometimes was. Kahlan never turned her back, so to speak, on Tristan Bashkar.
He casually unbuttoned his dark blue coat and rested a hand on his hip. The ploy revealed an ornate knife sheathed at his belt. Kahlan had heard it whispered that, going into battle, Tristan Bashkar preferred to draw his knife rather than his sword. It was whispered, too, that he got sadistic pleasure from slicing the enemy.
“Mother Confessor, I admit that in the past I’ve been reticent to reveal our exact position in order to best protect our people from the avarice of other lands; but it isn’t like that this time. You see, the way we view the situation—”
“I’m not interested. I want only to know if you stand with us or against us. If you stand against us, Tristan, I give you my word that by morning we will have troops riding for the royal palace in Sandilar, and they will return with either unconditional surrender, or the heads off the royal family.
“General Baldwin is here in Aydindril with a sizable Keltish force. I’ll send him—Keltans never let down their queen, nor rest until she is satisfied. I am now the queen of Kelton. Do you wish a fight with General Baldwin?”
“Of course not, Mother Confessor. We wish no fight, but if you will hear me out—”
Kahlan slapped a hand to the desk, silencing him. “When the Imperial Order held Aydindril, before Richard liberated it, Jara sat on the council, allied with the Order.”
“As was D’Hara, at the time,” he gently reminded her.
Kahlan glared at him. “I was brought before the council, and convicted of the very crimes committed by the Order. Wizard Ranson, from the Order, called for a death sentence. The councilor from Jara sat at this desk and voted to have me beheaded.”
