Gray shimmer was starting to spread over the eastern sky when Primate Leopold woke up. He stretched and grumbled as his stiffened joints gave out some cracking noises. The man threw a mocking gaze at the ball of black fur curled up against his thigh and snorted.
“Sleeping on guard duty again, huh, Pixie?”
His remark was rewarded by a toothy yawn and a rough tongue licked the man’s hand. Shaking his head, Leopold slowly stood up and leaned over Ermin’s resting body. The younger cleric’s eyes were still tightly closed but his relaxed features and calm breathing were good signs. The healing had been a success. Still, there was bitterness on the Primate’s face as he picked up the shabby, unremarkable sword from the floor and brought it to its usual resting place.
The Holy Sword of Saint Ursule The Righteous, The Cleaver of Sinners, The Light of Judgment, that was Ardrun – the sword given to the brother of the current Limerian Emperor by the High Pontifex himself. It was rumored to cut through anything, be it flesh or diamond, and Leopold could testify for that. But its most precious secret was the stone in its hilt. Saint Ursule had not only been a great warrior but also a compassionate healer. Therefore, her weapon was more than a simple tool for destruction. For every hundred souls taken, one life could be brought back from the clutches of Death. For each fatal wound inflicted, one could be healed.
Holding the weathered sheath, Leopold’s eyes rested on the murky white gem embedded in the crossguard. A wry smile broke on his lips. Maybe in the hands of its original mistress, Ardrun was a tool for miracles. But he was no Saint. At most, he was someone blessed by them, an Acolyte, given a speck of power and the permission to use a holy relic. If he was truly the sword’s master, maybe he could cure his brother’s heart illness. Maybe he could heal his nephew and grand-nephew who were going to leave this world way too early due to their weak bodies. And even when Ermin’s throat had been ripped open by those Marzbanati… He had saved his life but made him forever mute. It was so unfair. He could use Ardrun to cut through stone pillars but not channel enough divine energy to wield the power he desired most. True were the words of the Father of Darkness – taking a life was easy, keeping one was a miracle.
While he was sunken in thoughts, something soft hit Leopold’s shoulder. The man spun around only to meet two smiling golden eyes hidden under a ruffled tuff of ivory hair.
“Awake already?” Leopold tried to conceal the relief in his voice by bending down and picking up his handkerchief, now crumpled into a ball. “How is your elbow?”
Ermin swung his arm around a couple of times and gave his friend a reassuring thumbs-up. Brushing the covers to the side, the younger cleric jumped out of the bed but before he was able to take even a step, his body swayed.
With swiftness unexpected from someone his age, Leopold rushed forth and supported him.
“What are you doing? Your wound might be gone but your body is still drained from the blood loss and the healing pain. Lie down!” The last words came out of the Primate’s mouth in a tone that tolerated no further arguments.
Ermin rolled his eyes and returned under the blankets with a pouting expression. Suddenly, a slender body jumped on the bed with a playful growl. Pixie pressed her snout against the grumpy patient and her tail waved in the air like a thick black whip. The man patted the lioness’ head and in return, she purred and snuggled against his shoulder.
Leopold looked at the affectionate couple and chuckled. As he was about to turn away, Ermin grabbed his sleeve and held him back. Lifting an eyebrow, the Primate gave him a questioning look. Holding his left hand flat, his lover made a writing motion with his right.
“Now?” Leopold frowned. “You need rest. The report can wait.”
Ermin shook his head, all the playful pouting from before completely gone. There was urgency on his face. With a sigh, Leopold went to his desk and grabbed a few sheets of paper and a lead stylus. He gave them to the younger cleric and didn’t forget to hang a lantern on the hook over the bed.
“While you scribble, I’ll make us some tea. No, khavvah would be better. If your arm starts hurting, tell me immediately.”
Ermin just dismissively waved his hand, the lead pencil already flying over the pages.
Clicking his tongue, Leopold busied himself with his chores while throwing secret glances at his lover from time to time.
‘To get so injured and not even wish to rest, what kind of secrets did he dig up?’ he asked himself as he poked the embers in the fireplace and fed them a few logs.
Soon, ruby light and the crackling of flames filled the room. From a worn-out trunk near his bed, Leopold pulled out a blackened and slightly deformed field-kettle and filled it with water from the jug. Hanging it on a hook over the dancing fire, he added in some black powder and then slumped in his chair. His fingers drummed on the desk as he waited. After some minutes, the bedroom was permeated by a familiar bitter aroma. To Leopold, this was the scent of campaigning; of mornings spent in the wilderness; of nights on guard duty huddled under a blanket with a dome of large desert stars over his head. And, strangely enough, this was the scent of home and the calm before the storm. He had shared khavvah with his comrades, with Marzbanati wanderers, with people who on the next day were going to be his enemy. And yet, for the shortest of moments, as the bitter black liquid burned their throats, warmed their bodies, and enhanced their dulled senses, there was a mutual understanding and acceptance. And after that… They fought and tried to slit each other’s throats because of… hate? Greed? Custom? Faith? Ambition? Everyone declared that they desired peace, yet happily spilled blood in its name. Why did the Gods and the Saints allow it? Why did peace have to come at the price of so many precious lives?
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Hearing the sound of the blubbering kettle, Leopold pushed his dark thoughts to the side and filled two clay cups with the steaming brew. He brought the drink to Ermin and picked up a couple of finished pages. While he sipped on his khavvah, Leopold went through the notes. Little by little, his face turned grimmer with every new sheet he received.
“Saint Ursule!” he mumbled. “I have underestimated him. No, I have been a blind idiot. A monster had been growing at my side all these years!”
Cold sweat ran down Leopold’s back. He knew that Lionel had a lot of lovers, girls he pretended to court and then threw away like wilted flowers. He knew of the existence of some illegitimate children his nephew had fathered. All of this he had dismissed as the frolicking of a young, immature prince. It turned out that he was wrong. Everything had been a calculated move. Lionel didn’t simply sow bastards. He planted cuckoo’s eggs into influential nests around the Empire.
“How far ahead has he planned this?!” Leopold crumpled the paper. “In less than twenty years, he would have infiltrated enough influential families to be unshakable. What am I even saying? He has already started pulling the strings of his net with household heads becoming suddenly ill or disabled and his lovers taking regency positions over family affairs in place of the infant heirs.”
The cleric blinked and shook his head in disbelief. It was genius and horrifying at the same time. And judging from the notes, he had started weaving his net at least five years ago. He had been merely nineteen at that time!
Ermin’s cough attracted his attention. Still in a daze, Leopold lifted his head to see the other man giving him one final page. With cold fingers, he took the paper and his eyes glanced over it.
“May the Father of Darkness take me! Even Norden!?”
It seemed insane, but Leopold knew it was true. Now everything came together. How coincidental had it been for the troops returning from the Southern Campaign to stop exactly in Sefis? And how much of an impromptu had the wedding between Noah and that illegitimate Orten child been? From all they had learned to date, it seemed more likely that Lionel had chosen the Count and his family way beforehand. Dear Saints, the Ortens controlled the southeast. Using their bastard to thwart Noah's contractual marriage to Pandad. Seducing and binding the second daughter to himself through her unborn child. Making sure that the old Orten and his son are loyal to him through bribery and fear of scandal. The South was in Lionel's pocket. Next, he was aiming for the North, but the gamble was way too big.
Leopold and Ermin exchanged stares and the younger cleric nodded with a grim expression. His fingers started moving in quick succession, ending the whole pantomime with his thumb making a slicing motion over his throat.
“Yes, Er, Lionel will probably use this opportunity to kill Noah. Likely every word he said to that girl was a lie meant to manipulate her, and that vial contains not a love potion but poison. And when that girl is captured as the culprit of Noah’s poisoning, both she and that innocent little life in her will be extinguished."
Leopold pinched his nose and cursed.
"But that's what he wants. After the girl’s tragic death he can rally the Ortens and attack Norden. However... even if the poor girl gets close enough to Noah to poison him, there is a chance that Norden won’t weaken enough for Lionel to conquer.”
His lover lifted an eyebrow and threw back an inquisitive look.
“Count De Moran is still alive,” answered Leopold and rubbed his face. “If the current Duke of Norden is killed without an heir, my brother will most likely make Duncan De Moran the next duke. He has been a close aide to the Emperor during his early years and has proven his loyalty and capability in both war and politics. That's why my brother sent him to Norden to protect Noah."
Ermin scratched his head before his fingers moved again. Leopold observed him for a while before speaking.
"It doesn't matter that he has been away for so long. The De Moran family is as strong as ever. His only son has been managing the county for the past ten years with great success and has gained powerful allies in and outside of the Empire. And Duncan also has two grandsons to pass the count and ducal titles down the line, so he is a perfect candidate.”
Contemplating for a moment, Ermin tapped his right eye with his finger.
“Yes, I’ve heard that Duncan almost lost his life during the Southern Campaign. I suspect that it might have been more than a simple stray arrow from a lucky Marzbanati. Both he and Noah almost died this time. If they had… Norden would have weakened and been easier prey for Lionel.”
Ermin nodded. He then pointed at Leopold’s chest, then at his, and shrugged.
“What we should do?” The Primate exhaled loudly. He put his empty cup on the table and locked his fingers together. “Er, I hate this senseless slaughter. I hate seeing brothers trying to kill each other. If the Emperor would just name Lionel Crown Prince, all this would stop.”
He paused for a moment before his head hung between his shoulders.
“Who am I kidding? Both boys are engulfed by hatred and a thirst for vengeance. Both are right, and both are wrong. And I am forced to take a side.”
The bed creaked under Ermin’s weight as he sat on its edge and put a hand on Leopold’s shoulder. The Primate straightened his back and inhaled sharply.
“I need to choose one of them, but I'll be damned if I allow an unborn child to perish. We need to make sure that Lionel’s lie becomes reality. Er, I want you to post a spy by Lady Orten’s side as she travels to Norden. Make sure that they switch whatever she has been given with the strongest love potion we can get. For the peace of this empire, Noah’s life must eventually end. But at least I will give an innocent unborn child a chance to live.”
As he finished, Leopold leaned in and pressed his forehead against Ermin’s chest. Short, mocking laughter escaped his lips.
“I'm such a hypocrite, aren’t I, Er, exchanging a bastard’s death for a bastard’s life? Both of them are my family. And none of them wished to be born.”