Chapter 8 #4
‘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.’
Afondir barked a laugh and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Very good, Inquisitor. Though we’ve no audience, for now.’
If Torin was at times prone to an excess of compassion, Afondir lacked the virtue entirely. His ledger was heavy with intemperance, dishonesty, treason and callous cruelty. No man so callous and vicious could be allowed to rule.
More, Torin simply did not like him. As an anakriarch of the Mortal Church, devoted to all nine virtues, his personal opinion was as good as canon law.
* * *
Some hours passed, with only the occasional report from the search party and no sign of either Orn or the Count of Glascoed.
Better fare was, indeed, prepared and brought by Afondir’s servants—roast partridges in honey and thyme, with stewed apples and rosemary scones.
Torin ate a little and answered the count’s questions about the Iron Citadel, Tarebach, and the political situation in Alberon.
Not with absolute honesty, of course. The game was, after all, subtle, and an excess of honesty might hurt Torin’s efforts later.
Despite holding hope for the redemption of all people—cornerstone of Wari the Younger’s teachings and the virtue of fidelity—Torin struggled to imagine a path that might lead Afondir into the light.
Though allies of convenience for the moment, they would eventually find themselves on opposite sides of the board.
An unbidden thought swelled in Torin, filling the metal void created by such tedium. An image of the Count of Afondir, naked, suspended by his wrists and ankles upon an iron wheel. Torin standing over him, with a calipers and heated knife in hand.
‘Are you cold, Anakriarch?’ Afondir asked. ‘I can have wine heated.’
‘No, thank you,’ Torin said, frisson giving way to slight embarrassment. He had his own vices, of course. Everyone did. His, however, he harnessed in service to the Church.
‘Hmm,’ Afondir murmured, and turned back to his meal. ‘I thought I saw you shiver.’
The sky began to purple and the birds of evening began to sing before, at last, a messenger reported that the bandit hideout had been found.
Afondir left several of his housecarls to oversee the breaking of the camp and rode out with the rest to witness the end of the hunt. Torin and Anwe rode with him. The knight of action, who had dozed in a camp chair through the afternoon, revived at the prospect of a skirmish, however one-sided.
For the better part of an hour the messenger led their party down a rutted road through the forest, pausing at one point to light torches and lanterns.
It was dark, the forest quiet save the songs of crickets, and then raised voices drifting between the trees.
No clashing steel or screams of pain. Only the bark of orders, given voice with notable frustration.
The road ended in a clearing that held three timber-framed huts.
An old hunters’ lodging, Afondir declared, pointing to elements of construction and bits of detritus that marked it out as such—none of which mattered or made sense to Torin.
All of his attention was fixed on the silhouette of the Count of Glascoed.
He stood at the heart of the clearing over an empty wagon, seemingly oblivious to the whirl of activity around him as men scoured the site for the bandits’ trail.
Afondir brought his mount up alongside the wagon, peered down at it, and tutted. ‘What a misadventure, eh, Ifan?’ he said. ‘At least we found the bloody wagon, but I suspect the trail ends here.’
‘My man Gavron will find it,’ Glascoed said, his voice a hard rasp. ‘This is far from ended.’
‘Perhaps.’ Afondir tapped his chin, as though considering. ‘I will leave a few of my own to help him while the rest of us ride on to Parwys.’
‘No,’ Glascoed snapped. ‘These are my lands, Eurion. The fault and responsibility are mine. Gavron Feld will find these bandits and bring them to what justice they deserve.’
‘You are right, of course,’ Afondir observed. ‘Come. We can be in my palace by midnight. It is a full moon and an easy ride down the First Folk Road, with little danger given the scare we dealt these rogues today. A night of rest, and then on to Parwys, where we are overdue.’
Begrudgingly, Glascoed turned away from the wagon and went to his own steed. His eyes flitted to Torin briefly, hardly readable in the dark beneath the shadow of his brow.
‘Anakriarch Torin!’ Orn called, crossing the clearing at a brisk walk.
Torin greeted the knight of stillness and received his report.
There was little to tell. Afondir’s huntsmen had discovered the trail some hours ago and followed it here, where it ended.
The camp was found empty, save the wagon, which had been identified by makers’ marks as the same that had born the stolen shipment of raw iron.
‘Then I am sorry to have wasted your afternoon,’ Torin said.
Orn shook his head and leaned close. ‘Not a waste, Anakriarch. I suspect this banditry was not as it has been presented. But we can talk of that later, when there are fewer ears about.’
Torin nodded. Confirmation of Afondir’s suspicions, perhaps? Something Orn had overheard to verify that the young Count of Glascoed was, indeed, responsible for this banditry, or at least sympathetic to it? Information that might prove useful, or might not.
In the end, when the Church’s mission had been accomplished in Parwys—whether because Prince Owyn came to virtue in gratitude for the haunting’s end, or because the Count of Afondir burned the country to the ground to pave the way for Templar Unwith’s crusade—no one would recall, let alone record, the competing ambitions of petty counts.
Yet temperance and industry demanded that Torin arm himself with what he could.
The more he knew, the more ways he might find to establish his own credibility with the court of Parwys, or to undermine the ambitions of that arrogant git Eurion of Afondir, should the need arise.