More than he had access to, he was certain, but he would do what he could.
These past few weeks, Saldur had felt as if he had been balancing teacups on his head while standing on a stool, strapped to the back of a runaway horse. The New Empire had manifested itself in just a matter of weeks. Centuries of planning had finally coalesced, but as with everything, there were mistakes and circumstances for which they could not possibly account.
The whole fiasco in Dahlgren had been only the start. The moment they had declared the establishment of the New Empire, Glouston had gone into open revolt. Alburn had decided to haggle over terms, and of course, there was Melengar. The humiliation was beyond words. Every other Avryn kingdom had fallen in step as planned, all except his. He had been the bishop of Melengar and close personal advisor to the king, as well as the king’s son, and yet Melengar remained independent. Saldur’s clever solution to the Dahlgren problem had kept him from fading into obscurity. He had drawn victory from ashes, and for that the Patriarch had appointed him the church’s representative, making him co-regent alongside Ethelred.
The old king of Warric maintained the existing systems, but Saldur was the architect of the new world order. His vision would define the lives of thousands for centuries to come. Although it was a tremendous opportunity, Saldur felt as if he were rolling a massive boulder up a hill. If he should trip or stumble, the rock would roll back and crush him and everything else with it.
When Saldur reached his office, he found Luis Guy waiting. The church sentinel had just arrived, hopefully with good news. The Knight of Nyphron waited near the window, as straight and impeccable as ever. He stood looking out at some distant point with his hands clasped behind his back. As usual, he wore the black and scarlet of his order, each line clean, his beard neatly trimmed.
“I assume you’ve heard,” Saldur said, closing the door behind him and ignoring any greeting. Guy was not the type to bother with pleasantries—something Saldur appreciated about the man. Over the past several months, he had seen little of Guy, whom the Patriarch kept occupied searching for the real Heir of Novron and the wizard Esrahaddon. This was also to his liking, as Guy, who was one of only two men in the world with direct access to the Patriarch, could be a formidable rival. Strangely, Guy appeared to have little interest in carving out a place for himself in the New Empire—something else to be grateful for.
“About the Nationalists? Of course,” Guy responded, turning away from the window.
“And?”
“And what?”
“And I would like to know what—” Saldur halted when he noticed another man in the room.
The office was comfortable in size, large enough to accommodate a desk, bookshelves, and a table with a chessboard between two soft chairs, where the stranger sat.
“Oh yes.” Guy motioned to the man. “This is Merrick Marius. Merrick, meet Bishop—forgive me—Regent Saldur.”
“So this is him,” Saldur muttered, annoyed that the man did not rise.
He remained sitting comfortably, leaning back with casual indifference, staring in a manner too direct, too brazen. Merrick wore a thigh-length coat of dark red suede—an awful shade, Saldur thought—the color of dried blood. His hair was short, his face pale, and aside from his coat, his attire was simple and unadorned.
“Not very impressive, are you?” Saldur observed.
The man smiled at this. “Do you play chess, Your Grace?”
Saldur’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at Guy. This was his man, after all. Guy had been the one who dug him up, unearthing him from the fetid streets, and praised his talents. The sentinel said nothing and showed no outward sign of outrage or discontent with his pet.
“I’m running an empire, young man,” Saldur replied dismissively. “I don’t have time for games.”