There was a large tapestry map of Aragoth on the wall. As Grand Leon spoke, his bloodshadow flowed up and surrounded the kingdom, pressing against its borders like a crimson fist around a plum. “My nobles strain at their leads, like hounds on the scent of a wounded animal. They want to ravage the beast and gorge themselves on its flesh even before its heart stops beating.” Barbs of crimson stabbed past the border into the center of the country.
As the shadow stretched, somewhere in the back of Isabelle’s mind, on a level beyond normal hearing, she heard or felt screams, the echoing wails of all the tormented souls he had shadowburned. The un-sound stood her every nape hair on end. She reminded herself that Grand Leon had a reputation for sipping lightly from those upon whom his bloodshadow fed … but still he kept bloodhollow emissaries, one in every kingdom big enough for an embassy. Restraint was a relative concept.
Grand Leon continued, “Nor are my nobles alone. Aragoth teeters, and all the petty kingdoms around it are ready to pounce. The Vecci have designs on it, and the countryside swarms with Stalfjell mercenaries. Even the barons of Oberholz are pacing around the edges, a pack of starving wolves looking for an easy kill. All that holds them back is their mutual distrust of each other and the promise of an easier battle once the Aragoths start fighting amongst themselves, as all are convinced that they must do.
“I, conversely, have no desire for bloodshed, no yearning for useless glory, no desire to heap rewards on my nobles for being shortsighted brutes. Nor do I have any desire to have l’Empire’s longest border devolve into unproductive turmoil.” His shadow withdrew from the map, like an outgoing tide, and puddled around his feet. The mental howling faded from perception if not memory.
To Isabelle he asked, “What do you think?”
Isabelle spoke carefully. “I think that keeping the peace would be a good idea.”
“And how do you think that might be accomplished?”
“Forgive me, Majesty, but I have barely begun to scratch the surface of Aragothic intrigue. So far, the closest ally of my mother-in-law-to-be has hired an anti-royalist to kill me so that my position may be given to his dearest enemy, and everyone seems to think this makes sense. From my outsider’s perspective, it seems the only way to prevent a war would be for there to be a truce between the príncipes, but no one seems to think that such an agreement is within the realm of possibility. Indeed, you just said Príncipe Alejandro has been exiled.”
“Not in so many words. Margareta had him sent to the Craton Riqueza on the pretense of performing a royal audit of the treasure ports. She wants him to be as far away from Aragoth as possible when Carlemmo dies. It is a gamble, however, because fully half of Aragoth’s navy is on or about Craton Riqueza, and an extraordinary number of them are in sky dock, suffering from outbreaks of swamp fatigue, or otherwise exhibiting a noteworthy disinclination to follow orders from their fleet command—but Alejandro’s proximity may well motivate them to his cause, if only because some admiral sees the chance to play kingmaker.
“Meanwhile, Margareta is hoping Carlemmo dies while Alejandro is still en route, leaving him neither here nor there when the incivilities begin in earnest. She has also taken the precaution of keeping his wife, Princesa Xaviera, in San Augustus.”
“A royal hostage,” Isabelle said.
“But not a very good one, from Margareta’s perspective. Xaviera has proven barren, else this succession conundrum would not exist. As it stands, many of Alejandro’s supporters would be happy to see her replaced with a more fecund bride, but Alejandro will have none of it.”
Good for him. Isabelle liked Alejandro already, better than Julio, in fact, but she said, “And so the príncipe’s allies would be happy to see his wife murdered by his worst enemy. This is more evidence that Aragothic politics are insane.”
“They would settle for having her set aside as an honored and acknowledged mistress, but Alejandro refuses even that compromise.”
Isabelle reflected on Grand Leon’s household. The queen had died years ago, but le roi kept three acknowledged mistresses—who also happened to be the most intelligent and influential women in l’Empire—so perhaps that idea did not seem offensive to him.
She took the conversation in another direction. “It seems to me that I will be a poor hostage as well, seeing as many in Aragoth disagree with me on religious grounds and would be happy to see me given to the sky.”
“Ah, but being an inadequate hostage can make you a more effective negotiator; your value will be in what resources you can offer rather than in your, shall we say, intrinsic worth.”
Isabelle sensed that this was near the core of the matter le roi had been easing up to. “And what resources can I offer? Do you propose to empower me to deliver the full weight of l’Empire to my husband’s cause?”
“If Margareta is willing to make certain concessions to l’Empire, yes.”
For a moment Isabelle was too stunned to do anything but stare at him. She wanted to ask, Are you serious? One might doubt Grand Leon’s purposes or disagree with his reasons, but never ever his proclamations.
Isabelle forced herself to ask, “What sort of concessions?”
“Margareta is prickly to deal with. She is clever, aggressive, and opportunistic, but she is also impatient. She has shown a tendency to mortgage the future for the sake of the present. There was even a rumor, a nasty slander I believe, that when a previous artifex offered to help make her queen to fill the gap left by the childbed death of Carlemmo’s first wife, she offered up her firstborn son to the Temple in exchange. Alas, the clergyman disappeared shortly after she was crowned, so he never had a chance to collect.”
Isabelle’s curiosity was piqued. “Another artifex? Was that the same one who showed up at my birth?” It would have been about the right time.
Grand Leon’s expression grew dark. “That is one of the details Jean-Claude neglected to procure during his scramble to salvage your life.”
Isabelle winced, cursing herself for forgetting that Jean-Claude had been sent to guard her as a punishment for his incorrigible impudence. She did her best to reverse course. “How can an artifex just disappear?”
“I am informed that he attempted a crossing into Skaladin to meet with tribes disaffected by the sultan in an attempt to create a buffer between the sultanate and Aragoth. Instead, he was waylaid and killed. The most popular rumor is that one of his retinue was left alive to carry his meat back to Om as a taunt while the raiders took his Exalted metal parts as a trophy, sacred artifacts to be traded for high honor in the sultan’s court.”
“Do you believe that?” Isabelle asked.
Grand Leon made an ambivalent gesture. “I hear many fantastic rumors. Most turn out to be false or greatly exaggerated. Some simply dissipate like smoke. A very few prove true.