“On a matter closer to hand and nearer to the present, I deem Margareta’s lust for power to rule her sensibilities. It is likely she will not object too heavily when you insist that, in return for l’Empire’s support, your children be fostered in the Célestial court.”
Isabelle stiffened as if slapped. In the same dialogue, le roi had told a horror story about Margareta’s agreeing to sell her unborn children and then suggested Isabelle do the same. Of course, noble children were always pawns to politics, royal children ten times so, but to Isabelle, who had long believed that children were a dream out of reach, the idea of crafting a child of her flesh and soul only to send it away was revolting.
Yet this was a man whose mistresses were his closest councilors and by whom he had dozens of children, acknowledged bastards all. He could not be oblivious to maternal impulses.
“And what will you do if the queen does not agree to these conditions?” Isabelle asked.
Grand Leon said, “I doubt she will refuse. She wants to capture Aragoth intact, which will not happen if it comes to blows.”
“But if she did, you must have a plan for it. Every good plan includes a contingency.”
“Now you are starting to sound like Kantelvar—the man has wheels within wheels—but yes, there is an alternate plan, not as elegant, quite a bit more tediously bloody, but effective. I don’t suppose you know what persistence hunting is?”
This coming from a man whom Isabelle deemed to have his own many-layered, deeply laid plans. She said, “In Gottfreid’s Eine Studie der Barbaren, he describes persistence hunting as a technique used by the tribes of Nyl during the dry season wherein a large, dangerous animal is harassed continuously by a rotating schedule of hunters. Prevented from drinking or resting, it eventually collapses from exhaustion and makes for a safe kill.”
Grand Leon’s eyebrows rose in surprise of the pleasant variety. “Precisely so. A similar technique should work here. We grant a little aid to one faction, then a little aid to the other to prolong the war. Back and forth. Over and again. It will probably take years, but eventually the beast of Aragoth will collapse and succumb to our coup de grace. The hard part will be restraining our nobles from full commitment. They will be so eager for glory and plunder that they would likely forfeit victory to achieve it.”
The proposed strategy made Isabelle rather queasy, but le roi continued, “On the other hand, if Margareta is assured of our cooperation, we can resolve the debate swiftly and decisively, capturing Aragoth mostly intact and possibly without untidy lakes of blood.”
Isabelle saw the two visions of the future spooling out before her. She took the yet raw, bloody events of the day, the terror, the agony, the grief, and multiplied them a thousandfold in her mind. It beggared her imagination, and yet, she suspected, fell far short of the reality. To condone war was unthinkable.
“You ask much of the unborn,” she said. “Such a heavy burden to put on babes not yet conceived, much less born. Their grandmother might not mind using them as a tribute, but the notion cuts their mother to the quick.”
Grand Leon looked at her sharply, then shrewdly, his ghostly eyes glimmering like stars through a fog. He was, she realized, looking for the first time at Isabelle the person rather than Isabelle the princess, and she prayed to all the saints that bringing that facet of her being to his attention was not a mistake. Just because he was aware of women’s priorities didn’t mean he respected them. On the other hand, he had recognized all his bastards.
“It is not out of the question that arrangements could be made with the mother,” Grand Leon said. “And I would suggest the mother consider all the alternatives. In l’Empire, she could be sure her children would be safe under the protection of a strong emperor, raised with Célestial culture, trained at the finest academies—”
“And they would make all the best Célestial friends, who are the glue that holds kingdoms together,” Isabelle said. “And so Aragoth would be conquered, not by war, or even economy, but by culture.”
“And does that seem insane to you, compared to what you have seen of Aragoth?”
“It sounds … elegant, but it would make me a traitor to my husband, to make his children tools of a foreign power.”
“Ah,” he said, and he scraped the underside of his chin with his thumb in a rare thoughtless gesture. “Your concern touches upon the nature of royalty and reality. Any decision we make, no matter how wise or foolish, bold or timid, will be paid for in blood and pain and suffering. If we order a road built, inevitably someone will die building it, and once it is finished trade will shift from one town to another, one man will grow rich while another will starve. If we are wise, we do more good than harm, but we can no more avoid causing harm than we can avoid growing old.
“Your decision, like so many, must eventually be phrased in terms of whom to serve. If you try to do it the other way around, to decide whom to avoid betraying, you will be ineffectual and it will drive you mad.”
Were these Grand Leon’s true beliefs or just a heap of steaming platitudes?
“Dare I ask whom you serve?” she asked.
Grand Leon beamed at her. “By the Builder, I thought Jean-Claude’s frequent praise of your wit was excessively effusive, but I see that he in fact fell short of the mark.” He must have seen Isabelle blanch at the mention of Jean-Claude’s name, for he let the matter drop and went on more neutrally, “I serve l’Empire Céleste. In my youth, I served myself and thought that l’Empire did too, but that is foolish. A man must die, but an empire can go on forever. The question of the moment is, whom do you serve?”
Isabelle quailed before this question. The intensity of his gaze told her this was the fulcrum. If she spoke one way, he would confer a terrible authority on her, the right to bestow in his name all the might of l’Empire Céleste. If she spoke another, she would be relegated to the status of pawn. Either way, her whole future and mayhap the futures of countless others depended on her word … or his reaction to her word. Where did culpability begin or end? Did she really want to be the one to touch off a senseless war?
No. Nor did she feel any particular loyalty to Julio. To her unborn children then? But no, a parent must raise a child, not submit to it.
“I serve peace,” she said. That was the only cause in this whole mess worth fighting for. Peace for her children to grow up in. Peace to spare the suffering of tens of thousands.
Grand Leon sniffed, one corner of his mouth twitched up, and she knew she had failed his test. How could Grand Leon respect anything so childish, so naive, so weak?
“Really? Most men would have said they served me.”
Isabelle’s knees weakened, but she couldn’t buckle. “I am not a man, and I serve peace.” She wanted no part of anything else.
“An epitaph to be carved upon your gravestone, no doubt, but it’s an impossible task. Choose another.”
Isabelle felt all futures slipping away, but she would not yield. Her voice came thick. “I think choosing another is your job now, sire.”
“You defy me?” Grand Leon growled.