Gematria

Knight-General Raling steepled his hands together and stared across the table. Pater Kherne’s eyes could never stay still, they flicked around the tent like fireflies. Raling would never admit how unsettling the effect was. He kept his face as stiff as a death-mask and spoke.

“Did my bird arrive?”

“If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” Pater Kherne’s voice was soft and melodic.

“And my terms…?”

“Are unacceptable.”

Raling cursed inwardly. Reese, sat to his right, buried his head in his hands.

“Now now,” said Kherne, “do not despair, young one. I said I wouldn’t accept your terms, not that you’ll never see your princess again. I propose new terms. The Nine have agreed they are fair.”

Raling felt uneasy. His offer had been generous, and it had been refused. How far was the fat old man prepared to push him?

Pater Kherne’s steward handed over a scroll, sealed with rare wax made from the venom of the jade-tooth snake. It was said that the substance released deadly fumes when burned, so thieves could not finesse off the Pater’s mark.

“You may read it at your leisure,” he said, “but I will summarise the main points for you. I know you and your son have trouble reading.” He smirked. “First, withdrawal from Clear Aurous and the surrender of the throne.”

Reese gasped. Raling kept his silence.

“Second, the execution of Raymond Spyglass. Your chief advisor has caused me far too many headaches. Now I want his head. Third, you will once again take up the mantle of Duke of Holdfast. You’re too good a solider to be thrown aside.”

Raling nodded grudgingly.

“Fourth,” the Pater continued, “your House will revoke the Blue for all time. You will never sit on the close council again, and you will forsake any eligibility for the throne.”

There was a pause. “Any others?” asked Reese in a voice choked with bile.

Pater Kherne gestured at the parchment. “Some minor land concessions, a marriage proposal, but those are the main things.”

“And if we refuse?” asked the Knight-General.

“Then I will kill Thessalie. Myself.” The Pater’s eyes flickered around the tent.

Raling stood and dragged his son to his feet. “We refuse,” he said.

“Then the bitch is dead,” said Pater Kherne, as calmly as if he’d said his soup was cold.

“House Raling will marshal,” Reese warned.

His father nodded and leaned in, his face inches from the Pater’s. “This will be war,” he said. “We will marshal, and we will fight, and the world will hear how Pater Kherne died with his fat jowls wobbling in fear and no sword in his hands.”

He turned abruptly and went to leave.

“But first,” he said, stopping by the tent door, “make no mistake, Pater. Before you die, we will burn your cities down.”