We'll go into it when it happens, but the simple version is that Beale doesn't exactly forget they're around there, but he does manage to not realize that this could have an effect on things.
With some interesting results. In a very real way, the Church's private army seems to be rather... quantum.
Marcus is watching the battle unfold with his officers. Everything is going according to plan. Marcus, we learned, has promoted new officers to fill some of the gaps created by the whole "there was a conspiracy in the upper levels" deal. There are apparently issues on this, and Marcus thinks about how there might still be some spies about. But apparently doesn't think about how releasing the head of the coup attempt to make his way to his allies was a bad idea.
Right, forget about that, because Marcus is never going to face consequences for it. He muses on the plan, which again, everything is going according to. He's not planning on attacking the Cynothii, because he figures that having bloodied their noses, they'll do the sensible thing and surrender. He is glad that the Severans got away, because that means they don't have to kill their fellow citizens. He only had Julianus pursue them because he knew that Julianus would do so anyway. This is part of Corvus' management strategy--never give orders you know will be broken, or fail to give orders that you know will be followed.
...
You know, there are so many problems with that, that I'm just going to move on. Marcus thinks about his brilliant strategy, and sure enough the commander comes forward to surrender. Marcus likes the cut of the barbarian's jib. Vestremer--yes, it's him--butters Marcus up and declares him, oh so clever and oh so brave. Marcus starts offering terms and making declarations to Vestermer, which are the usual combination of Amorran assholery and Marcus' patented leaping to conclusions. Vestremer reveals that Aulan is with the legion. It's declared that Vestremer has clearly learned that House Severan is doubtless planning on betraying his people, because remember, liberals don't actually care about the minorities they champion, so you're best off just lifting that barge, toting that bale, and trusting in your kindly master.
Marcus gets a deal that Vestremer and his lot will go back and try to get the king of the Cynothii to leave and not attack Amorr. Oh, and he gets some hostages. He's willing to leave the Cynothii alone, largely because the whole civil war is starting up. He asks about Aulan and gets... a stock character description. Marcus decides that the Cynothii would make good auxiliaries, after they get reconquered. Vestremer butters him up some more, as Marcus demonstrates he is definitely his father's son.
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A Throne of Bones: Severa. Severa declares herself super-mature.
Severa is back in Amorr and glad to be back, as we are informed by the following sentence...
Despite its distinctly unflowery perfume that assaulted the nose, the importunities of daring men young and old, and the sense of lurking danger that her father had instilled in her, Severa had seldom felt more alive than she did now.
Anyway, she's with Falconatera, who may or may not be Falconilla from the first Severa chapter under a different name. As I keep pointing out, the editing of this is shit. And also some guards, but they're rather quantum. They pass a statue, and we learn Falconatera is completely unlettered, which if Amorr was a little more cod Roman would be pretty damn disgraceful for a well-bred lady. But, no, not in Amorr, where apparently letting woman not read is the norm for the patricians. Severa feels about how much she envies her friend, who doesn't have to worry about things like the super-knowledgeable and smart Severa, who can never go back to what she was...
Innocence was like virginity: Once punctured, it was gone forever.
...And Severa has failed being a real girl forever.
Right, Tera tries to get Severa to confirm the gossip about herself. Severa realizes that telling anything to Tera is the equivalent of telling it to the entire city, and... mentions Clusius, because of course she does, but insists nothing was going on. Yep, that will doubtless shut her up. Tera goes on about how everyone is talking about Clusius' noble death in combat. Severa gets all cynical, and then she gossips about someone else. Lovely girl, Severa.
A winter festival is coming up. Hivernalia. Remember that. Severa thinks about how Amorr smells bad, and how after a few days here, she's gotten used to it again. She thinks about how you can get used to anything, like how some of the slaves in her household were former legionary whores reduced from their previous estate and are now perfectly content serving House Severus.
Tera mentions she's getting married this Hivernalia. Or rather betrothed. It's a custom. Apparently Falcontera is a "plebian" albeit with some House Martial blood. We get more thoughts on marriage, and... Beale apparently thinks husbands come with dowries. I shit you not. Severa starts musing on Clusius again. It gets embarrassing. We learn more about the Valerian and Severan feud. We learn more about Regulus, and he sounds pretty awful. They talk about the revolt, and Severa reveals she's a bigoted twit, who blames the governor of Cynothii for fleeing, and says it's because of his being from a lesser house.
They hear some people yelling, and it turns out to be a riot. What for? Doesn't matter, though it involves some plebs chasing other plebs. The guards step in and promise to keep them off the girls. Severa and Tera start running. They're getting scared, when they reach a church of... Saint Malachus! Severa tells them they can get shelter in there, and it turns to be full of all sorts of witchy symbols, like three trees instead of one tree, and the Triple Goddess hidden among "the Seven Seekers". Severa manages to get the people running the shrine to cop to being witch cult with a few simple catchphrases, and damn it, I am once again wondering how the cult has avoided getting burnt. Severa reveals she has a message for the cult, the first time we've heard of this, and that it is 'the black swan is flying'. The local witch tells her she's going to be sent a teacher soon.
Severa mentions some conflict between being a Severan and being a witch cult member, which she has been for all of a few months. The chapter limps on to a conclusion. The guards find them again. Severa thanks the Goddess, the hussy. Beale feels he's made his point and ends the chapter.
Y'know, Severa and the Witch Cult is perfect for spitefic fodder a la Victoria. Especially since I know that the end of this little subplot is going to be sick
Y'know, Severa and the Witch Cult is perfect for spitefic fodder a la Victoria. Especially since I know that the end of this little subplot is going to be sick
As we are now halfway through this baby, and as the original Special Awards post is getting rather full, I'm going to do a new one. I'll be adding to it as I can.
PROLOGUE
The flickering candles cast an eerie glow upon the scene: Six armed men stood over the fallen body of a seventh man, from whose face Ahenobarbus, or as others reverently called him, His Sanctified Holiness Charity IV, couldn't take his eyes.
"... It has always been assumed that the great decline in the lifespan of Man was a result of the departure of the Lesser Gods from Tellus Demittus, but the proposed connection between the two events has never been more than circumstantial. ..."
It might be the oldest trick in the commander's bag, but calling a soldier by name was still the most effective way to begin forging those intimate bands of iron that distinguished a disciplined fighting force from an armed mob.
"I think you're essentially describing the distinction between the form and the substance of knowledge. In this case, the true knowledge of battle isn't the abstract form one constructs from the descriptions of others after the fact, but that which can only be obtained through the varied phenomena experienced within it."
Marcus saw two goblins hurl a third warrior over the first line of troops, its arms and legs flailing wildly, but a quick-thinking hastatus brought the aerial assault to an end by intercepting the goblin with the sharp end of his spiculum.
The little rivulets grew to a stream, and then a flood, until the pool began to flow like a river before the first black tendrils even reached out to touch grey.
It was the moment in which every decision, every purchase, every piece of equipment, every hour of weapons drill and unit maneuver, was thrown into the cauldron of Fate and the bitch-goddess stirred up her bloody witches brew, seasoned it according to her whim, and served it to you.
It was a pity about the woods being so near, as the trees would prevent the cavalry from continuing the killing until night fell, but he guessed they would be able to cut down at least two thousand across the full length of the field.
The wolf yelped like a beaten puppy as it rolled to its feet and fled, but its rider was silent, reduced to little more than a battered mass of shapeless green gore.
The woman grimly held onto her spear with both hands even though the blood was running down her forearm and dripping onto the sand, but her next pathetic attempt at thrusting the spear at the goblin revealed she'd been badly hurt.
But when he'd been sitting in front of the massive hearth in the king of the Underdeep's private chamber with a well-brewed ale in one hand and fried cavesnake in the other, recovering a stolen item from a dragon's hoard had seemed like an almost trivial task.
The fourth mage's death was by far the worst to watch, as he was seized in one huge clawed foot and shredded into bloody tatters by the repeated application of the other foot as the beast soared into the sky.
They knew their loss was Heaven's gain, of course, for if ever a soul had labored long and hard for the Kingdom of God, if ever ever a man had run the good race and fought the good fight, it was the Sanctiff Charity IV.
One might be tempted to despair at the sight of the princes of the Church all but pawing the ground and bellowing bullish challenges, even if they did so in a refined and discreet manner, but was this not Man as God had created him?
Even counting the long walk down the Quinctiline, she would still have at least three, maybe four, candles worth of time with the beautiful warrior before she had to return again.
"... And tomorrow, Delmatipor, you will sell her to a whorehouse and donate whatever pittance you happen to get for her to Saint Stridonius and the orphans."
The comtesse carried herself with the lazy certainty of a lioneess, and while her dress covered most of her body, it left most of her white breasts exposed. And yet she was no dull-eyed whore, her gaze was clear and appeared to take in everything in an instant.
They arrived at the regal, crimson-dyed leather tent that belonged to the legion's general, Sextus Valerius Corvus, Propraetor, Count of Vallyria, and Senate-appointed Stagister Militium and Dux Ducis Bello for the Senate and People of Amorr's campaign against the Chalonu, Vakhuyu, and Insobru tribes.
Marcus bit his lip to stop the instinctive cry of horror inspired by the sight of his cousin's head rolling off the platform, leaving a gory trail of bloody slime behind it as if it was some sort of obscene giant snail. His cousin's headless corpse vomited forth blood like a giant armored leech with food poisoning just a few paces in front of him.
Perhaps I should acquire a palimpest, upon which I may write and rewrite a single page, over and over again, like Sisyphos laboriously rolling his rock up that accursed hill!
What only that spring had been an unruly collection of six thousand raw recruits wearing bright red wool and black iron had been gradually transformed into something that grumbled, creaked, swore, drank, and in all other ways much more closely approximated the disciplined killing machine that was known as an Amorran legion.
How big were Caitlys's breasts? He couldn't recall. He suddenly wasn't sure that he had ever even noticed if she had them or not. Of course she did--she must! Elfesses did have breasts, didn't they?
But it was hard to tell if Roheis's green eyes were more amused or satisfied, so Fjotra concluded she didn't actually mean what she seemed to be implying.
The Chamber de la Conseil was a much smaller and less imposing room than Theuderic had expected, but then, the king's councilors had been meeting here for more than 150 years, and the realm was significantly larger and more prosperous now than it was back then.
The smells were nearly as strong as the stench of the battlefield from which they'd come, but far more varied and significantly less vile. And some of them were mouth-wateringly delicious.
Fjotra found it strange to be standing on the broad deck of a Savoner warship rather than behind the narrow prow of a Dalarn snekkja, like the one on which she'd previously crossed the White Sea.
It was impossible to tell the time in the dark, but judging by the stiffness in his legs and the degree to which the autumn cold had penetrated to the depths of his being, Marcus estimated it was at least four hours after nightfall.
For a moment, he thought Gaius Marcius had somehow smuggled a woman into their tent, until he heard the telltale sound of creaking leather and caught the acrid scent of a male body that hadn't seen the baths in too many days. Something was very, very wrong here.
He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly then walked toward the imposing silhouette of Honoratus, the primus pilus, who stood on the platform looming over them all like a murderous shadow god.
But some invisible, impalpable force held it in place, and instead of soaring free into the world, its body merely dove forward and landed awkwardly amidst the blood and salt.
There was a tranquil beauty here that she head been too young and restless to perceive at the time, but she could remember how happy she was here when she was Severilla's age, running through the fields and orchards, living each day as it came and never thinking about tomorrow.
"There is something exceedingly troubling about this," Torquatus commented as the two men took in the full extent of the gory devastation that surrounded them in the chapel.
Torquatus turned to a pair of gold-cloaked Michaelines, who were examining a large pool of blood that appeared to have been forcibly liberated from the body of Carvilius Noctua, the less likely of the two main contestants for the Ivory Throne.
Whereas the tough shaggy fur of the aalvarg was not nearly tough to protect them from the heavy axe blades that severed limbs and split skulls and breastbones alike with equal ease.
The senior centurion was angry, just as Cassabus had told him, but it wasn't the clean, honest wrath of a man whose beloved general had been treacherously murdered. Unless he missed his guess, it was the furious rage of a man whose plans had been thwarted.
"... But the interesting thing about a career in the church is that one spends most of one's time learning, pursuing knowledge, and travelling on the aforementioned voyage of discovery. ..."
Even to Lodi, it was remarkably stupid to be travelling east into the unknown instead of west, especially when the heavy weight on his back was a constant reminder that he'd already accomplished what he'd set out to do.
"... What's easier: growing plants, baking bread and keeping your pizzle in your pants, or futtering every damn thing that moves and eating anything that's smaller and comes close enough for you to grab?..."
Twitching and thrashing, but unable to escape from the iron blade that held it firmly as a kitchen spit, the dreadful beast finally slumped to the ground, apparently dead.
There was an arrow jutting from the decurion's armored shoulder, and as Aulan looked on, alarmed, there was a gasp of dismay as the knight bringing up the tail of the squadron slumped to one side and collapsed, falling off his horse without making any attempt to break his fall.
Even Trebonius was occasionally glancing over at him with a quizzical expression whenever he took a momentary break from counting the force of Cynothii infantry that was increasing before their eyes.
"You see, Captain, although we have lamentably found ourselves facing each other with swords drawn in anger, we both appear to have problems for which the other party might be able to offer a solution. ..."
Despite its distinctly unflowery perfume that assaulted the nose, the importunities of daring men young and old, and the sense of lurking danger that her father had instilled in her, Severa had seldom felt more alive than she did now.
But there was nothing festive about the haunted eyes and stricken expressions that could be seen in all of the Savoner faces, and more than a few of the Dalarn ones as well.
"... When a knight falls on the field, do we stop fighting, sit on our arses, and parley about whether it was the sword through the gut or the axe through the helm that slew him? ...."
If they were anything like the legionaries, Corvus knew, they would brave a lot more than a bit of soul-threatening magic if there was a reasonable prospect for free alcohol in sight.
"... There were those who favored encouraging another crusade against us, as perhaps the sensation of a sword at the throat might be enough to awaken the insensate. ..."
Perhaps only the steep mountainous approach to the elven city of Elebrion, with its silver-helmed hawk riders patrolling the blue skies overhead, was more impressive.
I cannot attest to precisely what happened, as I was not an eyewitness to his actions, my knights and I having been separated from the main body of the legion by one of his earlier brainstorms, which story I related to you in my previous letter.
It was wide enough for four men, tall enough for a horse being led, and its exit was on the far side of a hill that could not have been seen by anyone in a position to watch the castra itself, particularly at night.
"... But just as Death could not hold You, and You rose again to life eternal, so we now raise up a Man to stand in Your stead and guide Your Most Holy and Sanctified Church in, but not of, this Fallen Earth."
This was the faith of their fathers that had made Amorr great. This was the unshakable faith in God, not Man, that had raised this city above all the other nations and cities of the world.
As it happened, all her worries had been in vain, as the woman who showed up at the manor, Quinta Jul, not only won her mother's affection with effortless ease from the moment of her arrival but even earned a favorable word from her father after patching his favorite tunic with such skill that it didn't even look like he'd torn it.
"... You have the raw material to be beautiful, my lady, but even the finest gold ore requires an amount of work before it is worthy to be called jewelry or adorn a woman's throat."
They knew that this rickety wooden structure that hung above the tempestous, fast, moving water would draw any dwarf hoping to make his way out of the orclands and back to the Underdeep.
It had taken several generations of persistent effort, and ultimately an appointment as the pro-praetorial governor of Ptolus Trittica, for his great-great-grandfather to convince Quinctilius Quantuvius to sell him the great manor that now served as the heart of House Severus in Amorr.
Aulan heard his father's voice bark a less than courteous invitation to enter, and when the majordomus opened the door for him, he was astonished to see, seated across the desk from his father, a large man he had seen many times in the Forum, but one whom he would never expected to make the arduous Quinctiline climb.
Opimius was only a knight, but he had always been the smartest of his friends, and now that he had cobbled together a group of investors to purchase the tax-farming rights to Falera, Fescennium, and Solacte, the three largest cities in Larinum, he was considered to be one of the leading up-and-comers of their generation.
The walk from the forum to the splendid manor of Gaius Cassianus Longinus, the head of House Cassianus, was not a long one, but it was made longer by the respectful silence maintained by Caius Vecellius and his men as they marched alongside him and to his fore and aft.
When the cathedral struck the midday bell, both of them screamed and nearly jumped out of their skin with alarm, only settling down when they noticed that neither Fjotra nor anyone else in sight appeared to be the least bit afraid of the jarring noise.
Sextus Valerius had never stood for tribune, had never spent a winter in the freezing filth of a legionary casta, and he would never need to ruin himself to entertain the public with a series of increasingly decadent spectacles or spend a year of his life poring through the highly fictional accounts of provincial officials, pretending as if his efforts would even slightly dam the river of moneyed corruption that began in the provinces and reached flood-like proportions in the city.
Her face was painted boldly, almost like an actor's, to enable her to stand out before the crowd, and it gave her natural beauty an inhuman quality as if she were not a woman, but a demigoddess.
But there was nothing he could do to counteract the whispers, as venomous as the evil substance on the blade that killed him, now that Patronus was lying dead in his sarcophagus.
She was deeply grateful that her eldest brother was too young and of insufficient rank to inherit the reins of House Severus yet, as he left none of them any doubt that if her matters were left in his hands, the Severan legions would already be marching upon every Cassian residence and stronghold in order to lay it to waste.
"... I don't know how or why, but somehow this made some o' the kings and princes out in the sticks real mad, so the Amoors been kicking all o' them out who ain't from the city, which I don't see is lahkly to help. ..."
Surreptitiously transform just two or threescore stones at the ground level into their component sands, and you could kill ten thousand "island" dwellers in a matter of seconds, to say nothing of the hundreds more passing under the tilting buildings.
Unfortunately, the plenitude of fish in the river prevented them from feeling any need to resort to cannibalism, which would have had the very useful consequence of reducing their numbers.
It dropped instantly, but not a single one of the remaining seventeen orcs noticed, because the mer had raised its rod, which turned out to be a spear with a wickedly barbed head on it, and plunged it into the screaming orc's chest.
Marcus toyed with the idea of pushing on until sunset and permitting an open camp, which in combination with an early start and a double-time march in the morning might allow them to reach it tomorrow evening, but after looking back at the long line of march, he resisted the foolish temptation.
Sextus was easily the most handsome of the fifty or so young men who were rivals for the twenty-four tribunates available, and she felt that even if he wasn't a Valerian endorsed by the heads of four of the most powerful Houses Martial, he would have commanded enough votes to win on the basis of his noble appearance alone.
Laughter filled the air when one unlikely winner, a thing young man with the decidedly unpatrician name of Hostus Herminius Tubertus, looked from side to side upon his name being called as the twenty-third tribune, as if there might be another Herminius in the contest.
This time, they could seldom progress from one milestone to the next without encountering the huddled mass of a corpse, the well-stripped remnants of a cart, or a rudimentary memorial indicating a burial alongside the road.
The painful mystery trampled its way through Theuderic's aching head like an iron-shod Amorran legion as he tried to figure out exactly where he was and why he felt as if a dwarf had beaten him about the head with a forge hammer.
They considered and beheld every tree, how it appears to wither, and every leaf to fall off, except of fourteen trees, which are not deciduous; which wait from of old for the appearance of the new leaf, for two or three winters.
"Forget crucifixion," Cassabus declared. "It's too much work, and they'd take too long to die. But if we're not going to use those fake onagers, we can just build a pyre and burn them all on it.
During his time preparing for the priesthood, he had known men who could utilize the dialectic as if it were a musical instrument, blowing whatever tune they chose.
There were many other wonderful buildings throughout the city, built of the fine white marbles that were quarried to the south, but none of them were quite as splendid as the one that held a dark cancer at its heart.
Both consuls well understood that, for a city, the fear of the people was the glowing coals of their fury, and any sufficiently strong rumors arriving on the wind could easily stoke those embers into another raging fire.
Corvus put his hands on his hips and struck what he thought of as his lordly general's pose, ignoring what he suspected were some stray flecks of Deodatus's blood on his face.
Before, she was treated like a nonentity, a peat of the comtesse's a little less important than one of the small tri-colored dogs who were given their run of the place and occasionally stole into Fjotra's bed at night.
It was just after breakfast several days later and Geirrid and Svanhit were preparing Fjotra's hair for the memorial tournament being given by the king in honor of his late son later that day when Roheis, accompanied by the Comte de Saint-Aglie, entered her room.
His eyes and widened and he wondered whether sneaking out through the inner and outer walls, then spending a month trying to evade Amorran patrols, bandits, and desperate refugees on the winter roads would actually be any worse than coming within reach of those vicious, curved beakes.
All his fears and all his worries for his family, for his House, and for his city were like logs thrown on a mighty bonfire, consumed by his fury that not only Holy Mother Church but the Sanctal Office itself had been corrupted by an inhuman invader.
Stablehands were feeding and brushing horses, there were hundreds of small fires over which men were huddled, obviously preparing food, and there were a number of small groups filling casks in a nearby stream or bringing deadwood back to the rudimentary fortress.
Those giant hawks were remarkably useful for a broad range of applications, he mused, wondering if it might be worthwhile to try the binding spell on another species more amenable to magical influence than dragons.
It was always difficult dealing with auxiliaries and provinicals, and clearly it wasn't going to get any easier now that the empire was devouring itself.
It grieved for the devastation wrought by the mysterious fire at the Holy Palace, even as they marveled at the miraculous salvation of the Sedes Ossus.
The rain had stopped three days ago and the morning son was dawning over the hills of Bassas Vidence, a bucolic place Theuderic had never thought to see, much less visit in the august company with whom he now rode.
It's back to cod viking land, where they're dealing with the shockingly effective werewolf sneak attack. Remember, these were things that couldn't quite wrap their heads around how to make spears work, but somehow they managed too successfully plot out a dual assassination that was almost a complete success, and still left the surviving target gravely wounded. Further said plot was only foiled--in so much as it was--by dumb luck.
So--it's kind of hard to figure out where to rank the werewolves as a threat, is what I'm saying.
Anyway, the Red Prince is dead. Everyone is sad. Skuli is in bad shape. It turns out Patrice agrees with me that it's kind of hard to figure out how the werewolves pulled this off, but this is just used to provide padding and plug up the plot hole. The werewolf prisoners must have just reached through the bars of the cell to...
You know, I'm not going to bother writing all the explanation down. It's just there to assure the audience that it could happen. Anyway--the Savonners--I guess that's the word right now--are mad. Some want to go charge out and face the werewolves right now. Others don't. Skuli just lets them blow off steam and talks with Fjotra on the fact that some werewolves can apparently turn into humans. Skuli and his head general consider it and decide that this is probably let the werewolves rack up some of their earlier wins. However, they also decide it means the werewolves are stupid, because they tried to kill Skuli and the Red Prince instead of opening the gates.
Sure, man. Sure.
The Savonners keep debating whether they should attack the werewolves. Skuli informs them, through his daughter, that the werewolves use stalking tactics, even though they didn't in the last few chapters. Still, maybe that was a special case. Anyway, Skuli nixes the attack the werewolves plan. Then he tells Fjotra to prepare to go back to Savondir, with the Prince's body. He also gives her his sword, and a message for her brother to have kids and prepare them to regain the Wolf Islands. He says that the Red Prince was a good guy. And he tells her to warn them of the werewolf shape-changing. Fjotra tells him that golly, he'll tell them, and Skuli says that, no, no, he's needed here. He tells her to go, that he'll probably be fine. The next day, she heads off with the ships, with the werewolves closing in on Raknarborg.
I'm sure Skuli will be fine.
A Throne of Bones: Corvus. Corvus meets the Elven Ambassador, Part 1
This is another long one, and also one with not much forward motion, and tons of infodumping. As well as a lot of half-hidden unpleasantness. Prepare for much whutting.
Corvus, accompanied by guards and well-wishers, is walking to the elvish embassy... apparently, they have actual embassies, because Amorr has once again slipped hundred of years into the future in an area, which explains where Crystal Dragon Leopold von Sacher-Masoch came from. But you know, let's not discuss diplomatic forms over multiple eras. The damn embassy is there, and it's going to stay there for the whole novel, so let's just nod. We get the background of the embassy, which is that when the Senate was talking about doing it, and debating about whether to, one of the members left the debate, tracked down the ambassador, and let him rent one of his houses. The popular rumor is that the ambassador is paying five times what the previous tenant--summarily evicted, natch--was. Corvus knows from inside info that it's actually ten times.
Amorr. So corrupt, its bullshit ceases to surprise.
Anyway, Lord Silvertree, the ambassador is living there, keeping a low profile--except of course when Corvus arrives, at which point he has the gates open by magic. Because, you know--elves. Got to be dicks. Corvus keeps all bluff and hearty, even while internally bitching about the elves. Lord Silvertree arrives, uses more magic to snuff out the torches, because elf, then uses more magic to show the guards where to get refreshments. He then takes Corvus on a boring tour of his house, and then pours him some wine, and... apparently the elves use magic to stir up grape 'spirits' so it's an even worse pun than it is in our world. Anyway, Silvertree assures Corvus that there's nothing demonic about the wine. It's revealed that trying to understand Amorran Crystal Dragon Jesus theology is a pastime for elvish nobles these days, and I almost feel sorry for the sadistic shits. Almost.
Corvus tries his wine. He likes it. He realizes that Silvertree knows he's getting gipped on the rent, both for contact with... House Dives, they are House Dives, and to disarm the populace. Elves can't be that clever if they get cheated by rich Amorrans, after all. He and Silvertree talk about Marcus and Caitlys, and swiftly learn they are both united in no human-elf mixing. That, it appears, started the last war between Elebrion and Amorr, in the form of the whole genocide against the half-elves. Which, we learn, the elves didn't actually mind. Unfortunately, some elves liked to hang with the half-elves, and the Amorran general slaughtered them too. Silvertree lost a sister there, actually. Still, it's been a few centuries, and he's over it, so no need to apologize. Mmmm-hmmm. Nope. Nope.
This leads to why the elves are trying to get in good with the Amorrans--they are, Silvertree states, a decadent, dying race. Their people aren't marrying, the warriors more interested in fighting, and the women in sorcery. My goodness, I wonder what Beale is trying to say here. Their arts don't measure up, Silvertree insists. The nobles are sex-crazed fops. And doubtless the hair these days, the hair. Anyway--Silvertree is hoping that associating with the Amorrans will give them a zest for life. There was another group who thought a war with the Amorrans might do the job, but some people worried that might not go well. And... we get a possible retcon of what made Bessarias convert--Silvertree says it was the Michaelines which impressed him so. Anyway, for now the "engage with Amorr" crowd won, with the "war with Amorr" crowd feeling well, hell, they can always go to war later.
Yep, nice folks elves.
We also learn that the reason that Amorr is seen as a better bet then Savondir is that the elves are sure that the... whatever they are today really want elvish magic. The Amorrans on the other hand dislike magic, and thus if they find themselves in a situation where they need it will make more reliable allies.
Torquatus arrives, and this seems as good a place to split things up as any...
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A Throne of Bones: Corvus. Corvus meets the Elven Ambassador, Part 2
We ended last chapter with revelations that the elves are seeking to get close to Amorrans because they like the cut of their genocidal jib, and think that they both have a lot to offer each other. Also, they really don't like human-elf shagging. This leads to Corvus worrying about Marcus' friendship with Caitlys, and more about how happy he was to not have his son join the Church. He's thinking about marrying Marcus to the Andronicans--because of course loyal backer of the Republic Corvus views the former royal family as stand up sorts.
Torquatus arrives. It turns out the whole "slaughter of a significant portion of the cardinals by individuals unknown" has them on edge, for some reason. They actually suggested that Torquatus might... pick the pope for them. The Pope who is also titular head of the Republic.
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Amorr is such a flaming mess.
Anyway, Torquatus told them off, and even said if they asked again, he'd name Silvertree Pope. Because nothing like keeping the poorly maintained balance of power between the Senate and the Faith then yelling at the men who run it. Corvus tells Silvertree that this was a joke. The elf finds it comforting. Torquatus says they should have a new pope tomorrow.
With that out of the way, Silvertree asks them what they know about the Witchkings. Corvus and Torquatus give us a "not much", and Silvertree launches into his spiel. However, as he does so, he reveals that Beale's let off a retcon bomb--where as in previous stories the Witchkings had fallen long enough ago for most elves to consider it ancient history, NOW, it was a generation ago, and Silvertree was a veteran of the war, albeit a junior one. Anyway, the Witchkings were a big deal--they wiped out two elven kingdoms. This was a big deal, because we learn prior to this, the elves had more or less been free to make war whenever they pleased. Which they did. They like war. Loverly folk, elves.
Corvus say they sound like the ogres, a very quantum race who pop from time to time in conversation, but never take part in the plot. Torquatus asks what the point is. Silvertree reveals that the patterns at the murder scene are similar to Witchking magic. And then goes on about demonic magic, enough to make the Amorrans' "burn the witch" instincts to pop up, and for Silvertree to explain that the last time he summoned a demon was three hundred years ago. He goes on about the Witchkings being part demon, and then explains that some more. He talks about tough the Witchkings were, and how the elves had to turn to extraordinary lengths to defeat them. He explains that the killer was a single goblin, infused with a demon by something eerily like Witchking magic. He makes some comments on how the spell would have worked that we know are wrong. Whether Beale is intentionally trying to point out how Silvertree is an unreliable narrator or has just forgotten what he wrote is impossible to tell.
Anyway--the point of all this, because Silvertree is a chatty elven mofo, is that the Witchkings have long been dismissed as little more than the result of a lucky accident. However, now they know this is not the case--the elves got a werewolf last year, and now they know someone duplicated the process. We say "Duh, Speer, in a situation of much ickiness," but the way Beale is retconning things, it's impossible to know how much of The Last Witchking happened. And now the goblin seems to have been produced by a cruder version of the process. That suggests that there is a connection--and Silvertree has a group who he believes did it. The elves call them the Abandoned. But humans have called them... gods.
And that's the end of the chapter. A shitton of infodumping.
I wouldn't be against it. Especially as next chapter is one of the low points of the book. And also a high point, as here, Beale moves from simple blah awfulness to crazybad.
Well, as discussed above, I feel that doesn't really do the concept justice; it showed things from the perspective of only one faction, IIRC was resolved by a literal Deus Ex Machina, and honestly, the whole thing was a side-plot.
I wouldn't be against it. Especially as next chapter is one of the low points of the book. And also a high point, as here, Beale moves from simple blah awfulness to crazybad.
Right, so back to Marcus. He's looking at an Amorran legion, and damn it's big. It turns out his plan to get rid of the Cynothii has not panned out--they are there backing the very big legion. Marcus starts feeling he might have made a mistake here, not running. He decides to talk to the legion. After all, there's no way Buteo would want to start a civil war.
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Going to see them confirms to Marcus that he's in a tough situation. The Severan legion is better and more battle-hardened than his. Buteo is ugly looking but tough, because Beale is going to use every cheap trick in his limited arsenal to make Marcus sympathetic here, to distract us that the Severans are the ones most people would actually sympathize with. Buteo tells him to surrender, as his case is hopeless. Marcus tries questioning the king of the Cynothii, and.... calls him "Your Royal Kingliness". Somehow, this almost gets an answer, because really, the Cynothii are just the puppets here. Except once he finally gets to ask him about the hostages, he says "Yeah, just go ahead and kill them." Rival nobles are after all, a threat to his newly established throne. Marcus feels all moody and sad, because he's dealing with honorless men.
Despite the fact that he was the guy who took the hostages in the first place to kill, but hey, that was just something he had to do.
Anyway, Marcus nobly declines, and Buteo tells him that he's being a fool, but at least he's a brave fool. Marcus heads back, thinking of how to get out of this situation, without handing the legion over to Buteo. And he's got an idea, that he tells to Trebonius! Based on what Lodi told him about the Siege of Iron Mountain in Summa Elvetica (still on sale!)! He's going to have his men tunnel out of the fort! Then steal a march of Buteo's legion! Trebonius apparently decides against braining Marcus and surrendering! Marcus then details more of his plan! But not all of it, of course. Have to leave some surprises for the next chapter. Then Marcus goes to write some letters.
Right, this is chapter takes the form of a letter from Aulan to his da', in which he explains how that wily Marcus Valerius escaped. As Aulan tells it, he and his people did all the things that he told Trebonius he was going to do, PLUS he had some of his people kill and drive off the horses of their opponents. Which worked, because Buteo was an idiot. The next day, they went to the camp and discovered that it had been abandoned, with the supposed guards being the Cynothii hostages. And that Marcus & co. had dug a big tunnel. Wide enough for four men, tall enough for a horse to go through, and exiting through a hill a sizable distance away. All in a couple days.
Right, so Aulan says he thinks Marcus is heading towards the rest of the Valerian legions. This could be bad for the Severans. He's coming home. Give mother his love.
Right, this is chapter takes the form of a letter from Aulan to his da', in which he explains how that wily Marcus Valerius escaped. As Aulan tells it, he and his people did all the things that he told Trebonius he was going to do, PLUS he had his people kill and drive off the horses of their opponents. Which worked, because Buteo was an idiot. The next day, they went to the camp and discovered that it had been abandoned, with the supposed guards being the Cynothii hostages. And that Marcus & co. had dug a big tunnel. Wide enough for four men, tall enough for a horse to go through, and exiting through a hill a sizable distance away. All in a couple days.
Right, so Aulan says he thinks Marcus is heading towards the rest of the Valerian legions. This could be bad for the Severans. He's coming home. Give mother his love.
