The Morning After the Roar

The Council of the Frost Chamber had never been so quiet.

Kieran sat at the head of the long black table with his hands folded and let the silence do its work. Around him the great men of the realm sat very straight in their chairs, and none of them quite met his eye. Duke Orloff had a bandage on one wrist. Archmage Ilyen had not slept; the skin under his eyes was the color of a plum. Commander Crane stood at the Emperor's shoulder like a wall.

Across from them, in scarlet, sat Cardinal Vessarian, and beside him a second chair that had not been there the week before. It held a man in a plain silver mask, with long white hands lying on his knees.

The Pontiff had come in person. He had walked into the Emperor's own council chamber on his own feet, unannounced, and Kieran had understood from that alone how much the Church believed it had won.

"Four hundred and twelve," said the Pontiff, at last. His voice was soft and almost sorrowful. "I have said a prayer for each of them, Majesty. It took me the whole night."

"I am sure they are grateful."

"The city is in mourning. And in fear." The silver mask tilted. "You will forgive me if I say that a great many of the faithful are asking what, precisely, they saw."

"A tragedy," said Kieran. "A Soul-Chain failed under strain. My dragon went wild, and was brought to heel by a lady of my household, who had formed a bond with him. It was bravely done. I intend to give her a medal."

"A bond."

"An affinity. It happens, I am told, among animals and the very young."

Somebody at the table coughed into a sleeve. Orloff's eyes dropped to the wood.

"Majesty." The Pontiff folded his hands. "A hundred thousand people watched that young woman speak in a tongue that has not been spoken in five thousand years. They watched the sky open. They watched every Blood-Red in the realm answer her, and a Covenant Chain, forged with the Holy Light itself, break like a reed." The voice never rose. "I do not think that affinity will satisfy them."

"Then what would?"

"The truth."

"Which is?"

"That she is a danger. To the Empire, to the faithful, and, I fear, to you." A small gesture of the long white hand. "I do not accuse. I am an old man, and I have seen how loneliness can blind a ruler. But the Church has a duty. We ask only that she be given into our keeping, for examination and, if God wills it, for healing."

Healing. Kieran smiled very slightly. He thought of the tank beneath the Cathedral that Hester had described in her smuggled note, and the ribs of black iron, and the white fire beating inside them.

"No," he said.

The word went round the table like a dropped plate.

"You will want to consider," said the Pontiff gently.

"I have considered. She is under my protection. If the Church believes she has broken a law, it may name the law, and bring the charge, and I will hear it in open court." He leaned back. "I should be curious to see you explain, in open court, why a bonded dragon was driven to madness on the holiest night of the year, by a rod that is not supposed to exist."

The silence changed.

It did not break. It simply grew heavier, the way the air does before snow. Vessarian went the color of tallow. Even through the mask Kieran felt the Pontiff's attention shift, slowly, like a great cold animal turning its head.

"That is a grave accusation," said the old man.

"It is a question."

"The Church does not answer questions asked in anger."

"I am not angry." It was true; that was the strange part. He had been angry for two days, and sometime in the small hours it had burned clean through and left something calm and hard behind. "I am merely the Emperor of the Ice Kingdom, and four hundred and twelve of my subjects are dead, and I find that I would like to know why."

For a long moment nobody moved.

Then the Pontiff laughed. It was a quiet, warm, entirely genuine sound, and it chilled Kieran to the marrow.

"You have grown up," said the Pontiff. "I am glad. I had begun to fear you never would." He rose, unhurriedly, and the cardinals scrambled to follow. "Very well. We shall do this the civilized way. Thirty days, Majesty. At the end of thirty days, you will bring the girl to the Cathedral, to stand before the Conclave and answer for what she is. If she is innocent, she will go free with our blessing."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then the Church will have no choice but to declare the Throne in defiance of heaven." The silver mask turned toward the door. "And I think you know, my son, what that would mean. The provinces do not love you. The nobles fear you. The moment I withdraw the Holy Light from your borders, every garrison from here to the Salt Coast will wonder whether it still owes you its oath."

He paused at the threshold.

"Thirty days. Give her my regards. And, Majesty." He did not turn. "It was a very beautiful voice."

The doors closed behind him.

Nobody in the Frost Chamber spoke for a long time. Then Crane, very quietly, said, "He did not deny it."

"No."

"The Rod."

"No." Kieran looked at his hands. The black lines had crept back to his wrists overnight, thin as hairs, and he had said nothing to anyone. "He did not deny a thing."

"Majesty, with respect." Archmage Ilyen's voice shook. "Thirty days. We cannot fight the whole Church."

"I am not going to fight the Church," said Kieran. "I am going to find out what it is afraid of."

He rose, and the council scrambled up around him.

"Halvard. Cancel the audiences. Pack for a month in the field. We leave for the north in three days."

"All of us?"

"Two of us," said the Emperor. "And whoever she chooses to bring."

He walked out, and for the first time since the Lantern Festival, he found he was breathing easily. Behind him, in the empty chamber, a single servant remained, folding the Pontiff's discarded napkin with trembling hands. On the underside, in a small cramped script, someone had written a single line in pencil.

Marenne will find you. Trust the one who dims.