NOVEL NEXT Chapter 694: Grey Words
Grey Words
For the second time in a row, Martel woke up only to feel exhausted by the questions that troubled his mind. New concerns had joined the old, worse than those he already struggled with. The decision on whether he wished to retain his position seemed quaint compared to the prince’s escape and the issue of bringing the clergy to the negotiating table; either of these problems could wreck the discussions, and everything would slip through Martel’s fingers.
At least Giles’ demand to pause negotiations until the Faith was represented now worked in Martel’s favour. There would be no need to explain Eleanor’s absence from the table as she pursued her investigation, nor would Martel have to sit at the table and focus on their debates without revealing his inner turmoil.
There was the question of whether they could keep it a secret for long. The news had likely seeped from the guards to the servants of the palace, from where it would spread to every wing. Eventually, the delegates would learn the truth. If the prince was not back in custody by then, it would undermine his position. Worst case, they might accuse Martel of murdering the prince for one reason or another, and he would be unable to disprove it.
Hoping to buy time, Martel directed the duke and the duchess to continue working on the regional representatives. Either of them might be involved in the disappearance of the prince; they certainly knew the palace well enough by now and would be able to smuggle their henchmen inside to get the deed done. But Martel had to keep up pretence, so he bade them do as they had done every day so far. Cheval seemed glum; presumably, he had been told of his burnt-down warehouse.
Personally, Martel approached Legate Miles, with whom he had the best rapport. Less chance that he ruined something because his mind was elsewhere. Like last time, they took a tour of the grounds. Winter had arrived, and the gardeners were busy placing branches of pine on the ground to protect the more delicate plants from the frost.
“The battle of the bridge. Are the rumours true? Did you annihilate a cohort with a single spell?”
Martel glanced at the legate by his side. Not a happy memory, and he should be careful not to reveal anything that could be considered military intelligence, but a reminder to the other side of what a renewed civil war would entail might serve a purpose. “I don’t think anybody counted the dead. They wouldn’t be able to, really. The victims of the spell lay among all the other slain, many of them also with burn marks from my previous work. But the number should be counted in the hundreds, I expect.”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
“I hope to never use it again,” Martel said earnestly. The thought of all the lives he had taken weighed on him whenever he was reminded of it. The fact that so many would have suffered unfathomable pain as they burned, albeit only for a few moments, only made him feel worse, and he decided to change the subject. “How is Nordmark? I have not been back in four years.”
The legate shrugged. “It is Nordmark. Wild, untamed, sparsely populated and scarcely civilised. The Empire spends a fortune keeping five legions to maintain control, yet assumes that towns and cities will simply spring up on their own.” He shook his head.
“My teacher at the Lyceum, Master Alastair, spent his years of service up north. Did you know him?”
“The name is familiar. Battlemages are rare in our parts, as said. I never met him, but I heard of his prowess. He is like you if I recall? The legionaries spoke of him with reverence, or fear, depending on your perspective.”
“He is. To me, he has always been kind. But I’ve seen glimpses of his fury, and I pity any who stands in his way.”
“Sir!” Eleanor’s voice reached them. She approached them rapidly, just below a speed that suggested an emergency.
“Forgive me,” Martel spoke, bowing his head to Miles before joining her. “What is it?” he asked with a quiet voice.
“This message was brought to you.” She handed over a scrap of parchment.
Master Martel,
Let us meet at fifth bell.
Same place as usual.
Your brother in grey
“What is this?” Eleanor asked. “I cannot make heads or tails of it.”
“An acquaintance among the clergy,” Martel explained.
“Oh. To discuss them joining the negotiations?”
“That could be. More clandestine than I expected, honestly.” Martel scratched the back of his neck. “But this might be good. This fellow owes me a favour unless I owe him one – or maybe we are even. Regardless, I can bargain with him.”
“Very well. I will continue our pursuit of the princeling. You find a way to get a priest to the table, sympathetic to our cause. With a little luck, we shall each solve a problem.”
“Have you had any luck so far?”
She cleared her throat. “No. The trail goes cold once they leave the palace grounds.” She hesitated, scratching her head. “We may have to wait for him to make a mistake. Leave his hiding hole, perhaps, and be spotted.”
“Do you think we can trust Wulfstan and his network of spies and informants? I have had my doubts about him this whole time.” The fellow would know how to move someone unseen through the city, and he probably had good knowledge of the palace as well.
“I think if he had the chance to infiltrate the complex, he would have chosen the emperor rather than the heir. The latter is only really useful if the former is no longer in play. As long as he remains our hostage, the value of the prince is reduced,” Eleanor reasoned.
“I suppose that makes sense. Well, I’ll have to hurry to make it to my meeting at fifth bell. Good luck to you, legate.”
“And you, captain.”