Belmar nods to the two guards as he steps into the white-walled private study, but the pair remains stationed on each side of the door, inside the study. Their eyes never leave him as he steps toward the man who awaits him.
In turn, Belmar bows politely to the holder with the iron-gray hair. “Cloftus, it is good to see you once more.” As he straightens the fingers of his right hand pass the empty scabbard at his belt. In his left hand, he carries a leather case five spans in length, large enough for a small instrument.
“I must say that I was most surprised at your appearance—not at the force which accompanied you, however.” Cloftus smiles, but does not return the bow. “You were wise to leave them well back of the walls. You know you cannot take Sperea—not without siege engines and far more armsmen than even you can afford.” The taller and older holder remains standing beside the desk. The sabre in the scabbard at his side threatens to bump the pedestal leg of the desk, a leg carved to resemble a climbing rose upon a circular trestle.
“I have no intention of wasting siege engines on Sperea—even if I had any to waste.” Belmar laughs easily. “Besides, I have a proposition. It might be of interest to you.”
“It might. I cannot imagine why, but if you are so convinced that I would be that you would walk in unarmed…I should at least listen.” A wintry smile accompanies the light tone of Cloftus’ words. “Especially given…our history.”
“What do you think about the daughter of the late Lord High Counselor succeeding him? Does it appeal to you?”
“You obviously do not care for that, or you would not have asked,” points out Cloftus. “As for me…” He pauses and smiles. “Let us just say that we could do better and we could do worse. What have you in mind that would be better?”
“The restoration of the Prophet of Music in Neserea, the independence of our land from Defalkan domination.” Belmar shrugs. “I cannot imagine you enjoy being under the domination of foreign sorceresses.”
Cloftus frowns, fingers his chin. “I cannot say I have ever liked anyone trying to dominate me, Belmar. But little of that have I seen in the past score of years. Do you think we will see such in the years ahead?”
“When a land controls not its own destiny, that is bound to happen.”
“I see. What have you in mind? Your proposition?”
“I seek your support in becoming the successor to the last Prophet.” Belmar delivers the words easily.
Cloftus laughs, ruefully, but not mockingly. “As I recall, one sorceress destroyed the last Prophet, and there are three now.”
“And all three together have not her power or her wit. One foreign sorceress cannot stand against three-quarters of Neserea, not with but a mere girl as Counselor and her mother acting as a Mansuuran puppet.”
“I would not call Lady Aerlya a puppet, Belmar. Nor a tool. Strong-willed, even a bitch, but never a puppet.”
“What we call her need bear no relation to what is.” Belmar laughs gently. “Surely, you would not begin to quibble over words. I believe you called me…what was it…the legitimate offspring of an extended line of unconsorted minor holders?” Belmar shakes his head. “Your words were even less pleasant, I fear.”
“Did you come all this way to insult me?” Cloftus smiles, his eyes going to the guards, his fingers dropping to the hilt of his blade.
“Dissonance, no.” Belmar smiles. “I brought something you should see…” He gently and slowly opens the leather case to display the instrument within.
“A small lutar, it would appear…a lady’s toy.”
Belmar adjusts the strings. “It’s most similar to the one used by the Sorceress of the East. It has a beautiful tone.”
“What has this to do with your proposition?” Cloftus raises his eyebrows.
“Everything.” Belmar’s fingers run across the strings. “Everything. You see…” He pauses and clears his throat, then smiles, before beginning to sing in a strong baritone.
“With their own blades, slay all here but me…
with their own…”
Cloftus lurches forward, yanking his sabre from the scabbard so violently that it bangs back into the desk.
The two guards, after a momentary hesitation, draw their own blades and edge toward the younger holder.
Belmar, still smiling, finishes the double couplet and leaps back toward the closed windows to the corner balcony.
The looks of surprise on the faces of the three armed men are short-lived as their blades take on a life of their own, and then take their owners’ lives as well. After a short time, the study is silent, and Belmar remains the only figure standing.
He walks to the balcony and opens the door, stepping outside into the chill air, where his breath comes out in white puffs. From within his tunic, he takes a yellow cylinder and unrolls it—a short yellow pennant attached to a polished wooden rod.
Below the steep wall stands a group dressed in brown drab, almost invisible to the eye.
Belmar waves the yellow pennant, and is answered by a crimson one. He pauses, holding the yellow pennant up, then drops it.
The players in brown begin to play. At the second bar, Belmar begins the spell.
“Within each Sperean breast, freeze each armsman’s heart…”