Read Century of the Soldier: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume Two) for Free Online

- and it was a godless place then, teeming with foreigners and heathens, everything to be had for a price. It's different now. All that is gone."
    "War is apt to put a dampener on things," Isolla said, studying herself in the dressing mirror. "That will do, Brienne."
    "No powder, my lady?"
    "For the fiftieth time, no. I'll not have myself painted like a mannikin, even for a king."
    Brienne pursed her lips in disapproval, but said nothing. She was utterly devoted to her mistress, the woman who had befriended the kitchen-wench and raised her to the level of body-servant. And she knew how conscious Isolla was of her plainness, and suffered for her when the other ladies at court whispered behind the backs of their hands. The Princess of Astarac could sit a horse as well as a man, and she had both a man's bold way of striding on her long coltish legs and a man's bluntness in speaking. And she read books, books by the hundred it was rumoured. A strange way for a noblewoman to carry on. But Mark the King would have nothing said against his sister and her eccentric ways, and it was even rumoured that he discussed high policy with her in the quiet of her apartments. Discussing politics with a woman! It was unnatural.
    Brienne felt the feminine barbs more keenly than her mistress, for they had long ago lost their sting for Isolla. She wanted to see her lady happy, married, with child. All the things that a woman ought to be. But she knew that for Isolla life held more, not merely because she had been born a princess, but simply because of the woman she was.
    There was a knock on the door. Isolla rose smoothly from the dressing table and said: "Enter."
    A footman stepped in, in Hebrian scarlet. He bowed. "My lady, the wizard Golophin asks if he might be admitted."
    "Golophin?" Isolla's brow creased, then smoothed. "Yes, of course. Show him in." And when the door had closed again: "Quickly, Brienne. He likes wine. And bring some olives."
    Her maidservant rushed out to the anteroom whilst Isolla composed herself. Golophin, Abeleyn's mentor and teacher - and, she had heard, his closest friend. Perhaps now she would learn what was ailing the invisible King of Hebrion.
    Golophin entered with little ceremony beyond a courtly bow. She was shocked at his appearance, the desiccated look of his flesh. The man was no more than an animated skeleton. The eyes, however, missed nothing.
    "My thanks for receiving me so informally, lady," the old wizard said. He had the deep voice of a singer or orator, music all through it.
    They sat and looked at one another for a moment whilst Brienne bustled in with the wine and olives. Golophin's gaze was frank and open. He's sizing me up , Isolla thought. He's wondering how much he can tell me .
    The old wizard poured for them both, saluted her with a tilt of his glass, drank his entire gobletful at a draught and poured himself another. Isolla sipped at hers, suppressing her surprise.
    Golophin smiled. "I am trying to regain my lost strength, lady, and perhaps I am trying to forget how I lost it. Pay me no mind."
    She liked his frankness, and sat without saying a word. She somehow realized that it would be better if she were not to make small talk.
    "Are your apartments to your liking?" Golophin asked absently.
    She had been given a vast, lonely suite that belonged to some long-dead Hebrian queen - Abeleyn's mother, perhaps. The rooms were hideous, with sombre tapestries and hangings and devotional pictures of Saints. The furniture was huge and heavy and dark-wooded. The place felt like a mausoleum. But she nodded and said: "They are very fine."
    "Never liked this place myself," the wizard admitted. "Abeleyn's mother Bellona was a fine woman, but a bit austere. I see you've pulled the hangings away from the balconies. That's good. Lets in what sun there is in this black month of the year." He threw back another glass of the wine. Isolla thought privately that it was not the third or even the fourth glass he'd had