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DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 06
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 19
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6
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DargonZine Distributed: 6/25/06
Volume 19, Number 6 Circulation: 636
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Journey's End 5 Rena Deutsch Deb. 1019-Naia 1020
The Great Houses War 1 Nicholas Wansbutter 15 Vibril-5 Sy, 897
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 19-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright June, 2006 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue <bdonahue@fuse.net>.
DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@rcn.com>
Wow. Some months we don't have much news, and then there's months
like this, when the news alone could fill an entire issue. So in the
interest of saving some space for fiction in this issue, let's dive
right into it ...
The first big news is that this issue contains the final story in
the immense Black Idol story arc: Rena's "Journey's End 5". I'm
incredibly proud of the dozen writers who worked on it over the past
three years, and I really hope you have enjoyed the twenty-seven
chapters that we've brought you over the past year and a half. I could
go on at length about how huge an accomplishment this is for us, but I
shared most of that with you already in the Editorial for DargonZine
19-4, and there's a lot more news to get to.
They say that every end is just another beginning, and it couldn't
be more true for us now: although we're printing our last Black Idol
story, this issue also contains the first chapter in Nick Wansbutter's
forthcoming Great Houses War series. Nick took an obscure event that
happened 200 years in Dargon's past and fleshed it out with a great
series of stories that we'll bring you in the coming months. Unlike the
Black Idol, the Great Houses War doesn't take place in the same time
frame as our "contemporary" Dargon stories. It's also the work of just
one writer, whereas the Black Idol had ten writers. And while we haven't
printed anything but Black Idol stories for the past 18 months, the
Great Houses War will only partially fill our issues, so you'll start
seeing other standalone stories in our pages again. Nick has put a lot
of work into the Great Houses War, and it is another epic storyline that
we hope you'll enjoy.
And another major development is that earlier this month we held
the 2006 Dargon Writers' Summit, our annual gathering of writers to talk
shop, get to know one another, kick around story ideas, and enjoy one
another's company. This year, Liam Donahue hosted the Summit in
Cincinnati, Ohio. We covered a number of topics, including Dargon's
monetary systems, medieval watercraft, point of view and perspective,
had a couple fun writing exercises, and laid plans for our next big
story arc. For fun, we went hiking in the Kentucky hills, saw Rembrandt
etchings at the Cincinnati Art Museum, went to a butterfly show at the
Krohn Conservatory, played with sharks and parrots at the Newport
Aquarium, and much more. It was a wonderful weekend of growth as
writers, and we again affirmed how much we value DargonZine's community
of writers. Photos and a writeup can be found on the 2006 Summit page:
http://www.dargonzine.org/summit06.shtml.
However, the biggest development at the Summit was a rearranging of
roles and responsibilities. Running the magazine, the Web site, and our
entire writing project is too big a job for one person, and we're facing
some challenges that I, as leader, haven't found answers for. So we sat
down and looked at what roles need to be covered: providing vision and
leadership, editing the magazine, marketing and promotion, programming
and Web site maintenance, and leading our mentoring program for new
writers. We then asked for people to take on these roles, and ultimately
everything got covered.
The upshot is that I will continue to send out issues as acting
editor, but I'll be transitioning the duties of project leadership and
setting our direction to Liam Donahue and Jon Evans. I have every
confidence that they -- being the current and former Assistant Editors
-- can run DargonZine and the Dargon Project at least as well as I
would. I think it's the best thing for the project and everyone
involved, and I'm really looking forward to what they'll accomplish by
bringing new ideas and new energy to the leadership role. I will
continue to produce issues, while Dafydd will be helping out with Web
site maintenance, former writer Rhonda Gomez will help out with
publicity, and Jim Owens will continue to run our mentoring program for
new writers. Our readers should see minimal disruption; if anything, you
may see more rapid enhancements and improvements from us than have
happened in the past.
As if all that wasn't enough, the group took it upon themselves to
try to immediately address DargonZine's biggest challenge: our
disappointing success rate getting new writers into print. Helping new
writers is a big part of our mission, and is absolutely critical for the
magazine's survival. We recognized that ten years ago, when we first
established a mentoring program to help bring our new writers up to
speed. However, too few people who join the project ever get a story
printed, and that's a problem we've been kicking around for a while.
However, this time around we came up with a solution that we think will
dramatically change how effective we are at getting new writers involved
and productive. I'll save the details for another time, because we're
still working them out and aren't ready to put them into practice just
yet, but we're really excited by this impending change.
So as you can see, this month has brought several major events and
transitions for us: completing the Black Idol and beginning the Great
Houses War, then another great writers' Summit where we reorganized our
roles for the better and came up with a framework for better serving
people who are interested in writing for DargonZine.
That's a whole lot of change, but it's also very exciting because I
believe those changes were overdue, and they position DargonZine to
thrive and improve. Everyone left the Summit re-energized and with a new
sense of DargonZine's possibilities.
And while all that has been going on, we've also been writing more
stories, like the two that follow in this issue. I hope you enjoy our
epilogue to the Black Idol, and the prologue to the Great Houses War.
You can continue to look forward to more stories from us throughout the
year, as our Publishing Schedule indicates, plus more news as we begin
to see the benefit of all the changes this month has brought.
========================================================================
Journey's End
Part 5
by Rena Deutsch
<Luv2rite@dargonzine.org>
Deber 1019 - Naia 1020
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-5
Part 4 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-5
"Damn you, Gow!" Anarr roared and his voice echoed in the empty
hall of the place he called Sanctuary. Several men appeared quickly, as
if they had been waiting for someone to shout.
"Calm yourself, Anarr," the deep voice of a slender man resonated
softly in the hall as he stepped next to the aggravated magus. To Anarr,
it sounded more like the buzzing of a bee and he waved his hand,
irritated that a measly insect would dare to interrupt him. He nearly
slapped the man next to him in the face as he vented his anger and
frustration. "Damn you, Gow!" he shouted again.
"Such outbursts are not tolerated here, Anarr. Either you calm
yourself, or you will have to leave!" Though spoken just as softly as
before, this time Anarr heard the words and took a deep breath. He
hadn't come here seeking refuge only to be thrown out in the middle of
winter.
"Forgive me, brother. It shan't happen again." Anarr bowed, and
kept his head low until the men had returned to their prior engagement.
As soon as he was alone, he dropped to the ground and covered his face
in his hands, his fingernails digging so deep into his scalp and the
side of his face that he drew blood. The pain helped him focus. He
managed to calm himself.
This outburst hadn't been the first. Ever since he had washed
ashore after his failed endeavor to retrieve the cursed statue of Gow
back in Sy, Anarr had blamed the god for anything that went wrong in his
life, past and present. He knew his problems were not really Gow's
fault, but of his own making. The curse on the statue had been placed by
Amante, another god and Gow's rival. He couldn't picture Amante's face
and after staring at the statue's screaming face for days, Gow had
become the focus of his anger. He had tried to push the memories of the
past year out of his mind and redirect his thinking, but with every
attempt his guilt became stronger and forced him to relive the events of
his failure.
"Why?" he cried silently. "Why do I have to lose every woman I
love? Why do they leave me behind?"
He remembered Marie, his betrothed. She had been so beautiful. Her
blond curls had framed her face perfectly and her blue eyes had sparkled
like the ocean in sunlight. When he had returned from Magnus after the
war to fulfill his promise, she'd been gone. He recalled Phoebe, whose
passion had matched his. She had left him one day without an
explanation. There had been other women as well, yet none of them had
stayed with him long enough to leave a lasting impression.
The image of a red-haired woman with green eyes surfaced in his
mind. "Zenia," he whispered with a deep sigh and remembered the girl:
her smile, the twinkle in her eyes when she laughed, the way the wind
blew through her long, unbraided hair, the way her dress exposed her
ankles when she ran, her lips ... He thought, "She was only playing with
me and married another. I got my revenge and placed a curse on her.
"A curse that not only affected her, but generations of women in
her family," he reminded himself. "I did a terrible thing! And when I
had the chance to rectify the situation, I failed! Not once, but
thrice!"
"Simona," Anarr whimpered and a single tear left his eye, mixed
with the blood on his face, and dropped onto his brown robe. Anarr
curled up in a tight ball on the floor in an attempt to suppress his
memories and find peace, but to no avail.
"Yes, Simona," he remembered. "Pretty little Simona. So young, so
vibrant. With eyes as blue as the sea she drowned in and hair as black
as the darkness that envelops her now. I let her drown! It is my fault
she is dead! I made a promise to her and didn't keep it! I sent a
dangerous object into a town without making sure its guardian would know
how to keep it safe. I ..."
Anarr sat up straight and dug his fingernails deeper in his scalp,
drawing more drops of blood. "No! It wasn't my fault. I ..." he
whimpered in an attempt to justify his actions, but couldn't come up
with a convincing argument.
"It was my fault," he chided himself. "It was my curse that made
her seek help in the first place.
"How was I to know?" Tears started running over his cheeks. He
stood up and began pacing around the hall.
"And not just that! I left her lover out at sea to die so I
wouldn't have to tell him that his beloved was dead and, with her, his
unborn child!
"I didn't know she was pregnant, didn't know until it was too
late," Anarr sobbed. "I did not know!
"But how could I have missed the obvious?" he tortured himself.
"She was traveling with her lover. I couldn't lift the curse I placed on
her family over a century ago, a curse that had already started to
weaken. If I had died when I was supposed to, Simona would still be
alive, because the curse would have died with me. I missed such a simple
thing as a pregnancy!
"She didn't tell me --" Anarr began, but interrupted himself. "Of
course not. She was too preoccupied trying get in my good graces so I
would help her! I even failed to notice that she was a bard when she
approached me for the first time. I was too busy playing the hero that
saved a whole town.
"Why?" Anarr whimpered and dropped back to the ground, his hands
covering his ears tightly. He couldn't live with his guilt much longer.
"Things happen for a reason!" He reminded himself. "Yes they do. I
set it all in motion. I can stop it, but how?
"Lisabet. Why did I have to lose her? She wasn't connected with
Zenia or Simona, was she?" Anarr found a little composure and loosened
the grip on his scalp. "I loved her and she loved me. Why her?" But he
couldn't come up with an answer. Tears kept running down his face until
he had none left.
A bell later, Anarr stood up and walked to the bathhouse to clean
himself up, relieved that for the time being his internal turmoil seemed
at rest. As he looked at his hands and saw the blood on them, he
shuddered. Too many people had died due to his direct and indirect
involvement. He took the scrub brush and cleaned his hands, turning the
water pink.
The bathhouse master came and silently cleaned the wounds on
Anarr's head and applied a salve. Anarr wanted to thank him, but he
wasn't quick enough. The master had already vanished without a word.
Anarr walked back to his room with its sparse furnishings. A straw
mat covered with an old blanket and a water jug on a stool was all the
room had to offer. He let himself drop onto the mat, pulled the blanket
over his body, and closed his eyes.
"Lisabet, beautiful woman, devoted mother, gentle lover," Anarr
thought and recalled the image of the plump widow with graying hair to
his mind. Her once brown hair had silver threads spread throughout. Her
face was tanned and full of wrinkles, which showed even more when she
laughed. Her little boy was constantly clinging to her side.
She had found him stranded in his boat, helped him get to safety,
and cared for him until he had regained some of his strength. Not once
had she asked him what he'd been doing out at sea in a small sailboat
when it was storming. He had been thankful for this favor because it
spared him from having to explain his ordeal and misfortune.
Anarr remembered his encounter with Parris Dargon vividly. He had
arrived in Dargon on the fourteenth of Sy, days late, ready to claim his
payment for bringing the statue of Gow and make a final attempt to lift
the curse off Simona. Much to his surprise, he found out that the
statue's curse had already wreaked havoc in the city and that Simona and
her lover, Kal, had gotten hold of the statue and had escaped in a
sailboat. Parris Dargon had insisted that Anarr accompany him and his
hired hand Rilk in their pursuit of Simona and Kal. He had agreed and
the three had set sail. A rainstorm had hindered their attempts to catch
up. Rilk had proven himself to be a decent sailor, unlike Parris, who
was completely useless at the tiller. As the storm had gotten stronger,
Anarr had taken his place to steer the boat. Just as they got close to
Simona, Rilk and Parris had tried to kill him and Anarr had defended
himself. He had taken hold of Rilk and killed him. Parris had been
washed overboard and that was the last Anarr had seen of him.
Anarr had seen Simona in the waters as well. He had seen her
clearly, her long black hair had surrounded her face, her lips as blue
as her eyes. She had been deep in the water and he had raised her to the
surface, had attempted to put life back in her dead body. He had
bellowed in denial that she could not, should not die, but to no avail.
Eventually, he had relented and then watched as the ocean claimed
Simona. The image of her sinking body haunted his dreams.
Anarr didn't remember how long he had drifted before his boat
reached the shore. He'd been weakened as lightning struck the boat and
him. He needed care and he received it. As Anarr regained his strength,
he had gradually taken on some of the responsibilities on Lisabet's farm
and assisted her when needed. Her gentle manner and devotion to her son
had intrigued Anarr and their love had grown slowly. The boy had been
sickly and Anarr had planned to heal the child as a way to repay her
generosity. Just when he thought he could settle with Lisabet and live
out his days in peace and quiet, her son had fallen ill and died within
a matter of days. Lisabet, who'd gotten the same illness as her son, had
followed him the next day.
"Why?" Anarr cried silently. "Why do I have to lose every woman I
love? Why do they leave me behind?"
Anarr fell asleep with the image of Lisabet in his mind. He hadn't
slept for more than a bell when a loud knock on his door ripped him out
of his dream.
"Anarr! You have a visitor."
"Who is it?" he barked, irritated that his sleep was interrupted.
"It is a bard named Ratray. He wishes to speak to you regarding one
of his colleagues."
Anarr felt the blood drain from his face. "Simona!" he thought and
was thankful that no one could see him at that moment. Swallowing hard,
he answered, "Send him to my room. I will speak with him."
Two bells later, after his visitor had left him, Anarr still stared
at the bag in front of him in disbelief. He had recognized it the moment
the bard Ratray had placed it on the floor for him to see. It had
belonged to Simona and contained what few belongings she used to carry
around with her, as well as several small scrolls and her flute and
lyre. Anarr reached for a scroll and unrolled it gently. Tiny letters in
close succession covered most of the scroll. As he read what Simona had
written, he realized just how much damage his foolishness had caused.
My dearest mother, so much has happened in the past sennights since
I left your house that I don't know where to begin. By now, Nai has
explained the purpose of my travel and I hope you understand my
need. All my life I have wished to be reunited with you and Megan
and to rid our family of a curse that was placed upon our
ancestress Zenia. I have found a mage to assist me in this quest
and if I'm not mistaken it is the same one who originally placed
the curse. He hasn't mentioned it to me directly, but his detailed
inquiries into our family history lead me to believe that he knows
more about it than he lets on. He has made three attempts so far,
but has been unsuccessful in lifting the curse. Only his promise to
meet me in Dargon for another attempt made me continue on; however,
as I write this, the mage is nowhere in sight and a different curse
is sweeping through the city. Dargon needs my help and, at the
moment, I'm the only one who can take care of it.
Anarr let his hand drop. He couldn't continue reading.
"Coward!" he chided himself. "I'm nothing but a coward. Simona was
desperate to find help and I failed her. I returned to the sanctuary to
forget, to hide from my failures. Am I such a coward? Sanctuary! Ha! I
cannot hide!
"I can silence my guilt! I can end it all." Anarr said quietly and
looked at the knife in front of him.
"Coward." he muttered a mene later. "I'm afraid, just looking for
the easy way out. Yet, I cannot even turn the knife against myself. I am
a coward."
Winter had come and gone and spring was nearing its end. Anna had
given up all hope of her daughter Simona returning to her. No word had
come from her or Kal, Simona's traveling companion, since she had sent
word from Dargon last Sy. The letter had been brief, saying that she was
hoping to finish her business and return before winter. She sat in front
of her house, enjoying the late afternoon sun, holding the letter in her
hands.
Nai stepped beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Anna
looked into his face.
"They're not coming back, are they?" she asked with tears in her
eyes.
"I don't know. Simona is very resourceful and so is Kal. It may
have taken them longer than anticipated to conclude their business."
"Why didn't they send word then? Maybe you should have gone with
them."
"Maybe the messenger got lost, or lost the letter? Don't give up
hope just yet. As for going with them, no. The two of them wanted to be
alone and I ..." Nai pulled Anna into a tight embrace. "Come, let me
show you the smithy, it's all ready for us to move in."
"Someone's coming," Anna said as she looked over Nai's shoulder. He
released her and turned around to see a man approach, dressed in fine
clothes, with thick black hair, carrying a bag on his back.
"Good day," the man said when he reached the house. "My name is
Anarr and I'm looking for Anna Molag and Nai the blacksmith."
"You found us," Nai said. "How may we help you?"
"I'm here to help you," Anarr replied. "Unfortunately, I'm also the
bearer of sad news. May we go inside and sit down?"
"Is it about Simona? Do you have news about my daughter?" Anna
asked, feeling faint. Anarr nodded.
"Please," Anna pleaded, "Tell me now!"
"I -- I would really prefer to sit down before I begin. It will
take time to tell," Anarr spoke softly.
"Come inside then," Nai said and opened the door. Anarr entered and
carefully set his bag on the floor.
"Tell us about Simona then," Nai demanded after all three sat at
the table and Anna had placed a cup of hot brew in front of each. "Do
you know anything about Kal as well?"
"I do," Anarr said. "Let me be brief. I met Simona and Kal in
Northern Hope. She had asked for my services to lift a family curse. I
tried three times to lift it, but failed. After promising to meet them
again in Dargon, I left both Simona and Kal on the barge we'd been
traveling on. Yet when I finally reached Dargon, Simona and Kal had
left." Anarr paused for a moment and then reached out and placed his
hand on Anna's.
"Simona is dead. She --"
"No!" Anna screamed, interrupting Anarr's speech. "No, she can't be
dead! She had just returned to me. I --" Anna broke into sobs and Nai
took her in his arms to comfort her. He too had tears in his eyes. After
Anna's sobs turned into quiet tears, Nai pulled a handkerchief out of
his pocket to dry her tears.
"How did she die?" Anna finally asked after she had regained some
of her composure.
"She drowned. The storm at sea was so bad we couldn't even attempt
to rescue Kal. He was later picked up by a fishing boat and is now with
his family in Armand. It was he who sent the bard Ratray to find me to
fulfill my promise to Simona. He also brought Simona's belongings."
Anarr pointed at the bag on the floor. "She left you a letter ..."
Nai reached for the bag and emptied its contents on the table.
Several scrolls rolled over the edge and fell to the ground. Quickly, he
picked them up.
"I cannot read," Nai admitted as he unrolled one of the scrolls,
"And Anna's knowledge is limited."
"This will take time," Anarr said slowly. "I will read the scrolls
for you." He put the scrolls in order and then took the first one and
began to read.
"My dearest mother, so much has happened in the past sennights," he
began reading, swallowing hard after the first few words. He took a deep
breath and continued on. Anarr only paused his reading when it was too
dark to continue and he had to wait for Nai to place a candle on the
table.
The fourth bell of night chimed softly from the bell tower across
town when Anarr finally finished reading and rolled the scrolls back up.
The silence that followed was unsettling. Nai held Anna in a tight
embrace while she shook, silently crying.
"I can lift the curse I placed on your ancestress so many years
ago. Will you let me do it?" Anarr finally spoke up.
"My daughter is dead," sobbed Anna. "What good will it do to lift a
curse?"
"Anna has a point," Nai added harshly. "What makes you think you
can do it now after you failed removing it from Simona?"
"I did my research well and have information now that I didn't have
before. I can do it if you let me," Anarr said confidently.
"Why should we believe you?" Anna asked.
"I want to set things right again," Anarr said, looking straight at
the couple in front of him. "I want to make amends for what I did."
"How could you? You can't be any older than me, and Zenia is long
dead," Nai said.
"I am nearly 170 years old!" Anarr stated. He looked like he was
close to losing his patience.
"You don't look it," Nai muttered. Anarr looked at Nai angrily.
"Answer me one more question," Anna requested, looking directly at
Anarr, wiping her tears. "Why? Why did you put the curse on Zenia in the
first place?"
Anarr swallowed visibly. "I was in love with her and she only toyed
with me and then married another. I couldn't forgive her. In my haste
for revenge, I initiated a curse that would live on for generations."
Anna nodded. "And I didn't want to believe my own daughter. Oh Nai,
what have I done? I pushed her away when she tried to tell me the
truth." New tears rolled down Anna's cheek. Turning to Anarr she said,
"You may proceed."
"I will need some time to do this and I need some rest first."
"It's late," Nai agreed. "You can sleep in the room over there."
"Thank you," Anarr said and got up. "I will lift the curse first
thing in the morning."
Anna nodded and watched as Anarr entered the bedroom they had
offered him and closed the curtain. She placed her head on Nai's chest,
closed her eyes, and continued her silent cries. She felt safe in his
arms. Slowly, her tears abated and her breathing returned to normal.
Anna let Nai guide her to their bedroom and remove her bodice and skirt.
"Nai --"
"Hush," he interrupted her. "We'll talk in the morning." He placed
a kiss on her forehead.
Anna slipped under the covers and felt Nai settle down beside her
and place his arm around her. After several menes she heard soft snoring
and realized he'd fallen asleep. Anna stared into the darkness. Anarr's
revelation about the curse had made her angry, but the longer she
thought about it, the less she blamed him.
"I knew about the curse and ignored it. Simona reminded me and I
yelled at her.
"Simona," she thought. "Why did I have to lose you, too? First
you're taken from me and your sister, then you miraculously come back
only to tell me your sister Megan was dead, and then you take off again
to never return. Why? Wasn't it enough that I had to miss your
childhood? That Megan suffered even worse? That we lost your little
sister Mona as well? Or is this all part of the curse you were trying to
tell me about?"
Anna paled as she remembered her encounter with her first husband
Sarim's parents. Her father-in-law had told her of a family curse, but
Sarim had told her it was all just coincidences, even if she looked like
the ancestress who was cursed so many generations ago. She recalled the
argument Sarim and his father had then, whether or not she really was a
descendant despite the family resemblance. She remembered the last bit
of their argument, "Son, do you realize the chance you are taking by
marrying her? If there is anything to this curse then --" Anna's
father-in-law had shouted.
"*If* there is anything to this curse," Sarim had interrupted his
father. "You said it yourself. If! I for one do not believe in it."
Sarim's voice had sounded bitter. "If there is anything to this curse,
father, then it will end with Anna and me. She will die, I will die, and
if we have a daughter she will not survive, either. The curse will be
broken! That should make everyone very happy."
Sarim had died the day Megan and Simona were born. Anna remembered
her second husband who had died the day little Mona was born.
"What have I done?" Anna thought, realizing the extent of her
actions as well as the curse. Her tears welled up again. "What have we
done?"
Anarr lay awake on his bed. Sleep hadn't come easily for him during
the past months, despite his travels. As soon as he found himself alone
in the dark, the urge to end his life resurfaced and he fought against
it. He felt ashamed for his actions, especially placing the curse on
Zenia. He had expected Anna and Nai to attack him, scream at him, or
show their disapproval in other forms after he revealed his involvement,
but instead they had invited him in, listened to what he had to say, and
even shown patience. Not once had either one of them put blame on him.
Anarr felt heat rise to his face and his breathing became labored. Tears
began rolling down his face.
After the bard Ratray had left him with Simona's belongings, he had
searched for the answer to end the curse he had so foolishly placed over
a century ago. When he had finally found a way to resolve this disaster,
he had been appalled. He had found two solutions, but liked neither. His
death was one option and he contemplated taking the knife and using it
against himself, ending his suffering.
"I haven't sought to extend my life for decades only to kill myself
now," he thought bitterly. "But the other option is appalling as well."
Anarr sighed.
The crowing of a rooster under his window woke Anarr the next
morning and he got up. As he walked into the main room, he found Anna
preparing breakfast. Her eyes were red and swollen. A sharp pain stabbed
him in the middle of his chest and he realized he could feel her pain.
Anarr stepped outside to find the outhouse. After relieving himself, he
completed his morning ablutions at the well and then re-entered the
house. On the table were three plates and three mugs with a steaming
brew.
"I hope you like eggs," Anna said after she had wished him a good
morning and spooned the contents of her pot equally onto the plates
without waiting for his answer.
"Yes, thank you," he managed to say. He shuddered briefly,
remembering the last time he'd been forced to eat eggs.
When Nai joined them at the table, they ate their meal in silence.
Anarr waited patiently until everyone had finished before he announced
that he was ready to proceed.
He stood up and stepped behind Anna. "Whatever you do," he said to
Nai, "Don't touch her, don't speak, and don't interrupt in any way until
I'm done."
Nai listened to Anarr's instructions without showing any emotion.
He gave a brief nod as the only sign he'd heard the mage, unsure of what
to expect. The news of Simona's death had affected him more than he'd
let on. Pretending to be asleep, he'd listened to Anna's crying, feeling
helpless. Simona had been the reason he'd stopped drinking after his
wife and daughter died. She'd also been crucial in putting his life back
together. Her quest to find her mother and sister had become his, and
her friendship had meant everything to him. He remembered how jealous
he'd felt when he realized that she was in love with Kal, despite her
attempts to hide her feelings. Then he had met Anna, and for the first
time since his wife's death, he'd imagined what it would be like to have
a family again.
"Anna, don't move. It won't take long," Anarr instructed. Anarr's
words ripped Nai out of his daydream. He watched as the mage placed one
hand on Anna's head and one on her lower back then muttered an
incantation in a language Nai didn't understand. A brief green glow
emanated from Anarr's hand, so brief that Nai thought it was a trick of
the light. At the same time, Anarr seemed to age visibly. The mage's
black hair turned grey in front of Nai's eyes and Anarr's face now
showed wrinkles in places where there hadn't been wrinkles before. Nai
stared in disbelief at the man in front of him. "How?" he thought. "How
is this possible?"
Anarr removed his hands. "It's done. The curse has been lifted."
His hands were shaking visibly and he had to hold on to a chair to
steady himself.
"Now if you could bring Simona back --" Anna began, but didn't
complete her sentence. She too looked at Anarr, a surprised expression
on her face. The magus looked as if he'd aged fifty years in less than a
bell.
"That I cannot do, but you can have another child if you so
desire," Anarr said simply, his once vibrant voice now had the sound of
old age in it.
"I am too old to have another child," Anna replied. She reached out
to touch Anarr's arm, but he pulled it away. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing that should concern you," Anarr replied and took a few
weak steps towards the door. Nai reached out to support the man, but he
shrugged him off.
"Why don't you stay one more night?" Nai offered.
"It's the least we can do," Anna chimed in.
"No thank you. I had best be leaving now." Anarr turned to face
Anna. "You can have another child. I fixed that as well." Anarr walked
towards the door and opened it. "Good day," he said and left without
waiting for an answer.
Nai pulled Anna into a tight embrace and kissed her. "Do you think
he's really done it?"
"I don't know," Anna replied somberly. "So much has happened. I
lost two husbands, my daughters are dead, and now he's telling me I can
have more children. I've put having children behind me, but ..." Anna's
voice trailed off.
"I lost a wife and a daughter," Nai said slowly. "And I had given
up on having a family until I met you. Simona was more than a friend to
me. In some aspects she was the daughter I could have had."
"And you're willing to try and have a new family?"
Nai nodded. "I am."
"What if Anarr failed and the curse is still lingering? Do you
really think he did it?"
"We won't know unless we put it to the test," Nai replied and
wondered the same thing. Of all the things he had learned about the
curse on Anna's family the night before, the death of the husband upon
the birth of a daughter had shocked him the most, and he asked himself
if he was willing to put his life at risk to test whether the curse was
truly gone. He looked into Anna's face and any reservations he had
harbored vanished.
Another winter had turned into spring and Nai was busy working in
his smithy. Over the past year his business had grown steadily and he'd
made friends with many of the people in Hawksbridge. He had just
finished shoeing a horse when he heard the voice of his wife.
"Nai, it's time! Please get Elena."
He turned and wanted to ask her if she was sure, but something in
her voice and face told him it was no joke. "I'll be just a few menes,"
he announced, but then decided otherwise.
"Joey," he called his apprentice, a stout boy of twelve with brown,
curly hair. "Joey!"
"Coming," the grumpy voice of the boy answered.
"Go and fetch Elena and tell her to hurry."
The boy's eyes opened wide and he ran out the door. Nai grinned at
Joey's reaction and then guided his wife inside.
By evening Anna had given birth to twins. A black-haired girl they
named Rowena and a red-haired boy they named Thomas. Nai held his son
and daughter proudly.
"A fine pair," Elena the midwife commented when she placed the
twins into their bed.
"A fine pair indeed," Nai whispered to his wife Anna and kissed her
gently.
========================================================================
The Great Houses War
Part 1: Call to Arms
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<NWansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
15 Vibril - 5 Sy, 897
"The king is dead!"
Caeron Tallirhan, rightful heir to the throne of Baranur, looked up
with a start from the game of King's Key he had been playing. His
grandfather was dead? He hadn't even known that the old man had been
ill. He stared at the young squire panting at the door leading into
Caeron's chambers in his country manor in Dyunill. The boy, who was not
much younger than Caeron, was dressed in furs to protect him from the
cold and his cheeks were red.
"How did it happen?" Caeron pushed back the fine oak chair he had
been sitting on and approached the messenger, who, while tall enough
himself, was still almost a full hand shorter than Caeron.
"Your majesty, he fell suddenly ill with a fever after hunting on
the tenth and succumbed late last night."
"I should feel something," Caeron thought. He was shaken by the
news, but only because it was unexpected. He had hardly known the man;
in fact King Stefan II had banned him from the court when he and his
wife Dara had accepted Stevenism. The man had wronged him, but still he
was family: Caeron's grandfather. Caeron should have felt sorrow,
sadness, or compassion. He only felt surprise and guilt for his shameful
reaction.
Caeron slammed his fist into his hand and turned away from the boy.
He strode toward the stone hearth that dominated the room and stared
into the dancing flames, chewing on his lower lip. "What sort of
grandson feels happiness at his grandsire's death?" he admonished
himself. On the other hand, there were other things to consider. What
did the old king's death mean for Baranur? Should not the last remaining
Tallirhan think of such things? Caeron was vaguely aware of his wife,
Dara, getting up from the King's Key table and gliding up to his side.
"Aendasia will undoubtedly claim the throne." Caeron shook his
head. He could feel anger bubbling up inside him. He'd always had a
short temper. He knew he needed to try to control it, but as he
envisioned Beinisonian troops marching through the streets of Magnus,
his grip on the fireplace mantel tightened. "My cousin Aendasia, the
Beinisonian empress-mother, whom grandfather named heir before me.
Cephas' boot, I thought this was something we wouldn't have to deal with
for years!"
Caeron was the only surviving heir of the Tallirhan name, the
family that had ruled over Baranur for nearly nine hundred years. But,
when Caeron had converted to Stevenism, King Stefan II had disowned him.
The only other heir was Caeron's cousin Aendasia who had married the
Beinisonian Emperor, Alejandro VII, many years before. When Alejandro
died and his son ascended to the throne, Stefan had arranged a marriage
for Aendasia with Valeran, the Duke of Northfield, apparently in hopes
of forming some sort of alliance between Beinison and Baranur. Aendasia
had borne the name Blortnikson for many years, however, and was
thoroughly Beinisonian as far as Caeron was concerned. Caeron had hoped
that he could eventually heal the rift with his grandfather and -- once
Stefan's anger had cooled -- that the lawful lineage would be restored.
Now it was too late.
Dara placed a hand on his arm and rubbed it soothingly. "It is
against the laws of inheritance; surely you are Tallirhan's heir."
"Your majesty, if I may --" the messenger tried to interject.
"Of course, but grandfather willed the crown to Aendasia, rather
than allow it to 'fall into the hands of Stevenic apostates.'" King
Stefan II had been well-respected by his lords, and some scholars said
that when he had disinherited Caeron that technically the Tallirhan line
had ended and therefore the crown did indeed go to the next closest kin,
Aendasia. Many had supported the proposal when it had been put forward
in hopes that it would ensure Beinison never threatened Baranur again.
"Bah! The Beinisonians would instead make us but another province in
their empire."
"My lord?" Dara said.
"I was just thinking about that tired justification: that Aendasia
becoming queen could somehow protect us from Beinison," Caeron said.
"Would it be too much to hope that your cousin would abdicate?"
Dara said. "You are still young, my husband; there are many years --"
"Twenty-four years is old enough for me to know I am the rightful
king! Old enough to know my people will be enslaved should Aendasia
ascend to the throne."
"Your majesty, please!" the messenger exclaimed.
Caeron stopped and took a few deep breaths. He had lost his temper,
as usual. It was hardly behaviour befitting a good Stevenic. He took
another breath and, satisfied he had regained his composure, turned back
towards the door. "Excuse my outburst. Do you bear further news?"
"Your majesty, I also bear tidings from your half-brother, Master
Priest of the High Church of Magnus. He begs you come to Magnus with all
possible speed. He says that several of the Great Houses will support
your claim on the throne. Lady Aendasia is in Beinison and it will be
some time ere she hears the news."
Of course, Aendasia had lived in Beinison for so many years that
she considered herself Beinisonian and preferred to spend the majority
of her time there, even since being named heir to the Baranurian throne.
But the lords ... Caeron was somewhat surprised to hear that a number of
them had altered the position they had taken when Stefan II had still
been king. What had his half-brother Cyrridain been up to?
Caeron took Dara's hand and gripped it tightly. "Could it be, love,
a chance for the throne to remain in the rightful hands of Tallirhan?"
Caeron knew that he had to make a decision quickly. The fate of the
kingdom rested on what he decided in that moment, it seemed: bow to the
old king's wishes which, though unjust, were his right to make, or seize
this opportunity? It must have been a sign that things had played out in
this manner, that Stefan had died while Aendasia was in Beinison. "The
Stevene's Light shines on me this day. I should have known that being
the first Tallirhan to follow the Stevene's teachings, I would be
favoured ... I must make haste to Magnus. Zephrym!"
"My lord?" A sturdy man with greying hair and stubble on his chin
casually pushed the squire aside and strolled into the room.
"Have the house guard ready to travel; I leave for Magnus
immediately. I want you to follow behind with Lady Dara and the rest of
the household."
"Should you not wait so that we can travel with you, my lord?"
Zephrym, the captain of Caeron's personal guard, asked.
"No, I must get to Magnus as quickly as possible, to solidify my
claim on the crown. I will better accomplish that travelling alone."
Caeron bent down and kissed his wife on the forehead. "I must be off, my
love."
"I will see you in Magnus, my king."
Caeron stood in the stirrups as the horse beneath him galloped
along the windswept road leading to Magnus. On a good summer's day a
person might make forty leagues. In the winter, ice and snow on the
roads forced travellers to use prudence that slowed that progress, but
Caeron took no such caution with his mount. The landscape on all sides
was a glittering white, snow piled smoothly across the land like a fresh
table linen before a banquet. A fitting time of year, Caeron thought,
for a new king to make his place in Baranur's history.
Soon he could make out a thin strand of smoke rising from the
horizon. A fresh horse would be awaiting him there. Despite the frigid
air around him, Caeron was sweating heavily beneath his thick fur cloak;
he had ridden hard.
As he neared the small gathering of buildings, he could see a man
wearing the livery of house Tallirhan moving down the road towards him
with a horse in tow.
Caeron brought his own lathered horse to halt only paces away from
the man and jumped from the saddle. He winced as he hit the ground. His
legs were starting to get stiff and his rear sore. He was used to long
rides, but none at such a frantic pace. He took the reins from the
soldier, noticing that the man bore the rank insignia of
sergeant-at-arms of the city of Magnus, and swung himself up into the
saddle.
"Your majesty," the Tallirhan sergeant said. "I bring greetings
from the Lady Mayor. She bade me bring tidings from the people of Magnus
and surrounding towns. They say you are the rightful ruler. The people
of Magnus demand you be crowned king."
"God is with me." Caeron nodded. "With the people's support,
Aendasia daren't go against me."
He urged the fresh horse forward at a canter. Magnus was but one
city, true, but it was the capital of Baranur and its mayor held almost
as much power as a duke. The Stevenic religion had flourished there in
the short decades since the prophet's death. If the people of Magnus
supported Caeron, surely others would as well. House Tallirhan would
keep the throne.
Caeron arrived at the gates of Magnus late in the afternoon to the
thunderous cheers of thousands of loyal citizens. His tired horse slowed
to a walk as they moved past the thick stone ramparts protecting the
city and waded into the crowded streets. As he moved towards the castle
at the centre of Magnus, a toothless chapman wearing a broad-brimmed hat
reached out and touched Caeron's leg, shouting, "Long live King Caeron!"
To the other side, a sturdy matron grabbed at his tunic, weeping. Caeron
heard loud clapping and looked up to see a young man leaning out of a
house window pounding his calloused hands together. Next to him was a
girl with wide-set eyes and brown locks who was likewise cheering him
on.
He had known that the people supported him, but he had not been
prepared for such a welcome. The air seemed to vibrate with the pealing
of what was certainly every bell in the city. A sergeant-at-arms took up
position in front of Caeron's horse and had to force his way through the
crowd. Caeron had to duck as he nearly rode into a bright red banner
hanging between the windows of the upper stories of two buildings across
the street from one another. A young maiden with a heavy cloak wrapped
about her shoulders pushed her way forward to drape a garland over the
horse's neck. She was soon followed by another with striking red hair
bearing a large fir wreath.
A slender maiden, with golden locks that shone in the sun, slipped
on the ice and fell to the cobbled road. Caeron's horse nearly trampled
the girl and he had to pull the reins hard to move the creature to the
side. Without thinking, Caeron dismounted and stepped cautiously towards
the girl. His legs complained loudly, but he forced his body to move
naturally so the peasants would not see his discomfort.
"Are you hurt, my lady?" he asked, offering a hand to the stunned
girl. He pulled her to her feet so that she stood but a hand's width
away from him. She was probably older than him, but as with most people,
he looked down at her.
"You are too kind, your majesty," she whispered, her cheeks turning
crimson from both the cold and embarrassment. "You should not trouble
yourself over me."
Caeron smiled. Doubtless, Sir Zephrym Vladon, the captain of his
house guard, would have said the same thing, had he been present. He was
always admonishing Caeron for wasting undue time on the low-born, at
times going so far as to say Caeron was too soft-hearted for his own
good.
"Think nothing of it," Caeron replied. "'As the people serve a
king, so must that king be the people's greatest servant.' So said the
Stevene."
Caeron returned to his horse's back and waved to the people as he
continued towards Crown Castle. He was taken aback by the outpouring of
emotion, but also touched that the people felt so strongly about him. He
had often travelled amongst the common folk while shunned at Crown
Castle and was generous with almsgiving, but he was no great hero to
deserve such a welcome. Perhaps his half-brother's priests had been
stirring up support this winter while Caeron had been in Dyunill.
The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time Caeron finally made
it to the castle gates. The guards posted there hurriedly ushered him
through the large barbican and into the outer bailey and on past the
outer curtain to the Inner Courtyard. He could make out his half-brother
Cyrridain coming down the central steps of the King's Keep towards him,
clad in the Master Priest's dark green and gold robes. A thick, matronly
woman whom Caeron recognised as Contreela Sevind, the Lady Mayor of
Magnus, accompanied him. There were also knights of his grandfather's
household, several barons and counts, and a number of lesser clergymen.
Again Caeron's legs cried out as he dismounted. The ground beneath
him felt unsteady. If he had not been a young man in excellent physical
condition, he would have likely fallen over. As before, he commanded his
body to move forward without limping to conceal any pain from those who
would soon be his subjects.
As he approached, the small group bowed deeply. Cyrridain broke
away from the others and clasped Caeron in a warm embrace.
"My brother, it is indeed good to see you. The Stevene's Light
shines on you."
Caeron held his half-brother at arm's length. "And you, brother."
"We have much to discuss." Cyrridain motioned for Caeron to precede
him into the keep. "Word has been sent out for the dukes of all the
great and minor houses to make their way to Magnus. I expect Duke Sumner
Dargon to be here soonest, as his ship set sail before our grandfather
was taken ill, on unrelated business. He will now pay homage to you, I
suppose, but we should perhaps not wait that long to make good your
claim."
At the foot of the stairs, Caeron came face-to-face with a tall man
wrapped in a plain black cloak. He had a broad brow and a smile of such
kindliness that each strand of his thick brown beard seemed to curl in
amiability. Caeron was used to looking down at those around him due to
his height, so he was surprised to be of equal stature with this man's
deep, kindly, brown eyes.
"May I present to you, brother, Cyruz of Vidin," Cyrridain said.
"Oft called Cyruz the Bard. He is one of those few left alive who knew
the Stevene himself."
"Your majesty," Cyruz said in a deep voice like a snowslide
rumbling down the Skywall Mountains.
"Y-you knew Cephas Stevene?" Caeron stammered. He was rarely at a
loss for words, but now, standing in front of a man who had known the
Stevene personally, he felt in awe. Perhaps this was what peasants felt
when they were addressed by a noble. He reached for Cyruz's hand. "Is
this a hand that touched the Stevene's?"
"Your majesty, you do me far, far too much honour," Cyruz chuckled.
"I was but a young lad when I knew the Stevene. That I touched him makes
me no more worthy to clasp wrists with a king."
"I am not yet king. I ask merely to greet you as one Stevenic to
another."
With that he took Cyruz's wrist in his hand. Despite the cold, the
cleric's arm was dry and warm. Caeron could feel a strong pulse through
the tips of his fingers, like a blacksmith's hammer moulding a new piece
of metal. "This is a holy man," Caeron thought. Men such as this had
made the Stevene's Light spread as quickly as it had. Now, nearly three
generations since the great prophet's death, much of the south of
Baranur had already seen the true path. Now that God had manoeuvred
Caeron into a position to be king, who knew what greatness would follow?
21 Vibril, 897
Caeron sat in a high-backed chair at the head of a large table in
the great hall of the King's Keep. Around the table sat a great
assortment of lords and ladies, scribes, lawyers, and other people of
influence. Caeron's half-brother Cyrridain, clad in the majestic robes
of High Priest of the Stevenics, sat to his right. A fire raged in the
hearth, and pages scurried about the table pouring drinks or heating
them with hot pokers out of the fire. Cresset torches lining the walls
threw light upon the many tapestries and the oaken roof.
"Your majesty," Duke Sumner Dargon, sitting half-way down the
table, said. "The majority of the Great Houses will support your claim,
but I fear that allowing yourself to be crowned by the Master Priest of
the Stevenics would be a mistake. The Great Houses of Northfield and
Redcrosse have already declared themselves for your cousin. You cannot
afford any more to do so."
As if to underscore his point, Duke Dargon tossed a parchment
letter that had arrived from Valeran Northfield a few days earlier on
the table. Caeron had read it with displeasure more than once. It
demanded that Caeron and the other nobles recognise Aendasia as the
queen. The letter was little more than a formality, for Valeran had to
know that Caeron would not abdicate a throne rightfully his.
"A mistake?" Caeron shook his head. "It is thanks to the Stevene's
Light that I would be king. It is God's will that I be crowned thus."
"If I may be so bold, my lord," said the High Mage Milverri
Rhihosh. She spoke barely above a whisper, yet Caeron could hear her
clearly from across the room. He looked over at her suspiciously. She
sat in a window alcove rather than at the table, straight silver hair
pouring down her shoulders and penetrating black eyes staring at him.
"I'd prefer if you weren't," Caeron thought. He did not trust
magicians, but he knew that her kind might well have a use in the almost
certain conflict to come, so he gave her permission to speak.
"I would remind you that fewer than twenty out of every hundred of
your citizens belong to the Stevenic faith."
"But most of those in Magnus are faithful," Mayor Contreela said.
"That is certainly so," Sumner Dargon said. "But despite this, much
of the kingdom follows other religions. The king of such a diverse land
should not be outwardly partial to any one faith over another."
Caeron took a long drink from his goblet of hot cider, then set it
back down on the table. He gazed around the room at the lords
surrounding him and thought that perhaps he should count himself
fortunate that the greatest of his worries at the moment should be the
manner in which he would be crowned. A sennight ago he had been sure
that he would never sit on the throne. In fact, he could scarcely
believe how easily things had gone for him since King Stefan's death.
Perhaps he had been overly pessimistic about the whole situation. Of
course, his brother Cyrridain would hear of nothing but a Stevenic
coronation.
"He has been ordained by God; he should be crowned by his humble
servant, the Master Priest of the High Church of Magnus," Cyrridain
said.
"Master Priest." Duchess Emmeline Arval looked up from the
parchment in front of her and turned tired eyes towards Cyrridain. Known
for her vast knowledge of many matters, among them the Stevenic faith,
Caeron listened to her intently. She was a scholarly if somewhat
melancholic woman. "The Arvals are one of the Great Houses who worship
the god of Stevene, but does not the command to be tolerant of other
religions preclude such a coronation as you suggest?"
"Nonsense," Cyrridain countered. "Just because a king is crowned by
the Stevenic church doesn't make him any less tolerant! Has any here
heard my brother Caeron utter so much as a hint at wanting to forcibly
convert any subjects not already professing the Stevenic creed?"
"Even so, I do not think there is anything in the Stevene's
teachings that spoke of divinely chosen kings. In fact, I'm quite
certain there isn't." Duchess Arval said.
Cyrridain's face went red and he grumbled angrily while grasping
for his goblet and taking a quick drink. Caeron knew that Emmeline Arval
was right: nothing in the Stevenic texts spoke of any divine right of
kings.
"Be that as it may," Caeron said, "God's hand in this is clear.
Aendasia is still in Beinison, unable to challenge me. The people have
proclaimed me their rightful ruler --"
"I am willing to accept your claim on the throne, majesty," Duke
Luther Monrodya said, then paused to look about the room with small but
sharp eyes. Caeron did not know the man at all, but Cyrridain had warned
him that he was an opportunist of the worst kind. Short, plump, and
somewhat aged, the man was no warrior but could be dangerous in his own
way. Caeron waited with apprehension for the duke to finish his thought,
which seemed to be taking a rather long time. "Yes, I do accept that you
are still issue of the late King Stefan II notwithstanding your
conversion, but I will not pledge allegiance if you are crowned by your
half-brother."
Caeron sent his goblet sailing across the room. The cup landed with
a sharp clang as it struck the floor several strides away. "How can you
so brazenly admit to treason to my face?"
The Duke of Monrodya did not appear the least bit perturbed by
Caeron's outburst. A refined man nearing fifty, with greying hair and
goatee, he merely looked at where the drink had landed and smiled a
little. That smile on his plump little face made Caeron want to hit him.
"I recognise that, as the late king's grandson, you are the rightful
heir, but at the same time my lady Aendasia has a good claim and she is
not likely to try thrusting her religion down the kingdom's throat like
a Melrin ham."
Caeron could feel heat rising in his cheeks. He clenched his jaw
shut and forced himself to calm down. He was determined not let his
quick temper get the best of him now that he was king. He was younger
than everyone in this room by at least a decade. He would not have them
think him a hot-headed youth incapable of sagely ruling Baranur. He
silently said a quick prayer for assistance in controlling his temper.
"If you believe that, you are a blind fool." Cyrridain rubbed the
gold pendant shaped like a hangman's noose that hung about his neck as
he spoke. "The Beinisonians execute anyone who does not worship their
dark pantheon, and that includes adherents of the Olean creed."
Caeron took a deep breath. Satisfied that he was now calm, he
looked Luther Monrodya in the eyes and said, "You would have a
Blortnikson sit on the throne of Baranur?"
"I am sure that my friend, the Duke of Monrodya, is saying no such
thing your, majesty," Duke Sumner Dargon said. "But he does feel
uncomfortable with such a
coronation. It would in effect proclaim
Stevenism the official religion of the realm, which it is not."
Caeron looked to his brother. He did not feel quite as sure as he
had earlier about this decision. "The Stevene did preach tolerance ..."
"Of course he did," Cyrridain smiled. "Who said you would not be
accepting of the other religions once crowned king? But enough of this;
should we not be discussing instead how to defend my lord brother's
claim on the throne? The dukes of Northfield, Redcrosse, and Equiville
are already marshalling their forces."
"And you can be sure that Aendasia will react quickly once word
reaches her," Duke Sumner Dargon said, "for the Beinison Empire, unlike
Baranur, is a warlike realm and keeps a standing army. Though she does
not rule there, she will undoubtedly find an army willing to travel
north with her."
"Yes," Caeron scratched his clean-shaven chin. "We must begin
levying troops immediately. I can count on my dukes to supply the royal
army with troops?"
Over the next bell or so, the convened lords discussed how many
weapons were available, what kind of strength each duchy would be able
to muster, and possible battle plans to fight the lords who supported
Aendasia. When the second bell of night chimed throughout the great
hall, Caeron felt that enough had been accomplished for one night and
retired to the royal bedchamber.
When he entered the room, Dara was sitting on a chair near the
hearth with their three year-old son, Brad. Caeron thought to himself
that his son would one day be King Brad and smiled. When Dara noticed
Caeron enter the room, she whispered something in Brad's ear and the boy
hopped off her lap and charged across the room. Caeron knelt and caught
the child in a strong embrace.
He kissed Brad's jet black hair, which was like his mother's, and
said, "What are you doing up so late, young one?"
"He wanted to see you, papa," Dara said. "You've been away so much
lately."
"Aye, so I have." Caeron ruffled his son's hair. "Unfortunately
things will probably be like this for a while longer, until I have full
control of the crown."
Brad did not seem to understand and looked up at his father with
large, questioning eyes. Caeron squeezed him again, then picked the boy
up and carried him over to the nanny who was standing nearby. "Now time
for you to sleep."
Once the nanny and Dara's ladies-in-waiting had left the room, he
strode over to his wife and gave her a lingering kiss. Then he took her
into his arms and rested his chin on top of her head.
"So what do your lords say, love?" she asked.
"Duke Dargon feels that it is not wise for me to allow Cyrridain to
crown me, but he will support my claim." Caeron then related to her all
his potential allies and enemies. For certes, the Great Houses Quinnat
and Welspeare would support a Stevenic coronation and the king so
crowned. It seemed that Monrodya and Arval would not accept it, but
Caeron thought they were bluffing. Other than Dargon, none of the
representatives from the other minor houses had yet arrived.
He took a step back from Dara and looked down into her clear, dark
brown eyes. "You should have been there, my love, sitting at my side. I
will need your assistance ruling this realm of ours. Why did you not
want to attend?"
Dara's skin was pale, so when she blushed it was very obvious. Her
face turned red, and her lashes swept down, shadowing her cheeks like a
raven's feather. "I do not want to make you look like a fool in front of
your lords ..."
"How could having the fairest lady in all Baranur at my side make
me look a fool?" Caeron pulled her close to him again.
"I don't know anything," Dara said. "I would do you no good, I --"
"Nonsense." He stroked her hair, smoothing it back from her
forehead. He had always known Dara to be timid around strangers, but she
seemed to be scared of the dukes. "You are better in public than you
think. At many a royal dinner have you charmed the guests."
"Maybe I'm just a good actor," she replied. "Because I ever feel so
awkward."
"You should have more faith in yourself."
They stood like that, embracing for several moments. All was quiet
in Crown Castle. Caeron looked around the royal bedchamber. Not long
ago, this had been his grandfather's. He hadn't seen the inside of this
chamber in years. He had forgotten about the brilliant tapestries
depicting battles long-past, and the stained glass window that bore the
Tallirhan arms. Even the items he did remember looked somewhat different
than they had before. The colours were more vibrant, the textures
deeper. They were now his.
Dara let out a dramatic sigh. "I've just realised you sent all my
ladies-in-waiting away before I could prepare for bed. I'll need someone
to help me undress."
Caeron smiled. "Well, I believe I have some skill for that. A king
must be well versed in many things, you know."
She giggled and turned around so that he could unfasten the lacings
of her gown. Presently, they were both undressed and made their way
hastily to the bed. Despite the warmth cast by the hearth fire, castles
were forbiddingly cold places in the winter. Caeron reached up and drew
the bed-hangings snug around them, so that he and Dara seemed to be the
only people on Makdiar.
29 Vibril, 897
Caeron walked slowly down the centre aisle of the magnificent
Cathedral of the Stevene with Dara at his side. A choir of men and women
sang a solemn hymn as Caeron moved past the assembled lords, knights,
and townsfolk who packed the church. Red and grey banners of house
Tallirhan adorned the massive pillars and wooden pews.
He looked up at the white, vaulted ceiling high above his head and
whispered a quick prayer of thanks. He was now nearing the altar, where
he could see his half-brother, Master Priest of the Stevenic religion,
resplendent in flowing silver robes. To his left stood the tall, thin
form of Cyruz of Vidin. Several other members of the High Church of
Magnus were clustered around those two central figures. Caeron squeezed
Dara's hand, which was trembling.
His heart began to beat harder and faster as he knelt before his
brother. Cyrridain looked taller and larger than usual. He seemed to
tower over Caeron as he took from Cyruz a piece of golden rope formed
into a noose. The choir softened their singing so that Cyrridain could
be heard throughout the massive chamber.
"With this holy noose, representing the manner in which the giver
of the Stevene's Light, Cephas, was killed, I bless thee," he said,
touching the rope to Caeron's forehead.
Caeron closed his eyes and was acutely aware of the coarseness of
the rope as it touched him. It felt warm despite the fact that he was
sweating lightly beneath a heavy crimson cape.
"Remember thee the teachings of the Stevene," Cyrridain said. "A
monarch must wield power only for the good of the people from whom that
power derives. As they serve the monarch, the monarch is their greatest
servant."
As the noose was removed, Caeron opened his eyes. The sun now shone
brilliantly through the great stained glass window behind Cyrridain. Its
rays glinted off the crown of Baranur as his brother took it from a
nearby clergywoman. He never thought he'd be within arm's reach of it.
As he gazed upon its gilt edges, the jewels that encrusted it, he felt
new emotions stirring in him. As Cyrridain approached, Caeron could feel
the heat of tears welling up in his eyes.
"I anoint thee Caeron, sovereign and king of our mighty realm of
Baranur," Cyrridain said. "And charge thee to rule and protect the land,
and uphold the Stevene's Light."
The weight of the crown settled on Caeron's head and tears began to
flow unabated down his cheeks.
"And thee Dara, I do anoint as queen and consort to the king and
charge thee to assist our sovereign that he may rule wisely."
Caeron looked over at Dara, who was also crying and blushing deeply
as Cyrridain placed a slightly less ornate crown on her head. The new
king then looked again at his surroundings. The church was so beautiful
now, the sun casting multicoloured beams through all its windows,
playing off the exquisite architecture. He was now king, ruler of
Baranur, and for the first time Baranur had a Stevenic king, crowned by
the High Church of Magnus.
The floor seemed to shake beneath him as the crowd erupted with
thunderous applause and cheering. He stood and turned to face them.
Knights held their swords in the air and cried, "Long live King Caeron!"
He scanned the front rows; Duke Sumner Dargon was present, as were
the rulers of houses Welspeare, Quinnat, and Kiliaen. So was the High
Mage Milverri Rhihosh. However, many of the Great Houses were
conspicuously absent. Some of them, such as the Duchess of Westbrook,
were not present because the coronation had been held too soon for them
to travel to Magnus. Others, such as the Duke of Monrodya and Duchess of
Arvalia, had joined ranks with the insurrectionists. War would ravage
the land before long, he knew.
He had rushed the coronation, knowing that no time could be spared
in marshalling forces. All the great and minor houses supporting
Aendasia had certainly begun levying their own troops. Caeron wiped the
tears from his eyes and gestured for the crowd to quiet. There was no
better time than now, he thought, to rally all whom he could to his
cause.
"It may seem that this is a great moment for Baranur," he said once
there was silence in the church. "But it is indeed our darkest. For even
while your new king was being crowned, treacherous lords supporting the
Beinisonian Empress have been plotting my downfall.
"It is because of this that I call on all loyal citizens of Baranur
to stand by the side of your king in this time of tribulation. For
nearly a thousand years all the houses great and minor have been subject
to a Tallirhan, yet now a Blortnikson reaches for the crown with a
greedy hand. House Tallirhan will not yield to these usurpers! Who among
you stands with me?"
The crowd cheered even louder this time, such that the pillars
holding up the great vaulted ceiling seemed like they might collapse.
Caeron took his own sword from its scabbard and held it aloft.
17 Firil, 897
As King Caeron and his retinue of household knights moved along
Principine Avenue two months later, throngs of poor city folk attempted
to crowd close, hoping for the king's generosity. A toothless old lady
with squinting eyes reached out for a coin. A bearded, one-legged man
leaning on a crutch attempted to hobble closer to the royal procession,
while other mud-spattered peasants knelt. Not only people crowded about,
but a skinny dog chasing a pig caused Caeron's horse to rear back a
little, although he was able to keep the animal under control.
"My lord king," Zephrym said, "I must ask again why you insist on
travelling through the Fifth Quarter. We could have easily crossed the
Laraka at Kheva's Bridge, then --"
Caeron smiled and looked at Dara who rode beside him, winking at
her as he replied. "Yes, I know Zephrym; being too soft-hearted again, I
suppose. But to tell the truth, I can't think of a better way to get to
know my people other than to meet them. There were many years when I
could not visit even this part of Magnus, let alone the more reputable
quarters."
He threw coins into the outstretched hands surrounding him, as did
Dara and a few other members of the entourage at Caeron's urging.
Zephrym still did not look pleased, but he said no more.
"Good morrow to you, sir," Caeron greeted one of his subjects as he
placed a couple of copper Royals into the man's grubby hand.
The streets in this part of Magnus were narrow and crowded, pressed
in by the tall buildings to either side. Here, unlike wealthier
quarters, the buildings were almost exclusively built of timber beams
with pale, dirty mortar between them. Sometimes, Caeron had to duck
under the overhanging upper levels of these houses as he passed under.
That morning, Caeron had gone with Dara outside the city to observe
the progress being made on the leper colony they had founded using a
portion of the considerable funds inherited from King Stefan II. They
had decided to name it the Cephas' Mercy Leper Colony, and Caeron was
happy to see that since the snow had melted some twenty hands of wall
had been built up.
"Your majesty," Zephrym said.
"What is it now?" Caeron asked.
"Up ahead, it looks like the crowd may be getting ugly." Caeron
followed Zephrym's outstretched arm and could see further down
Principine Avenue an even greater throng gathered, blocking the road
completely. "You'd think they'd appreciate being given alms!" Zephrym
said.
"Thank God that neither you nor I have had to know their
desperation, Zephrym," Caeron said, remembering the admonitions of the
Stevene. "It looks like they're fighting one another, not us. Someone
probably stepped on another's toe and that started a brawl."
As they drew closer to the mob ahead, their shouts and cries could
be heard over the sounds of the city folk that surrounded Caeron's
retinue. He could see a group of youths trying to pull one of his
knights from his horse. A young man with a dirty face decided to throw
some refuse from the gutter at another knight. The men-at-arms and
archers on foot were having a hard time holding back the crowd; in fact,
they appeared to be moving backwards.
"My lord king, it appears they are brawling with more than just
each other now," Zephrym said. He called out to some of the retinue
pulling up the rear. "Get down that side street and ensure it's clear
for the king. I'll see if I can't clear this rabble so it's safe."
"Zephrym, don't you think --?"
At that moment, the knight struggling with the youths toppled from
his horse with an oath and his deep red jerkin disappeared into the
browns and blacks of the townsfolk. "No, I'm afraid I don't, your
majesty; this may turn into a full riot if things aren't taken into hand
now. Stay back here while I clear things out."
With that, the captain of the king's guard thundered off ahead.
Caeron's horse shuffled its feet uneasily.
"Caeron, do our own people want to harm us?" Dara asked.
"It could be the opposite, even; their eagerness to see us caused a
few tempers to grow short," Caeron replied. "Most of all, they just want
some bread to fill their bellies, I think."
Most of the peasants who had surrounded the royal entourage had
either fled or been cleared by the guards, and only the commotion ahead
remained. Caeron could hear Zephrym giving orders, but he was far enough
away that Caeron could not make out the words. Above the general din, he
heard a wailing sound.
"Caeron, look," Dara pointed to a middle-aged woman sitting on the
dirty road, leaning against the wall of a house. In her arms a baby was
screaming, although she did not seem to notice.
Caeron moved closer and dismounted his horse. The woman seemed to
take no notice of him, so he knelt next to her and asked her what was
wrong with her child. At his voice, she looked at him with eyes ringed
in dark circles.
"I've no milk for the baby, so he cries."
Of its own accord, Caeron's hand went to his throat in the manner
of the Stevenics. He wondered where the woman's husband was; perhaps she
never had one. He cast that thought aside. What did it matter? The poor
woman hadn't enough food in her belly even to feed her child. At that
moment he could think of no more cruel fate. He wished he had some food
with him. Instead, he did all he could, removing his cloak and wrapping
it about the woman's shoulders. He then pressed a few coins into her
hand and stood. He looked around to ensure none of his guards had been
watching and remounted the horse. Dara remained silent, though her eyes
bore a look of grief.
"My lord king," Zephrym pulled aside Caeron on his horse. "Things
have settled down now."
They returned to Crown Castle without any further incident. He was
soon in his council chambers once again. Since being crowned, he had
worked furiously to reform many of the laws in Baranur. One of his first
acts had been to form the Court of King's Bench as a regular court of
justice with its own experts and judicial commissions. Under King Stefan
II, the court of the king had been a more nebulous affair.
The chamber held the usual gathering of lords and ladies, scribes,
lawyers, and Stevenic clerics. Among the clerics was Cyrridain,
resplendent in his robes of office as usual. The complaints about such a
strong Stevenic presence in the court had only recently died down and
Caeron wished his half-brother could be a little more subtle sometimes.
The number of those assembled was significantly smaller than it had been
when he had first gathered his advisors around him in Vibril, two months
previously. He was glad to have a few truly loyal lords rather than many
ready to stab him in the back, however.
"My lord king, the final draft of the Act Concerning the Commoners
of the Realm is ready for your signature," Cyrridain said, passing a
large roll of vellum bearing the piece of law in question to Caeron.
"Excellent," Caeron said, sitting himself in the high-backed chair
at the head of the oak table that dominated the room. After his
experience in the Fifth Quarter, he was motivated to sign the law he'd
crafted that would impose things such as a prohibition on lords evicting
serfs from their land and mandatory days of rest.
"Your majesty," Duke Dargon said. "I must take this final
opportunity to warn you against signing this bill so soon. Its economic
implications are significant; the lords were disturbed enough by your
new taxation law last month, to say nothing of what the merchant class
will --"
"I suppose the laws are too Stevenic for your tastes, Sumner,"
Katrina Welspeare broke in. She was a fellow Stevenic who, unlike
Emmeline Arval, favoured the idea of a Stevenic king. She had stayed
loyal and proved a worthy advocate for Caeron. "Cephas forfend that we
should attempt to help the poor a little; for your Olean sympathies
that's simply too --"
"My Lady Welspeare," Cyrridain cut in. Katrina Welspeare was a
fiery woman, sometimes too fiery. "Duke Dargon has a right to raise
objections. And while the lords may well be a little unhappy, that which
is right is not always popular."
"Precisely," Caeron said. He was mildly irked by Dargon's
opposition, but carefully kept his temper in check. "Now, Sumner, I'd
have thought better of you than to oppose this bill. Certainly one need
not be a Stevenic to see the wisdom of it."
"My lord king," Sumner gestured placatingly with his hands. "My
concern is just that it is too soon."
"Dargon, you're too diplomatic," Duchess Annora Quinnat said,
setting her goblet down after taking a quick gulp. "My king, you know I
have sworn loyalty to you 'til death, which is why I need to tell you I
think this act *is* more of a Stevenic sermon than --"
"I'm not Stevenic, and I think the law is a good one!" Duchess
Kiliaen said.
"Enough of this arguing," Duke Sebastian Pyridain said, wiping the
perspiration from his perpetually sweating, bald head. "There will be
Beinisonians thundering into my duchy within months. We need to focus
ourselves on preparations! I doubt Aendasia and that whoreson Valeran
Northfield are bickering like this!"
"They may be," Katrina Welspeare said with a smile.
Sebastian Pyridain could only sputter while a few of those
assembled chuckled at the comment. A man with taut nerves in the best of
times, the prospect of impending invasion had only served to make the
man more exciteable. Caeron cleared his throat to get everyone's
attention.
"I appreciate the counsel of my lords, but I must do what I feel is
best for the realm and so, I am signing this bill ... Done. Now, on to
matters that Lord Pyridain rightly points out as more important:
preparations for war."
"On that account," Cyrridain said, "the new direct taxation laws
have helped us collect funds for the king's army. Fortunately, the
treasury was kept relatively full by King Stefan as well. We've been
able to acquire the services of Greg Jorym's renowned Comarrian
free-lance regiment."
"Good," Caeron said. "As we've discussed before, I'm expecting
levies from each of my lords as well, save Pyridain and Westbrook who
shall need all they have. Equiville poses a problem as it blocks us
sending troops into your lands to support you. My plan is to launch my
first attack on Equiville to cure that, but that means I need Welspeare
and Quinnat to keep Northfield contained."
Katrina Welspeare pushed a strand of dirty blonde hair from her
face. "I'm emptying my coffers paying all the blacksmiths to forge
weapons for my levies. My main fear is that Northfield has a
substantially greater population than both Welspeare and Quinnat."
"And to give Valeran some credit," Annora Quinnat said, "he's done
a good job keeping his peasants ready for this sort of situation. Their
bowmen are known across the realm for their dominance of the
tournaments."
"I recognise your concerns with Northfield," Duke Pyridain said
breathlessly, "but I need some reinforcements. We could send troops by
sea from the west, because if I fall then you'll have every barbaric
Beinisonian with a sword sweeping through --"
"Keep in mind, Sebastian," Duchess Quinnat said, "Aendasia may bear
the title empress, but her son is ruler. He'll only give her so much;
word is that he has his eyes on other lands than ours. He'll give her
enough to keep her quiet."
"Clearly, you'll have to concentrate on a defensive approach,"
Caeron said. "Retreat behind the walls of Pyridain Keep and hold them
there. Surely, your brave soldiers can hold the Beinisonians long enough
for us to defeat Equiville and come to your aid?"
"Of course, of course," Sebastian said, puffing with pride.
"Good," Caeron nodded. "Start laying provisions for a siege
immediately. You should leave within the sennight to return to Pyridain
and make ready. What of the Northern Marches, Sumner?"
"I remain hopeful that Asbridge will decide to stay with us,
otherwise I'll be surrounded," Duke Dargon replied. "That said, my
vassals are gathering together their levies as we speak. We have a
number of strong points, such as Fennell Keep and Endeirion, that we can
hold onto and delay any army moving north. I expect we can hold out a
good long while, Dargon Keep being one of the most easily defended in
the land."
"Very good," Caeron said. "If need be, field peasants with farm
implements. I fear we'll need every able-bodied soul the land has to
offer."
5 Sy, 897
The first day of the Holy Sennight that many Stevenic preachers
said was the sennight Cephas Stevene had been tried and executed, King
Caeron knelt in prayer in the large chapel in Crown Castle. It had
previously been an ecumenical temple of sorts, not dedicated to any
particular religion, but Caeron had converted it into a Stevenic place
of worship. He looked about the large, silent hall, relishing the
peaceful atmosphere. The midmorning sun shone through the window above
the altar which showed a noose over a shining book.
Sheaves of wheat harvested from the fields around Magnus were
arranged about the room, a testament of thanksgiving for a good year,
while late summer flowers adorned the altar. This sennight was supposed
to be a time of celebration and relaxation -- Caeron had decreed as much
when the Act Concerning Commoners of the Realm was proclaimed -- but
instead, the fear of war hung about everything like a suffocating cloak.
Caeron knelt on the cool stone floor and prayed. He needed guidance
and help. Had he done right to be crowned by Cyrridain? He was sure he
had, so why had so many of his subjects turned on him? Those who plotted
insurrection outnumbered the loyalists. So far, neither side had taken
any violent action. The demands that Caeron relinquish the crown
continued, but no towns had been razed and no castles besieged. Caeron
still held out hope that there would be no war, that his rule would be
peacefully accepted by all, and for that reason he had made no
aggressive moves of his own. He clasped his hands together and prayed
intensely.
Some time later, he couldn't be sure whether it was a few menes or
a few bells, he heard light footfalls behind him. They sounded like
those of a woman. He opened his eyes and out of the corner of them saw
Dara kneeling beside him. He could smell the scent of jasmine on her and
he smiled, always happy for her presence. He turned his head to look
directly at her, and noticed that she was even more pale than normal.
"My love," he whispered. "What's the matter?"
She paused before speaking. When she did, her voice was unsteady.
"Caeron, a messenger just arrived from Katrina Welspeare. Valeran
launched a sneak attack ... Fremlow City has fallen."
========================================================================
