Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  Who exactly is he angry at? His niece, who gave in to temptation? Gregor Voldhard, who broke his vows? Or himself? What made Lady Irital renounce her oath? Maybe problems with her upbringing? Too much freedom? One way or another, Latandal is forever disgraced, and their priests’ prophesies aren’t going to be worth a lick anymore.

  The doors leading to Eclusum flew open. A mustachioed herald pounded a heavy staff against the stone mosaic floor with all his strength, bellowing in an unbearably loud voice.

  “His Holiness the Great Master Ladarius, Vicar of God on Earth!”

  Not bad… Enough to make you crazy.

  The church ruler was as immaculate as ever, nodding shortly to the steward and gliding gracefully into the hall. Behind him walked two boys. One carried the long train of his snow-white robe; the other was burdened with the Holy Book. A complete, almost unnatural silence overtook the enormous hall. Ladarius stepped up to the dais, nodding in turn to everyone gathered there. The head clergyman’s tall crown slid back and forth with each motion and even threatened to topple off onto the wooden floorboards.

  And roll down the steps, losing diamonds like the tears of repentant sinners.

  Straightening his snow-white robe’s long skirts, the Great Master settled into his chair. Demos noticed his old acquaintance, Brother Lasius from the Collegium, among the clergy. The senior investigator was occupying a place next to his patron, who was, as usual, dressed entirely in black. Master Ruvinius had earned himself the nickname of the Black Griffin for his habit. Nobody used it to his face, of course.

  What a delightful contrast! Kind Ladarius and terrifying Ruvinius. Two sides of the same coin, one worshipped and exalted, the other feared more than bloody diarrhea. But is there really a difference between them?

  The scribes had taken up places at desks housed in niches between the columns. Demos heard pages rustling, quill pens scratching, and candle wax hissing, not to mention weary sighs. The knights of the Order, their armor and the tips of their spears gleaming, took up their posts at Renar’s command.

  Hi there, brother. You’re sure climbing through the ranks.

  The great master nodded to the steward, giving him the signal to proceed. The latter pounded his massive staff against the ground a few times and bellowed out to the crowd.

  “With the permission of the great master, I declare the Ecumenical Court open! May the Keeper give us aid!”

  Yes, starting with a nice breeze.

  Ladarius looked around at the elites, paused when he got to Demos, and then looked down at the members of the Small Council. Finally, he focused on Ruvinius. The Black Griffin bowed and froze in expectation.

  “I would not have forced the noble lords to leave their native lands for nothing.” Even without raising his voice, he was heard all the way in the back rows. “But the process we begin today is particularly important, and so I exhort you to carefully weigh every word you hear. Let us begin.”

  Th Black Griffin leaped up from his chair so suddenly that his mantle flapped like a pair of wings. His hooked nose and crest-like mane gave his nickname particular meaning. Just then, the herald again slammed his staff against the ground.

  “Headmaster of the Collegium, His Eminence Ruvinius, has the floor.”

  The Black Griffin motioned for Brother Lasius to step closer. The bald investigator was carrying a thick folder, and he carefully set some materials out in front of the prosecutor when he got to the lectern.

  “Several weeks ago, a servant of the Collegium got his hands on a rather interesting document,” Ruvinius said, waving a piece of paper high above his head. “Its contents were cause for alarm. I will ask Brother Lasius to present the advisors and His Holiness with a copy for their perusal.”

  Taking a pause, he waited for his assistants to hand out the materials to the lords.

  “I will read the letter aloud. It was penned by a squire serving under the Duke of Highligland.”

  Demos unrolled his copy and glanced over the familiar lines. Ruvinius, in the meantime, cleared his throat and began.

  “‘Venerable benefactress! I write to you in the hopes that you are in good health. The times in Ellisdor are difficult—even as the war with the Runds is over, the people here have many cares. The talk on the streets is of nothing but the crops and harvests. They say the summer this year will be short, ushering in a harsher winter. All that warms the soul is the presence of the Latanian legation. The women are all as beautiful as goddesses, though Lady Irital eclipses the sun with her loveliness. She has charmed almost everyone in the castle, Lord Gregor most of all. At first, I saw nothing improper in that. The lord, indeed, is well known as a righteous man. But I was to find that I was mistaken.’”

  Ruvinius took a deep breath, motioned for a cup of water, and took a few mouthfuls before continuing.

  “‘What I am about to write is unbefitting the respectable young man I endeavor to be with all that I am, though my conscience no longer permits me to bear this secret alone. Trusting myself to the priest is also impossible in my case.’” The Black Griffon threw an eloquent glance at Ladarius, who nodded. “‘I’m afraid the local master would be unwilling to aid me, and you will soon see why.’”

  Hundreds of high-ranking buttocks wiggled in their seats, cursing the pompous style the letter was written in. Demos quietly grunted.

  I didn’t know that kid Dibrion was a writer. There’s a poet inside him, if a bad one.

  Demos saw Enrige’s brows shoot up. The king stared at his copy in disbelief, tightly gripping the arm of his chair with his free hand.

  Ah, you got to the interesting part?

  “‘After our return from Missolen, my beloved Lady Adal, who belongs to the ambassador’s retinue, sent me a note requesting a meeting. When we saw each other, Adal was pale, everything about her betraying the fear that was inside. I asked what happened. For some time, she hesitated, though she finally shared the secret with me. It turns out that my beloved witnessed her mistress sharing a bed with Lord Gregor.’”

  Master Ruvinius tore his eyes away from the letter and turned to Ladarius.

  “Sharing a bed with Lord Gregor!” he repeated stridently.

  For just a second, one that to Demos seemed interminably long, the enormous hall in the Great Shrine was bathed in silence. It was thick, impervious, and complete, almost as though a god had stripped the world of sound. Mouths gaped. One of the scribes froze just after he dipped his quill pen in his inkwell, and the drop that fell from the tip left an oily splotch where he had been planning to finish his sentence. A second later, the arches of the empire’s greatest temple trembled from the discordant chorus of hundreds of indignant voices.

  “Silence!” the herald barked, pounding his intricately decorated staff against the floor in a frenzy.

  It took a while for the noise to die down.

  “With His Holiness’ permission, I will continue,” Ruvinius said, getting back to his reading. “‘This is how it occurred. Upon entering the chambers belonging to Lady Irital, His Grace sent Lady Adal downstairs and instructed her to leave him alone with the ambassador. However, when she reached the main hall, Adal realized that she had forgotten her shawl in her mistress’ chambers. My beloved decided to return to the servants’ quarters in order to retrieve a different one. But as she was rummaging in a chest, she heard strange sounds coming from her mistress’ chambers. Lady Adal went over to one of the small observation windows. Her surprise cannot be imagined when she understood that Lord Gregor and Lady Irital…’” The Black Griffon took a long pause. “‘Forgive me, my benefactress, for I cannot describe what the poor girl saw there. Let it be enough to say that the holy oath of the emperor’s intended was violated, and her innocence lost.’”

  When he finished reading the paper in front of him, Ruvinius carefully folded and handed it to Brother Lasius. The great master waited a few moments before addressing the public.

  “And so, the niece of King Eisval the Latanian and the intended of the n
ext emperor is accused of violating her sacred oath. And the ruler of Highligland, having sworn to defend her honor in the lands belonging to him, was the one to defile her. We are all well aware that the church and society at large count such actions to be grave sins, and we cannot ignore what happened. If it can be proved that the oath was indeed broken, the accused will be excommunicated from the Way and sentenced to death.”

  Chapter 45. Ellisdor

  “I said there was going to be a storm,” Artanna muttered. She turned around—there was a murmur as people pressed either into the Shrine or under the overhanging roofs of the buildings lining the square.

  “Could a storm be a bad sign?” Irital whispered.

  The Latanian walked slowly between the seemingly endless rows of benches, her entire weight leaning on Artanna’s arm. Ever since she’d woken up, she’d felt miserable, though smelling salts had perked her up. The stuffy Shrine was getting to her, though. The Hundred leader did her best to support Irital in a way that avoided making it look like the girl was being dragged to the altar against her will and tried to cheer her up along the way. But the thunder put paid to her efforts. Irital paled and swallowed nervously.

  “Damn the signs and superstitions, my lady,” Artanna said quietly, ignoring the whispers behind her. “Smile and just do what you’ve been wanting to do for so long now. Show them all that the Highligland queen isn’t afraid of storms or anything else.”

  “Yes, you’re right.”

  Irital pulled herself slightly away from the Vagran’s tight grip, squared her shoulders, and stepped faster toward the altar, her eyes fixed on Gregor. The latter, meeting her gaze, smiled radiantly and walked down to meet her.

  Artanna brought the girl to the duke, bowed, and placed her small hand in Voldhard’s enormous paw. The duke glowed like a polished bronze tray, his happiness pouring out of him in waves. Irital, finally next to her beloved, looked happier, too. If there was one thing Gregor knew how to do, it was inspire peace and calm with just a glance. At least, when he was in a good mood.

  The hundreds of people in the hall fell silent, the talking and singing dying away. All that was left was the wind battering away at the stone walls of the temple and hurling dust at the enormous stained-glass windows.

  “I hand the fate of this woman to you, Gregor Voldhard,” the Hundred leader said loudly, in keeping with tradition, before taking a few steps back to take her place by Aldor and the Lange family.

  The windows darkened. Blue-gray clouds stretched across the sky, with lightning flashing intermittently between them. The crowd packed so tightly into the hall that there was no getting anywhere. Those who couldn’t find room below climbed onto the upper stories, the galleries, and the niches with the statues of the saints. Children clung to the columns, threatening to slip off onto the heads below at any moment.

  Master Dararius, who was clothed in a festive robe, dragged the ceremonial prayer out, the choir of novice boys singing high and harmoniously. The guards pulled themselves to attention. The storm gathered in intensity, forcing the churchmen to shout in order to make themselves heard.

  Finally, the appropriate hymns sung, the master signaled to his helpers. Brother Aristid and another monk carried over two silver crowns and a long silver chain. Gregor and Irital sank down onto their knees.

  “With this diadem, the Keeper commemorates Gregor Voldhard, Duke of Highligland, ruler of the Highliglanders, as a husband taking for himself this day a wife,” Dararius proclaimed as he placed the first crown on the duke’s bowed head. “And with this diadem, the Keeper commemorates Irital Urdanan as a wife taking for herself this day a husband.”

  The pair stood up as the light of the myriad candles played on the transparent gems in their crowns.

  “Do you, Gregor Voldhard, take Irital Urdanan to be your wife?” Dararius asked, going to stand in front of the duke. “Do you swear to be her faithful breadwinner, protector, friend, and instructor? Do you swear to live with her in happiness, pain, trial, and grief?”

  Gregor nodded so vehemently that the crown nearly slid off his head.

  “I swear!”

  “The Keeper has heard you.” The clergyman stepped over to the Latanian. “Do you, Irital Urdanan, take Gregor Voldhard to be your husband? Do you swear to be his faithful companion, loving friend, and instructor? Do you swear to live with him in happiness, pain, trial, and grief?”

  “I swear,” the girl said firmly, and Artanna finally exhaled. It was done. She saw Irital squeeze her beloved’s hand tightly, almost as a soul drowning in a swamp reaches for a branch. That, in fact, was roughly her position.

  Master Dararius attached the silver chain to both their crowns, connecting the two of them, poured wine into a ritual goblet, and held it first to Gregor’s lips, and then to Irital’s. Both of them took a sip.

  “You have tasted of the blood spilled by Gillenai, the Last Son, before he left for the Crystal Hall. Your alliance is now holy, and there is no soul in the heavens or on earth who can break it. From now until the end of time, you are husband and wife in the eyes of the Keeper and all his children!”

  Gregor took his wife in his arms and pulled her close. He was clearly uncomfortable about the idea of kissing her in front of so many people after their years of hiding, but Irital suddenly reached up and pressed her lips against his. The hall rang with shouts, congratulations, and praise for the Keeper and the duke. Even Artanna and Aldor, both exhausted by the preparations for the ceremony, joined the chorus.

  A second later, a bolt of lightning struck so close that the Shrine was bathed in brilliant light. Thunder crashed with such intense power that the walls shook. The ceiling groaned dangerously.

  “Damn it… Get away!” Artanna shouted, giving Aldor a shove.

  She more sensed than saw what happened. Something big and dark smashed into one of the windows, shattering the luxurious stained glass. It was a sign, Artanna realized belatedly, seeing the picture of a boot. The wind that broke into the hall blew the candles out with such force that the Shrine was instantly bathed in darkness. Cries of pain and surprise joined the thunder and howling wind—someone had taken the brunt of the damage.

  “Merciful Keeper!” Aldor yelled, about to jump over and help the injured. Artanna stopped him, however.

  “You take care of the newlyweds and have the guards get the guests out. Otherwise, we’ll all crush each other.

  The Vagran was just about to turn and bark orders at Shrain and Vezzam when another window blew out. Then, the wind battered down a third, and Artanna realized that the tempest was going to take out half the city. Panic ensued. Frightened townspeople, noblemen, clergy, and soldiers shoved each other every which way in an attempt to push their way to the exits, though their efforts merely added to the congestion. Artanna’s head was exploding from the noise, shouts, and groans, and all she could see were silhouettes—the scattered flashes of lightning were the only sources of light.

  She looked up at the altar. Gregor, shielding his terrified wife, looked around in confusion. Smoke poured in from somewhere above them. Throwing back her head, Artanna saw that part of the wooden ceiling was on fire—the lightning bolt had scored a direct hit. It suddenly made sense why the thunder had been so loud

  “Have them open the eastern doors!” she yelled, leaping up the steps to the altar. “Master Dararius, please!”

  The clergyman shook his gray locks sheepishly.

  “But that’s the divine half… Simple laymen aren’t supposed to…”

  “They’re supposed to die in this death trap?” She latched her fingers around the silver disks in his mantle and shook him violently.

  “Artanna…” Gregor was going to say something, but the Vagran ignored him completely.

  “Order them to open the eastern doors or the sacrilege here today will be far worse,” she said before turning to Gregor. “Do you really want your wedding day to be marked by the blood of so many innocent people?”

  “Do what she says.” Ir
ital stepped out from behind Gregor’s back and addressed Dararius. “In the name of the Keeper’s mercy.”

  The master looked over at the duke, who nodded curtly, and gave the order to move the altar and everything surrounding it out of the path to the exit. He unclasped the chain from the newlyweds’ crowns and placed the silver on its cushion. Servants hurriedly got to work on the goblets and books, moving tables and candlesticks.

  “Your Grace, I’d like to help the wounded,” Brother Aristid said, appearing out of nowhere. Artanna had long since noticed that the monk could move around quieter than a mouse.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” the Hundred leader said, instinctively placing her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Just in case. I don’t like this.”

  “Protect Irital,” Gregor replied. “I’m going to help them get the doors open—they’re going to need some muscle.”

  Artanna nodded and stepped closer to the Latanian, cursing the clergy’s sluggishness.

  “We have to move over to the side,” she said, gently taking the girl by the arm. “Over here, in this niche. Stay here and don’t move unless His Grace comes for you.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know, me, too. But it’ll all be over soon.”

  Sure that the Latanian was protected by the stone overhang from falling debris, the Hundred leader looked around. Chaos reigned in the hall—people continued shouting and pushing by the exit, while Gregor and the clergy strained at the altar gates. It had been years since they’d last been used, the previous time being after Rolf’s death. The hinges creaked and groaned, guards yelled, the wounded howled, and glass crunched underfoot. To add to all the commotion, an icy rain poured in through the broken windows, and there still wasn’t enough light to see. Artanna’s people did their best to help the guards prevent panic, but the job was too much for them. The hysteria gathered force with each passing second.