by T P Sheehan
Magnus felt disappointed. Not that he’d given away three gold coins, but that a legacy his father started had failed. “It was meant to be a sign of goodwill, yet not even the knights guarding the gates could be trusted?” If the knights would not uphold an example of honour then who would?
“Whoever told you of such a fee has not ventured to these parts for a long time. Was it Ganister?” Eamon asked.
“Did you know Ganister?” Magnus asked in return.
“In a way. Your father—Bonstaph—certainly made a name for himself. If the old regime of the Council of Elders still stood, I’m sure he would be a representative of the Fire Realm by now. How is your father?”
Magnus was surprised at Eamon’s knowledge of his father. “He is well,” Magnus lied. He was not sure why he did so, but in this unfamiliar city with prying ears and eyes, it seemed wise to keep personal matters to himself.
Eamon seemed to respect Magnus’s economy of words and charged forward, leading the way off the main street through the convolution of by-alleys. They weaved around the dizzying arrangement of stalls, taverns and markets that were jammed between the more permanent stone buildings of the city. Every plot of real estate was accounted for and people were everywhere, crowding the narrow streets and bustling for position at the merchants of their choice to get the bargains they came for. Eamon conversed with several of the merchants as they went. He exchanged sly winks, handshakes and in one case, a payment of coin. Soon Magnus and Eamon traversed their way back to the main street that ran from the front gates to the cathedral.
“Do you see how the street sinks deep into the ground at the centre?” Eamon asked. Magnus followed the arrow-straight street and indeed noticed how its surface was uneven, with a channel worn into the stones along its central axis. “It’s from the heavy footsteps of dragons.”
Magnus tried to picture a large dragon walking up the cobbled street toward the cathedral. “I’d wager the council afforded them time to have their say.” He pondered this a moment.
Magnus was brought back to reality as they neared the steps of the cathedral. Before him was by far the largest building he had ever seen. The towering spires he had seen from a mile away seemed to ascend to the Gods, and the large central dome—the roof of the Great Hall—reached a similar height. He looked to Eamon, anticipating any last words of advice he may afford him.
“Well, this is it. You made it and I wish you well. I hope the council gives you both audience and empathy for your plight.”
Magnus was surprised at his frankness. Of all the advice in all the situations they had been in together, surely Eamon would shine with invaluable words of wisdom at this moment. But all he was offering was a polite farewell. “Are you off then?” Magnus asked, failing to think of better words himself.
“I have business to attend to. No doubt our paths will cross again, if fate sees it fitting.”
Eamon’s words sounded deliberately distant, but Magnus noticed he was watching the streets around him, looking at some people carefully and avoiding the gaze of others. Knowing Eamon had his own concerns, he bid him farewell.
“Very well. It has been a pleasure and I am indebted to you, Eamon.”
“And I to you, Magnus.” Eamon smiled and flashed another of his sly winks. He then disappeared across the main street and down one of the narrow alleys.
AUTHORITARIUM
“I mean you no disrespect Breona, but this is the done thing and I don’t want us to draw attention.” Magnus tied Breona’s reins to a hitching post. Breona was not impressed.
“I am no common, thick-witted horse,” she protested. Magnus had never seen Breona tied up before and felt as uncomfortable about it as she did. She looked up at the cathedral and Magnus sensed her concern. “There is a darkness within that place, Magnus.”
“I will return as soon as I can. With any luck, we will gain the help we need to find Mother and Father and return home in the company of knights.”
Breona was drawing a lot of attention. Children were oohing and aahing at the sight of her and adults proclaimed, “Is that an Astermeer?” within earshot. Magnus patted Breona and shared his affection for her with his thoughts, before leaving her side to walk up the forty-two steps to the doors of the cathedral, counting as he went. All he carried with him was his sword, strapped once again over his right shoulder.
At the cathedral’s entrance, four more knights stood in pairs at either side of two great doors that were finished in dark lacquer with an intricately carved tympanum over the entrance. The carvings depicted the four dragons of the realms. Each dragon carried the unique features of its breed and all four were connected in a symmetrical pattern filling the circle of the tympanum.
As Magnus approached the doors, he expected the guards to intercept him once again, but none did. In fact, the doors opened from within, revealing a young servant, who beckoned him to enter. “Good morning sire, my name is Dermot. May I take your coat?” he asked without looking up to see that Magnus was not, in fact, wearing an overcoat.
“No, thank you.”
“Shall I take your sword for you, sire?” he continued politely.
“I’d rather keep it with me, if you don’t mind,” Magnus found himself deepening his voice, as though trying to sound formal and important. He cursed himself for sounding ridiculous.
“I’m sorry, sire. No weapons allowed in the cathedral.” Dermot extended his arms to accept Magnus’s sword. Reluctantly, Magnus obliged. “It will be kept safe in the armoury, sire, just ask for it as you leave.”
“Thank you.” Magnus felt uneasy without it, but appreciated he could hardly walk through to the great hall carrying a sword.
Following Dermot down a long corridor, he looked in fascination at the coloured marble floors and the tall, vaulted ceiling that finished in an arch at its peak. After several hundred feet, the corridor opened into a large hall. It was empty except for a large hardwood table off to one side and a collection of velour and leather covered chairs neatly lined up along the far wall. They walked across the hall and continued down another corridor that mirrored the first. As they walked the only sound was the echo of their footsteps striking the hard floor beneath them.
Magnus was beginning to think the two of them were the only people in the entire cathedral, but as they progressed along the second corridor, he could hear the murmuring sound of voices getting nearer. Half way along they came across two men who sat silently in wooden chairs. The servant stopped next to them.
“Thank you, sire,” Dermot said, indicating that Magnus should sit in one of two vacant wooden chairs next to the other two men. Magnus glanced at the men then looked further up the corridor that ended a hundred feet further along. “Please be seated, sire, and someone will come for you directly.” Magnus sat. The young servant bowed and turned, swiftly walking back the way he had come.
Magnus remained seated for what seemed like hours. At one point the other two men were summoned to follow another servant further down the corridor where, at its end, they turned off to the right. More time passed and Magnus guessed it to be mid afternoon. He stood and paced a short way along the corridor, stretching his arms behind his back. After a few minutes of pacing a voice called his name.
“Magnus of J’esmagd.” The voice was formal. Magnus looked back up the corridor at a tall man with fine features and a closely shaved head of black hair. He wore robes that fell beyond his hands and feet, sewn from white layers of fine silk, embroidered in cream-coloured cotton with twirled patterns that appeared to depict gusts of wind.
An elder of the Air Realm, Magnus supposed.
“Would you come with me please?” the man asked with indifference, then quickly turned and walked away. Magnus ran to catch up. At the end of the corridor they turned to the right as the other men had, and headed down another. A little way along they came to the end of the corridor, where two more knights guarded a set of huge wooden doors.
Magnus’s eyes were drawn to the intricate
carvings on the dark mahogany doors. He was unable to understand what they meant but the doors were so grand he was sure they led to the Great Hall. “Enter,” the man in white said in a formal, expressionless manner. The knights drew the doors open.
The room beyond the doors was dimly lit and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. What light there was came from two sources—a row of tall candles mounted in single candelabras positioned down the axis of a long, rectangular table, and shards of light that pierced through coloured stained glass windows far overhead within the Dome that formed the elevated ceiling. Magnus knew this was certainly the Great Hall.
Eight men were seated along each side of the table and an elderly man was seated at the head of the table to Magnus’s left. The table itself was covered in scrolls and parchments, wine goblets and bowls of fruit. Most of the men appeared to be over fifty years of age. Within the hall there were four more knights, standing back against the four walls of the great room.
Magnus entered and the men at the table turned to look at him but remained seated. Several of them sniggered at the sight of him while most stared incredulously, but one man—fat, with a short white beard and neatly parted hair—shook his head in a dramatic fashion and waved a hand in Magnus’s direction. He chuckled in a gargling manner that gave in to a cough.
“Sorry,” the fat man said between chuckles. “I have no time for this.” He coughed again. “This is a joke—correct?” He drank heavily from his jewel-encrusted goblet then stood, bidding the other men farewell. “I shall return when the light entertainment has finished for the afternoon.” He pointed an accusing finger at Magnus as he walked toward the doors.
“Sit down, Frederick,” said the elderly man at the end of the table. He pointed to the fat man’s seat but said no more. After a moment of huffing, the fat man waddled back around the table and seated himself without further protest.
Magnus stood still, feeling nervous and out of place.
“Be seated.” The elderly man pointed to a single vacant chair at the other end of the table to Magnus’s right. Magnus walked over to it.
“Here?” Magnus asked politely, swallowing hard. The elderly man nodded once. He had a hollow, solemn look about him. His face was gaunt and his eyes sunk deep into their dark ringed sockets from where they stared out in a tired manner at Magnus. Upon his head he wore a small black felt cap to match his black robes and dark demeanour. Some of the men at the table had begun talking among themselves and so the elderly man waited until the room was completely silent before he spoke.
“You are seated before the council of the Authoritarium.” He had a scratchy, controlled voice. “You bring news from the West?” Magnus nodded. “Speak.” The old man called abruptly.
“I do.” Magnus choked on his words.
“What brings you so far from home?”
The room remained silent and all eyes were on Magnus. During his travels he had not given thought to how he would deliver his message to the Authoritarium. Now that he was here he felt small and insignificant.
“Speak!”
Magnus jumped at the sharp tone of the old man’s voice. He took a nervous breath and thought of Ganister’s instructions back at the Crescent Woods. “Let them know the Quag have invaded our lands,” he had said. “They will mobilise their legions to Realms End.” After coughing into his fist, Magnus spoke.
“I come here with news from the Fire Realm, representing—”
“Yes. We know who sent you,” the old man interrupted. “We know whose son you are and we know you speak for Ganister.”
“As former knights of Allumbreve and protectors of our lands, they request support from the knights of the Authoritarium.”
The elderly man leaned forward over the table. “Your father has no affiliation with the Authoritarium. But tell me, what is it you require the services of our knights for?”
No affiliation? Magnus stared at the old man at the far end of the table, stumped by his counter argument. “The Quag are attacking our lands, killing our people.” Magnus looked around the room to the other council members. Most of them looked away when he caught their eyes. None seemed at all surprised by his news. The old man continued to stare at him.
“Carry on.”
Magnus did not know what else to say. He wished Ganister were there, for he would know exactly what to do. He licked his lips, trying to replace the moisture that seemed to have left his mouth and taken refuge in the palms of his hands. He decided to elaborate on his previous statement. “The Quag have come with the support of the Corville wyverns, in large numbers. They have spread themselves throughout our realm. The Uydfer Clan are at war, defending their lands. My family and Ganister’s have been overrun—our homes destroyed. Many of the good fighting men of our realm are not at their homes to defend them because of their sworn allegiance with the Authoritarium.”
“And yet your father has not sworn such allegiance.”
The conversation was not going at all as Magnus thought it would. He wondered why the old man seemed repeatedly concerned with his father’s allegiance and paid little value to the predicament they were in. He imagined if his father were here the conversation would be far more aggressive than it was. Magnus drew on that thought for inspiration.
“My father was a knight back when they swore to defend our lands and protect the people. He fought those who threatened it. He was a Commander and other knights followed him.”
“Your father,” shouted the old man, waving an unsteady finger at him, “was asked long ago to swear an oath to the Authoritarium but chose instead to exile himself. And now, years later, he ignores these transgressions yet asks for our support? Has he made a formal appeal for clemency?”
Magnus felt the familiar feeling of anger well up inside him. After all he had been through, after all he had lost, it had all come down to this old man’s game of tit for tat. He took a deep breath and decided to get straight to the point. “Will your knights defend our lands from the Quag attack?”
“That will be a matter for the council to decide.” The old man turned to his fellow council members. The chit-chatter among them resumed as though Magnus was no longer present. Magnus sat in silence, wondering what else he could have said to help his cause. The talking became louder and Magnus could hear the conversations had nothing to do with the predicament in the Fire Realm.
At the end of his tether, Magnus stood at the table and thumped it with a fist as hard as he could. The table shuddered and several wine goblets toppled over, pouring blood red wine across the scrolls on the table. All the men in the Great Hall turned and looked at him. The knights stepped forward and grasped their swords.
“Council of the Authoritarium, I demand your answer. Will you help my people?” Magnus could feel himself shaking in anger.
The gaunt old man stood at the far end of the table and appeared to be as angry as Magnus. He pointed a finger at him again. “You stand before us as a beggar who demands payment where it has not been earned.” The old man moved around the table toward Magnus, never taking his ghostly eyes off him. He stood close to him much as Crugion had the previous night. He grabbed Magnus firmly by the jaw, his long nails sinking into the flesh of his cheeks. “You have much of your father in you.” He looked Magnus over, taking in everything about him. “His confidence, his arrogance.” He continued to gaze at him, breathing noisily through his nose. Magnus’s blood boiled, but he kept his anger in check. The man roughly released Magnus’s jaw and addressed the men at the table.
“Councillors. Are any among you sympathetic to the plight of this boy?”
Magnus looked at each of the men, but none were keen to speak. After a pause, one man spoke out. “Perhaps a company could be sent to the West to assess the legitimacy of the claim?”
“Legitimacy?” Magnus said. “By the time you learn I speak the truth there will be no time left to send help.”
“Perhaps,” the old man said, having calmed down. “Perhaps the lands yo
u speak of no longer belong to your people.”
“What do you mean?” asked Magnus.
“Your people are the last realm with a living race of dragons. Yet even they choose to live far from their land of origin, hiding away at the peaks of the Romgnian Mountains.” Magnus was unsure of the point he was trying to make. “Perhaps... Perhaps it is time for your people to also move on. Think of the Quag attack as a purging—a new beginning, if you will. It is time for you to move on, Magnus of J’esmagd.”
A tear rolled down Magnus’s cheek as his emotions spilled. Anger seethed from within him and any willpower that would stop him from choking the old man was gone. And so he did. Magnus grabbed him by the throat and choked him with all his strength. The knights fell upon Magnus and tried to peel his unrelenting grip free of the old man’s neck without success. With every passing moment, Magnus’s grip strengthened and he watched as the old man turned a satisfying shade of blue. Then Magnus felt a hard blow across the back, knocking the wind from his lungs. Another blow came to his legs making him fall and loosen his grip. The knights pulled the old man free and Magnus was struck a third time across his face with a fist of armour, sending him sprawling across the table, only to be dragged off it again and held firmly by two of the knights.
Magnus stared at the old man through the blood dripping down his face. He was seated again, doubled over coughing and wheezing, struggling to get his breath back. Colour started to return to his face and he sat up staring at Magnus. His eyes were now bloodshot and his face badly swollen, making his expression all the more frightening.
Struggling to his feet again, the old man turned to one of the knights. “Your sword, give me your sword!” he coughed. Hesitating at first, the knight drew his longsword and handed it to the old man. “Put him on his knees,” he shouted. Magnus’s legs were kicked out from beneath him and he was pushed down to his knees. His arms were wrenched behind his back until his shoulders felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. Magnus winced from the pain, made worse as one of the guards placed a foot on his back, pushing his torso forward.
