“Make your point, Ambassador,” the Jarl said shortly.
The Ambassador tilted his head slightly before taking a step toward Randall, who was acutely aware that all eyes were on him. “Even with the proper lineage—which is no longer in dispute,” he allowed with a gesture toward Phinjo, “the patents and historical records surrounding the weapon itself are the only fully satisfactory proof of ownership.” The man gave Randall what was clearly a duplicitous look of interest, “Do you possess such documents?”
Ownership? Dan’Moread demanded incredulously. He means to imply that I am some ‘thing’ to be bartered away with a bill of sale?!
Thankfully, only Randall could hear her and he kept his expression as even as he could while rubbing his jaw as if deep in thought. “Whatever records might exist…” he began, casting a nervous look at his Great Grandmother, Phinjo, who looked on impassively, “are probably gone now.”
“Gone?” the Ambassador asked in mock incredulity. “But how could that be? Surely such a fine article is deserving of legal assignment befitting its rare and clearly valuable nature?”
The Jarl sighed. “In Greystone we place far less value on paper than you do in your Federation, Ambassador,” he chided, stepping easily into the void left by Randall’s obvious lack of preparation for this particular query. “Writs of ownership regarding the familial heirlooms of House Greystone are only useful during the transfer of ownership during active contention. After that time, the item belongs to the bearer, such as my…cousin,” he said gratingly with a dark glance at Randall, “for as long as he lives. Should he fail to declare a path of stewardship for it upon his death, the House reclaims the property for its own—a claim made by pure, naked force.”
“It is an interesting method of tracking and enforcing ownership,” the Ambassador mused. “It is however quite different from the Federation’s more…comprehensive system.”
“We are not in the Federation, Ambassador,” Phinjo reminded him pointedly as she stood perfectly still opposite the Federation representative, her hands clasped before her waist.
“Of course,” the Ambassador allowed with the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice. “However, I fear this state of affairs might require a formal protest on the part of the Federation, given the delicate nature of the item in question.”
The Jarl stood and made a dismissive gesture with his hand as he towered over everyone present. “Such a protest might prompt a thorough investigation into last night’s events,” he said in a voice so deep and powerful it seemed to shake Randall’s chest. “But the Federation is, of course, well within its rights to file such a protest if it is deemed necessary.”
Randall saw a smirk flash across his great grandmother’s face before being replaced with her expressionless, doll-like features.
The Ambassador held the Jarl’s gaze for several long moments before bowing deeply. “These are trying times, Jarl Balgruf,” he gushed. “In the interests of furthering the bond of friendship between the city-state of Greystone and the Federation, I believe I can convince my superiors to overlook the matter of the article’s legal ownership…for now.”
The Jarl snorted derisively. “I thought you might,” he growled. “If that is all,” he said imperiously before turning and making his way down the stairs, passing closely enough to Randall that he felt the need to step out of the colossal man’s path to avoid being trodden upon.
After the Jarl had exited the hall, Randall turned to see the two Ambassadors still standing in their previous positions, seeming to ignore each other.
Your blood or not, Dan’Moread said into the silence, I do not like Jarl Balgruf.
“No arguments there,” he whispered as Phinjo turned pointedly to the Ambassador.
“How goes the effort across the Rydian Sea, Ambassador?” the tiny, Ghaevlian woman asked melodiously.
“The Federation seeks to bring purity and the light of its inestimable wisdom to every corner of this world,” the Ambassador replied, his voice considerably more frigid than it had been in the Jarl’s presence. “Efforts are undertaken each day toward that end; ours is a humble mission which we hope will bring much-needed order to humanity.”
“Ah, but I did not inquire as to the scope of your efforts,” Phinjo chided lightly. “I merely wish to know the progress of your war with the Fissalians; I have heard some disturbing rumors which, as a friend, I hope are unfounded.”
The Federation representative made a dismissive gesture as he descended the steps. “No matter how dark the night may become, the Federation will not abandon its children—even if they have forgotten who, and what, they are,” he called over his shoulder as he exited the hall, leaving Randall and Phinjo alone in the large, cavernous chamber.
“Come,” Phinjo beckoned after the Ambassador had left, and Randall turned to see her gesturing to the wall some twenty feet behind the Jarl’s massive, wooden chair. “You should see something before you go.”
Randall climbed the steps slowly and followed her to the part of the room where she had indicated. Beneath the lone, towering window streaming the morning light into the chamber, was a huge lump of strange, malformed stone.
“The Throne of Greystone,” Phinjo explained, “carved from the mountain a thousand years ago by the hand of the first King, Bjorn Greystone.”
Randall looked at the lump of rock and was completely unable to see how it resembled a throne in any way. To his eye, it was little more than a natural-looking shelf of rock with a gently curving, asymmetrical arch along the back.
“Twenty one Illuminations ago,” she continued, “the Federation was on the verge of bringing Greystone to its knees. The Federation armies had marched up through the land, spanning from the Rydian Sea to the Binding Chain, and even re-shaped the very landscape itself to better serve their purposes. Greystone alone withstood their advance, proudly defiant of the invaders’ vast, potent military.”
“How did they resist?” Randall asked as he looked up to the window, which was little more than a patchwork of uneven bits of metal, which he realized after a few moments’ examination must have held panes of colored glass.
“Greystone’s metalworkers were unparalleled, and they crafted armor which was impervious to all but the finest white steel,” she explained.
I can attest to grey iron’s strength, Dan’Moread interjected. I have only ever fought one weapon forged of it…and without help I could never have sundered it.
Randall considered their inputs and noted the cocked, inquisitive eyebrow of his great grandmother as he asked, “What makes grey iron so strong?”
Phinjo shrugged. “It is an incredibly hard metal once it has been properly tempered,” she explained. “But the smiths of Greystone have long held a preference for size; their weapons and armor required great strength to properly use in battle. At first, the ranks of Greystone’s elite forces numbered in the thousands, and they cut through Federation armies as though they were not even there. But each battle took a small toll…and the Federation chose to prove a cruel point to the King of Greystone rather than end the war quickly with its equally potent magical arsenal—an arsenal to which Greystone’s soldiers had no answer.”
“Prove a point?” Randall asked in confusion.
“Yes,” Phinjo replied as her eyes held firm on the lump of misshapen stone, “the Federation has great magics at its disposal, but that is not the true source of its strength. Its greatest strength lies in its size, of which none outside the Capitol city knows the exact measure. It stretches as far as from where our spies have returned, and there are rumors it even reaches beyond the edge of our world itself.”
Randall felt a knot in his stomach at the implication of her words. “So you’re saying…they just kept throwing people at Greystone’s superior warriors while they could have ended the war at any time?”
“That is correct,” Phinjo agreed.
That is barbaric, Dan’Moread growled, and Randall was forced to agree with her. I have known o
f Federation atrocities, but never one committed against its own people.
“That’s…” Randall began, but found no words to express the anger he felt at hearing the story.
“Unspeakable, yes,” Phinjo agreed casually as she continued, “it soon became clear to the Ghaevlian Nation that the last of the proud human kingdoms was about to fall, and when it did this land would belong solely to the Federation. It was…determined,” she said after a brief hesitation, “that this could not be allowed to take place.”
“So the Ghaevlians came to Greystone’s aid?” Randall surmised.
“After a fashion,” she allowed. “The few remaining True Ghaevlians to remain in these lands after the Exodus formed a plan, and upon achieving unanimous agreement it was executed, while Greystone still had time.”
There was a long silence, and Randall finally asked, “What happened?”
Phinjo turned her back on the lump of stone. “I will not bore you with particulars, but a sequence of events took place resulting in a cease-fire between the Federation and Greystone. Certain concessions were made regarding Federation authority within the borders of Greystone, and in return Greystone was required to abandon certain long-held practices to secure their independence.”
“Practices?” Randall furrowed his brow. “What kind of practices?”
Phinjo turned and gestured to the lump of stone. “For one, the line of kings was put to an end,” she explained, “as agreed upon by King Bulwyf on behalf of his people.”
“Bulwyf…” Randall repeated, “he’s supposed to be my great grandfather, right?” He still hadn’t wrapped his mind around the possibility that he was somehow related to Jarl Balgruf, but Phinjo had been quite insistent that such was the case.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “King Bulwyf, proudly wearing his forefathers’ Iron Crown atop his head, took his throne for a final time after striking the Accords. As a gesture of submission on behalf of his people, he allowed himself to be executed by the Federation general in command of their Northern Army. It happened here, in what used to be the Throne Room but is now merely the Main Hall.”
There was another silence, and Randall slowly realized what the lump of stone really was.
“The Federation General, Vendo—who is now the senior-most Senator of that august body,” she said with the hint of a smirk, “demonstrated her remarkable magical ability that day.” She paused for a few moments, and when Phinjo continued her voice had turned cold, “I admit that even I was surprised by the display…I never thought such a powerful spell could even be summoned by a human, let alone controlled by one.” Randall heard something in his great grandmother’s voice that made him turn, and he saw a single tear stream down her cheek as she continued, “She poured the flames from her hands over the stone of this once-proud seat as though she were toying with a candle…and Bulwyf was turned to ash in plain view of his court.”
Randall looked up and saw the blackened stones behind the lump of stone which had been the throne and felt a pang of anger as his heartbeat quickened. He had no idea who Bulwyf was, and even less information regarding the conflict which had taken place between himself and this Federation general, but he still felt his blood beginning to boil.
“Remember that feeling, for that is what the Federation is, little one,” Phinjo said coolly. “It is a fire which sweeps across whatever it encounters, reshaping it into whatever pleases it—never forget that.”
They stood in mutual silence before she turned and descended the steps leading up to the dais, prompting Randall to follow after taking one more look at the ruined throne.
“We have secured a window of respite for ourselves, but that window is already closing,” Phinjo explained as they exited the palace’s Main Hall and began to descend the spiral pathway which led to the towers below. “If we are to keep Dan’Moread from falling into the Federation’s clutches then we must act quickly.”
I will cut down any who attempts to take me against my will, Dan’Moread promised, and Randall knew she was telling the truth but he decided against relaying her defiance.
“What do I need to do?” he asked instead as he breathed the clean, mountain air.
“Merely keep to our agreement,” Phinjo replied. “Your mount has been cared for these past days and is prepared for the journey you must undertake.”
“What exactly was it you wanted me to do again?” Randall asked, uncertain of how retrieving a document of some kind from some far-off place factored into the situation.
“I have provided a map, along with sufficient supplies to see you to your destination,” Phinjo replied coolly. “Retrieve the tablet from the central hall of the primary structure once you arrive, and then return here with it while observing its likely fragile nature. I shall see to the rest.”
“What does this tablet look like?” Randall asked after a brief pause.
“Again,” Phinjo replied with a terse sigh, “I have provided all the relevant information with the map. It is better if you wait until you have neared your destination before reading the map, however. Simply take the northern road along the Binding Chain until you reach the False River; after you have crossed it then you may use the map for guidance.”
They walked in silence until reaching the base of the southern tower, which stood across the broad landing from the northern tower. Both towers flew the Ghaevlian Nation’s banner, which was yellow with a brown leaf emblazoned at its center. There was a tear-shaped drop of crystal blue water falling from the tip of the leaf, and Randall felt something faintly stir within himself when he looked at it.
“Your horse awaits you at the landing below,” Phinjo gestured to the bottom of the long, wide staircase which led to the street some hundred paces below. Randall looked and saw that, indeed, Storm Chaser appeared ready for travel and had a half-elven man holding his reins.
“I need to see Yorys, the smith, before I go,” Randall objected. “I promised him I’d let him present Dan’Moread to the Armorer’s Guild.”
Phinjo narrowed her eyes in silent contemplation for several moments. “Leave the smith to me; I shall see to his compensation—the cost of which has already greatly exceeded my expectations,” she added with a hard edge to her usually musical voice. “It is important that you leave Greystone at once, for the Federation will stop at nothing to recover Dan’Moread from you. When you return I shall have dealt with the immediate danger, but for now you must go—and with haste.”
I do not trust her, Dan’Moread said warily, and Randall was amazed at how much easier their communication was now than it had been prior to the fashioning of the new hilt. But as we have little choice, I agree with her suggestion that we leave immediately.
“Alright,” Randall agreed reluctantly. “Thank you for your help…great grandmother.”
“I have no use for such a title,” she said coolly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Simply refer to me by my given name if you will, and I shall do the same in return. We are little better than strangers, regardless of however much blood we share, and we should act accordingly.”
Feeling more than a little irritated at her dismissal of his attempted respect, Randall shook his head and began to descend the steps. A few paces down he felt the medallion against his chest grow warm, prompting him to stop and brace himself uncertainly.
“I nearly forgot,” Phinjo called from the steps above. “I meant to ask you earlier, but the opportunity never arose. Your Flylrylioulen appears to have activated. Do you know why?”
“Activated?” Randall asked, looking down at the gently thrumming medallion. “I have no idea what it even does, to be honest, aside from making our,” he gestured to the sword’s hilt, “communication easier.”
His great grandmother came down the steps and placed a hand on the outside of his shirt—or, more accurately, the top part of his one-piece suit of clothing, which he still thought of as a shirt—and he felt cool almost immediately when she touched the cloth covering it. “I crafted it when your mot
her’s mother was born, as it is a customary gift from any True Ghaevlian to her children. It speaks to your blood…and to whatever potential may yet remain unlocked within it.”
“Ser Cavulus said something like that,” Randall replied slowly, “but I doubt there’s anything waiting to be unlocked within my blood. I’m too old…right?”
Phinjo nodded. “It is true that your abilities will never become what they might have been with proper tutelage, but any descendent of mine will find themselves armed with certain…gifts.”
“Like what?” Randall asked warily, suspecting he already knew at least part of the answer.
She shrugged as she removed her hand, and clasped it with her other before herself. “Some can read the thoughts of others, like I can. Others can move objects with their mind, like Tavleros. Still others,” she hesitated before holding his gaze and finishing, “can sense events which have yet to come.”
Randall stood there in silence as his mind raced through the events of the previous night. “Last night—“
“Was an awakening of sorts, and one which I may have played some small part in,” she sighed wistfully, “in an admittedly shortsighted attempt to protect you from that beast.”
She would have watched you die?! Dan’Moread snapped, and Randall could feel the blade thrum at his back, seeming to beckon for his hand to grasp her new hilt.
Randall gritted his teeth in anger of his own. “You mean you knew about him…and stood by while he tried to kill me?”
“There is more at stake here than one child’s life,” Phinjo rebuked airily. “If such an unthinking creature could defeat you—rather, the two of you,” she added with a purposeful look at Dan’Moread’s hilt, “then neither of you would likely serve any meaningful purpose to me…or to those who call me ‘ally’.”
She turned and ascended the steps toward the towers, and when she stood at the landing she turned and gestured to his chest. “Your Flylrylioulen, which is now fully awakened, will guide you in the coming weeks and months to learn the full extent of your latent abilities. I fear that I can be of no further assistance in the matter.” With that, she turned and made her way to the tower, disappearing inside and leaving Randall fuming on the steps below.
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 45
