by T. A. Miles
As to the governor…
In age, the man was Korsten’s peer. In experience, Korsten imagined they could not be more set apart, had they deliberately planned to be so. Korsten’s life had taken such a drastic and different turn than most in Edrinor. He could only wonder how this man, who he may well have been raised with during his early years, had matured. What was his point of view on the Vassenleigh Order and the Old Kingdom? Would he be recalcitrant to assistance or advice from priests? Morenne was so distant from these shores. What did he believe about their enemy? How well might he take word of demons unifying against them?
On a personal note, would this man have been one of the boys Korsten attempted to make a fool of when they were children? His intuition told him that he would be without question recognized, but in what light was making him somewhat nervous.
Drawing in a breath of Cenily’s warm, ever-damp air, Korsten looked across the carriage at his father. The fact that Sethaniel was dozing drew at first a slight shock from Korsten, but the ‘oh’ of surprise that had come to his lips settled very easily into a quiet smile. Somehow, the vision of the very old man asleep in the shade of a canopy, his form lolling gently with the gait of the carriage and its single horse, and the driver perched ahead of them oblivious, was all very calming. It was endearing, in fact.
Korsten transferred his gaze out of the carriage and didn’t think about the past any further for the time being. He was in Cenily, a city that sprawled along its gentle shore, like jewels spilled across silk. There were pockets of architecture stitched among stands of tall, narrow trees, with stretches of golden-green grass and shrubs folded delicately between. Small, narrow bodies of water populated the area further inland, many of them adorned with sparse yet attractive manmade structures, as if Cenily’s founders had simply wanted to put an artistic label onto the natural pools without offending the fact that they were natural. The architects in many instances had elected to put up simple pillars or abbreviated rows of columns, which encouraged the resident plants to climb toward Cenily’s frequently blue skies.
The structure of the city itself was equally careful; buildings were no more than three stories and erected wide with minimal adornment. What décor had been desired limited itself to relief work, some tasteful gilding—especially in entryways—and natural growth, much of which bloomed in the spring season. Korsten recalled that much with ease. So much of Cenily had been taken for granted as a youngster, and in Haddowyn he had convinced himself or been quickly convinced that he didn’t miss it. He knew now that he always had, and in a way, he always would. This was where he began.
It occurred to him that this was where Adrea had ended. There was a significance to that. He believed Lerissa was right. He wondered, though, if it had to do with the Ascendant. He wondered whether or not someone of the line had truly been born in the region, or if it were simply that Korsten’s birth was the one to matter, regarding Adrea’s location at the time of her death. Or maybe it was during some other time during his childhood that she had passed her quest onto him. Meanwhile, the Ascendant may have been born anywhere and at any time. Had the individual crossed Korsten’s path? Perhaps because whatever internal compass he’d inherited from his predecessor continued to guide him in the correct direction? How would he recognize such a thing, if that were true? What if he simply did not recognize it?
Korsten wanted to believe that, through any accounts or experiences Korsten had related to him, that Ashwin would recognize the Ascendant, had the individual come about at any relevant point in Korsten’s recent history. Or would he? Had Adrea been cast in her seeking role because of her talent regarding blood, which was the sole deciding factor on the legitimacy of an heir to the Old Kingdom? Was it that she would recognize the heir by the feel of their blood?
But Korsten couldn’t even begin to imagine what Rottherlen blood would feel like. He was still learning to discern the subtle differences among men and would still not regard himself an expert, even in detecting the differences between men and demons. He’d not been able to define what was different about Dacia upon meeting her, only that she was different. Bael’s possession was also not immediately recognized for what it had been, nor had he detected a hidden Priest-Adept among ordinary soldiers. And there was Elwain’s dilemma at Feidor’s Crest.
Still, if Korsten thought about it now, he could recognize the uniqueness of each situation after the fact. He could draw comparisons and isolate differences. Since his experience with Serawe, and Leodyn before her, it may have been especially easy for him to know an archdemon from one weaker. There was something primal in the presence of the more ancient among the demons, something essential and irrepressible in their darkness…something elemental.
The notion returned him to his dream of the spirits of the sea and once again, he received a glimpse of the true scope of the war. Morenne and Edrinor, as peoples, were only another layer to this fight; the newest brand of soldier, the most recent type of weapon, one more fragile perhaps, but vast in number and easily accessible. Accessible for the Vadryn…and to become priests?
Korsten felt on the brink of yet another revelation with that thought, but he was forced to set it aside when Sethaniel stirred to wakefulness in the seat across from him. The elder blinked, looked around, and let out a few mild huffs of air as he collected himself. Though Korsten happened to have looked directly at him, Sethaniel did a masterful job of disregarding that and convincing himself that he had not actually nodded off for more than a moment, if at all. Brierly pride was indeed remarkable.
Sethaniel raised an eyebrow just then as if he found it ironic that he and Korsten were thinking the same thing in that moment, and perhaps they were.
Korsten decided to leave him to his dignity. Though a past version of himself might have sought to deliberately tear that aspect of Sethaniel down, he had no such desire now. Even if their history were in actuality precisely as he remembered it, bringing down a tyrant in his late days would only satisfy spite, and spite had always settled ill with Korsten when digesting it afterward. But, regardless, he no longer trusted his memories of the distant past, and he did not believe Sethaniel to be a tyrant in the culpable sense. Perhaps all fathers were tyrants to their children in one way or another, but he could not rekindle the feelings of hurt and distrust he had managed when so far way and under the influence of a demon and his own childish pride. At worst, he and Sethaniel had been unfair to each other. That meant they were both equally to blame. They both deserved precisely what they had, which was to be faced with one another in a carriage beneath the Cenily sun about to meet in conference with a man that may have rendered both of them in positions of awkwardness for entirely different reasons.
The carriage passed through a gated archway to which the gates were open to receive guests who had been announced prior. There was a small guardhouse beside the entrance, manned by two who were playing a lazy game involving woven cards and stone markers. One of them raised his attention from the game long enough to assure himself that the carriage and its passengers were as benign in nature as he’d evidently been expecting that morning. It illustrated the lax manner Cenily had grown accustomed to in regard to its own sense of security. Even knowing the situation up north, there was evidently no detectable or felt threat here, at least not in the immediate sense.
The path from the gates was lined with trees, a tall, single row to either side, through which one could view an expansive, walled yard. The manor was also not small, but in the style of Cenily’s architecture, it was wider than tall. A shallowly sloped roof was held aloft by pillars which surrounded the core structure.
Korsten only loosely recalled the house from memory. It was a place Sethaniel had gone to often in his day, but Korsten had only accompanied during specific social occasions, and he’d been too spoiled to consider this building any more or less special than his own home. He could see now, as an adult, that it was much larger and held a much statelier air than Sethaniel’s house.
Like most governor’s manors throughout Edrinor, it was the single most important structure in the city and it had clearly been built to suit that role. It was large enough not only to house the governor and his family, however extended he chose, but also to house and host officials and soldiers. Korsten imagined the barracks were located somewhere near the gates and the guardhouse, though he hadn’t made a point to look for them.
The path to the house was smooth and direct. The carriage drew to an easy halt before a raised line of columns standing in front of a whitewashed wall rimmed at top and bottom with relief work. The entryway was twice as tall, and perhaps half again, as tall as a man and accessible by way of two wrought iron doors standing open.
Korsten and his father left their driver with a modest fee for his services and took the shallow steps up to the open gates. Sethaniel entered with the air of one who frequented the place, and Korsten followed along, into an open courtyard, replete with lush green growth. The garden framed a tiled floor, across which lay a loggia of three floors. The sounds of birds both inside and outside of the space underscored the quiet conversations and footsteps of the few bodies passing through; members of the governor’s family or office, without doubt.
A group of three men emerged from beneath one of the shadowed archways ahead of Korsten and Sethaniel, drawing to a stop when one of them took notice of the Brierlys, which caught the attention of his two fellows as well. Sethaniel walked directly over, his gait not quite the ardent stride of his younger years. Korsten made an effort of staying with him, without making it seem as if he were attending the elder.
The men they approached were easily middle-aged, two of them having lost most of the color from their hair. The third still retained some darkness to his crown, though it was being invaded from the temples with silver. His features were strong, but his expression relaxed…placid, perhaps. There was an aquiline quality to them, a sharpness that could have stirred self-consciousness in many and Korsten wondered if it had done so in him decades ago. At the moment, oddly enough, as the man’s gaze passed over Sethaniel with routine recognition and was settling on Korsten, it instilled a sense of pride. It was pride in knowing that the look he was receiving was also recognition on the man’s part; recognition of beauty.
Fortuitous parenting, yes. Allurance, most definitely. Korsten had grown accustomed to such gazes and since adapting to priesthood, managed to take it less personally than when he was young. That aside, he did note to himself that his tone of response felt a little less neutral just in this instance.
“Masters Sethaniel Brierly,” the man said, though his eyes scarcely left Korsten, “and…”
“Priest-Adept Korsten.” While Korsten supplied the title, he paid attention in his peripheral vision to the way his father regarded him similarly, out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps he wanted to observe Korsten’s response to the way the man before them, who was undoubtedly the governor of Cenily, almost smiled and continued to focus rather directly on the unaged redhead before him.
“Ah, a priest,” the man said. His voice was confident, though light in its delivery. “Somehow, that’s very fitting. I’m not at all surprised.”
Sethaniel raised an eyebrow and Korsten refrained from being distracted by the gesture. He did not get a chance to respond to the comments made when one of the individuals with the man spoke first.
“Governor Jahcery, I’ll see to the letter now.”
The governor nodded, glancing briefly to his subordinate. Another nod dismissed the white-haired elder and he departed.
The name Jahcery deposited onto Korsten’s mind without immediate recognition, though he suspected it was in the annals of his memory somewhere. He didn’t realize he was observing the delegate’s departure with interest until the voice of the governor drew his attention back.
“A letter to the steward,” Jahcery said in explanation, having correctly deduced the nature of Korsten’s interest. His hazel eyes lingered with Korsten long enough to watch inquiry and hope rise to his expression, and in the fashion of a hawk, Jahcery then dove in and seized it for the midmorning meal. “To inform them at the Old Capital that we have no further reserve, and that what was sent last summer in men, rations, and equipment is all we can spare. There will be no more.”
Korsten held gazes with the man as each swath of hope was being cut away with the efficiency of a scythe in the fields during harvest. Whether or not there was any satisfaction in that for Cenily’s leader, Korsten evidently surprised him with his reply. “That’s for the best. You’ll need them here.”
Jahcery’s gaze sharpened mildly, and his mouth tensed. “What do you mean by that?”
“The line is breaking to the north,” Korsten answered. “Indhovan will soon be under siege, if it isn’t already.”
The governor looked at Sethaniel, perhaps in seeking confirmation or perhaps in reaching for the elder’s past leadership for the first time in what may have been many years. Sethaniel only offered a grim frown and Jahcery looked from the both of them, toward the other end of the courtyard—to the north, if Korsten’s bearings were accurate—as if they’re not so distant neighbor were visible through the garden wall.
Korsten allowed the governor a moment to envision troops spilling over the golden green horizon of Cenily’s peaceful inland fields, then summoned the man’s attention back to him with further words. “You had best prepare this city for its own defense, and I suggest a coordination effort with whatever emissaries are made available to you.”
Jahcery looked at Korsten again. “Emissaries from the Vassenleigh Order?”
“Yes,” Korsten said, glad that the option existed openly in the man’s mind. “And from Indhovan as well as anyplace else near enough to here who may require or be able to provide support. We’re standing on our last leg now, Governor. We cannot risk a fall. We must pool all the strength we have left. All of it.”
Six
“YOU MAKE IT SEEM as if invasion is imminent,” Governor Jahcery said while pouring small portions of golden wine into three crystal goblets.
“We have to act as if it is,” Korsten replied, observing the man’s overly relaxed manner. Within the hour he had neatly folded any alarm or concern he may have initially felt behind a mask of sturdiness and calm. Much of that appearance was held at the surface with effort that others might not have noticed, not having the insight of a priest of Korsten’s nature.
Jahcery was tense beneath his calm exterior, however, straining like the bole of a younger tree against a windstorm. Korsten didn’t believe it was a particularly volatile state. If anything, it credited his self-control. He imagined the man would endure, as trees often did, and through each season of strife he would and perhaps had gained extra layers of strength and protection. In the moment, Korsten felt as if he were analyzing one much younger or fresher to his station. He wondered if Jahcery would be affronted by that assessment, given that the man was not so young.
“I see,” the governor said, providing no indication of whether or not he was percipient to Korsten’s thoughts. He slowly stopped the decanter, placed the wine onto the table, which was draped with a golden-brown cloth and otherwise decorated with articles of pottery and various crystal pieces for entertaining guests. Behind the long, slender console was a wide-open window, adorned with vine-festooned columns on either side, an expanse of vineyard stretching toward a gated wall and beyond it more of Cenily’s gentle landscape.
“Korsten and I will be traveling north,” Sethaniel put in, drawing the light hazel gaze of Cenily’s foremost official.
“I see,” he said again, and Korsten was beginning to wonder just what it was that he saw.
Sethaniel seemed to believe that Jahcery saw crippling old age, for he bristled almost visibly before speaking in a firm tone of reminder. “My son,” he began, drawing Korsten’s gaze quicker than Korsten was prepared for. He was in the midst of deciphering the emotions that followed over being so staunchly referenced when they fled him al
together, swept away on his father’s next words. “My son is in Indhovan, and with the city hovering on the brink of invasion, I feel compelled to make the journey.”
“Yes,” Jahcery said, carrying over two crystal goblets, half filled. He handed one first to Sethaniel. “I recall.”
A cup was offered to Korsten next. He saw it in the periphery of his vision, glaring amber in the daylight, while he stared in a myriad of confused thoughts and feelings at his father…who had another son. He had another son, in the very city Korsten had lately come from. He’d had another child, and not with Korsten’s mother. A son…
“Korsten,” Jahcery prompted.
Sethaniel looked in his direction in the very moment Korsten was recovering himself and accepting the glass. The governor passed his gaze over both of them, as if an accidental witness to a private conversation Sethaniel and Korsten had just had, then returned to the console for his own glass.
Several more thoughts and questions rushed almost violently to the front of Korsten’s mind, but he halted them immediately. The backwash was heavy and fitful as a strong river coming to a dam wall, but Korsten would not allow this subject now; it was far too sudden and for that reason, far too dangerous. Korsten had proven his deftness at leaping into waters that could just as quickly drown him. In the emotional sense, he was a much worse swimmer than he ought to be.
He gave his immediate focus to the wine. It was nothing that he needed or that could affect him, but he went through the motions of drinking it anyway. It bore the taste of home; lightly sweet and somehow bitter simultaneously. Beneath that initial greeting lay a warmth and a body reminiscent of the suns’ morning glow over the vines that would produce the fruits of the drink itself. It was as soft and as innocuously prickly as the stems of a young rose bush. A harmless pleasure with a small bite…something else Korsten might have made a larger affair of when younger. He would not be doing that now, not in regard to wine or to a blood brother he never knew existed.
