The Consuls of the Vicariate amob-2

by Brian Kittrell

  The memory of her former home fell upon her like a ton of heavy timbers, and she collapsed to her knees, tears streaming from her eyes. “He’s gone, Jurgen! My father’s dead and gone, and he’ll never be back!” The surreal feeling suddenly transformed into a very real, very present ache in her heart. Each time she thought she caught her breath, the air escaped her body like water from a bucket riddled with holes. She wept for her dead father and felt a whirlwind of emotions-the anguish for his loss, the contempt for his plans for her, the mistakes for which she could never apologize.

  Jurgen rushed to her side and took her by the hand. “Come, have a seat on the chair.”

  “They killed him! How can we help those men? How can we help men who would do such a thing?” She tried to restrain herself, but she couldn’t contain her rage.

  “We were betrayed, Valyrie,” Jurgen said. “It’s my fault. I see that now.”

  “Yours?” She wiped her eyes, shocked by his statement. “How could it be yours? You didn’t kill my da.”

  “I may not have thrown the dagger, but his blood is on my hands. He was killed on my account. My return to this city triggered a chain of events that led us to our present circumstances.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Jurgen.”

  “Then you cannot blame those men, for their error was in trusting their friend. All we can do now is right the wrongs and stop this war. What’s done is done, but we will always remember these sacrifices.”

  “I miss him. Creator! All of our future moments lost by the utterance of a lie. All of them, Jurgen, destroyed by a traitor.”

  Jurgen closed his eyes, a frown forming his wrinkled face. “I miss him, too. Arthur was a dear friend, but we have little time. We can either wallow in our pain or do what we must to end this fighting.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body. “I shall help you. I’m trying to be strong.”

  “Be strong, but not so much that you lose what makes you who you are.” He brushed his finger against her chin. “Such is the path to callousness and a cold heart.”

  Who could want this man dead? She had known Jurgen since before she could remember, and he had shown her nothing but kindness and compassion. Remembering those years past, she recalled more recent events. “They beat you, didn’t they?”

  He seemed almost disheartened by the question. “Yes, but don’t concern yourself with that now. Such thoughts will only make it harder to do what we must do.”

  “How can you move past them so easily? Even if done based on the word of a liar, the wounds aren’t closed by simple apologies.”

  “I’m an old man, Valyrie. This isn’t the first time I’ve had hardships.” Jurgen sighed when she gave him a cross look. “No, the sting remains, but sometimes we must overlook smaller grievances to do our duty. Would I have liked to beat Piers as he did me? Perhaps. But we’d be no closer to our goals. We have no time for petty revenge, and like our sorcerer friend said, we need the help.”

  Sorcerer friend-Lae. He had tried his best to hide his attraction to her-an attraction she shared, in fact-when they had first met. Had circumstances been different, she might have pursued those feelings, but her father was dead and a war raged. “Have you known him long? Our sorcerer friend, as you put it?”

  “Long enough to know he’s grown wiser since our first meeting. Long enough to see he’s good at heart. Perhaps mages aren’t the demons the church proclaims them to be.”

  “I never agreed with that line of thinking.” One of the many arguments she’d had with her father came to mind, about sorcery’s place in the world.

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “Blanket statements have never sat well in my mind. The church would have us believe that the Al’Qarans are barbarians, but are they not known to sail the seas for trade? To build wondrous palaces and, somehow, keep cities in the farthest reaches which are not swallowed up by the desert? Surely not the behavior of the witless.”

  “I can see your father did not instill in you his dislike for foreigners.”

  “He tried, but his attempts were for naught.” She smiled. “He always said I had the will and stubborn nature of my mother.”

  Jurgen paused, then grinned, seeming to drift through distant recollections. “Like the sky calling the ocean blue, is it not?”

  “Yes, you knew him well.”

  “Come,” he said, offering his hand. “Let us be off to the consulship. I hate the thought of being in that place, but I dread the thought of our doing nothing.”

  * * *

  Nearing the structure, Jurgen slowed. Valyrie couldn’t tell if his reduced pace was caused by the daunting size of the consul chamber or the number of people milling around in front of it. The building stood taller than most of the others in the city, the golden dome atop the perfect cylinder extending nearly ten stories into the air. Massive marble columns with gold and silver inlays ringed the chamber, the arches between them adorned with gold and silver banners. A huge censer hung by a thick chain from the ceiling, the incense burning within filling the room with a pleasant scent like roasted lemons mixed with fresh pine needles. Though Valyrie had seen the consul chamber many times before, she always stood in awe of it.

  Seeming to recognize Jurgen, the commoners stopped and whispered to each other. They were apparently filled with warmth and excitement at his approach because the words spoken under their breaths changed to a dull chant, then mixed with applause until the entire square cheered his every step.

  “It would seem the people are joyous at your return, Vicar,” she whispered.

  Jurgen gave her a smile, then turned and waved at the crowd. “Thank you. Azura bless you.” Entering the arched hall to the central chamber, he whispered, “And may she watch over me here, too.”

  Valyrie felt small and miniscule, more so than usual, and not because she was thin; the size and grandeur of the assembly room filled her with angst. So many eyes watching us enter already, and the place is but half full. Long, sturdy desks made rings around the room, each set atop a terrace of steps extending high above in every direction. The rings terminated opposite the entrance at a wide platform with a throne glimmering with gold, silver, and jewels. That must be where the Grand Vicar sits. Only the highest would be placed on such a chair.

  A man rushed over. “Vicar Jurgen? We didn’t expect you. Can we help you?”

  Jurgen removed his fine overcoat and draped it across the man’s arm. “I’ve come to sit at the consulship, of course.”

  “Y-yes, as you wish,” the man said.

  “Can you point me to an empty seat, Chamberlain? Or have things changed since I’ve been gone?”

  “No, of course. Please, this way.” The chamberlain escorted Jurgen to a desk on the floor, and Valyrie followed, her footsteps echoing no matter how lightly she walked. “I hope this is fitting, Your Grace, on such short notice.”

  “Fine, worry not. When arriving without warning, a traveler must take whatever he can get.”

  “Your Grace is kind.” The chamberlain bowed, then scurried away to attend the other vicars.

  Sitting, Jurgen extended his hand to offer Valyrie a chair at his side. “The chamber is different since last I sat within these walls.”

  “How so?”

  He studied the walls as if they had an answer scrolled across them. “The priests are anxious and uncertain. You can tell by the looks on their faces and the trembling of their hands.”

  Sudden drumming startled her. She scanned the circular balcony lining the wall high above. The drummers beat the solemn tune for the Grand Vicar’s approach, a rendition she remembered well. Then she saw him on the raised platform, a platform which extended all the way to the Grand Vicar’s palace to the east. His silken robes shined with dyes of silver, gold, and purple. Atop his head sat a thin golden circlet-a mark of his office and the least impressive of the jewelry he wore. The magnificent onyx ring on his hand caught her attention as it seemed to shimmer with an artificial vibrancy. Beneath t
he pomp and pageantry, his pale skin and blue eyes were a stark contrast to his jet-black hair.

  Sitting on the ornate throne, Grand Vicar Tristan IV gazed over the crowd until the drums stopped. “Vicars,” he said, then didn’t speak again until the room grew quiet. “We are at the precipice. All that we have worked toward is under threat of being undone. The Albiadines will not join us, and the Lasoronian claim they are stretched too thin across the swamps.”

  The Almatheren Swamp? She recalled the tales told by her father and others of the dangers and undead within those wetlands. The Vicar’s words were met with haughty sighs from the assembly.

  “We must stand on our own against the Sorbian enemy, it would appear-well, with our only friends, the Falacorans.” Tristan clasped his hands.

  Valyrie had seen a Falacoran once, a gruff man dressed in darkened armor adorned with studs and spikes. The Falacorans were known to be deeply religious and strong supporters of the Heraldan church. The Falacorans, strong, resilient warriors and craftsmen, were the church’s perfect ally-a military arm to protect it from those who would see it demolished. She briefly imagined the sketches of massive cathedrals and castles she had seen books, the structures rife with arches and steep roofs. Falacorans had both a preference and a need for high, angular architecture. It reflected strength and power and had the added benefit of keeping snow from gathering too thick in the colder months.

  “Our blessed church cannot stand on its own. Even with the help of the Falacorans, we will see great difficulty in the coming days without tightening the reins. Sorbia is a strong, proud nation, and it is a safe haven for the heretical sorcerers. To once and for all rid ourselves of this dark menace, I propose to this consulship a measure to fight this war. I ask you all to confirm and anoint me Protector of the Faith.”

  “No!” one of the other Vicars shouted amidst the gasps and whispers of the assembly. “We’ve governed ourselves for hundreds of years without one.”

  “And during that time, we’ve seen no threats as serious,” Tristan said. “Is now not the time for strong, confident leadership?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “Then, we must do this, lest our holy land be ravaged by the heathens!”

  Jurgen stood. “Vicar Aberlin is correct, Your Grace.”

  Valyrie clenched her fists under the desk when the Grand Vicar turned their way. A look of surprise dominated his features at first, then he gave a stern glare. “Vicar Jurgen, we weren’t aware you would be joining us.”

  “I’ve come with worry, Your Holiness, for I have heard rumors recently of trouble abroad.”

  “You have heard correctly, Vicar. The witches of Sorbia threaten our very existence with their unjust war.”

  Jurgen stood and walked onto the floor the way a performer would enter a stage, then turned to face the congregation. “Yes, an unjust war indeed. Of course, war is rarely justified.”

  “Then join with me in doing what is right,” Tristan said.

  “We must do what is right, yes. I cannot agree with you more, but declaring Your Holiness as Protector of the Faith seems a bit hasty. After all, we must remember our history. The last time this body did such a thing, the power wasn’t returned to its proper place once the threat was resolved.”

  Tristan stood and cast off his cloak. “You dare question my loyalty to the church? To this assembly?”

  Jurgen respectfully bowed toward the platform. “Your Holiness, I only mean to say that such steps are not necessary at this juncture.”

  “Not necessary?” a woman shouted from the gallery. “The enemy is loose in our own country. Perhaps you didn’t know since you’ve been cloistered in Balfan this entire time, or have you been?”

  Fishing, Valyrie mused. Be careful here, Jurgen.

  “I’ve heard the rumors, yes,” Jurgen said, apparently unwilling to divulge anything more. “And I give my condolences to His Holiness for the loss of his brother. May he rest with Azura.”

  Tristan relaxed on the throne. “I thank you for your kind words, Vicar, but we are still no closer to a resolution on this matter. I call for a vote.”

  “A vote, yes. What a magnificent idea, Your Holiness,” the woman said. Valyrie craned her neck, but she couldn’t see the woman.

  “Agreed,” Jurgen said. “Whatever suits His Holiness and Vicar Forane shall suit me.”

  Forane. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

  When Tristan clapped his hands, chamberlains approached, placing a sliver of parchment before each clerk.

  What in the hells do I do with this?

  Jurgen took a seat next to her and whispered, “Tristan will pose the question to the assembly, and we record our answer. The chief amongst the chamberlains will record the result and report his findings. The Grand Vicar is not allowed to vote unless it is tied.”

  “What if they vote for it? What will we do?”

  “Fret not. I take the worried looks from the majority of the consuls as a sign it shall fail. Regardless of the outcome, we will find a way.”

  Tristan stood and leaned against the rail. “Here me now! Those in favor of my anointing to the status of Protector of the Faith, record ‘yes.’ Those who would oppose should record ‘no.’”

  “We, of course, will say ‘no.’” Jurgen pointed at the scrap and the quill. “Write the response.”

  After the chamberlains collected the votes, the chief went through each one. He then stood and walked to a podium near his seat. “By the grace of Azura, we congregate to do her will in all things. It is the will of the consuls that Grand Vicar Tristan IV not be anointed-”

  The chamberlain’s voice was drowned with both the cheers and boos erupting throughout the gallery. Tristan stood and exited the chamber the way he had entered, apparently unwilling to face the crowd or speak another word that day. Jurgen chuckled under his breath, then dipped his head to Vicar Forane when she raced past them, heading for the main entrance.

  “That went well,” Valyrie said, shaking her head.

  Jurgen grinned. “We are fortunate it went that way, for I fear what might have come to pass if he’d succeeded.”

  “Is it not dangerous, though? To anger him in such a way?”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it? The last thing our faith should do is have us living in fear. If I put myself in danger, it is so others can be free of an iron grip.”

  “Though you don’t think so, I still think you’re brave for doing this.”

  “Brave?” Jurgen lowered his voice. “No, our Sorbian friends are brave. I am only doing what I should have done a long time ago.”

  “Very well. You would know better than me,” Valyrie said. I just hope all of this is worth it in the end.

  “Of course. Come. When the Grand Vicar departs, we are released for the day.”

  5

  Militia Matters

  Another day in the enemy’s homeland. Laedron rose from the bed and donned his clothes. Better get to it. One step, then the other. He concealed his scepter and wand as best he could and went in search of his friends.

  In the common room, he found Marac sharpening his sword at the dining table.

  Laedron closed the door after entering. “I think it’s sharp enough, my friend.”

  “Never sharp enough. The blade must be ready.” Marac slid the whetstone along the length of the edge. “I won’t be caught helpless again.”

  “Being captured worked in our favor this time. No worries.”

  “It could’ve turned out much differently.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  “But it could have,” Marac said sharply.

  “Are you well?”

  Marac let out a chuckle. “As well as can be expected. I’m deep in the enemy’s territory, but we play games of politics and intrigue.”

  “Things must be handled with delicacy, Marac. I’d like nothing more than to rid this world of Andolis Drakar, but we must do so carefully if we’re to survive.”

  “And how long must
we wait? Weeks? Months? Or years, perhaps? How long will it take?”

  Laedron put his hand on Marac’s shoulder. “No matter how long it takes, we must stay the course. This plan is the best chance for success.”

  Marac lowered his head. “Very well.”

  “Don’t worry.” Laedron patted him on the back. “We’ll see some action today, but first, I must make sure Jurgen and Valyrie are preparing themselves to leave.”

  “They’ve left already.”

  “They have?”

  “You seem disappointed. I would’ve thought you’d be pleased they got to it.”

  “Yes, but-”

  Marac smiled. “You wanted to see the girl off, did you?”

  “No. Well… yes. To wish them a safe journey.”

  “It’s more than that. I can see it.”

  Laedron took a seat next to him. “I… um…”

  “Say no more. I already know how you feel.”

  “How did you know?”

  Marac leaned back in his chair, having finally laid the sword on the table. “I’ve known you for as long as I can remember. I’ve never seen you behave that way around other girls.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To me, sure. I doubt she realizes it, though.”

  Laedron folded his arms across his chest. “I feel horrible for her. She’s just lost her father, and now she’s wrapped up in our schemes.”

  “By her own will.”

  “What?”

  “She’s old enough to know what she’s doing, Lae.”

  “Is she? Perhaps, but I can’t help but thinking she helps us because she has no other choice.”

  “She mentioned her uncle, didn’t she?” Marac asked. “She could’ve gone to live with him.”

  “From what I understand, he’s unbearable to be around.”