by Brian Fuller
The crowd parted as Regina’s little sister Murea led old Billy toward the platform where Hubert and Regina would mount him for their short ride to the Church for the betrothal ceremony. Katrina bawled uncontrollably while Bernard watched with proud satisfaction.
The townspeople split apart to create an avenue around the square that led to the Church. Regina used the platform to mount Billy bare-backed and sidesaddle. Hubert sat behind her, placing his meaty hand around her waist. The horse trotted wearily away and unexpectedly stopped, swaying as it stood. Murea, still leading the horse, pulled at the rein, but the horse didn’t budge.
“C’mon, ya old nag!” Hubert shouted, kicking it roughly. In response, Billy collapsed and died. Hubert managed to get free of the falling horse, though in doing so, he pushed Regina backward. Her head hit the stones with a sickening crack. Gen’s eyes went wide and he leapt from the platform and sprinted to Regina’s side. Rafael came quickly behind.
“The beast somehow ate some of the flowers of the vine around its neck.” Rafael surmised, glancing over the horse quickly. “Poisoned itself. Is she all right, Gen?”
Regina lay perfectly still upon the ground, face drained of blood. Gen could tell from the rise and fall of her bosom that she was still breathing, and he lifted her head, feeling blood seeping from a wide gash on the back of her skull. Bernard and Katrina Showles rushed over to check on Hubert, who busied himself by swearing and kicking Billy. Gen lifted Regina and carried her to her parents, who signaled for him to take her to their home.
“Fetch the Pureman!” Bernard bellowed.
Gen waited as Jeorge frantically opened his shop and led him up the stairway to their home. The Morewold’s house had more nice things in it than most, and Regina had her own room on the second story. Gen laid her upon her bed and backed away. Blood stained the pillows, and Regina’s mother came to her side and started to weep, rubbing her daughter’s face with her hand.
“How awful,” she cried. “On your betrothal night and all.”
Gen couldn’t bear to watch anymore and stormed by Jeorge Morewold, who stood in the doorway waiting for the Pureman.
“Gen,” he called.
Gen stopped and faced Jeorge. The older man’s eyes were sad. In the absence of his hat, he clenched and unclenched his hands nervously. “Gen, I’m sorry. I. . .”
“You should be!” Gen retorted angrily. “And you’ll get to keep being sorry for the rest of your life. You’ll be sorry every time you see how miserable she is bouncing that buffoon’s children on her knee!”
Jeorge’s face fell, and Gen charged down the stairs noisily. At the bottom stood the Showles family. He wondered rather than cared how much they had heard of his outburst.
“So how is she, boy?” Bernard inquired with a guarded tone. Gen ignored him and shoved Hubert aside so he could get away, away from the square and away from people. He almost knocked down Pureman Millershim as he ascended the porch stairs. Gen ignored him too, striding into the throng of people talking in low voices to one another. Gen spied Gant, and one glance was all that was needed to set in motion a night of revenge.
Chapter 4 - The Chalaine
The Chalaine sighed. “She probably told the ship Captain to sail more slowly just to torment me! Will she ever arrive?”
Her complaint fell on unsympathetic ears. She noticed Fenna’s attempt to hide the roll of her eyes up into her head. Her handmaiden possessed a bubbly temperament that did not tolerate fretting and frowning—unless Fenna was doing the fretting and frowning. The Chalaine felt quite sure Fenna thought her ridiculous for her darker moods.
“Really, Chalaine, what could your mother possibly say that we don’t already know? He is kingly. He is handsome. He is kind. He is overcome with the desire to meet you, to dance and talk and woo.”
“But he is Aughmerian, Fenna! Women there are slaves and are given no more notice than dogs. I sent him one of my veils as a token, hoping he might respond and reveal somewhat of his character. What if he doesn’t understand it or despises it?”
“What’s to despise? And what’s to understand, for that matter, other than that you wish him to return the attention?”
“But don’t you see, Fenna? How could he understand? The idea of giving and getting attention is foreign to him. Anyhow, I thought sending the veil was terribly symbolic. He is to be the first man to see me unveiled, after all.”
“Come Chalaine,” Fenna said. “Surely those in charge of his education taught him the customs and ways of the nations he is to rule. He has agreed, has he not, to be married in the Rhugothian fashion? That shows some understanding, at least. Besides, look at that fine tapestry. Does the proud, handsome man there appear so stupid as to not understand the meaning of a young lady’s token?”
The Chalaine no longer needed to look at it. The artistic rendition of her and her husband-to-be hung embroidered into a tapestry above the head of her bed, etched into her mind by hours of staring and dreaming. Woven over a hundred years before her birth, the artist had imagined her bold yet delicate, and him fierce yet handsome, treading hand in hand across a bloody battlefield of fiends, demons, and monsters. She carried the reincarnation of God in her pregnant belly. He carried a sword shining white, and on his brow was the prophetic birthmark, the veiled moon of Trys.
In the tapestry, all three moons shone, sharing the sky with the sun; but that was the future. Eldaloth, the God whom Mikkik slew, veiled Trys at his death, eclipsing it to block the magical power that emanated from it. Mikkik weakened as the moon waned, for in Trys was his might and his power. The Puremen and Prelates taught that Mikkik had for years afterward wandered Ki’Hal sowing what seeds of evil and malice he could in his dissolution.
Eldaloth would return and end him with finality. He would return through the Chalaine. At that day, Trys would shine again, for in Trys was Eldaloth’s power as well, and the power her husband would wield in protection of the infant and his mother. It was the power that would bind broken Ki’Hal together again.
She studied the tapestry for a moment, fixing the image in her mind’s eye, striving to think of herself as the woman portrayed there—strong, confident, and fully trusting the man at her side. She hoped Chertanne was half the man the tapestry portrayed him to be; she hoped she could be half the woman. His part seemed the most difficult, to rule, to lead, and to fight. Her role was little more than what women had done through all ages of time.
“It is just a tapestry, Fenna. The artist was no prophet. My hair is certainly not black, and if I am that much shorter than he is, he will be a tower of a man indeed!”
“All I am saying,” Fenna argued as she weaved a thin braid into her own brown hair, “is that you are the most fortunate of women! You will marry the Ha’Ulrich! What better man could there possibly be than the Savior of Ki’Hal? The rest of your sex must root through the rascals and rakes of this world and hope to sniff out a good one.”
“And how does Kimdan smell?” the Chalaine teased. Fenna had doted on the son of Regent Ogbith, High Protector of Rhugoth, ever since the First Mother had called her into service as the Chalaine’s handmaiden three years ago.
Fenna blushed. “He is pleasant to the nose, though if his own were not pointed skyward so often, he might chance to notice me. So you see, I envy your position. How can the Ha’Ulrich not spend all his days daydreaming about the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“And how could Kimdan, unless he is uninterested in womankind, not dream of you? I’ve seen the way men gawk at you. Whatever beauty I have was deliberately bred into me. What you possess is a gift.”
“Your beauty would make Kimdan wild with passion, no matter how self-absorbed he is. My ‘gift’ isn’t even enough to elicit a warm greeting from him.”
The Chalaine moved to sit by her handmaiden on the bed, commandeering the task of braiding her hair. Fenna’s carefree nature in the face of the Chalaine’s troubles evaporated at thoughts of her own, and the Chalaine could not stand to see h
er friend so out of spirits, even if she thought it a little selfish.
“To comfort you, then, I suppose I should confess how I envy you.”
“And in what way could ‘Divine Beauty Incarnate’ envy me?”
“I envy your uncertainty. Don’t you see? At least you get to play the game! My beauty may drive men mad, but what use is it? I don’t get to do it. My rutted road lies before me thoroughly planned and predicted with no chance to wander or wonder. I will marry Chertanne and have his child. That is all. I may have the assurance of a good husband, but you will have the satisfaction of winning the man you choose. We will surely both find happiness in the men we love, but your journey will be more interesting and satisfying than mine.”
“I thank you for your comfort, Chalaine,” Fenna said, inspecting the completed braid. “I just hope I can get Kimdan’s attention without stooping to throwing myself at him. But throw myself I will, if it comes to it.”
“That’s better,” the Chalaine smiled. “But if it doesn’t work out, I assure you there are other eligible men about.” The Chalaine pointed to her door, indicating her day Protector, Dason, who was standing guard outside.
“Dason is a gorgeous man,” Fenna whispered. “But I am settled upon Kimdan. I cannot keep my mind off of him! Besides, Dason is eight years my senior.”
“Eight years is nothing,” the Chalaine whispered back. She herself fought mightily not to be infatuated with her dark-haired, gregarious Protector. “He is also intelligent, sensitive, a Prince of Tolnor. . .”
“Do stop or I shall think you have designs on him! But isn’t it about time for—” A knock at the door interrupted Fenna’s sentence and she swore. “I am trapped again!”
The Chalaine laughed quietly and replaced her veil. “Come!”
Dason, handsome and smiling, opened the door and greeted them. After letting Prelate Obelard inside, he entered himself and gathered chairs for the plump Churchman and the ladies. While a kind enough man, the Chalaine and Fenna found the Prelate a terrible bore and more than a little fastidious. His black robes, silver moon medallion, and darkly stained walnut staff marked his position. He sat heavily, squeezing a smile from lips not accustomed to much upward movement.
“Chalaine,” he said, inclining his head. “And Miss Fairedale! I am so glad you could join us yet again.”
The Prelate’s voice was a high, nasal monotone that managed to grate on the ears and somehow be inconsequential enough to start the mind to wandering at the same time.
“Welcome, your Grace,” Fenna returned, standing and curtsying.
“Very well. We shall begin, as always, with the recital of the prophecy. Chalaine, if you would please.”
The Chalaine nodded, hiding her resentment of the duty. Since she could speak, this task had been laid to her every day. “Hear the prophecy given to Pontiff Ethelion the Second upon Bay Mountain by angelic Ministrant, signaling to Eldaloth’s children a way to hope and to prepare Ki’Hal for the war to come:
Hearken, for joy sounds in your ears.
A way is prepared for God’s return,
To bring health,
To bring happiness,
To bring holiness,
For decreed are their names
And fixed their course
Below the moons,
Standing upon Ki’Hal
In the hand of God.
The Ha’Ulrich,
Born with Trys upon his brow,
Shall lead them, Blessed One,
Gatherer of Nations,
Savior of Ki’Hal.
The Chalaine,
Pure, undefiled, and unmarred,
Divine beauty incarnate,
Mother of God,
The Hand of Healing.
In the Hall of Three Moons
They are bound,
And Trys will show her face,
And in its first light,
God again conceived.
And upon the field of death they shall walk,
Hand within hand.
And about them the fire of war shall burn,
And about them the arrows fall,
And around them the blades cut,
And around them demons rage.
But he bears no burn, no wound.
From his heart to her hand is love,
From her heart to his hand is healing,
Without will,
Without spell,
Without sacrifice.
Hand in hand. Strength for strength.
And from her womb His child,
The tabernacle of our God,
And in His hand the power of Trys
To thwart the Dark One,
To bind the nations to battle.
But hearken and ware,
A claw is set against them,
To bring terror,
To rend the Chalaine,
To ruin the Blessed One.
It is the Ilch, Mikkik’s hand,
Trys upon his foot,
A killer in the darkness,
A might unseen,
A poison to the heart of nations.
And in his face a horror spoken,
And at his words hearts falter.
What is joined he tears in twain,
Where The Ha’Ulrich stands, he hunts,
Where the Chalaine hides, he waits.
The battlefield becomes birthplace.
Then is foot set against brow,
Blessing against curse,
Beauty against horror,
Heart against hand,
Our God against Mikkik.
She ended, and, as Obelard explicated every point again and again, she thought of how the prophecy seemed incomplete in her estimation. While Prelates and Puremen talked of the day of joy and triumph without hesitation, the Ministrant’s elision of the outcome begged the question of who would lay hold of the victory.
Most prophecies pronounced everything from the beginning through the end; this one left the end unrevealed. A return to paradise under Eldaloth’s hand was nowhere guaranteed, and that lack of surety burdened her with a double sense of duty. She must act her part because prophecy foreordained her to it, but she must also perform her duty strictly and well, lest the grander purpose fail and she unintentionally ruin the hopes of the world.
The burden of her calling, she thought, should rightly weigh her down. She was but sixteen, worshiped and revered, held up and preached as an example by the same people who remonstrated her for any childish or indecent behavior. Great expectations of happiness under Eldaloth followed her name, and when she was permitted to leave the castle to minister to the sick and afflicted, she caught a sense of her own importance. The people cheered after her and knelt as her heavily guarded wagon rolled by. While she thought such worship should instill some sense of confidence and self-worth within her, it instead made her nervous. So many counted on her and she felt so inadequate.
“And thus we see,” Obelard plodded on, “that in this perfect union of Ha’Ulrich and Chalaine there will be powers unparalleled to heal and destroy— the Chalaine’s healing to counter Mikkik’s destruction, the Ha’Ulrich’s generative powers to counter Mikkik’s malcreative force.”
The Prelate paused as if expecting some reaction to his brilliant statement. “Well,” he continued after getting none, “I have many other things to share with you from the treatise I am writing, but alas, I must go prepare for the return of the First Mother. We are all anxious for word of your future husband. Extraordinary times indeed.”
The Chalaine marveled at how he could be so boring even when excited. She rose. “We thank you humbly, your Grace. Godspeed.”
The Prelate did the best bow he could muster and shuffled from the room. Dason left with him.
“Did you hear?!” Fenna exclaimed when the door was shut.
“Hear what?”
“‘And the bliss that the Chalaine and the Ha’Ulrich shall feel upon their wedding night as they engage in the blessed creation of Eldalot
h’s tabernacle shall foreshadow the joy the world shall feel upon His return.’” Fenna quoted.
“He said that?”
“Weren’t you listening? I was absolutely stunned. I nearly burst out laughing.”
“No, I wasn’t listening” the Chalaine answered unashamedly. “Ever since he started writing his treatise on the prophecy—as if there weren’t treatises enough on the subject—the good Prelate has become even more of a bore than usual. I am disappointed I missed that little scrap of speculative doctrine, though. I wouldn’t think a Prelate would dwell on such . . . particulars.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Fenna replied. “But such steamy conversation has put me in mind of Kimdan. I believe he and the Regent are arriving soon. I beg permission to leave you until tonight.”
“Of course. Good luck, Fenna. I will expect every detail on your return.”
Fenna left, and the Chalaine removed her veil and lay back on the bed. Obelard’s instruction was a powerful soporific. Despite her insecurities and doubts, the Chalaine felt she possessed one reason to rejoice, a reason no other Chalaine before her had: she would have a husband and a lover. The Chalaines who had come before her had waited for the Ha’Ulrich to be born and, that failing, had been mated upon their seventeenth birthday to men whose identities they could not know. When the pregnancy was assured, the nameless men were sent away, never to be seen by the Chalaine again.
After the Shattering, the people of Rhugoth chose the Chalaines to rule them as queens, the office later named “First Mother.” Every Chalaine for two-hundred years sat upon the throne, powerful, alone, and forbidden to love, lest another child be born that could claim the title Chalaine.
The Chalaine could only partly understand the loneliness of her predecessors, a loneliness fate or Eldaloth had spared her. The year she was born and on the same day, the Ha’Ulrich also came into the world, bearing the mark of the unveiled moon of Trys upon his brow. He was a son of the Shadan of Aughmere, Torbrand Khairn, and an unnamed concubine who was slain soon after she gave birth so that no other child could issue from her womb and upset the surety of prophecy. The Chalaine had never seen the Ha’Ulrich, though she knew his name was Chertanne and that he likely lived as protected a life as she did.
