by Brian Fuller
Our rule and our rod,
Shout, shout the refrain;
Our God is come again!
From two, the one.
From two, the one.
Holy Mother!
Holy King!
Our God they bring!
Volney shook with excitement, and even the more solemn Gerand wore an anticipatory smile. As they watched the street, those in the crowd below fell to their knees and bowed as a figure in white astride a white horse rode by. The Chalaine, riding sidesaddle, was taller than most women, and, while it might have been trick of the light, she seemed to shine. She rode with grace, back straight, veiled head forward. Beside her was a saddled but empty horse, and around her a wall of soldiers, those nearest her of the Dark Guard, Captain Tolbrook proudly in command.
Jaron and Dason, the Chalaine’s personal protectors and the finest sword talents of the Dark Guard, walked on either side of the horse. Jaron, a severe-looking veteran, had a large head—cheeks rough with stubble—atop a powerful neck and shoulders. Close-cropped black hair grayed at the temples, and blue eyes took in everything around them.
Dason was a handsome, courtly-looking man with shoulder length, curly black hair and some of the finest clothes of any in attendance. His face was clean-shaven, perfectly proportioned, and inviting. Jaron scowled as he marched, but Dason smiled grandly, clearly at home in jubilant occasions.
Gen marveled at Dason’s position. He was younger than any of the Dark Guard and at such an age was considered a greater swordsman than them all. Gen surmised that his younger brother, Gerand, would someday be just as good.
Gen studied the Chalaine the most, however, and knew he was not alone in that worship. She looked much as she had when he first saw her in the Damned Quarter, shrouded in white and veiled in mystery. Her loose robes whipped about with the wind, and he could just make out a thin circlet of silver set upon her covered head. Chants of “Holy Mother” erupted spontaneously from the crowd. Several worshipers prostrated themselves as she rode by, and the guards found themselves pushing the passionate, surging crowd back on more than one occasion.
Regent Ogbith, the First Mother, and Ethris rode just behind the Chalaine, waving to the crowd, faces strangely somber. On the lake, the landing party approached. Gen felt a surge of excitement. Here, at last, the Ha’Ulrich and the Chalaine would meet and the great prophecy start its march toward fulfillment. He made a note to thank Volney and Gerand for finding him and bringing him along. The nobles and the Warlords in the stands rose and bowed as the Chalaine rode by, Gen following suit. He knew he should kneel, as he was a commoner, but the stands provided no room to do so.
After bowing for some time, the nobles returned to their seats and watched Chertanne, the Ha’Ulrich, Blessed One of Eldaloth, approach. Gen kept his eye on the Chalaine as she dismounted. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt drawn to her from the moment he saw her kindness and selflessness in her treatment of those far below her station who were inconsequential in importance. The crowd’s reaction convinced him his feelings were not unique. In preparation for the Blessed One’s landing, she went to one knee, head bowed. Just behind her, the others in the van followed suit.
All attention turned to the pier as the oars were pulled in and the craft secured. The wind had relented enough for the incense smoke to cloud a good view of the Ha’Ulrich as he disembarked. Another fanfare and chorus split the air as the Ha’Ulrich stepped onto the planks shadowed by a massive, bald swordsman—Cormith, Sword-Protector of the Ha’Ulrich, trained by the Shadan to serve his son.
The pier was long, and Gen strained to see the Ha’Ulrich. To his surprise, two greyhounds were lifted from the boat. They dashed quickly up the pier, barking and running along the lakeshore before turning toward the Chalaine. They pawed at her, dark mud from the shore sullying her dress. She bore it graciously, and at last the Ha’Ulrich whistled for them and they heeled.
And then he emerged from the smoke and stood before her, feet planted apart. Gen gazed upon the Blessed One, the Savior of nations, and instead of admiration, he felt shock. Nothing in the young man’s appearance evidenced that his father was Torbrand Khairn. Instead, Chertanne—dressed in a red cape, white shirt and breeches, and black boots—reminded Gen of a successful merchant. He was fat and puffy, sweaty—even with the wind—and carried himself with a whimsical, careless air. In stark contrast to his father, Chertanne wore short, almost shorn, blond hair that badly accented a blanched face. With difficulty, Gen could make out the dark circle above his right eye, the birthmark sign of his divine identity.
The Chalaine rose, and Gen wondered if anyone else could see the small mannerisms—the hesitancy, the slightly pulled-in shoulders—that betrayed her surprise. Judging by Volney’s and Gerand’s faces and by the swooning, chanting crowd, Gen doubted it. Chertanne awkwardly took her hand and pulled her into a smothering embrace, swinging her about like a child. The crowd roared its approval. The Chalaine straightened her robes and veil after Chertanne set her down and watched as he played to the crowd, walking up and down the throng, arms wide in a show of magnificence as the swooning crowd yelled, “Bless me!” The chorus of Churchmen chanted rhythmically, and the whole crowd was caught up in the rhythm, some chanting along.
Unlike everyone around him, Gen sensed that something had gone terribly wrong. The Chalaine stood ignored and slightly bent, working away at the mud stains on her dress while Chertanne reveled with the crowd. He shook hands, embraced people at random without a care for his safety, and even took a drink from a proffered mug. Once he was done, the Ha’Ulrich mounted the provided horse and rode off without acknowledging the Chalaine at all. Jaron quickly stepped forward and assisted the Chalaine back into her saddle, and the Dark Guard had to jog to catch up with the rest of the procession.
The Blessed One’s little acts of impropriety toward the Chalaine irritated Gen, though he chose not to show it. He supposed that the irritation stemmed a little from a disappointment. When he set eyes on the Chalaine, she was everything he’d expected her to be and more. Chertanne was far less than what he imagined, though he realized he had carved his idea of Chertanne from what he knew of Torbrand. Expectations, he knew, were dangerous once formed and believed, and he resolved to set aside his feelings about Chertanne until he could better judge his character. Aughmerians treated women differently that Tolnorians and Rhugothians, and he had to give Chertanne some allowance for his nationality. He did seem friendly enough.
“Marvelous!” Volney said ecstatically. “If I were to die tomorrow, my children would say their father lived a fulfilled life.”
“You have children?” Gerand asked incredulously as they made their way down the stands.
“No,” Volney backtracked, “I mean if I had any, that’s what they would say. I can hardly wait until the feast tonight! Our first night on duty! What an honor!”
“If you die tomorrow,” Gen deadpanned, “it will likely be from the feeling of too much honor.”
Gerand grinned. Volney looked offended for a few moments until his gentler nature took over and a smile crossed his face.
“Gen!”
Fenna raised her hand, working her way through the crowd toward him. She wore her brown hair in a bun against the wind and her green eyes were happy.
“I need an escort back to the castle,” she said breathlessly, taking his arm. “The crowd presses so. I fear being trampled.”
“Lady Fairedale,” Volney said, scraping low. “It is an honor to meet one of the handmaidens of the Chalaine, an honor indeed!”
Gerand shook his head and Fenna smiled.
“Come along, Volney,” Gerand said, pulling the young man away. “We’ve got something to attend to.”
“We do?” Volney replied quizzically.
“Yes. We shall catch up with you later, Captain.”
“Thank you, Gerand,” Fenna said.
Gen nodded as Gerand shot him a smile.
“I suppose you’ve come for your c
olors?” Gen asked. “The Chamberlain instructed me that I am to return them to you or I risk offending you.”
“Yes,” Fenna said. “But you can’t now. You must seek me out to return them, not the other way round. Favors are a way a lady may politely lay claim to a man’s time and attention.”
“I fear Kimdan will miss the entire first year of his training just to complete that courtesy alone.”
Gen noted the tenseness around her eyes. Kimdan’s lack of attention still stung her.
She forced a smile. “Let’s not talk about Kimdan, shall we? I think I said quite enough about him when we first met.”
Chapter 18 - The Wedge
The celebration commenced with the grand entrance of the Blessed One, Savior of Ki’Hal, Mikkiksbane, and the Master and Uniter of the Nations. Trumpets blew, praises were sung, and knees bent in his honor as he strutted slowly to the table at the head of the Hall, waving energetically to the cheering nobles and Warlords.
He wore a white shirt bedecked with lace, tailored to give his ample gut room to hang over his black pants. A red sash accented the ensemble, lending his face a more sanguine appearance than the corpse-white color it had seemed at the docks. His lips were bulbous and curled, affixing his countenance with a permanent, arrogant sneer. Fat rimmed or engorged the fine features of his face, lending normal eyes a beady appearance. In the Chalaine’s estimation, he possessed but one kingly attribute—a deep, commanding voice that carried everywhere.
After a short speech about not wanting to delay the proceedings with a speech, he sat down, put his arm around the Chalaine, and tugged her roughly to him to thunderous applause. The Chalaine bore it patiently, grateful for the swarm of servants swooping into the room, distracting Chertanne from his attentions to her with platters laden with steaming pheasant, pork, ripe fruit, and a wide range of breads, cheeses, and wines to satisfy every taste. Steamed and spiced fish, brought in last, accented the head table with the bright colors of purple, blue, and yellow.
After those at the dais were served—and Chertanne was oblivious to everything but food—the servants descended to the main floor and then ascended to the balconies to deliver the meal and satisfy the demands of the jovial crowd.
Once the servants had set every table, the court bard, Shemus, ascended the dais. The middle-aged performer sported long dark hair braided together into a ponytail that dropped halfway down his back. Once skinny, his position in the First Mother’s court had puffed him up around the midsection of his festive yellow tunic and green hose. He bowed, a grand smile playing across his tall face. Chertanne appeared genuinely excited to see the bard and stopped eating in anticipation. The Chalaine knew Shemus’s pride had recently been stung by the appointment of a Tolnorian bard, Geoff, for the duty of recording her and the Ha’Ulrich’s journey to Elde Luri Mora.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Shemus said loudly, but the noise of the crowd continued on unabated. “Lords and Ladies, your attention please!” Still they ignored him.
“Hey!” Chertanne bellowed, coming to his feet. “Everybody shut up! The bard’s trying to do something here!” Immediate silence fell, with several half-said apologies punctuating the silence.
Shemus executed a bow to Chertanne. “Thank you, your Grace. Tonight we have a special treat for your amusement and delight. The Black Quill Playwrights from the free city of Tenswater have agreed to come and perform a little play for you, which, I think you will all agree, is most suited to our little celebration this evening. Without further ado, the Black Quill Playwrights.”
Shemus stepped away, and a tall man of medium build and sandy blond hair walked regally onto the stage. He was dressed in kingly fashion, a purple robe over a deep red tunic and black pants cinched with an ornate belt.
He launched into a song, identifying himself as Chertanne and explaining his role in the prophecy. Next came a woman in a dress and veil. She stood by Chertanne and sang about her role as the Chalaine. Lastly, the Ilch romped into the room, and of all the portrayals the Chalaine had seen of her archenemy—and she had seen many—this one frightened her the most. The costume consisted of what appeared to be the carcass of some enormous black dog or wolf, black glassy eyes punctuated in the center with a red jewel. Fangs streaked with blood clacked as the jaws snapped up and down. The actor, wearing similarly stained claws on his hands, howled, jumped, and cavorted menacingly.
The play proceeded as most of the others the Chalaine had viewed. The counterparts to Chertanne and herself met, courted, fell in love, and were married. The Chalaine had to admit, however, that the singing and dancing were first rate and better than any she had attended previously. Chertanne was so enthralled that the Chalaine wagered she could club him with a drumstick of pheasant and he wouldn’t even know it.
“And now,” the brightly dressed narrator said after a touching, worshipful melody that the Chalaine had sung to the child in her belly, “the babe has grown large in her womb, and together, hand in hand, the Ha’Ulrich and the Chalaine arrive on the field of battle. Trys shines bright in the sky, the hordes of Mikkik stand before them, but they swallow their fear. The time is come for them to shine forth and bring God into the world!”
He threw something on the ground and a great puff of smoke rose with a loud pop, startling everyone. Chertanne clapped as several actors dressed as scaly Uyumaak with color-changing scales leapt onto the stage, cartwheeling, flipping, and juggling knives, torches, and soldiers’ helmets to a pounding rhythm.
At the height of their erratic dance, the actors portraying Chertanne and the Chalaine marched confidently onto the stage and into the middle of the chaos. Chertanne held aloft a sword painted white, and with a powerful song supplicating for divine help, he stepped from Uyumaak to Uyumaak, striking them down. As he finished off the last, the Ilch jumped to the stage, blood dripping from his fur and fangs.
The beat of the drum increased in pace and intensity as the actors danced about in a deadly fight while the actress portraying the Chalaine lay behind in the throes of childbirth. The fight was frenetic and tense, ending as the sword finally penetrated the breast of the shrieking Ilch. At that same moment, the child was born, the actor Chertanne lifting it high above his head and presenting it to the crowd while shouting, “God is born! God is born! God is born!” Thunderous applause filled the hall, and the actors bowed for several minutes before leaving.
Unfortunately for the real Chalaine, their departure left her the center of Chertanne’s attention for the rest of the affair. For most of her life, the Chalaine had cursed the need to wear the veil that prevented her from seeing the world as other women did. Meals, especially public ones, were particularly awkward, for her handmaidens had to hold the veil away from her head so that she could scoop food into her mouth or take a drink while every man in the room watched, hoping for the smallest glimpse of her face. The Chalaine relished the time she spent alone in her room, for there she could remove all the trappings and pretenses that separated her from the rest of her sex and her race, making her feel so different and so alone.
But after another hour with Chertanne, she was glad her face remained obscured behind the light mesh, for she would not want anyone to guess the despair or disgust that played plainly across her features. The thought of the Blessed One and her forthcoming marriage to him had filled her childhood and adolescence with many wild and pleasant fantasies and longings, and every minute she spent with Chertanne destroyed them ruthlessly one by one. Instead of handsomeness was unkempt sloppiness; instead of dignity and honor was baseness and crudeness; instead of temperance, there was indulgence and selfishness. There was cunning intelligence, however, and the hint of it in his eyes frightened her.
The aristocrats and nobles before her sometimes ascended the dais to pay their obsequious respects to her and to him, unable to see through years of ingrained deference to them that something was amiss. The Chalaine knew her mother sorrowed for her, though the Chalaine still felt angry that her mother never told her of h
er husband-to-be’s character. She had no doubt that Jaron also seethed to see her treated so.
Anyone who considered her situation with a mind not blinded by station or favor would conclude that the Blessed One regarded her as little more than a tavern wench. Throughout the evening, he pawed her until her white dress—already stained by his dogs—was a smear of grease and crumbs. He leered at her suggestively and told her jokes so bawdy that she imagined—while acknowledging her own inexperience—that even a seasoned soldier would blush to hear them.
In self-defense she stopped eating—not that she possessed much of an appetite to start with—and tried to cover herself and shrink into as small a target as possible. Luckily, when the servants served dessert—an artful white cake decorated with vines of green and blue frosting—the Blessed One left her alone for a few moments. To take her mind off her discomfort and distress, she studied the room and the celebrants.
The great Hall of Mikmir was tiled and columned with a white marble suffused with a blush of red, quarried and hauled with great toil from the northern tip of the Ironheart Mountains before the Shattering. The light coloration of the rock brightened the room, the candlelight flooding down from the chandeliers, creating a cheery atmosphere.
Above the main floor were arched balconies accessible by elegant, curving stairways. The balconies were usually reserved for dancing and mingling, but due to the great number of nobles and Warlords who came to see the Blessed One and his future bride, a host of servants had earlier hauled heavy tables and chairs up the stairs so those of station insufficient to merit a seat on the floor could still attend. All eyes and all talk focused on the dais at the head of the room where Chertanne and the Chalaine sat in the middle of a long, finely appointed table.
At one end of the table stood Jaron, jaw set and hands behind his back, and because the Chalaine knew him well, she could tell that his calm face masked a gnawing anger. She hoped, for his sake, that he would hold his tongue lest he run afoul of the Blessed One’s personal bodyguard, Cormith. Cormith stood opposite Jaron, uninterested in the entire affair and showing every bit of the boredom he felt.
