Brandrir rubbed his eyes and slowly moved his hands out to massage his temples. Baldir spoke with such matter-of-factness that there was little in the way of animation to him. The man droned on and on about acres of wheat and corn and rye and percentages of grain needed for livestock.
“Is there a problem, brother?” asked Dagrir.
Brandrir lifted his head from his hands. “Oh, um…no. Just, whatever you think necessary, Councilman Baldir. I respect your council and your advice.”
“But, your grace,” began Baldir. “I need to know how many men you’re adding to the Grimwatch.”
“Oh…um, yes. Etheil was thinking we add five-hundred,” said Brandrir.
“Where are these men coming from, brother?”
“I don’t know,” said Brandrir. He scratched his head and then held up his hands. “We’ll take them from the Northern Guard, I guess.”
Dagrir wiped a hand down his face and held it before his mouth for a moment, his dark eyes looking away from Brandrir. At last he removed his hand and exhaled deeply. “Brother…we…you can’t just…”
“Perhaps this needs more discussion in private council between your two graces,” said Balin Yagdril.
“Yes,” said Dagrir. He breathed deeply. “Moving on then. Councilman Balin, I believe you had a matter needed to be put to vote when we adjourned last. This ought to be quick and exciting enough for my brother to focus on.”
Brandrir looked up at his brother and scowled but Balin jumped right into his matter.
“Indeed, your grace.” said Balin. He turned to Brandrir, looking at him with that sharp smile of his. “As you know, your grace, certain matters require a unanimous vote by all Councilmen and that all Councilmen be present for the vote. Councilman of Jurisprudence, Gefjon, here, pointed this out to us last time. Now that you’re here, your grace, I…we…would like to present the matter of Exaltation of Nobility. As you may be aware, the southern kingdoms long have had a tradition of—”
“What?” shot Brandrir, standing up from his chair. He placed his hands upon the wooden table, his mechanical left hand banging loudly. He leaned over and looked at Balin. Then looked down at all the Councilmen. “What?”
Balin was silent but looked up to Dagrir.
“The Council thinks it’s wise to slowly begin allowing Exaltation of certain, key nobility.” said Dagrir as he stood at Brandrir’s side.
Brandrir looked up at his brother. “What?”
Dagrir rubbed his forehead and combed his hand through his hair before beginning. “Brother, there has been a lot of talk amongst the nobility as of late. Actually, for more than a decade they’ve been talking. We’ve been running deficits and Jord is having a difficult time convincing any of the nobles to pay more in taxes. In short, the nobles want Exaltation in the same manner as nobles of the southern kingdoms. We grant Exaltation, they’ll pay more taxes.”
Brandrir felt his hands balling into fists. The tank on his back hissed.
“Titles are everything these days,” added Balin.
“Titles,” spat Brandrir. He turned away from the table and shook his head. “Duroton was once a kingdom without nobles. Duroton is a country of free men. The sons of Duroton are—”
“Are ruled by a King like any other kingdom in this world,” said Parvailes quite plainly from across the room. The old man sat in his seat, looking at Brandrir with those accusing old eyes of his. “I am Council of Records and I can assure you the people of Duroton have never been quite as free as your friend Etheil likes to make the history books sound. True, in recent years we have granted nobility to more than just the King and his sons, but were the Stewards of Duroton anything less than nobles in the grand scheme of things? Whether one is called a steward, a noble or an exalted is not really relevant. They perform the same duties.”
Brandrir looked down the table at his council and held up a finger. “The Stewards of Duroton did not lord over their people.” he growled.
“No,” said Rankin Parvailes, not flinching and not removing his gaze from Brandrir. “Of course not. They simply lived in more lavish homes than the rest and issued orders on the King’s behalf. Today, rather than stewards, we have nobles, and they live in more lavish homes and issue orders given by your father, the King. Tomorrow, instead of nobles, we’ll have Exalteds, and still they’ll live in more lavish homes and issue orders given by you, the King.”
Brandrir bit his bottom lip and he could feel his face flushing with anger. The tank on his back hissed loudly and his left fist trembled. “The nobles of today do not just issue orders on my father’s behalf.” he growled. “Need I remind any of you why we pay reparations to the Icelanders in the first place? Do you not remember the atrocities committed by nobles when they took the Crashingstones for themselves?”
Dagrir sighed and put a hand on his brother’s back. “Brother, it is true that over the many years we have slowly granted the nobles more power and autonomy. But they are people—people like you and me—and they too make mistakes. There has never been a repeat of the Crashingstones.”
Brandrir tore himself from his brother’s hand and looked him directly in the eyes. “We are not granting anybody Exaltation.”
“What’s one more title?” asked Balin, smirking, clearly amused by Brandrir’s disdain for the topic. He pressed on. “You can say you don’t like titles all you want, but if not for titles you would not be in line for King. Titles are everything. What would you do? Have the people decide? Need I remind you that the peoples’ decision under the old congress left us with the Blackwall. People cannot lead themselves. Even the smallest ship has a captain.”
Brandrir tensed. He could feel his face growing warm and red. Just when he thought he could no longer contain himself from smashing the table to pieces, he felt his brother’s hand on his back.
“Exaltation works for the southern kingdoms because they are guarded by Saints,” said Dagrir. “The southern kingdoms are owned by Sanctuary and gifted Saints as protectors for their kings and nobles. Here in Duroton we do not have Saints. The Knights of the Dark Stars are few in number, and needed to command our armies. If the nobles want Exaltation, let it be in title only. They will not be gifted their own personal entourages of Dark Star Knights.”
The Councilmen all looked at each other, speaking amongst themselves with raised eyebrows. Brandrir did not like how the Council always seemed to be in on their own little secrets. He began thinking that perhaps being made King tomorrow would not be such a bad thing. As King he could end all this nonsense.
“Your graces,” said Balin at last. “The granting of Dark Star Knights to the Exalted would just be a formality. I’m quite certain that a solution would soon be found.”
“Hear, hear!” said Jord. “Let us vote on the matter then!”
Brandrir clenched his jaw and stood up. He walked over to the window, unable to look at his council any longer. He stared out at the blue skies, thinking to himself that this is what the congress of old had turned into. The Council was nothing more than sharks feeding on blood. Each one was out for nobody but themselves, and his father and brother had become slaves to them. They were afraid of upsetting the will of the council; afraid of upsetting the nobles; afraid of everything but what truly mattered.
Brandrir turned back to his council. “Duroton is a land of free men. The Stewards of Duroton were granted nobility long ago, and they and their family lines have benefited enough. They rule their own cities and lands now. They collect taxes from the people and we scratch at their doors begging for a portion.” Brandrir paused for a moment and looked Balin in the eyes. “The sons of Duroton have lost enough so that a few could be granted titles. I will not entertain the idea of Exaltation.”
Balin exhaled loudly.“Your grace,” he began casually. “All the other kingdoms have their Exalted. Why not us too? An Exalted is just an extension of your own power.”
“I know what it means to be Exalted,” said Brandrir. “I’ve heard all I care to about
the southern kingdoms that you all hold so dear. In those kingdoms Exalteds walk around like they’re gods. People kneel to them and tremble. It’s disgusting.”
“So we simply hold back some power,” mentioned Gefjon. “We make the laws. The Exalted still have to obey their King.”
Brandrir looked Gefjon in his beady little eyes. “That King will very soon be me, and when I take the throne tomorrow everything ends and Duroton is restored to the ways of old.”
“That is treason upon the Lands!” shot Gefjon Jolori, the Councilman of Jurisprudence. “Not even the King can make such sweeping decisions! Treason!”
“Very true,” said Balin coolly from his seat. “The Council was made beneath the Duroton sky and—”
“Then I shall dissolve it beneath the Duroton sky!” barked Brandrir.
“Treason!” roared Gefjon, standing up. The man’s face was as swollen and red as Brandrir’s own.
Dagrir stepped forth, gesturing for order. “Gefjon, please be seated.” He turned to Brandrir and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Brother, please, as King you must—”
“This is your treason!” shot Brandrir, swatting away Dagrir’s hand. His face curled up in anger as he pointed to the Council table. “This here is your treason to the Lands of Duroton!”
“Brother,” said Dagrir calmly, taking Brandrir by the shoulder. He looked Brandrir in the eyes. “Please, brother. As King you must be calm. You cannot be so rash—”
“Then you take the crown!” barked Brandrir. Brandrir kicked his chair under the table and stormed past Dagrir, fully aware of the “Hear, hear!” that came from the Councilmen.
“Council is not adjourned, brother,” said Dagrir.
“Yes, it is,” said Brandrir, not turning around. He practically ripped the door from the hinges with his metallic arm. “Etheil was right about this council. You do as father and this council advises. My place is north at the Grimwatch.”
“Let him go!” cried one of the Councilmen.
“Hear, hear! Dagrir the King!” cheered Gefjon and there was a return of “Hear, hear!” from the others.
“Enough!” roared Dagrir at the council. “Brother, you must—”
The door cracked against the stone frame, splintering as Brandrir stormed out. To his surprise, Lord Egret was standing in the hall like a black phantom in his shroud.
“Your grace?” he asked.
Brandrir marched down the hall, his crimson steel boots clanking loudly on the stone floor as he passed Egret, who fell in line beside him.
“Your grace, is something wrong?” asked Egret, marching quickly alongside Brandrir. “The Knights of the Dark Star are ever at your service.”
Brandrir stopped and looked at Egret. He was a man that he had great respect for. “Lord Egret, I am leaving for the Grimwatch.”
“You are returning to the wall?” asked Egret, his brow furled in confusion. “Tomorrow is the Rising of the Phoenix—”
“Tell my father that Dagrir can take the crown. And watch over my brother.” said Brandrir. He slapped Egret on the shoulder. Without another word he turned and marched down the hall.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The council was in an uproar and completely unwilling to come to Dagrir’s order. “Please, everyone be seated!” urged Dagrir.
“Dagrir the King!” roared Hymnar, Councilman of Domestic Affairs and there was tremendous applause.
“It is true!” roared Gefjon Jolori. “Beneath the Duroton sky Brandrir forsook the crown and gave it to Dagrir!”
“I…I…I am not to be King,” said Dagrir, trying to get his words in between the chaotic shouts.
“It is true,” said Rankin Parvailes so calmly from his seat that hardly anybody paid him attention. “Brandrir did not officially concede the crown.”
“Everybody, please!” yelled Dagrir. “Come to order! Councilman Parvailes is trying to speak.”
“Your brother did not officially concede the crown,” said the old man to a wave of mumbling protests. “As Recorder, Brandrir’s exact words were ‘then you take the crown’, to which there was no official response. Furthermore, he did not say he was conceding the crown to his brother and therefore the crown cannot officially go to Dagrir. The Lands must take no heed of Brandrir’s words on that matter.”
“I must respectfully challenge that,” said Balin. “Gefjon, as Council of Jurisprudence, what does the law say in this matter?”
Gefjon shook his head, flustered by the question. “Officially we must interpret his meaning of telling Dagrir to take the crown. How would the Lands interpret that? I think we can all agree that under the circumstances, it was meant that he conceded the crown.”
“Hear, hear!” roared Balin.
“Order!” barked Dagrir. “I do not acknowledge receipt of the crown. I motion to adjourn council for the day. We shall—”
“Your father, King Garidrir,” said Gefjon. “Let him be the final say on the matter!”
“Hear, hear!” cheered the council.
Dagrir was getting red in the face at this point.
“Dagrir,” said Balin. “This is a blessing! You’ve heard the whispers through the castle. The Jinn have seen an ill omen with your brother.”
“It’s true!” shot Aldur. “The Jinn have foreseen in the stars that your brother’s reign will end Duroton in flames.”
“The Council has long thought you should be rightful king,” said Hymnar.
“Indeed,” said Balin. “I can count on my hands how many times your brother has sat in on the Council. Let him hide away up north where he belongs.”
Dagrir rubbed his face. “Only the firstborn succeeds the King,” he said.
“Your father has long wanted you on the throne,” said Parvailes from across the room with his usual collected demeanor. “Your father is the one who told us about the prophecy of the Jinn and your brother’s reign ending with Duroton in flames. Dagrir, you must take the crown.”
Dagrir held up his hands. “I am adjourning this Council.” He turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” asked Balin.
“To get my brother.” returned Dagrir, slipping out the door and nearly crashing into Egret as he left.
Egret watched Dagrir run down the hall before stepping into the council room.
“Ah, Lord Egret!” said Balin cheerfully. “Please be seated. There is much to discuss!”
Egret stalked to the table, his black shroud fluttering and his steel boots clanking upon the floor, but he did not sit.
“You’re here for the Rising of the Phoenix tomorrow, no doubt?” said Balin.
Egret nodded. “And to receive the skull of the fire dragon. King Garidrir asked me to meet with this Council as soon as his sons were gone.”
“And gone they are,” said Balin. “One seemingly more than the other, and it is for the good of Duroton. Even the Jinn believe Brandrir will bring Duroton to flames. Dagrir must be the son who takes the throne. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Egret?” Balin collected his papers upon the table and then turned his dark eyes to Egret.
“Not necessarily,” said Egret. “The first-born succeeds the King so long as the phoenix rises for him. That is the way of things in Duroton. Duroton must decide its King. Not me, not this Council, and not even King Garidrir.”
There was some more mumblings through the council. “I see,” said Balin, relaxing in his chair. “Despite your feelings, I certainly hope you still have faith in your King and Council, for you are sworn to both.”
“Let’s get something straight.” said Egret. “As a Knight of the Dark Star I follow the wizdom of the Jinn. If they tell me they have foreseen Duroton in flames if Brandrir takes the throne, then I accept that. However, before I swore myself to the King or Council, I swore myself to the Lands of Duroton. In Duroton, the Lands must accept its King by allowing a phoenix to rise. If a phoenix rises for the new King, then the Lands accept him as King. It is only therefore that I serve the King. Tomorrow, whet
her it is Dagrir or Brandrir or somebody else who is given the crown, it will be their will that I follow, for they will have been given the crown by the Lands of Duroton.”
“Fair enough,” said Balin. “But a phoenix has never failed to rise for a new king. Would you say that the bloodline of the Thorodin’s is favored by Duroton?”
“My place is not to question the Lands of Duroton.” said Egret.
“Then what of Brandrir’s crown?” asked Balin. “The Jinn have seen Duroton in ruins if he takes the throne? If a phoenix rises for him tomorrow, will you still serve him obediently?”
“I serve any whom the Lands rise a phoenix for.” stated Egret.
“We’ll just have to make sure it is Dagrir it rises for then.” said Balin, and there was a casual ‘Hear, hear!’ from the council. Balin blew out a long breath and rubbed his pointed beard, shaking his head at some unknown thought. He returned his dark eyes to Egret. “So, I assume Celacia has arrived with the skull?” he asked.
“Not yet, but soon,” said Egret. “The ships are on the way. It’s taking longer than expected. They had to sail many leagues out of the way to remain undetected by Sanctuary and the other kingdoms.”
“Dagrir still does not know?” asked Balin.
“Not yet.” said Egret.
“What about the Saints?” asked Balin. “Are they here at the castle?”
“One is.” said Egret. “Saint Isley. I took him for my own personal lieutenant.”
Balin cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Very interesting. May this Council inquire as to why you chose to take one Saint for your own?”
“I believe Saint Isley shares a common belief with me.” said Egret.
“Oh? And what belief might that be?” asked Balin.
“That the sleeping Goddess must be woken.” said Egret.
“Isn’t that what all Saints believe?” asked Balin. “Isn’t that why Celacia is here?”
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 21
