Briga’s Day is rarely a state holiday, in most Riverland baronies, largely because she’s a folk and craft divinity whose local cults vary widely across the Duchies.
But in Sevendor, thanks to the Everfire and a devout and openhanded patron, it was a major celebration. When I’d invited the Motherhouse temple in Wilderhall – the largest temple to Briga closest to Sevendor – the High Priestess sent a small delegation of Flamesisters and a Flamemother to establish the Everfire Temple.
As I was also paying for the construction of the place, I had a lot of influence over its administration, but I had yet to find conflict with the Flamemother. She was a little perturbed that I’d installed Sister Bemia as castle chaplain, and not a nun of her own order, but considering how generous I was to her temple and supportive of her ecclesiastic endeavors, she didn’t mention it much.
The Temple had done everything it could to excite the spirits of the faithful and the passions of the commonfolk for the occasion. Ostensibly celebrating the beginning of the lambing season, the Festival of Lights traditionally burns up the last few tapers before the end of winter, refreshes the spirit after the boredom of winter, sharpening of shears, forging of new tools, that sort of thing.
But in Sevendor, thanks to the influence of my father (a senior lay member of the Temple, himself) and brothers-in-law, much of the celebration revolved around the thousands of pastries that the great ovens produced that morning, after the temple’s anvil was rung three times at dawn. That’s when the High Priestess used the Everfire to ceremoniously light a torch, which then lit three tapers held by three senior priestesses who then lit the altars to the Forge of Industry, the Oven of Plenty, and the Hearth of Inspiration.
The harp, sacred to Briga, was played reverently during the solemn Invocation of Ignition. Young novices sang a beautiful hymn praising her brightness, warmth, and ingenuity. A lovely flame-shaped loaf of bread (Dad’s work, and he shed a tear in pride as it presented) was cut with a freshly-forged blade, while one of the Brigantine Bards, poet-monks devoted to Briga’s inspiration, composed an intricate ode to Our Lady of Rapid Oxidation on the spot. All while the first rays of the sacred day shine through the stained-glass depiction of the divine redhead.
It was an incredibly beautiful ceremony. Prince Tavard slept through the entire thing.
After the invocation, ritual cleansing, and offering, the assembled were led into a line, headed by the Baron of Sevendor, who then wrote (or, as was more likely, whispered to a novice to write) on a piece of parchment the one thing they desired the goddess to burn away from their souls, and one thing to transform it into.
I’d thought about this for a while, considering everything that had happened since last autumn. I took the charcoal pencil the priestess provided and stepped to the lectern. A stack of neatly-cut sheets of parchment, each stamped in scarlet with Briga’s Cross on the back with a potato, lay blank in front of me.
I took a moment, stared into the Everfire, and sighed.
GUILT, I wrote in the big, bold letters, on the obverse. Then I flipped it over. RESOLVE, I spelled out, with as much spiritual force as I could put behind each stroke of the stylus.
With a great deal of ceremony I stepped forward and allowed the edge of the parchment to catch fire, and then watch it be consumed.
“By the Flame That Burneth Bright, Briga hear my prayer,” I intoned. “Let me be transformed by the sacred fire!”
I don’t know if it worked. I didn’t feel particularly transformed, but then there’s a whole lot about theurgy I didn’t know. But apparently, I looked good doing it, because the entire congregation cheered as I turned around and allowed Prince Tavard and his family to do the same.
As each parishioner left the line, they were marked on their wrists and foreheads with ash, and were given a small token version of the Briga’s Crossed Bun. Well, most of them did. I rated a special one made by my brother-in-law, who was studying for the lay order. It was much bigger, fluffier, and sweeter than the regular ones, but that’s one of the benefits of nobility.
I dropped a handful of gold Stags into the offertory as I left, devouring high-quality pastry and reflecting on the transformative nature of my patron divinity.
Most of the other important folk were in the first wave of parishioners, and as they left Banamor’s attendants ushered them toward a temporary pavilion he’d placed on the Commons to officially break their fast with something more substantial than a sweet bun. It was a beautiful late-winter morning, with just a hint of mist lingering over the fields and the river, and the harp music and theological contemplation gave the event a serene quality.
A temporary chapel had been constructed nearby for the wedding of Sir Ryff and Lady Falawen, which was being prepared by a small company of servants while we nobility mingled and enjoyed the morning. The Alka Alon delegation began to arrive, dressed in their larger forms and in stunning finery. I had the pleasure of introducing Prince Tavard to his counterpart among the Alka Alon. I don’t think Tavard realized that the Alka Alon had such titles, and watching the awkward conversation that followed became a cherished memory of mine.
While I did my duties as host I tried very hard not to mention the missing mountain in the background. No one else mentioned it, thankfully, but it still made me nervous. Sire Cei was doing an admirable job of entertaining the Prince and his gentlemen, including Barons Arathanial and Arlastan, while I mingled with the other guests. I think Moran and Tavard were avoiding me, after the previous night’s candid negotiations.
Princess Armandra made a point to seek me out, the infant Prince Heir in her maid’s arms behind her.
“Thank you for such a wonderful service, Baron Minalan,” she said, politely. “I confess, I took what you told me about the possibilities of magic as exaggeration,” she continued, referring to the few days I’d spent instructing her about the role of magi in the kingdom, last year. “But the more I see of your country the more I understand that if anything you understated the potential. Seeing magelights just . . . appear all over the vale at dusk was delightful!”
“We are just getting started, Your Highness,” I assured her, as charmingly as I could. “Sevendor is a land of enchantment. Indeed, Master Ulin, our master enchanter, is planning to place an installation on the ridges this spring that will add to the effect. I hope you will be able to return when . . .” I said, trailing off.
I didn’t mean to be rude. But the doorway of the canopy behind Armandra and her ladies opened to reveal a new group of visitors to the reception. Led by a rustic-looking monk, my heart sank when I recognized him . . . and the people behind him.
“Brother Hotfoot,” I whispered, my face no doubt pale. Princess Armandra was certainly caught off-guard by my sudden distraction. She looked toward the doorway to see what had caught my eye.
The monk wasn’t alone. Behind him was a tall, buxom blonde woman of surpassing beauty. A tall, stately looking woman with dark hair and a serene expression accompanied her, and a third woman, with striking red hair and a costume in full keeping with the holiday, walked with three men I did not recognize. They were walking with purpose, and I could tell this was no casual visit.
“You know the monk?” the Princess asked, curiously.
“Yes, Highness,” I sighed, my heart sinking fast. My mind spun as I tried to figure out how to explain what was about to happen. “Sevendor attracts many . . . figures of note,” I finished, awkwardly. “Especially at such an occasion.”
“Briga’s Day?” she asked, still confused. It was a commoner’s divinity, after all, in her mind . . . but I had a feeling that Armandra’s perceptions of religion were about to change. “I had no idea it was so popular, here.”
“It is also the occasion of an important wedding,” I reminded her, inspiring a frown. I recalled she was scandalized at the idea of a human marrying a non-human.
“Yes, the so-called Fair Folk,” she said, judgmentally, as she watched Lady Varen chat with a party of knights who were cl
early enchanted by her unearthly beauty. “One has to wonder what their ultimate plans are.”
As I was reasonably certain the Alka Alon weren’t organized enough to have “ultimate plans”, I wrote her attitude off to ignorant suspicion and misinformation. But as Lady Varen and the other Alka Alon stopped chatting the moment the newcomers walked into the canopy, recognizing them for who they were, everyone else stopped, too.
The blonde woman pushed her way to the center of the tent and looked around, her hands on her hips.
“This is supposed to be a wedding party?” she asked, skeptically. “Minalan! I thought you had better taste than that! Where’s the wine?” she demanded.
“Who is that . . . woman?” Princess Armandra said, frowning.
“Let’s not be hasty,” the monk said, gently taking the blonde’s arm. “Or rude. Introductions are in order,” he reproved her.
“If they don’t know us by now, introductions aren’t going to do us much good,” snorted the blonde.
Sire Cei certainly recognized what was happening, and his face was as pale as I’m sure mine was. He had taken great pains to prepare an entertainment fit for royalty . . . and this was not on his approved agenda.
“The forms must be observed,” the monk insisted, as the others filed in and stood in a semi-circle in the middle of the canopy. “We can’t just come barging into the middle of a—”
“Well, of course we can!” the blonde said, annoyed. “They invited us. Well, her,” she conceded, nodding toward the redhead. “But the rest of us, by implication.”
“Who are those people?” Armandra demanded. “Vassals of yours?”
“No, Your Highness,” I sighed. “They are not vassals. They are party crashers.”
“Dear gods!” she swore, angrily, as she stared daggers at them.
“Yes,” the blonde smiled, wickedly. “How did you guess?”
“What does she mean?” the Princess said, growing more anxious.
“It means, Your Highness, that we are experiencing the rarest of occasions: a divine manifestation. We are being visited by the gods, themselves.”
Chapter Fourteen
Divine Visitation
“My Princes, my lords, my noble Alkan guests, my humble folk of Sevendor,” Herus, God of Travelers and Messengers, announced to the assembled, “may I present Trygg, goddess of Motherhood and Marriage, Fertility and Fecundity, Life and Abundance, who has come to bless this amazing union!” Brother Hotfoot said, beaming a smile that lit up the crowded canopy more than the magelights overhead.
“In addition,” he continued to the stunned crowd, “may I present Briga, goddess of Fire, in whose celebration today we gather!” Hotfoot seemed delightfully pleased to be addressing mortals directly – and he had everyone’s complete attention. “Also, there’s Ishi, goddess of Love and Beauty. Together, the three of the most powerful Narasi goddesses lend their divine blessing to this marriage!”
The crowd was stunned with disbelief – especially among the clergy assembled. Sister Bemia looked terrified, as did a few others. Some made holy signs or prostrated themselves, as it became clear that the newcomers were unearthly.
Others were skeptical. Count Moran decided to advance himself as their spokesman.
“What is the meaning of this blasphemy?” he demanded, angrily, stepping toward Brother Hotfoot. “Spellmonger, what trick is this? It is poor taste!” he pronounced.
“I can attest to the authenticity of the goddess Ishi,” Prince Almasarvala, of the House of Felarsamas said, unexpectedly taking an interest. “I do believe we met at the Concord of Aramis, did we not?”
“That is beyond poor taste!” one of Tavard’s gentlemen said, shaking his head disdainfully at the Alkan nobleman.
“Little man, don’t make me convince you I’m the real Ishi,” the goddess said, shaking her shoulders just slightly as she gave him a withering look. “I doubt you’d survive the experience.”
“Will you please honor the sanctity of my feast day?” Briga complained.
“Oh, cool your holy biscuits!” snorted Ishi. “If they don’t believe we’re gods—”
“There are better ways to make a point!” Briga shot back.
“Daughters!” Trygg – I guess it was Trygg – snapped. “Do not be rude! We are here to sanctify and bless this sacred occasion. Do not ruin it with your bickering!”
“She started it!” Briga said, under her breath.
“I always do,” assured Ishi, surveying the crowd.
“More,” Herus continued, as if it was all a mummer’s play, “we bring further blessings: Slagur, Imperial god of games, lore, and wine, and Sisu, the North Elpea tribes’ god of the hunt,” he said, as he escorted each divinity inside the canopy. “And last, but not least, Couther, Narasi god of hospitality!”
“Dear gods!” someone said, in confusion.
“Exactly,” Ishi answered, impishly. She clearly enjoyed the attention.
“Our divine delegation has come to offer our support of this alliance,” Herus continued, as the unreal spectacle unfolded. “Humankind and Alka Alon must come together if the peril to the West is to be faced. My princes, I bear tidings of foul bargains being made between Sheruel the Dead God and Korbal, the Necromancer of the Mindens. They conspire to cast down both our realms in their hateful quest for vengeance.
“To that end, let the blessings of marriage, inspiration, children, good travels, bountiful hunts . . . amusing pastimes,” he said, stumbling over Slagur, as he gestured at his fellow divinities, “and plentiful hospitality be visited on the newmade House of Ryff!”
“Neither wholly human, nor wholly Alkan, the union of the Tera Alon and humankind will produce great heroes,” pronounced Trygg Allmother. “The kind of men and women we will need to contend against the coming storm. Let their line be blessed with fecundity,” she said, holding her graceful hands up in the air.
“Let them enjoy the passions and sorrows of both their kinds,” Ishi invoked, making her sacred sign in the air with both hands. I had the feeling she was sincere about it.
“Let their line be wise, bold, cunning, and inspired,” Briga said, with a burst of harmless flame flashing about her hem for effect.
“Let it be blessed with good fortune and pleasant journeys!” Herus announced, expansively.
“Let it be blessed with abundance, fellowship, and mirth,” Couther called in a clear tenor voice. “Let their halls be legendary for their entertainments and hospitality!”
“Let it be blessed with fascination, intellect, cleverness, and guile,” Slagur offered, though he didn’t make a sign.
“Let it be blessed with determination, perseverance, endurance, and commitment!” grunted Sisu. He was an odd-looking fellow, dressed in a jack of intricately tooled leather, thick bracers on his forearms, and a beautifully-tanned deerskin mantle over his shoulders.
He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, his hair straight and long around his shoulders, and his beard trimmed more neatly than I’d expect from a god of the hunt. He had a massive longbow on his back, similar to the Wilderlands bow I was familiar with, and a wide, curved knife was stuck in his wide belt. He smelled a bit of musk.
“Let the blessings of these deities combine to bring forth the champions in this new line,” Trygg intoned, solemnly, as she directed the combined energies at the terrified-looking couple. They glowed for a few moments, in magesight, and then the power dissipated. Or was transformed. Hells, I don’t know. I didn’t know a thing about divine magic.
Prince Almasarvala chose that moment to speak. “Oh, well done!” he called, merrily. “Here I thought this would be a boring affair! To lend hope to the new couple, I grant them – probationary – standing as a House of the Alka Alon. In token of that,” he proposed, “I name them the House of Rokearyff,” he decided.
I recalled that rokea was an Alkan word for “quick and decisive” . . . and not entirely a positive, in the culture of the long-lived species that valued deliberation over action
. There was even a kind of anti-hero, I remembered, the subject of four or five of their minor epic poems from the Warring States period, named Asrokea. He was a bit of a buffoon. “For the hour of our need requires boldness, and quick-action. And from what I understand, Sire Ryff excels in bold and hasty action.”
“Prince Tavard,” prompted Briga, calmly, “His Highness has made a bold move, recognizing the new Tera Alon as having the right of position in the counsels of the Alka Alon. Will you do no less in elevating this house amongst human governance?”
Tavard looked like he was drunk. The presence of so many gods in front of a man who doubted their existence seemed to produce a crisis. Nor was Tavard alone in that struggle. His poor bride clutched her baby and stared wide-eyed at the goddesses she invoked most in her life. If it’s hard to meet your heroes, it’s even harder to meet your gods.
“I . . . on behalf of my father, King Rard of Castalshar,” he began, and then the words just began tumbling out of his mouth. “I hereby recognize this new house . . . Rokearyff? And declare them specially protected by the Royal household,” he said, struggling for just how to respond. “Any sons born of this line shall be invited to join the Royal Court to be squired, and any daughters shall be presented at court at their maturity,” he decided.
Princess Armandra scowled a little, and pulled her husband’s sleeve until she could whisper in his ear. “Oh,” Tavard continued, a little dully. “I also authorize a chapel, shrine or temple be built to commemorate this occasion.”
“The day Seven Gods came to Sevendor,” remarked Onranion. The old bastard was drunk and enjoying everyone’s discomfort at the awkward situation. “The birth of the race of the Tera Alon.”
“Birth?” asked someone amongst the human nobles. “Can they even breed?”
Lord Aeratas scowled, but bowed. “Should grandchildren come of the union,” he sighed, resigned, “then they shall be accounted true princes of the City of Rainbows.”
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 20
