by Cas Peace
Pharikian waited quietly until she was ready to continue. She took a deep breath, met his gaze, and nodded. He smiled slightly and she cocked her head, puzzled by his wry expression. “What is it, Timar?”
“Nothing, Brynne. Only that I’ve seen that determined look before on your father’s face.”
Tears threatened again, but she fought them down. “Tell me, please, Timar, what became of him?”
Pharikian sighed and glanced down at his hands.
“In the years following my succession, there was much civil unrest in Andaryon. The faction that opposed me had been repressed but not destroyed, and they continued to gather supporters from many provinces. I was forced to fight several battles over those years, and the constant strife was damaging the realm. In practical terms, Andaryon was split in two and the economy was on the verge of collapse. By the year of your birth we had reached an impasse, neither side being strong enough to conclusively defeat the other.
“Eventually, it was agreed that the most powerful nobles of each faction, together with their military leaders—many of whom were also Artesans—should call a temporary truce and convene a Grand Council in order to reconcile our differences before we completely destroyed the realm. This Council was scheduled for the week after your birth.”
Sullyan leaned forward. “My father attended the Council with you.”
The Hierarch shot her a look of surprise. She waited for him to continue, a tremor starting deep in her body.
“Yes, he did. Although he was Albian, Morgan was one of my most trusted advisors, and despite his despair, he wouldn’t stay away. But you had only just been born, and Bethyn wasn’t there to care for you. He had to make hurried arrangements for your safety before he could attend the Council. The original plan was for you and your mother to return to Albia and for Morgan to follow once the Council was over. With Bethyn gone, he was forced to take you himself. When he came back, he told me he had left you with relatives who would care for you until he could return.”
Sullyan’s eyes closed in pain. She was unlikely ever to know why her father’s family had rejected her. “But he did not return for me,” she murmured. “Let me guess what happened at the Council meeting.”
Pharikian raised his brows, inviting her to continue.
“The two sides could not reach an agreement. The balance of power was equally distributed, and no one was willing to back down or give ground. Only one course of action remained, only one way to avoid the carnage that outright war would inflict upon the realm.” She stopped and Pharikian bowed his head. He stared at his hands as she added, “And that was the Primal Sacrament.”
Robin’s hand tightened on hers. “Primal Sacrament? What’s that?”
“It is an ancient Andaryan tradition, one that goes back to the times when a much higher percentage of the nobility possessed great powers which could be used equally for good or for ill. Many held the rank of Master-elite, Senior Master, and even, I believe, Supreme Master.”
Robin frowned, he hadn’t heard of that particular rank.
Pharikian nodded. “That is true. You seem to know much of our history, Brynne. But there hasn’t been a Supreme Master for time out of mind, and it’s my belief that we’re slowly losing the abilities our forebears once had. It’s a great tragedy, I think, but all things change. Please carry on.”
She gave a tight smile. “Terrible wars had been fought by those possessing such tremendous forces, and they caused great devastation. If the realm was not to be literally torn apart by such strife, then a new way of settling conflict had to be found. The formalized Codes of Combat came into being at that time, but they were aimed primarily at individuals, not those commanding vast numbers of troops. For warfare on this scale, a new treaty was needed, a powerfully binding and unbreakable contract. The kind of contract which would actively discourage the disputes it was designed to resolve.
“And so the ritual known as the Primal Sacrament was devised. Should two or more powerful factions find themselves in stalemate, they were obliged under law to either undergo the ritual or forfeit their claims. Whichever side produced an Artesan willing to make the Sacrament—and he had to be willing, he could not be coerced—that side would be judged the victor. Each Artesan involved in the dispute would then surrender a tiny portion of his psyche to the willing one, signifying the end of all grievances. They were bound by this not to resurrect those grievances while they or their Heirs survived.”
She captured Pharikian’s gaze. “It was by this ancient ritual that the Council decided to resolve the strife that followed your succession.”
His expression was rueful. “I’m impressed by your knowledge, Brynne, and you’re quite right. The nobles all agreed to be bound by the Sacrament and even accepted my stipulation that wholesale raiding into other realms should also cease.”
Her reply was barely a whisper. “They accepted it because they never expected to find someone willing to make the sacrifice.”
“Hang on,” said Robin. “Sacrifice?”
She glanced at him. “You know of the Sacrament, Robin. In Albia, we call it the Pact.”
Understanding flooded his face. He knew that a Senior Master Artesan had died to broker the Pact, but no one knew who he was or why he had lost his life. “Are you saying ...?”
Sullyan couldn’t answer him. Confirmation was left to the Hierarch, who gently gathered her trembling form into his arms.
“The Senior Master who gave up his life to the Sacrament that saved my rule and my realm, and also ended the tradition of raiding into Albia, was my dear friend, Morgan Sullyan.”
A few moments of silence passed. When she was calm again, Sullyan said, “What drove him to it, Timar? Did he so wish to die?”
Pharikian paused before replying. “I cannot truthfully say, child. I would never have taken him with me had I thought he might offer himself. I think the simple truth is that he was totally devastated by your mother’s death. He knew that without the Sacrament I would have to abdicate, and that would lead to yet more years of civil war being unleashed upon the realm. He also knew how much this land meant to me, so maybe in some way he thought he was repaying me for our friendship. And as I said before, he believed he had made suitable arrangements for you.”
His eyes strayed to the fire opal glinting at her throat. “You know, I never realized he had taken Beth’s jewels and left them with you.”
She put a hand to the stone. “They are the reason I knew my family name. They were in a small leather pouch around my neck when I was found, and although it was badly worn, the name ‘Sullyan’ could just be read upon it. The stones and that name were the only things I had in the world.”
He shook his head. “Oh, my dear child, I’m so sorry you spent all those years not knowing who you were. It shames me, and it would have distressed your parents greatly. I am grieved that I can tell you nothing more about your father’s family, but I can perhaps offer you a small grain of comfort once I finish Morgan’s story.”
Sullyan shrugged, doubting that any comfort would make a difference now. She had grown up knowing she was abandoned, but somewhere in the deepest part of her soul she had nurtured a tiny hope that her parents might still be alive. Now she knew they were not. Nothing else mattered. There was no comfort to be had.
Pharikian returned to the subject of Morgan’s sacrifice.
“After Bethyn’s death and before the Council meeting, Morgan merely went through the motions of life. I could see he was becoming increasingly withdrawn, but nothing I said made a difference. He had been with Beth so long—they were childhood sweethearts—that he simply didn’t know how to live without her.
“Morgan rarely drank liquor, even wine. He was addicted to fellan, the stronger the better, but he began to find solace in drink. Never enough to incapacitate him, but enough to impair his control. Given time, perhaps we could have helped him overcome his depression, but the Council meeting came too soon.”
His gaze turned inward, hi
s expression sad. “The session was long and stormy. No one was in the mood to give ground. Accusations were flung, offences given and taken on both sides. There were angry words and drawn swords and the whole thing was about to degenerate into a brawl when my father’s chamberlain, Baron Arlow, mentioned the ritual of Sacrament. It stopped us in our tracks, and the nobles, many of whom had never heard it mentioned before, demanded to see evidence of this ancient law. Arlow had brought the parchment with him, and there was no disputing its authenticity. To be brief, each noble, including myself, eventually agreed to be bound by the law. I am sure you are right, child. Most never dreamt that anyone would be willing to take such a burden.
“They reckoned without Morgan. As soon as he understood the implications of the Sacrament and what was bound to happen should we refuse it, his clear voice rang out over our heads. ‘I am willing’ was all he said.”
Sullyan nodded slowly. “He had rediscovered a purpose to his life. Having lost everything, he suddenly saw hope. Something only he could do, something that would rectify an impossible situation.”
The two men stared at her in silence, and Robin’s expression told her he was afraid she had found a parallel to her own situation in her father’s story. He feared she foresaw a similar end for herself.
Pharikian nodded. “Yes. Once his mind was made up, there was no dissuading him, no matter what I said. Skeptical about his ability to carry it through, and half suspecting that he would renege at the last moment, the nobles signed the Sacrament. We all surrendered a tiny portion of our psyche to Morgan. I kept trying to talk him out of it, but he knew what would happen if the Sacrament was refused. My rule—indeed, the very stability of our realm—depended on him.
“And then it was too late. The Sacrament was signed and it had to be fulfilled. I had to stand strong and allow him his wish. I had to bid farewell to my dearest friend. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Before he left us, in the name of our friendship he asked me to look out for you, Brynne, to extend the same friendship if ever we met. I was more than happy to agree. I would have done so without his asking.”
Robin glanced sideways at Sullyan, hoping his question wouldn’t give her too much pain. “But how did it happen? How did he fulfill this ... Sacrament?”
Pharikian was silent, watching Sullyan’s face. She felt numb, as if all her senses were in stasis. Raising her eyes to Robin’s, she sent him a flash of memory. He saw again the little drovers’ hut the day after her rescue and felt again her anguished spirit brushing past him on its wild dash for oblivion. His face drained of color as understanding dawned. “Oh!”
Such power came with the increase in strength required to become a Master Artesan. Anyone who reached that rank had the power to relinquish their hold on life and choose to pass on to the next existence, whatever that might be.
Sullyan included Pharikian in the exchange and felt his horror on learning that she had so nearly done what her father had chosen to do, and in such extremity. His yellow eyes filled with pain and he leaned forward, his voice rough and urgent.
“I swear to you, I will have an accounting of Rykan for his brutal treatment.”
She shook her head firmly. “Majesty, I claim that right. His life is mine.”
There was naked venom in her tone and Pharikian recoiled. “As you wish, child. I acknowledge your right. I grant you his life.”
She reached out, took his hand, and pressed it in apology and gratitude. His expression softened. “Brynne, would you like to see your parents?”
She startled before she realized what he meant. He could show her their faces from his own memory. Finally, after years of futile wonder, she would know what they looked like. Her heart gave a lurch. “That would please me very much.”
Her eyes dilated as she accepted the Hierarch’s contact. Reaching for Robin’s hand, she prepared to share the experience with him. When Pharikian’s mind opened in hers, she saw the image of a medium height, slightly built man with short, dark auburn hair. His eyes were a warm brown, his pleasant face serene, his lips relaxed in a gentle smile. Catching her breath, Sullyan drank in the face of her sire.
Then a second figure came into focus alongside Morgan, and it was Robin’s turn to gasp. Standing at her husband’s side was a woman who, but for the deep brown of her eyes, could have been Sullyan herself. The wealth of tawny hair was the same, although Bethyn wore hers shorter than her daughter did. Her build and height were the same, as were her small, finely featured face and creamy skin. As she turned to look lovingly at her husband, the opals at her throat and ears glinted in the light of some long ago summer’s day.
A sob escaped Sullyan’s throat and Pharikian let the images fade. Once again, he gathered her into his arms and rocked her like a child.
It was growing late and what remained of the food had long since gone cold. Taking the fellan pot from the fire, Robin poured some into a cup and touched Sullyan on the arm. “Brynne?”
The name sounded unfamiliar on his tongue. She pushed away from Pharikian, responding to the care in Robin’s voice. As she accepted the cup, she allowed her fingers to caress his. Once she had taken a few sips, she was able to speak again. “Timar, I have one final question, and then I think we both need to rest.”
She did indeed feel very tired, and knew she looked strained around the eyes. Pharikian looked no better.
“Anything, child.”
“You said earlier that my mother wanted you to be the first to see her child, to repay you for what you had given her.” He nodded, his gaze sharp on her face. “Both my parents were dark-eyed, and no one in Albia has eyes like mine.” She stared back at him. “Timar, where do I get my coloring from?”
His smile broadened. “Well done, child, you are very quick. I wondered if you’d guess this final twist to the story. Deshan had discovered that Bethyn’s miscarriages were due to her spending too much time in our realm. He found that her body had suffered slight damage and so was unable to carry a child for more than a few weeks. As he looked through our archives for a way to help her, he unearthed a parchment which led him to believe that if she was treated with small infusions of Andaryan blood her body would become acclimatized to our alien atmosphere.”
Robin frowned. “Are you saying that someone gave blood to Sullyan’s mother, and that this blood somehow affected the color of her eyes?”
“Indeed I am, son. None of us foresaw that outcome—not even Deshan—and no one has ever been able to explain it. Nevertheless, that is what happened.” He turned back to Sullyan. “So you see, child, you are not entirely alone in the world. Should you wish to acknowledge the connection, you can claim that we are related. You get your golden eyes from me, Brynne. The blood Bethyn received that allowed you to be born was mine.”
Chapter Fifteen
Exhausted by the Hierarch’s startling revelations, Sullyan and Robin slept deeply. A gentle tap on the outer door woke them just after dawn. Robin threw a robe about his slim body as he padded through the living area to answer it. A servant brought in breakfast, followed by another bearing their clothes, which had been cleaned and pressed. The Hierarch had arranged that courtesy the day before and Sullyan was grateful. She wanted to appear at her professional best today, and travel-stained clothing would do her no favors.
Lying still in the bed, she was unwilling to surrender the peace and wellbeing she felt. She hadn’t realized how debilitating the cramp in her belly had been, but now that she wasn’t expending power to keep it at bay, she felt fit and strong. Raising herself on one elbow, she watched Robin as he returned from seeing the servants out. His robe had fallen open and she saw, with loving admiration, that he was also feeling fit and strong.
They finally found time to attend to the food on the tray before putting the final touches to their attire. Sullyan had decided to wear her dress uniform rather than her combat leathers, and was startled and pleased when she discovered a gold Andaryan rank badge—a crown surmounted by a single star, equi
valent to her own double thunderflash—lying on a dress jacket which was subtly trimmed with purple. She attached the badge to the jacket before putting it on.
Robin whistled. “He doesn’t want anyone to be in doubt of his support, does he?”
Smiling, Sullyan held up a second jacket bearing a lieutenant’s insignia, obviously intended for Robin. The Captain raised his brows in appreciation and shrugged into it.
Sullyan braided her hair with care. She wanted to divert attention from her gender today, if that was at all possible in this male-dominated society. The meeting would be difficult enough without inviting their prejudice.
Soon, one of Pharikian’s pages arrived to escort her to the royal presence. This was a private meeting between Sullyan and the Hierarch, but Robin knew he would be accompanying her to the main briefing session later.
Sullyan returned from her private meeting with Pharikian looking calm. The page who bowed her back into the suite grinned cheekily at her, reminding her even more strongly of young Tad. Sullyan smiled and ruffled his blond hair before sending him scampering off.
Robin looked up from his place on the settle. “I finally managed to contact Bull while you were gone. How did it go with the Hierarch?”
She relaxed beside him. “Much as I expected. Timar is now fully aware of Rykan’s intentions as well as his hidden strength, and he agrees with my assessment of the Caer’s defense. However, Timar does not personally command his troops, neither is he skilled in military tactics. He leaves both to his generals. I have his permission to address the Lord General and put my proposals before him. Further than that, I did not expect him to go. Despite his support and offers of friendship, not even the Hierarch can order his warlords to trust me. That is something I must secure for myself. But at least we have time. As of yesterday, Rykan has still not begun his advance.
