by Kal Spriggs
***
Herald Aramer Jameson
Ember Castle, Ducal Seat, Duchy of Masov
Feast of Idraw, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Aramer straightened up as he lifted the heavy saddlebags. Behind him, he heard Brooke's light voice, “Well, then, headed out so soon?”
He paused and turned, straining at the weight, “Sorry?” He met her blue eyes and tried to keep his face composed as she searched his face. It's always been too hard to hide things from her, he thought regretfully. “I've a lot of projects in motion just now.”
“Were you going to tell me that the Starblade is in play?” Brooke asked.
Aramer blanched, “You knew?”
“Of course I knew,” came her instant response. “I'm a hermit, but I'm not living under a rock. Half the old spirits have come to life as they felt it, those opposed and those for. The whispers from them are enough to drive me batty, if I wasn't already a little crazy.”
“I thought you gave up divination,” he said neutrally.
“I did,” Brooke said easily, “But that doesn't mean I can't hear them, even so. It just means that I don't let them know that.” She sighed, “This is all going back to that pact you and Jason made, isn't it?” Her eyes went narrow, “I could smell Eleanor on you, so I'm guessing you pulled her back into this.” She cocked her head, “Who else?”
Aramer shrugged, “A shrouded wizard.”
Brooke nodded slowly, “That figures. Noth would almost certainly have his hand in this.”
Aramer snorted, “Noth wanted nothing to do with it, from what I understand.” He still felt frustrated that the wizard had refused to help, even forbidden anyone from coming.
“I wouldn't wager much on that,” Brooke said. “He's a schemer, too. And he's quick to send agents he can disavow while still giving them help.” She spoke with certainty that might seem at odds with her apparent young age. Aramer wasn't entirely certain that she was old enough to have met the wizard Noth, but he wasn't certain she wasn't, either. “There's something else, I can almost smell a stench of the Wold about you... you haven't gone to their lands, have you?”
He coughed lightly and looked away, “I haven't...”
“But one of your people have, haven't they?” She shook her head, “That's dangerous. They've been exiled for a reason, Aramer, and if you're trying to stir them...”
“One of my companions recovered the Horn,” Aramer said softly and took a guess.
Brooke's eyes went narrow, “Medis Sakveri?”
“So you are Viani?” Aramer said with a sharp nod. “I always suspected...”
Brooke grimaced at him, “Always fishing for information, eh?” She shook her head, “If the Horn has returned, that is indeed an omen...”
“There's more,” Aramer said in a low tone as he carried the bags over to his horse. He settled those on the horse, which snorted at him with displeasure. He patted the beast to quiet him and turned to face her, “The bearer of the horn was also the man who recovered the Starblade... and he gifted the Horn to the King of the Wold.”
“To Marastar Firstson?” Brooke demanded, her voice intent.
Aramer frowned, “No. I am told his name was Simonel Greeneye.”
Brooke's blue eyes went wide with surprise, “Then the speakings were true.” She turned away.
“Where are you going?” Aramer asked.
Brooke looked back over her shoulder, her face grim, “To ready my own gear. I'll travel with you, it seems that the end times are upon us.”
***
Siara Pall
The Citadel, Boirton, Duchy of Boir
Feast of Idraw, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Siara paused at the doors to the Audience Hall. Ever since their return to Boirton, she had seen little of her lord. It seemed as if Christoffer Tarken had taken every step he could to avoid her, short of exiling her from his presence. Even aboard ship, he had asked little of her in her duties, often writing letters and reports himself. She had felt a harsh pain at his dismissal of her, which had faded slowly into a dull ache that seemed to envelope her.
Yet today, for the first time, he had called for her. But it was not to attend him in his office or to confide with him over dinner, instead, it was to a formal audience.
She had heard of the Audience Hall, though she had heard that it was seldom used, most often for when the determinations of the Council and Grand Duke needed to be heard by many. It made sense, for many of her people's clans had gathering halls for such a purpose. But, as she paused outside the doors, dressed in her simple gray dress, she felt a worm of deeper concern take her.
What if he rejects me, she thought, and our unborn child, in front of all those assembled? It was not an idle concern. Among her people, it happened occasionally, most often when a man suspected his wife of infidelity. Among her people, that usually meant becoming the slave of another warrior or death as winter came and, with it, starvation and cold.
Here, she knew, it would be possible to survive... but she wasn't certain she would want to. She had given herself to Christoffer Tarken and if he rejected her... then why would she want to go on living? Certainly it was in her power to end her own life, quickly and painlessly.
Yet it seemed terrible to do that to her unborn child. She could feel him, growing within her. She would have to live, for his sake, but that seemed a bitter price for his survival.
The aide stepped back out the door. He gave her a nod, his face inscrutable. “You may enter.”
She lifted her chin, her face went stern. She would not show him her weakness. She would be strong, both for herself and her unborn child. She was the daughter of Marka Pall, the most powerful warlord of the Solak Armen. Siara knew well enough of how to show strength.
She strode forward into the Audience Hall. In other circumstances, she would have felt shock at the scale of the room, broad and wide, and filled with people. She saw them, their faces filled with interest and dressed in their finest. Part of her hated them, then, for their wealth and power, for their arrogance... and for the fact that for whatever reason, her love valued them more than he did her.
She stopped where the aide pointed and stood, a haughty expression on her face, even as she felt her heart crumble. She saw her love's face, stern and emotionless. She wondered, then, if she had truly known him or if she had only seen what she wanted.
“Siara, daughter of Marka Pall, step forward,” Grand Duke Christoffer Tarken said. He sat in the Duke's Seat, a huge, throne-like chair, atop a platform that overlooked the entire hall. The Council sat in a row, several steps down. The symbolism, another time, might have amused her. It was clear to her that Christoffer had finally shouldered his authority in full, for the Council had uncomfortable looks on their faces, but they did not seem ready to speak out against whatever he had to say or had already said.
She strode forward and paused at the base of the steps.
“Siara,” Christoffer said. “You have served the Grand Duchy of Boir, with loyalty and strength. You've saved my life, saved the lives of many of our sailors and Marines... and for that we can never fully repay you.” It is a preamble, she thought, a way to salve his own conscience before he banishes me. She stood even straighter, ready to face what would come, even though she felt her despair mount. Can I survive without him for the rest of my life, she wondered, when even the past few months have been torment?
“It is rare for the Grand Duke to ask for anything, yet I will do so now,” To her surprise, Christoffer said, “Please, Siara, mount the steps.”
Siara's feet moved seemingly of their own volition. She paused, for a moment, on the platform of the Council, but he waved her forward. She felt herself tremble as he stepped onto the platform. Even seated, she found she was the same level as Christoffer's eyes and up close, she saw emotion in those eyes, raw and real and just as powerful as she felt in her own heart. That shocked her, for she had always thought him so controlled, yet she saw he was on the very edge of that
control, just now.
To her shock, he rose and moved to stand before her. “So rare is it that a Grand Duke may have the opportunity to do what he knows is right. So often, it seems, those in my position are forced by circumstance to do what their advisers and peers require of them.” He looked around and Siara could almost hear the grinding of teeth from the Council. What has he done?
“Yet, in this one case, I will do what I feel is best, for the woman who has stood with Boir against it's most fearsome enemies,” Christoffer said. To Siara's shock, he knelt before her. “Siara, will you marry me, be my wife, and bear my children?”
Siara felt her entire world shift. Among her people, marriage was done simply, with little formality. Most often the man simply declared a woman his and was done with it. Occasionally, a father might give his daughter to a warrior who pleased him. Never, in her experience, was a woman asked. Yes, they might want one man or another, or seek to gain their attention, but to be asked...
“You know,” Christoffer said in a low voice from his knees, “while I appreciate the dramatic note to making me await an answer, it would make me look rather foolish if you reject me in front of everyone.”
Siara felt a huge smile grow on her face, “Lord Tarken, of course I accept. I could want nothing more in this world than to be your wife.”
He rose and took her up in his arms. Behind her, she heard cheers, the real, exited cheers of people happy to see their leader so happy. She looked back and saw the ranks of sailors and Marines as they hooted and hollered... and also the faces of the assembled nobility as they smiled painfully and clapped politely. He made enemies there, she thought, ones who will not forgive the fact that their daughters were passed over for a foreign woman.
Yet as he clung to her, she realized that it didn't matter. They were together, he was hers... and she was his. She felt their child stir within her and the first slightest kick. Yes, child, she thought, one day, all this will be yours, and your father and I will prepare you well for it, each in our own ways.
***
Xavien Tarken
Fortress of Armak Zhul, Noriel
Feast of Idraw, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Xavien strode forward and his black robes billowed around him. He felt an odd mix of impatience and worry and his hands clenched on his staff. His agents had only just reported his father's impending marriage to him and he had been about to take action about that when he received this summons. I've done everything asked of me, he thought, almost desperately, the few failures have been those of our supposed allies, not mine.
Yet even as he thought of that, he knew that if his summons were a punishment of some kind, he would not be saved by simple facts such as those.
As he strode the stone corridor, he could feel the tremor beneath his feet as the fires buried deep within the mountain stirred. It was something so common to this place that he didn't even conciously notice it, just as he didn't hear the distant moan of the icy northern wind as it howled against the outer walls of the fortress or the groan of the stone under the weight of snow and ice.
He paused outside the final set of doors. Two looming, silent guards stood unmoving outside it, their bulky, heavy forms menacing despite their stillness. Mere constructs, he thought, devoid of their own will and unable to reason. Even so he felt the cold will of his master emanate from them. Xavien straightened his stooped shoulders and rose to his own impressive height, the one thing he was glad to have from his father.
He walked towards the doors and they opened before him. The massive hall, shrouded in darkness against even his eyes, in many ways felt oppressive. His trepidation mounted as his footsteps echoed into the distance, past the towering columns and towards the distant, unseen walls. He resisted the urge to use some energy to light up the chamber and strode towards the far end of the hall.
He could feel things stir in that darkness, things ancient and powerful. Some, he knew, were made that way by his master, while others had risen to power on their own and been recruited or forced to serve. All of them viewed him as he did they: potential rivals for their master's good favor.
Despite that, there were few changes here in his master's court. Now and then, one being's power waxed and another waned, but these were details that did not matter as Xavien, alone, walked the outside world. He, alone, had that authority and prestige, powerful enough to be his master's Herald and yet still too weak to draw the direct attention of his master's enemies. But not for long, Xavien thought, soon enough, I will be among the master's most powerful servants.
As he drew near the throne, though, Xavien's eyes went wide.
As always, there were two thrones atop the platform, his master's and the one for his consort. His master's, as always, was empty. But a shrouded figure sat in the throne of the Consort. No one, in his experience, had dared to mount those steps and lived, much less taken a seat upon either throne.
“I have come as summoned,” Xavien said.
“Indeed,” a soft voice said from the second throne. “Xavien Tarken, the Herald of Andoral Elhonas, his most loyal servant.” Xavien felt a shudder go through him as she spoke his master's name. There was devotion in that voice, but also hatred and rage. “I wanted to meet you, Xavien, to take your measure and to be certain that you are up to the tasks that my love has assigned to you.” Her hand, he saw, clung to the hilt of a blade he did not recognize, though he could feel his master's power throb through it.
Xavien felt a trickle of terror at the menace in her voice, “Who are you?” he asked, finally.
She rose from her throne and Xavien took a fearful step back.
She threw back her cowl to show red hair and lavender eyes. “I am Seraphai, consort to Andoral Elhonas and Queen of the World.” She smiled then and the raw beauty in her face was matched only by the madness that lurked in her eyes. “And you, Xavien, may kneel to me and swear your allegiance.”
***
King Simonel Greeneye
The Founding, The Eastwood
Feast of Idraw, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
“I have called all of you here to tell you of the attack that we have faced and defeated,” Simonel said, his voice stern. It was all that he could do to restrain his own sadness and despair. The loss of Amelia hurt him badly enough, yet the death of his cousin and the knowledge that they had only gained time, that they had not yet made his people safe caused him even more pain. “Tirianis will speak to the specifics of the attack itself, but I will tell you now of the very great cost and sacrifice of our defense.”
He looked around and only the face of the Warden Ivellios didn't show confusion. Once again, Simonel wondered how much the Viani agent knew and whether Simonel should have asked for his help. It was too late, he knew, to do more than regret that he had not sought out additional help. Seraphai and Amelia had paid for his thoughtlessness with their lives.
“Listania has betrayed us,” he said. His gaze swept the faces gathered at the Founding and he made note of the reactions he saw there. Listania would not have acted alone, he knew, and though she had fled, it did not mean that her allies had done so. “She tormented the spirits of our ancestors to affect our people, to incite violence and rage and to awaken our bonds to Andoral Elhonas.”
While his earlier words had caused a stir, his current ones met with complete silence. “Her goal, it appears, was to bind us to his will once more, to break the terms of our exile and to lead us out into the world at his bidding.”
He paused and took a pained breath, “Seraphai, myself, Amelia Tarken, and Tirianis went to Entraluri Mitsa to oppose her. We fought her and her agents there and Seraphai and Amelia lost their lives in the effort to defeat her. You all will have felt the easing of emotions, our people and spirits regaining their balance as the influence of Andoral Elhonas withdraws.”
“Are you certain that you have overcome his power?” Tharian asked, his voice nervous.
“His power can not be overcome, only held at bay,” Irios said, his
own voice low and ominous.
“Just so,” Tirianis said. Though her voice was calm, Simonel could see the anguish in her leaf-green eyes, just as he felt it in his own heart. She had lost two good friends on the island and to know their losses were but the opening toll in a war that they may yet lose weighed even more heavily upon her than it did him. “The Enchantress held his will at bay, before. Without her, we will be vulnerable. So, a new Enchantress must be found or selected.”
“This isn't possible,” Tharian said. “The spirits choose and empower the Enchantress, not the other way around.” He shook his head and looked worried, “That they have not done so suggests that none who live are worthy.”
“Then we will find one who is worthy,” Simonel said. “For not even spirits are all-knowing.”
“There is no need,” a clear, high voice spoke from across the Founding. Simonel looked up in surprise as a figure strode through the barriers that guarded the Founding. No one, no power, should be able to bypass those wards: not spirit, flesh, or construct. Yet his surprise turned into shock as he took in the short stature, curly blonde hair, and bright blue eyes of the intruder. It can't be, he thought.
“The spirits had chosen an Enchantress... I just hadn't realized it,” she said. “The powers that came to me meant that I could hear and see the spirits and that they recognized me. Yet I didn't understand, I had no idea what was going on... in fact, I thought I was going mad.” She smiled sadly, “If I had asked for help, perhaps someone might have explained it to me and we could have gone from there.”
“But...” Simonel trailed off, too surprised to speak.
Amelia Tarken nodded, “The spirits selected me as their Enchantress.”
###
The End
The Eoriel Saga continues with Fate of the Tyrant
Appendix
