by Tom Lloyd
‘Ah, Lord Isak, might I make a request?’ Jachen said, hesitantly. ‘Could I ask that you call me Major Jachen, or even just Jachen? I realise it’s informal, but there’ll be enough men reminding me I’m a bastard without you doing so.’
‘Done -but I still might call you one from time to time.’
Before Jachen could think of a suitable reply, there came a sharp rap on the door behind him, and a dazzling young woman strode in without waiting for a response. She spared him a puzzled glance before falling into a graceful but perfunctory curtsey. She looked as if she was about to attend High Reverence at the Temple: her white dress was spotless and a silk scarf was draped over her arm, as if ready to cover three of the four beautiful charms pinned into her lustrous braided hair (after all, no one would go into Nartis’ Temple leaving uncovered devices of Triena, Goddess of Fidelity, Ial, an Aspect of Ilit, and Anarie, Goddess of Calm Glades, an Aspect of Amavoq). With a stab of guilt, Jachen realised that Anarie was the only God he had prayed to in the last few years. She’d not answered.
‘My Lord, it is time.’
He sighed. ‘Of course - but Tila, first I want you to meet the new commander of my personal guard, Major Jachen Ansayl, who prefers to be called Major Jachen. Jachen, this is Tila Introl, my political advisor. I suggest you keep your temper around her. Lady Tila’s tongue is barbed and she lacks my sweet temper.’
‘Major Jachen.’ The woman acknowledged him with an incline of her beautiful head. Her long lashes fluttered down, and Jachen felt as if she had recorded every detail of his person in an instant, from the scuff marks on his boots to the missing button on his cuff. His head skipped a beat when her rich brown eyes met his own, then ached at her frosty words as she continued, ‘Your reputation precedes you.’ She made no attempt to hide her disapproval as she dismissed Jachen with a flick of the head.
She turned to Lord Isak. ‘I doubt the men will accept him.’ ‘That’s his problem,’ he replied. ‘If he can’t lead them, then he’s no use to me. He told me about abandoning his men, but I think he’s worth a second chance.’
‘Did he tell you everything? That he was a mercenary for years, fighting for Duke Vrerr, and other thugs? That he once slaughtered a castle’s entire garrison when it surrendered—’
‘Hold on there!’ Jachen broke in, suddenly finding his voice. ‘That’s a lie. We wiped them out, yes, but no man of that garrison ever asked for quarter. If they fight to the last, you don’t get a choice about taking prisoners.’
Tila shrugged. ‘The truth won’t matter in the barracks. As you say, my Lord, it’s his problem. The Synod awaits you.’
Lord Isak gave an exasperated sigh and gestured for Tila to lead the way. Jachen followed them like a lost child. Every dozen steps they were interrupted by people greeting Isak, most formal, but a few more friendly -at one corner he was set upon by flurry of liveried clerks, warning him Chief Steward Lesarl was searching for him. Jachen was ignored by everyone, lost in his new master’s shadow. That suited him fine. From there he could observe the Land as Isak strode through it like a catalyst, affecting everyone he passed. But if that’s true, what have I got myself into? You’re a damn fool, Jachen, he thought. Next time, first find out what happened to the last man who did the job.
The Chief Steward came upon them moments after his clerks. His formal clothes indicated Lesarl had important meetings this morning, yet he still managed to retain his customary air of dishevelment and disorder. Beyond a sharp look at Jachen -unsurprising, considering his reputation -he said nothing, but led Isak into a small office. Jachen, with no further orders, followed behind. As he watched the exchange between the two men, he wondered if there was any truth to the rumours that the men detested each other. He could see nothing untoward; Lesarl was a prickly, brusque man as far as Jachen knew, but the Chief Steward’s manner was sufficiently deferential. It was widely known that Lesarl treated some suzerains with open contempt, but here gossip appeared to be growing its own fertile ground. He could discern no truth to any of it.
‘Since you’re calling the nobles to Tirah,’ Lesarl said, standing close to the white-eye, as if to a long-time confidant, ‘I’ve set the investiture ceremony for two months’ time. It’s a rare event, so we might as well make the most of it and have all the suzerains there. After getting the Synod’s approval you have a number of other meetings.’ Lesarl nodded towards Jachen. ‘You might want to think about whether you take him in to all of them; you don’t trust him as you do Carel.’
‘It appears I’m the only person who didn’t know he was a candidate for the position,’ Lord Isak said pointedly. ‘Perhaps I should be asking you whether I can trust him.’
‘My Lord, of course Kerin asked my opinion, and I have no objection -if I had, the Swordmaster would not have put him in front of you. As it is, I always suspect folk who covet a position of influence. Far better to find an unknown man you consider useful.’ He acknowledged Jachen with a cold smile. ‘Easier to kill this one too, if he’s not up to the job.’
Isak snorted. ‘Let’s give him a week or two first. What about these other meetings?’
‘Principal ministers, the City Council, the Honourable Association of Merchants, and then later tonight my coterie.’
‘Coterie?’ Isak asked.
Lesarl gave Jachen a warning look as he explained, ‘My personal -let us call them advisors. They hold no actual position, and you will never see them at meetings, but they are integral to keeping the nation running. You need never speak to them again, but it is right you meet them and know their faces and their skills. That you will do alone, for their identities remain a state secret. Whilst it is rumoured abroad that I have my own network of spies, if I discover Major Jachen has been talking about my coterie, he’ll disappear -and not just up a mountain this time.’
Lord Isak waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Fine, it’ll probably be the only thing I properly remember. There are so many meetings, so much to sign -it’s all starting to blur. No wonder Lord Bahl left so much of this up to you!’
‘My Lord, no one man can run a nation. It will take you time to absorb all the details -you were not trained from birth to do this, after all, but your aides were. After a few weeks the legal requirements will all be resolved and government will return to normal. Until then, trust me to ensure that everything is being attended to. Your priority is to establish yourself as Lord of the Farlan, a head of state the people can trust, one who will keep life going as usual. Your position as a warrior has, I think, been adequately affirmed. Now, just remember to conduct yourself in meetings as calmly as possible. We would prefer people forgot about stories of the battle of Chir Plains and saw only the intelligent ruler they now have.’
‘And begging the favour of the Synod is the first step in that?’ Lord Isak sighed.
‘The approval of the Synod is an ancient custom,’ Lesarl said. ‘It may be a formality now, but that was not always the case. It is a good reminder of how divided the tribe once was.’
‘So there won’t be any political bargaining going on?’
Lesarl’s smile sparkled back to life, reminding Lord Isak of King Emin of Narkang. ‘My Lord, that you could think such a thing of our holiest men . . .’
He sighed. His Chief Steward found his entertainment in the strangest of ways. ‘Gods, it’s going to be that bad? Tila said they’d at least conform to the ritual format.’
‘I’m sure it will start that way,’ Lesarl agreed, ‘but I suspect the sitting cardinals will be keen to get to business soon enough. After all, you intend to execute Cardinal Certinse’s sister and nephew. There is one final thing: your father. I don’t know if you want to give him a position, or a manor, in Anvee, perh—’
‘No. He won’t accept anything from me.’ He sighed. ‘Just keep an eye on him, keep him out of trouble.’
‘As you wish, my Lord,’ Lesarl said with a sniff. For a moment he looked as if he would speak further, then he bowed low and backed away.
‘Is
ak, concentrate. Repeat it back to me.’ Tila grabbed his deep crimson tunic and tugged it left and right, finally succeeding in straightening the rucked shirt underneath it that was ruining the line.
Isak shooed Tila’s hands away. ‘The sitting cardinals are named Certinse, Veck—Honestly, what sort of a name is Veck?’
‘Never mind that now,’ Tila snapped. Her voice sounded strangely loud in the bare antechamber. They were alone, aside from Jachen, who lingered uncomfortably by the door. Two of Isak’s personal guards, clad in full armour, stood outside the room, warning everyone away. This was the administrative side of the palace, part of the main wing given over to governmental use. The high-ceilinged oval hall on the other side of the door was the Synod Chamber. It was intentionally set apart from the main wing. Isak hadn’t asked why. No doubt there was symbolism involved, but he had quite enough to remember already.
‘Yes, mistress,’ Isak growled without a trace of contrition, and parroted back to her, ‘Certinse, Veck and Echer are the sitting cardinals. Echer is High Cardinal, but he’s very old now so he’ll let the other two speak. The high priests always defer to the three most powerful of their number, and of those Jopel Bern, the High Priest of Death, will take the lead since Voss Aftal will not want to come into direct conflict with the head of his own cult. The only other high priest who might speak is from the Temple of Belarannar, the white-eye Roqinn.’
‘Good, and your two allies there?’
‘The Corlyn, and High Chaplain Mochyd. Satisfied now? Tila, calm down; I remember everything you’ve told me. Now give me a moment to myself, will you?’
Tila hesitated, then curtsied in acknowledgement and stepped back. Isak stretched his back and shoulders. The suit of thick linen Tila had produced might be striking, but he felt constrained by it. She had a thing about putting him in scarlet and gold. He put his palm against the wall; it was cold, and for a moment he felt like it was drawing the very life out of him. When he withdrew his hand, he could feel the ghost of its touch still, a chill tingle running over his skin. How much am I going to have to give to this place?
‘Right,’ he announced, ‘Major Jachen, if you would lead the way? The Duke of Tirah must be presented by a soldier, demanding entrance by knocking on the chamber door with the pommel of his weapon.’ He grinned at Tila, who looked pleased he had remembered what she’d been drumming into him.
Jachen bobbed his head and stepped forward, slipping his sword from its scabbard and reversing it. He rapped three times on the brass plate screwed into the heavy wooden door, sheathed his weapon, took a deep breath and placed a hand on each of the handles. He looked at Isak, who nodded, flung open the doors and swept into the room, announcing Isak’s new title in a clear voice.
He stepped aside, and Isak walked past, looking at the collection of wizened faces peering up at him from a massive oval table. Jachen and Tila pulled the doors shut, then followed to take up their positions on either side of the Duke of Tirah.
‘The Synod welcomes you, Lord Isak, Chosen of Nartis and Duke of Tirah.’ Isak followed the cracked voice to its owner, High Cardinal Echer. The withered old man raised his arthritis-clawed hands, palms towards Isak, in formal greeting. ‘May the hand of Nartis guide you.’
Isak returned the greeting and bowed low to the assembled men and women, sitting in this dim and dusty chamber, silently awaiting the future. Only two could be called young and relatively healthy: Cardinal Certinse, whose family connections had heretofore advanced his career, and Roqinn, the white-eye High Priest of Belarannar. At nearly one hundred summers, Roqinn, like Lord Bahl at more than twice his age, looked no more than forty. Even the jittery new High Priest of Larat, obviously mindful of his predecessor’s violent demise when he had tried to look into Isak’s mind, was white-haired, his face a mass of lines.
‘My Lord,’ said someone, Cardinal Veck, he guessed from Tila’s description, ‘in deference to our High Cardinal’s frail state of health, it has been agreed that I speak in his place. Do you object to this change of protocol? Would you request another in my place?’
The cardinals wore robes of white and midnight blue, edged in scarlet. They reminded Isak of the Knights of the Temples, but he told himself not to get hostile -there would be time for that later.
Isak nodded his agreement and looked around. There was one wall of long thin windows, but half a dozen torches burned brightly to aid the aged priests’ failing sight. The walls were decorated with the flags of each of the Gods represented by the Synod. The two largest, Death’s golden bee on a fresh white field and the coils of Nartis’ black snake, outlined in white thread, on a deep blue background, hung opposite Isak.
These images, the two banners fluttering side by side atop temples and city gates throughout Farlan lands, were etched into Isak’s mind. For a moment he ignored the Synod members squinting up at him and stared at the flags, thinking of the power they represented, and the thrall in which they held mankind. Back in Narkang, on the bloodied floor of the jousting arena, religion had suddenly become something more -not polished artefacts on holy altars, not the sombre drone of voices as incense filled the air. Instead, a primal force had suffused him, raw and savage power setting every nerve on fire. He’d been connected to the ground beneath him, even as the torrent of energy had borne him up into the glittering surge of spring air. That was the God he knew, the God that had claimed him without thought or care for the consequences.
These priests are nothing, whispered a voice in the back of Isak’s head. They care only for worldly matters. Only the white-eye could survive the barest touch of his master. They know nothing of Gods. Such power never flowed through their veins, never shook their bones. Kill them. Even together they could not truly oppose you.
Quiet, spirit, Isak commanded. This is not your business.
You let yourself be commanded by a maid. You tie yourself close to the games of the Gods. Each ceremony and tradition is a string to bind you, each prayer a piece of your soul you offer—
I said, enough! Your babbling bores me. Every word of sense you speak is twisted; I will not be a despot so I must listen to these people.
What difference to the slaves in the field you might send to death on a whim?
Perhaps none, but for me there is. Now be quiet.
‘Lord Isak,’ Cardinal Veck continued hesitantly, looking somewhat puzzled by Isak’s vacant expression, ‘you come before us to claim honour beyond that of kings?’
Isak bowed.
‘Before a man can be placed above kings, he must look up to the heavens and know his own place. Sit now, without threat or pride.’
Isak unbuckled his swordbelt, letting it fall to the floor for Jachen to sweep up, then approached the table and eased himself onto the stool that had placed ready for him. The Synod members sat in ornately carved chairs, but Isak must sit before them in humility.
‘Now, in the presence of the Gods here represented, and the tribe of the Farlan, state your claim.’
Isak waited a moment, trying to gauge how loud he should speak, then began, ‘I claim the title of Lord of all Farlan. I claim acknowledgement of the Synod that I am Chosen of Nartis and worthy of this title; His Will done by my hand, His Majesty upheld by my deeds.’
‘High Priest of Nartis,’ called Cardinal Veck. On his left, Voss Aftal flinched. ‘Do you accept this man’s claim to Nartis’ favour and blessing?’
Most of the Synod looked keenly interested in the proceedings; Aftal appeared to be as frightened as the High Priest of Larat. He tried to clear his throat and gave a strangled splutter. ‘I—Yes,’ he managed finally. ‘He has been touched by the storm and emerged from its light marked as a brother. The Cult of Nartis so accepts Isak, Duke of Tirah, as Chosen of Nartis and first among His Blessed.’
‘Then the claim is acknowledged as valid,’ intoned Cardinal Veck, looking for all the world like he was enjoying himself.
Isak glanced down the line of faces. There were three women on the Synod. The High Prieste
ss of Amavoq was staring so fiercely at him that Isak began to wonder if he’d done anything to offend her.
Have I even met her before? I don’t remember it. Isak suddenly smiled as he realised the old woman’s eyesight was failing and she was squinting, trying to bring him into focus. And you suspected the worst. You’re a fool. Reasons behind every deed, enemies in every shadow.
Enemies in the shadows! shrieked Aryn Bwr unexpectedly. ’Ware the shadows, their eyes and claws! ’Ware the terrible webs they weave!
Isak ignored the voice.
‘High Chaplain Mochyd,’ the High Cardinal called next, turning to his right and looking to the furthest seat. ‘To be Lord of the Farlan, a warrior is needed to keep us strong. Will you follow this man into battle?’
‘I will,’ came the gruff reply. ‘He has led our armies and rained righteous fire upon the enemies of our tribe. I will follow him.’
Like most chaplains, Mochyd had been a tall man, and powerful. Time and hard living had aged him, not the magic that had so drained the high priests. Though white-haired and wrinkled, there was strength and will in those old bones, Isak thought, and that couldn’t be said for the men of magic on the Synod. He could see why Lord Bahl’s circle of friends had included a number of chaplains. They tended to be fiercely loyal, so devoted to their calling that it became the essence of their being. They were men Bahl understood.
‘Corlyn,’ called the cardinal next, ‘to be Lord of the Farlan, a man of piety is needed. Do you trust this man to be an example to the people?’
The old man with gentle eyes on Veck’s far left gave Isak a benevolent smile, and said calmly, ‘I do.’
That was it; the Corlyn said nothing more. Isak tried not to smile at the thought of him as a spiritual leader -he’d only remembered to visit the Temple of Nartis after returning to Tirah because Lesarl had reminded him. A less suitable choice he couldn’t imagine.
