Another flambeau into the fire, and a torrent of shrieking rattled Captain Rodriguez's ears. He winced, turning his eyes away from the smoke, but more-so away from the manic woman tethered to the stake. He'd lost count of how many had burned today, and his core no longer quivered when he consigned them to oblivion. Abrahan Rodriguez was a pious man. He'd been sure of his faith all his life, and he was a soldier to the core, yet he was none too thrilled when assigned the task of purging the village of Imbriz. Abrahan crossed off another name on the parchment in his hand, looking down the row of ink that spelled the deaths of dozens. "...Captain," a voice insisted. "What?" Abrahan shot, suddenly agitated. He caught himself, suddenly ashamed, and said in a calmer tone, "Go on, Ensign." "We've finished setting another row of pyres for the next lot, Sir. Shall we bring them in?" Abrahan gave his adjutant a dejected nod, handing over the parchment. "I'll leave it to you, Ensign. I need a gulp of fresher air," he said, and left the inferno at Imbriz's square.
_____
The Pontifical Palace, Aldmeria
Mauricio Sánchez stood, gazing intently though the chamber window into the fields beyond the palace. Beyond the expanse of green, a steady black haze grew on itself, staining the complexion of the sky. The smoldering cloud had been there since morning, looming over Imbriz - the shadow of its sin, or so Mauricio told himself. At least sixty had been condemned today, and they weren't to be the last in the days to come. The Presbyter General turned away from the smoke with a smug satisfaction. This was what it meant to be powerful, to have custody of the lives of men in one's hands. With the High Pontiff's life snuffed by old age, it was God's will that Mauricio set right the path of Antova in his stead. Thanks be to God and Fiorentino.
The warrior-clergyman clapped his hands and an emaciated custodian in the heraldry of he church stepped into the office. Mauricio procured a handful of identical scrolls, stamped the Pontificial seal. "One for each of Antova's Pontiffs. Ensure every kingdom receives theirs." The custodian bowed, taking the bundle of parchment and ejected himself from the room. The letters were addressed to each Pontiff of the Antovan kingdoms; the next High Pontiff needed to be elected. Mauricio was bound by duty to call them to office - had tradition not demanded it, he was not so sure he'd convene an election at all. But that was the way of things. The Church demanded a Pontiff at its head. He ran a gnarled finger through the bush at his chin. It was under his orders that the Ambrusians resume their purges on the heretics and the magic-workers. With a High Pontiff-less vacuum, it had been up to him to restore order; to show that the Church was still a very real and present part of Antova. He knew he had allies in this, namely the old-timer bishops and more conservative men such as himself. But he frowned as he thought of Antova's Pontiffs. Though they represented the spiritual welfare of their respective kingdoms, those countries varied in piety, and he'd never been sure he could count each and every one as an ally. That is a matter for the election, he told himself. He spared another glimpse at the smoldering mass in the distance, and exited his office.
The Grand Duke was silhouetted by a paroxysm of dusty light erupting from the high east windows upon the dais; through the beams, one could glimpse brief winkings of light off of gilt platters and glass decanters. He was at his breakfast, which, as per his wont, stretched throughout most of the morning in a pageant of alternating victuals and, of greatest interest to the Duke, libations. Three watches yet remained before noon’s height, and he had already polished off a decanter of brandy and two bottles of young Lôrasse red.
Antas ever marvelled at the man’s stamina.
He did not see—a consequence of the illumination—but rather heard the Duke’s snicker.
“And what does the fuck want from us now?” he began, his light tenor thick with derision, “More coin, perhaps? Another pouch of nutmegs? Pah!”
The Grand Duke Lirian of House Valbe was a learned man—a patron of the arts, a shrewd penny-pincher, an able tactician, a gourmand of the historical (not to mention the epicurean), and even the architect of, though still admittedly callow, poetic quatrains.
That, of course, did not inhibit him from…unsavory speech, the kind that would make the more straight-laced courtiers of the Flagstone Court blanch and utter a truncated hosannah to the Saint. Especially in the private company of his trusted Seneschal.
Antas grinned, sweating already in his pine velvet doublet, and approached the dais. The light assaulted his eyes, inciting a coruscation of points and shadows behind his eyelids. He winked into the rays, grimacing, which bought a laugh from the Duke. He rose from his seat at the teak escritoire, and wordlessly gestured to the balcony, the glimmering plate of the port far below.
They sat about a low table, in the Eastern manner, upon silken cushions richly embroidered, as the Duke poured him a cup of wine.
Antas could see that he had neglected to shave, presumably for a few days now, and a thick stubble, dark and spattered with shining bands of grey, sprouted from his hard jaw.
“Do you wish the court to believe their Duke has been replaced by a Nordöldten axe thrower?” the Seneschal asked bemusedly, raising his goblet to Lirian’s honor and drinking deep.
A fine vintage, to be sure.
“They’d like that, wouldn’t they?” the Duke returned, reclining upon the pillows and sipping gingerly at his wine, “No, Antas...I’ve been preoccupied, as you might imagine. I’ve scarcely the patience to countenance Portos’ bumbling for the nonce.
“Besides,” he continued, scratching at the burgeoning growth with a pensive air, “Beards are in vogue, or so I gather, in Turchina. Perhaps I ought to spark a pogonic frenzy.”
They chuckled at that briefly, before a small silence settled, and the time arose to get to the point. They were, after all, perhaps the Grand Duchy’s busiest men.
Antas set the tone, a wanton breeze off the sea nearly giving him cause to pocket the parchment; rather, he handed it to the Duke for his study, “Elections have been convoked, my Lord. For the office of High Pontiff.”
But the light of recognition had already dawned upon Lirian’s rapidly searching visage. “Ah,” he uttered, like an oath.
“Well, then.”
“Praise God and Saint fucking Fiorentino,” Antas snorted, draining his goblet and replenishing it in the same motion.
“You know, you ill-bred cankerwort, that I will not acquiesce to sacrilege. If you’re cold, the Order’s fires are very warm,” the Duke riposted, his voice flat. However, a moment later, he raised his eyes from the letter and flashed him a toothy smile, before returning to his task.
“A rambler, that Mauricio, is he not?” Antas probed sardonically.
“Yes, yes...but then again, he is a cleric. It seems their lot in life to pontificate upon the various manners by which we will be damned in the fires of perdition.”
“The Notables will have to be convened. Shall we elect a date?”
“As soon as we are capable of, gentle Antas,” the Grand Duke replied, folding the parchment and tucking it into some compartment of his unlaced doublet, “I’d prefer to be done with it. Have riders sent posthaste, preferably before this afternoon.”
“It will be done, my Lord,” the Seneschal returned, inclining his mottled pate a few degrees, “As for the matter of our candidate...might I suggest—”
“It will be Barthóld.”
Antas raised his brows—hoary as caterpillars and white as snow fox fur—at that. Wenčel Barthóld was Bishop of Letwijs, an important fortress city in the hinterlands of the Veldt. But most critically, it lay within the jurisdiction of the Duke of Innes.
The Seneschal, of course, did not have need to consider the implications of the Grand Duke’s choice. It was the essence of simplicity, after all.
Barthóld was a conservative curate, and thus could stymie the fervor that diseased the Veldtish, it seemed, from the womb, like some divine malediction. But, he was no zealot; despite his religious fever, he did not seem to share the lust for witch blood that had crept into every corner of Antova. The man, though getting on in years, hailed from a more pacific age.
With the backing of the Veldtish dukedoms, it would be a thoughtless thing to overcome the proposals of the Unterham block. Julla would doubtless prop up their candidate as well—the one thing they despised more than the horsefuckers of the Veldt were the horsefuckers of the South. Péy, of course, was a foregone conclusion. Likely Duke Godefroy would forward the Bishop of Ondaz—he was his cousin, after all—but the Grand Duke knew how to deal with the man.
It was an effortless choice, engineered to succeed.
Scruple, however, played over Antas’ countenance.
“How well do you know this Barthóld?” he asked, studying the brigantine coming to port. Reheban, by the looks of it.
“Precious little, beyond the surface of it, I fear. I gather that his repute is well earned—he has penned some treatises which are respected amongst the clergy. His reputation, of course, is not limited to our own borders...He does not seek to reinvent the wheel, thankfully. I was rather hoping to invite him to give mass for the Feast of Saint Ogbas in the coming month.”
“A splendid idea, my Lord. You might profess your adoration for those treatises of his. I daresay he shall find the opportunity irresistible,” Antas replied, fingering his own beard.
“But...can he bought? Can he be controlled?”
The Grand Duke regarded him levelly, a phantom of a smile dimpling his bearded cheeks.
“All men, no matter how holy, have their price, Antas,” he murmured softly, with an air of conspiracy.
“Let us sound his timbre and play his tune. What man, after all, could repudiate us, when we offer them the world?”
The Grand Duke of Cordonova, Lirian of House Valbe, receives Mauricio's letter calling for the convocation of elections for High Pontiff.
He and his Seneschal, Antas Girgonne, make preparations for the convening of the Notables, the council of nobles which arbitrate decisions of import within the Grand Duchy.
They discuss the matter of their candidate to be presented to the Notables for the election of High Pontiff, one Wenčel Barthóld, the Bishop of the fortress-city of Letwijs in the Duchy of Innes.
Lirian wishes to invite the Bishop to Léonne in order to administer the mass of the Feast of Saint Ogbas in the coming month, and, of course, to recruit the Bishop to his side.
The sky above Mierbuerg was grey with clouds, the sun's light only occasionally peeking out from a break in the clouds. Rain was falling upon the city, and while at present it was only a drizzle, the sound of far off thunder warned of a coming downpour in the none to distant future. Throughout much of the city, many were making their way home with only those who had business more important than being caught in the coming storm.
The exception to this was Mierbuerg's harbour, where sailors were quickly making certain their vessels were secure and dock workers were working as quickly as they could to move the ships' cargo to the warehouses. The docks themselves were of relatively high quality, with Mierbuerg being the largest port in the Kingdom it could afford to keep the docks in good shape. Most of the dockworkers themselves were quite obviously poor, but one could see the well-dressed merchants and captains, both foreign and local, here and there. Of course, most of them were making their way to the relative dryness of their ships or local taverns.
The Lucrecia, one of the most priced vessels in house Idoni's own fleet was pulling into harbour, seeking shelter from the coming rain. Gilded ships, with the indigo trimmed sails of the Turchinan navy where rarely seen this far north up the coast, too poor was most of the populace, as that huge shipments of the fine goods of the southern cities luxury goods would sell well enough here. None the less, for the most part the southerners where happily welcomed, especially by the local traders, bend on making the best deal, of securing goods as priced as these.
The Ship in fact brought more than just goods though, the Turchinan Maestro di Marina, Pierro Idoni himself was on board. The tall man was standing up in the bow of the rowboat, that shuttled him to the pier, even before the ship had reached it. Something like this was almost never seen done by such a finely clothed man. The prideful sight was only spoiled by the constant muttering of the young woman sitting in the boats stern. "Father you never told me this place would be so wet and cold, will we be at shore soon?" The woman asked pulling her shawl closer to her shoulders. It was the maestro's youngest daughter Cosima Idoni, already famed for her beauty despite her meager 16 years.
Waiting upon the shore, having been waiting inside close by until word had spread of the ornate ship pulling into the harbour, was the Grand Duke's steward accompanied by several of the vun Mierbuerg family's household knights. The steward himself was a rather portly man, completely bald aside from an expansive mustache, dressed in clothing that, while fine, paled in comparison to the Maestro di Marina's own. The group of knights themselves were dressed in full plate male, their swords at their hilts and shields upon their backs.
The Steward waited patiently for Pierro to make his way to shore, and upon his arrival made sure to stand up as straight and tall as he could, which still wasn't particularly impressive, before greeting his master's most-esteemed guest.
"Ah, Maestro Pierro I presume?" the Steward said, "I am Fernand vun der Schlaang d'Dier, Steward of Groussherzog Stephan vun Mierbuerg. My master has been awaiting your arrival quite eagerly."
As the boat reached the shore the Maestro was the first to be on dry ground, not even waiting for his sailors to make fast. It was very apparent that, despite being in his early fifties and of a high office, the man very much still retained a good fitness and nimble body of a seasoned sailor. He shortly shifted his rich clothing to make it fit properly again. He wore the finest Turchina's looms churned out and a gilded cuirass in the modern style, everything bordered with the stitched golden dagger crosses of his coat of arms. A crass contrast to the Ardäin men's more traditional plate. He waited for his own men to help his still mumbling daughter up behind him, even lend her a gallant hand, then turned and bowed appropriately deep. "Your presumption is well founded my Lord. Maestro di Marina Pierro Idoni, and may I introduce my fairest and youngest daughter? The fair Cosima Idoni." He indicated her and the young girl, cheeks and ears rosy by the cold air, curtsied perfectly, though her biting the corner of her lower lip might have spoiled this perfect execution of the gesture a bit, at least to those most observant of onlookers.
Steward Fernand bowed just as deeply in return to the two foreign dignitaries, keeping his surprise at the presence of the Maestro's daughter to himself but too distracted by it to notice her momentary lapse in custom. Whether the Grand Duke was unaware, or simply had not deemed it fit to inform him of the girl's presence he did not know. Nor was it his place to question his master regardless. Meanwhile the knights accompanying him gave their own bows as well.
"It is a pleasure to meet the both of, though I am no Lord. I am naught but a simple steward," he said, before gesturing towards the city, "And I hope I am not being presumptuous, but I assume the Maestro and his daughter would prefer to be out of this rain. My master has prepared a carriage to take you to his abode, if you would please follow me."
The Maestro nodded smiling faintly. "A dry place would be very welcome indeed." Pierro answered and followed the welcome party to the waiting transport occasion. Again he respectfully let his daughter mount the wagon first, helping her in, before following himself, into the dim, but dry insides of the coach.
The carriage itself was ornate with the wood carved in a multitude of sea-based images, and the interior had curtains one could pull shut so that those outside could not see inside. Meanwhile the steward and the knights entered a second, and far plainer, carriage and the group began on it way. They made their way through the gates separating the harbour from the rest of the city and began the journey toward the Grand Duke's castle. It was on tall hill overlooking Mierbuerg, and while it could be seen from the docks the rain and dimness prevented one from making out any real details. Many of the streets were empty, owing to the coming storm, though there was the occasional hurried servant out doing a chore for their master. For the Grand Duke had planned out a very specific route for the Maestro and his daughter to take, one which stayed almost exclusively in the more affluent parts of the city and completely avoided the slums.
Cosima held the curtains open just a bit to peer outside, for her eyes, so very used to the splendour of Turchinas palazzi even the richer parts of town looked rather, rustic and shabby. "So daughter, is the north as romantic as you thought?" he quibbed, a gleam in her fathers eye. She sighed a bit at that. "Oh well, it is not as colourful as in the books, that much I can tell father." he laughed jolly at it "I told you when you asked me to come. the real world rarely looks like the woodcuts in your sagas and legends." she pouted and stared accusingly at him for that. "Aw don't be mad Cosima, gibing my daughter is one of the few unspoiled joys of your old fathers life." They rolled on through the cities streets for some time, before Pierro smiled faintly as he inspected the decorum. "At least they have an affinity for the sea like we do, though I doubt that this steward ever even set foot on a proper ship."
But eventually the carriages would reach their destination, and it was a sight to behold. The castle, commonly known as the Mermaid's Palace, was a gargantuan thing and a relic of a bygone age. Though it was unlikely to stand up to cannon fire, it was a formidable fortification in the past. It was befitting a city in such an important location as Mierbuerg, as well as having been a suitable seat in ages long past when house vun Mierbuerg ruled the mouth of the river as Kings. Though the carriages had to halt for the castle's portcullises to open, it was hardly a long wait. When the carriages came to a stop before the great palace itself and a servant opened the door for the Maestro and his daughter it was not a moment too soon. For the thunder had grown more frequent and was now accompanied by flashes of lightning, and one could see the deluge of water making its way in from the sea.
Worriedly Pierro gazed back as the others hurried into the grand old building, hoping his vessel had made fast in time, and would weather this storm. The harbour had seemed a bit too exposed to this particular wind direction when they where coming in. As his gaze was stopped by the castlewall and afterwards when heading in, the maestro took note of his surroundings. The vun Mierbuergs apparently really where as traditionalist as the rest of this land, most of Turchina's provinces by now had build modern fortifications, optimized against cannonfire, not as traditionally charmingly vertical though. Castles like this did not make much sense to him, why live in the shadow of walls that cannot protect anymore? Why not pull them down, and add bigger windows to let in more sun? Time apparently really passed a lot differently up here, he decided, he would need to step carefully.
The Turchinans would, upon entering the palace be greeted by the structure's foyer. It would be their first taste of how the Ardäin's real nobility lived. Not the merchants or the simply affluent of the land, but the true ruling class that held almost all of the real power in the Ardäin. The foyer of the Mermaid's Palace was a grand thing, massive and spacious affair with a pair of marble staircases leading upwards to a second level balcony, with hallways extending to the left and right on both levels and a grand set of thick double-doors straight ahead on the ground floor. This door itself was engraved with a number of images, some somewhat recognizable from tales of the Ambrusian Church, whilst others were of Ardäinesch legends foreign to the Maestro. In addition, the lanterns illuminating the room were all held by statues of mermaids, and indeed mermaids seemed to be a rather common theme. There were banners draped from the balcony emblazoned with a pair of mermaids on a blue background with a silver crown above them, the sigil of the vun Mierbuerg family.
Pierro and his daughter where visibly impressed by the grand entrance hall. To the girl it was the first time she saw something that approached her mental image of this place. All the feudal and chivalric elegance she had dreamed off. The Father took note of the elegant stonework and historical and allegorial imagery, echoing a past when his home city was just a collection of rather poor fishing villages at the muddy shore. A shadow of understanding this clinging to tradition and an old way of doing things dawned on him.
And standing in the middle of the foyer to greet them was a young man, dressed in exceptionally fine clothes. The tunic, long boots, cape, gloves, everything the man wore were dyed predominantly in shades of blue and made of expensive fabrics. Even though the outfit might seem old fashioned to the Maestro and his daughter, there was no doubting its quality. As for the man himself, he had the pale skin common to the people of the Ardäin as well as light brown hair styled back over his head except for a single curl that draped across his forehead. He was rather handsome, though not exceptionally so, and had striking eyes of deep green.
Cosima took note of the young gentleman from the corner of her eyes but feigned chaste nonchalance, hiding behind a fan she produced from somewhere.
When Steward Fernand saw him, he gave the man a deep bow which he responded to with the nod of his head. Then Fernand turned to the Pierro and Cosima, "Please allow me to introduce Lord Wellëm vun Mierbuerg, Knight Paramount of the Order of Saint Aloysius and youngest son of Groussherzog Stephan vun Mierbuerg."
Pierro bowed approriately deep "Your Grace, I am honoured to be welcomed to your families seat. I hope you do not mind our disheveled appearance, we were surprised by a shower on our way up here."
Wellëm chuckled at that as he returned Pierro's bow with a nod. "Oh, it is no problem at all; I was lucky enough to be inside when the rains began. I assume you are the Maestro di Marina and his daughter?" he said with a smile, sneaking a glance at the young woman, "I can tell you are not Ardäinesch, and I do not believe my father is expecting anyone else of such obviously high status."
The Maestro smiled at that. "You are not mistaken m'lord. I am Pierro Idoni, Maestro di Marina of Turchina. And this is my beloved, youngest, Cosima Idoni. It is a pleasure to meet you of course, your Highness." He then turned to the Steward again. "I hope it is not rude to ask, I would welcome it if we where shown to our Quarters, so we can refreshen and order ourselves before we meet the Grosshairsog."
"Oh, not at all Maestro. His Grace expected you to be tired from your long journey north, so the formal meeting has been scheduled for tomorrow to allow your party rest," the Steward said, deciding it improper to bring attention to the foreign noble's pronunciation of the Groussherzog's title.
"Ah, though my father does want to meet with you before then, Maestro," Wellëm said, "He enjoys speaking without the restrictions of formality. So once you have settled in, I can send a servant to take you to him if you wish."
Pierro looked surprised at this. "Your father invites me to his solar? I am truly honoured. I did not expect to be able to treat so freely with him, and appreciate the opportunity."
The Maestro and his daughter soon retreated to their shared chamber talking a bit as they got comfortable. Their luggage chest had been brought by the Lucrecia's sailors a bit after they had reached the caste themselves. Pierro got into a far less pompous black outfit, made of fine fabric but without any ornamentation apart from a stitched pattern of dagger crosses in the same black colour, only visible to the most observant of eyes. Cosima meanwhile was brushing her long hair, sitting at an window alcove. "You are strangely quiet today, child. Pray is there anything wrong?" Her father said softly as he was finished getting ready. "What do you think, too casual for an informal meeting with an Arciduca? Or maybe even not casual enough?" The young woman sighed softly "You look fair enough father." At that Pierro furrowed his brow but decided not to press the matter. "I will be back later and will tell you what the Lord is like. " At this he left the chamber.
The servants had been informed of their lord's desire to meet with the Maestro, and so it did not take long for Pierro to find one to take him to meet with the Grand Duke. The trip to the solar was not a particularly long one, though it took the Maestro through several long hallways and finally up a long, circular staircase up one of the castle's towers. The servant politely knocked on the door, and a muffled voice responded from within at which the servant opened the door for Pierro, and politely bowed as he entered.
The solar itself contained more of the ornate decoration; though the walls and floor were stone there was a variety of ornate wooden furniture, the floor was covered in an expensive rug, and beautiful tapestries hung from the walls in between the tall windows. There were also several bookcases, and a fireplace in front of which sat an older man. He was dressed in a relatively plain outfit of blue and silver, but was made of fine fabric nonetheless. The man's short-cropped hair and neatly-trimmed beard were dark grey with a hint of its original brown, showing his age, but his body and arms still had the muscular thickness of a trained warrior which age had only just begun to strip away.
When he saw the Maestro he looked up and smiled. "Ah, Maestro Pierro. I have been expecting you; please, have a seat," he said, putting the book he had been reading down and gesturing to another chair in front of the crackling fireplace, "I must say, it is a pleasure to meet you at last."
Pierro bowed not quite es deep as he would have in more formal surroundings before having a seat. "Thank you very much for having my your Highness. The pleasure is all mine." The dark clothing quite accentuated his own greying hair and through the fine fabric it was apparent that his legs where still very much trained by walking on an ever shifting ship deck. "I hope it will not be a problem that I brought my youngest with me to your domain?"
"Oh no, not at all Maestro. Though I do have to ask you not to call me 'your Highness'; that's reserved solely for the King. Your Grace would be the proper way to address me in public," Stephan said, then sighed, "Irritating, I know. But we Ardäinesch do love our formalities. However, this is not formal, so would you object to referring to one another by name? It makes conversation far easier, I find."
Pierro lowered his head shortly apologetically. "Oh I am sorry for my lack in courtly etiquette, I have to admit it is not one of my strong suits. As you know to hold office in my own Country one must not carry any lordships, thus is our republican custom. Anyways by all means let us call each other by our names of birth, I will simply be Pierro then."
"Honestly, I do not expect anyone from outside the Kingdom to know all the intricacies of Ardäinesch etiquette. The only reason I know it is because it was drilled into me since I was a child," Stephan replied nonchalantly, "So, Pierro, you said you brought your youngest? Would they be a son or daughter?"
"Oh I have been blessed with many a great fortune, but a son is none of them." He chuckled softly. "No it in fact is my youngest daughter. My wife was against traveling with her, but she begged me relentlessly for days, so what was I to do? I do have a soft spot for my offspring, Cosima in particular." He indicated the Archdukes glasses and decanter. "May I?"
Stephan gestured to the glasses as well, "Oh, of course. I actually recently received an excellent batch of wine from my brother-in-law. House vun der Riefstack is renowned throughout the Ardäin for its vineyards, so I am sure you'll find one to your liking. Shall I call in a servant? Or would you prefer to pour it yourself?"
"Oh no need to busy the menial staff. I know how to handle a good wine." he said inspecting the colour in the decanter before pouring for both of them, holding it up to the light, smelling and in the end tasting a sip. He nodded after some time, satisfied "I have to say, I did not expect to find such a fine drop this far north. It must be hard cultivating the vines in this climate?"
"If I am to be honest, I don't really know. The vun der Riefstacks live quite far to the south; on the southern border, actually. So if anyone knew, it'd likely be my wife seeing as how she grew up there," Stephan said, casually taking a sip from his own glass, "But you say you brought your daughter? I must ask, how is she enjoying her little taste of the Ardäin? It must be a far cry from what she is used to."
"I wouldn't know, we only took water once and didn't dock at that particular port, and only just got here. I think she imagined it a bit different, she quite likes tales of Ardäin chivalry and I think the colourful etchings and paintings might have given her a distorted picture of your land." He took another sip sighing. "But what do I know, when I left she was staring out the window wistfully. I think seeing something of the world will do her good, maybe even help her grow up?" he seemed to ponder this. "So you do have a son. A fine young gentleman, we met him when we came into your house, down in the entry hall. Any other children?"
"Ah, young Wellëm told me he met you when you had just arrived. He is a fine young man, and I certainly am proud to have him for a son though I am glad he is not my eldest. He is something of a romantic as well, you see," Stephan said, "And I do have several other children. My eldest son serves as castellan for one of my family's other keeps, to prepare him to take my place. My second son serves at the King's court in Kinnekdrelaps alongside my darling daughter, Queen Stephanie." Though the Grand Duke did his best to hide it his body and voice tensed up at the mention of his daughter, and it seemed as though he had more to say but nothing more was forthcoming.
Pierro decided not to push this topic too much, but mentally took note of this, nodding slowly as the other man talked. "So you are blessed with quite a few children yourself and have done well for them. What more can a father wish for in live." He nodded some more as he finished his glass. "Alas my own children making days are over, or at least my Lady wives. Most likely the leadership of my house will end up in my nephews hands." he said seriously. "Which could be worse, I made sure to take him under my wing long years back and he serves as admiral to our fine cities fleet. Hah I'd say I had just as much influence on him as my brother." He remained silent, watching the glass in his hand.
"Maybe we should talk about something more elevating than lineages." but he did not bring up any particular topic himself, just looking at Stephan.
"Hah, perhaps it is for the best. Men our age can certainly wax on about about their families without stopping, true?" Stephan said with a small smile, "Perhaps we should speak of more pertinent matters? Such as that which brings you so far north, maybe?"
"My fine Mierbuerg may be an impressive sight in the Ardäin, and while plenty of traders come and go here could always be more. Do you not agree?" Stephan said, "Perhaps your countrymen do not think there is much of value up here in our land, and I know that many outside the Kingdom think us Ardäinesch backwards and foolish. But I invited you here hoping that, perhaps, I could change your mind."
The Maestro listened intently. "I have to admit that I myself never gave it too much thought. My late father and the Doge, when he was still able to fulfill his duties. very much set up Turchina's trade to be quite export oriented, and especially focused on luxury goods. And while the noble houses up here are good buyers for such wares, especially when it comes to dyes and fabrics it just wasn't really worthwhile sending that many a ship up." He thought about it. "I myself have to admit, that while I am a fine naval commander and seaman, I am not that much of a trader, it's mostly my brother who oversees our families businesses. He even sits on the council of seven for me. Though I must say from what I have seen so far, and that is not much, I can say that there apparently are very fine craftsmen in your land and there might be many a good that would fetch quite the coin elsewhere. Also with better relations between our own families, and by extent Ardäin and the Republic, I can imagine ships of mine sailing up here more often, and maybe, if the other nobles allow it, finding their way upstream from here."
He had been staring distractedly as he talked then focused again, a smile flickering over his face."Maybe I am playing too much with open cards. My, my you know how to listen and how to make a man talk."
Stephan smiled as well, quietly taking another sip of his wine as he did so. "I find that taking the time to listen to others is often just as important, if not more so, than talking yourself. And, like you, I am more of military man than a trader but brokering such relations is within the best interests of my House, so I do what I must," he said, "In addition, I agree with everything you have said, and I must say it gladdens me that we seem to be of the same mind. And much of the river from here to the capital is under the domain of either me or my grandson, Herzog Rodolphe vun Gëllenduerf, so your ships will be allowed travel of the lower Ardäin at the very least."
Pierro's smile brightened at that, a determined gleam in his one Eye. "Who would have expected me to find such kinship of interest so easily, it gladdens me that you arranged for the opportunity to talk as freely as we just do. As can be attested by the fruit this already bears it is a good way to go." Satisfied he scratched his chin beard a bit. "Details are best left to another time, let us rather talk about what is planned for the morrow. Is there anything I need to know? Any pitfalls of etiquette I need to steer clear of. I do not intent to spoil our fine fruit before it is ripe, after all."
"Well, the fact that you are a foreigner is likely to help; you likely will not be held to as high a standard since you were not raised here. Though I will be frank, many in my court view the Turchinan noble families as little more than upjumped peasants. Even those who, just a few generations ago, were simply rich traders of no noble blood. But you are my guest, so they will at least treat you with respect," Stephan said, then scratched his beard in thought, "The official meeting will take place in the morning, in the castle's Hall. It is, essentially, my throne room but only the King is allowed to call his fancy chair a throne. I will send my herald to you so that you can inform him of your full titles so he may introduce you, as it is considered improper for members of the ruling class to introduce themselves in a formal setting. Otherwise, simply be as polite as possible and make sure that you wear the most expensive clothes you brought along with you. Oh, and Groussherzog or Your Grace would be the proper way to refer to me."
He nodded from time to time listening intently. "I am very aware of this view on our noble houses, most in fact started out this way, though one could argue that the number of 'proper' nobility that married in should at least account for something. Anyways would it be proper to bring my daughter to this occasion? I think she would like witnessing such a pompous occasion, and maybe even learn a thing or two."
"Oh, of course," Stephan replied, "So long as she follows the proper etiquette as well. And, well, make sure she does not speak unless someone else speaks to her first."
"Oh do not, worry. Most of these rules apply in Turchina in a similar fashion, and my daughter is a lot better at observing this than I am myself."
At that Stephan smiled and stood up to retrieve the bottle of wine before pouring himself another glass and handing to to Pierro. "Well, I look forward to meeting you tomorrow," he said, raising his glass, "To a long and fruitful future."
Pierro did the same, standing and raising his glass "May good fortune come for both our houses from this."
Turchina's Maestro di Marina, Pierro Idoni, travels with his youngest daughter, Cosima Idoni, to the Ardäinesch city of Mierbuerg to meet with it local lord, Groussherzog Stephan vun Mierbuerg.
Josef Vin Sapazech, a Captain in the tenth regiment of horse, was searching a brothel for a priest.
Specifically, it was the Pontiff of Vohemia. As a boy, he'd seen the cleric give sweeping sermons in his native Bystre. To see such a man's arse, red and raw from the attentions of two prostitutes, as he snored in a rickety bed. It was unnerving and also hilarious to Josef and his search party of uhlans. The house madam had shooed the two ladies of supposed pleasure out of the cunningly decorated room. Heavy linen sheets of burgundy were hung up like curtains to hide the timber frames and pale walls.
Josef glanced to the other Uhlans, who were either shocked or holding back laughter. He'd charged the hill forts of heathen mountain clans in snowstorms, but Josef discovered that waking a hungover, naked priest was another foe altogether.
With his boots creaking the boards beneath his feet, Josef leaned over the Pontiff at a safe distance. "Your holiness?" Josef said firmly, with barely a rumble or a flinch from the cleric. "Your holiness? Wake up" Josef louder, noticing the balding head of the man rise up from above the pillow.
"...Leave me be...can't you see I am plagued by the demons of liquor" The clergyman said with exasperation and his once powerful voice. "I can't do that your holiness, The king dispatched me to collect and bring you to his highness" Josef told the Pontiff, quickly pulling up the blanket with a bumbling hand to cover himself. "Just a few more moments of sleep my dear boy" The priest continued before arching his mouth in a great big yawn. Resting on his back, the pontiff's fat stomach curved with the dark blanket like a bulbous hill covered in a dark forest.
Josef grabbed just some of the Pontiff's vestments on the floor and dropped them on the clergyman's face. "The king particularly said that if you were to refuse, we were to dangle you from the Svatlava bridge as we crossed to the fortress" Josef told the priest, who grumbled as he rubbed his eyes of sleep and rose finally.
"Out! while I prepare myself!" The Pontiff bellowed across the room, with the Uhlans quickly retreating back through the doorway.
===+===
The claps and clops of the horseshoes on the cobblestone followed the Uhlans and the Pontiff from through the city and over the Svatlava bridge, finally coming to a halt as they started passing under the daunting gateway into the fortress proper. Josef spotted in the courtyard at the other end of the gateway as man sitting in a chair surrounded by his retinue.
Despite the light and dismal rain, Josef could still make out the dark and sharp plates and teeth of obsidian that made the man's crown.
The Pontiff had composed himself, though still looked dishevelled. Josef had to dab and scrub the vomit stain off the shoulder of his cloak when the clergyman's stomach disagreed with the help mounting a horse.
The figure rose from his seat and waked with purpose as the Pontiff dismounted from the horse and bowed humbly. "Your Highness" The Pontiff's voice had gathered it's usual composure
"Your breath his disgusting your holiness" King Zikmund wrinkled his nose. Josef dismounted from his horse and led his mount by the reins to the powerful duo. "While you were out on your binge, an election has been called for the High Pontiff" A letter, already opened, sat on a cushion held by a nearby servant. The king grabbed the letter with his pale hand and slapped it into the Pontiff's nervous hand.
"You're to head to Aldmeria and participate. You're going to take a bath, put on your best clothes and get on the carriage I'm preparing for you" Zikmund waved his finger at the pontiff like he was talking to a misbehaving child. "You'll be accompanied by some uhlans, who will make sure you don't make any of your 'quick stops' on the way... and you so much as let one drop of beer or liquor or wine pass your lips, I will petition you be stripped of your position and send you to live in hermitage like Saint fucking Rostlov! Do you understand?"
Josef could hear the king's words echo off of the tall stone walls and slate roofs around the courtyard.
"Now go" King Zikmund's voice had lowered and the Pontiff took his wounded pride with him as he stepped around the king to attending clergymen. Josef let a brief wave of fear drift across his mind as the King's attention was turned to him, as the monarch rubbed his eyes in stress.
"Where did you find him?" Zikmund asked with a tone surprisingly calmer. "In a brothel near the east gate your majesty" Josef said without looking the king in the eye. The king had changed his eye patch from the usual leather one to a dark one made of linen. "He's got some standards then?" Zikmund said with a quicker pace of words. The monarch waved for the uhlan to walk with him, with the horse's head hung low as they walked on. Josef noticed various officials and hangers-on trailing them as they made their way towards the stables.
"I think you'll like to see the latest addition in the main corridor of the west keep Josef" King Zikmund told the captain. "How so your majesty?" Josef was puzzled. "Provka found 'Return to Sweeter Shores' in the tunnels beneath one of the towers" Josef was surprised at this. Return to Sweeter Shores was a rather recent painting by some artist in Bystre. What was more important was that it featured the Josef's grandfather and his compatriots return to Vohemia, after their diaspora from their forfeit holdings in Rehabe.
"I'm honoured your majesty" Josef gave a polite bow of his head. "Good, because you're going to show your gratitude by joining the delegation heading to Rehabe" King Zikmund said it so matter of fact,that Josef was surprised he'd received the honour at all.
"Of course my lord" Josef tried to hide his contempt behind his firm features. "Also, you're going to watch over Stepan as he's going too" Zikmund told the uhlan as they entered under a stone arch and the straw strewn floor of the stables cushioned their footwear.
"If I may, your majesty, is that really wise?" Josef found the prospect of questioning Zikmund of all people worrying. However, the heir apparent was a risk worth taking. "When I was his age, I'd already joined my father on campaign in the driving the mountain clans back up the slopes. Stepan needs to stop listening to old men and get out there" King Zikmund was trying to get his son to grow up as quickly as possible. "Plus, I plan on having him betrothed to a Reheban princess and nothing will affirm his commitment as seeing a pair of tits" Zikmund whipped a smile across his face before patting Josef on the shoulder.
"You're leaving for port soon, before Stepan's mother finds out preferably" Zikmund shouted as he walked back out of the stables, assuming Josef would accept the assignment. Josef would go though, King Zikmund knew he wouldn't pass up the chance to return to the land his ancestors claimed.
A man who looked to have just entered his elderly years sat at a desk. A few black hairs clung to his otherwise grey head of hair, and he was dressed in an orange-red cassock. A quill in his hand, he swiftly moved it across the parchment, periodically dipping it in a nearby inkwell. In a short span of time the man finished writing, and set the quill back in the inkwell. He folded up the parchment, and reached for a stick of wax. The pontiff promptly set the wick on the flame of a candle, and let the wax drip over the parchment. Afterwards, he blew out the wick.
The elderly cleric sighed as he applied the seal, and peered toward the window only to see the night sky. “It’s getting late.” He mumbled to himself. The day had been tiring for the pontiff, beginning with the morning services at the cathedral, and then rushing over to the king’s palace for another council meeting. He then had to deal with allegations of corruption in a nearby monastery. Finally, he returned to his office outside of the cathedral, where he was busy writing down official documents and responding to letters sent to him.
If he didn’t have his other position, it was highly likely that he would have lived and done most of his work in the king’s palace, but he was the archbishop of the archdiocese of Kingstead, and that required administrative duties and faculties in addition to his ecclesiastical ones. Really the two were intertwined, a polyphony of bureaucracy and the spiritual that demanded his full attention. Not to mention his work as chancellor, which had its own grueling qualities. “I’ll keep at it tomorrow.” He muttered. “Wyatt!” He shouted. A young man with brown hair dressed in a black cassock rushed into the room where the pontiff sat, “Yes, your eminence?” He asked. “It’s about time we head to bed.” The pontiff stated.
At those words a knock on the door was heard. The pontiff groaned. “God have mercy on me! Wyatt, get the door!” He ordered. The pontiff set aside the seal, and shook his sore writing hand. “St. Hugh, let me have some of your energy. A drop will do.” The cleric closed his eyes, and was on the edge of sleep, when Wyatt walked back into the room, a scroll in his hand with the seal of the pontifical states. “The messenger said this was for you, your eminence.” The old man of the cloth reached out and grabbed the scroll, his eyes wide open. He unsealed the scroll, and read who it was addressed to, “His eminence Pontiff John Whaler.”
He read the rest in silent. John’s tired look turned into one of thought as he studied the document in his hands. He was reminded that the High Pontiff was dead, and an election would soon take place. He had recalled hearing about the High Pontiff’s death, and he knew what would be expected of him. “Wyatt, I will be gone for some time in about two weeks time. It has to do with the elections.” Wyatt remained silent. “I’ll go tell the king of where I’ll be going, explain it to him if need be. I will undoubtedly be temporarily replaced while away, and you are to do everything that man tells you to do short of jumping off a bridge. Am I making myself clear?” He asked tersely. Wyatt nodded, “Yes, your eminence. Though what should we do right now?” He queried. “For now, we’re going to sleep. I’d say it’s well earned.” John and his assistant headed for their respective rooms. The next day, another council meeting would be called.
Edwynn rapped his fingers against the arm of his thick oaken chair. He looked around the long rectangular table; on all sides four men took their respective seats, and focused their attention on him. Edwynn briefly examined the faces of those surrounding him, and began to speak.
“My friends,” Edwynn said as he shifted his heavy body in the chair. “It has come to my attention that we have been talking about the same issue for little over a month. I thought we would have all come to an agreement by now.” He sighed and rubbed his temples, but continued talking. “It falls to me to make the decision, but I want to ensure that your voices are heard one last time before we move on to other issues.” Edwynn nodded towards a midlife obese man with brown hair dressed in an elaborate blue leather jerkin. “What do you have to say Duke Ergurd?” He asked.
The duke answered, “I’m still of the opinion that we should stay clear of the mainland for this issue. We have plenty of forests untouched in the Calm Mountains, not to mention the woodland in Behr. As for The forests belonging to the nobility, I believe those should be left alone. It is after all a nobleman’s right to hunt and have wood gathered in his own forests.” He said a bit haughtily. “We should also remember that many mainlanders are opportunists.” He added.
Edwynn ran a hand through his beard. “Thank you Duke Ergurd.” He peered at a thin, elderly man with black and grey hair. He was dressed in an orange-red cassock. “What about you Pontiff Whaler?”
Pontiff Whaler gazed at Duke Ergurd, “I have disagreed with the good Duke on this issue for as long as it has been discussed.” He cleared his throat. “We have enough wood for housing, and for fires, at least for some time. But for building ships?” The pontiff shook his head lightly, “We could only rely on the forests in Behr for a short amount of time, and the Calm Mountains are notoriously hard to traverse.” The Pontiff inclined his head. “We would need to spend more coin on infrastructure first, and that could get expensive. We need to find someone who can provide significant amounts of lumber, or we won’t have as strong a navy in a few years.” He concluded.
“Thank you Pontiff Whaler.” Edwynn said. The monarch’s vision shifted to a middle-aged man with blonde hair dressed in an orange jerkin almost as intricate as the duke’s. Edwynn smiled, “Do you have anything to say Admiral Guilds?”
“Always, your majesty,” He replied in a happy tone of voice. “I disagree with the duke on but one issue. I’ve been saying it for quite some time.” The duke let out a barely audible groan as the Admiral spoke. “Our noblemen’s hearts are aflame with love for Reheba, as are the common folk.” He pointed to himself at the last few words. “The rights of the nobility are to be respected, as we all know.”
“Though what if we went around and asked the kind-hearted nobility for just a measly portion of their wood? Say, an acre of woodland for those with large tracts of land, and one-third of that for those with smaller amounts of land. I believe that much of this timber should go to the navy. That is all I have to say your majesty.” Admiral Guilds gave Duke Ergurd a wide grin, and then looked back at the king.
Edwynn almost bobbed his head up and down in agreement, but, seeing the sour look on the Duke’s face, toned down his enthusiasm. “I should add that If I were to implement this notion or any other similar ideas, those members of the nobility that donate wood to the cause of our naval upkeep would be rewarded.” The king viewed the next man with a raised eyebrow. “Where is your cloak Marshal Hunter? You near always have one on. Oh, and do you have anything to speak about?”
A man who looked to be about in his late thirties sat near perfectly straight in his chair. He was a balding figure with a few strands of red hair on his head, and was dressed in a plain brown doublet. “Your majesty,” He answered, “I lost my cloak. I was walking near the Stavolt river some time ago, around a small village. Can’t think of the name now, I don’t even remember the circumstances.” The marshal looked down at his feet, a very slight smirk on his face, which he was quick to wipe away. He turned his attention back to Edwynn. “In regards to what else I have to say, I am fond of the Admiral’s idea.” He motioned a hand towards the Admiral.
Admiral Guilds gave Marshal Hunter a quizzical expression as the Marshal continued to express his thoughts. “I’ve given it some thought. Perhaps we should have ourselves a small procession come onto the land of the nobility. Trumpeters, soldiers and sailors, maybe a printer to note down their patriotic generosity if they agree to giving up some woodland.” The duke whipped his head in the direction of the Marshal, his face slightly red. Admiral Guilds held in his laughter as the duke became flustered. The Pontiff flashed a slight grin, and Edwynn had to stop himself from chuckling.
“You both need to learn your pl-“ The duke started. Edwynn raised his hand, his face now a deadpan, “Members of the council, while we all love to joke with each other, and while it’s all in good fun, I do believe we’re heading off task.” Edwynn looked around the table, as if asking anyone to disagree. No one spoke, and the duke appeared to be calmer. “I’ve been thinking on this long and hard for a month, as I’m sure all of you have been as well. Your points have been made clear time and time again.” Edwynn leaned forward, “Though now I know what we should do.”
Edwynn nodded, “As much as it pains me to say it, we Rehebans cannot keep to ourselves on this matter. I understand that the good duke has objections to us going outside of our islands for such a delicate matter, and these objections have some merit.” The monarch drummed his fingers against the table. “While there exist opportunists on the mainland, there exist a greater number of men who would like to see coin in their pockets in an honorable and friendly fashion. After all, who would want to have poor relations with us?”
As the marshal opened his mouth to speak, Edwynn raised his hand, “It was rhetorical, Marshal Hunter.” Edwynn went on, “We must find a good trading partner, one who has plenty of lumber, and is nearby. While we search for a trading partner, we will continue to harvest the lumber in Behr, and some in the Calm mountains. Now, who among you has any idea of who we should trade with?”
The duke was the first to speak. “I believe we should trade with the Kingdom on the Ardäin. I am certain that they would honor our agreements, and their land is fertile. If we must look to the outside, we should look there!” He proclaimed.
“I am fond of tradition,” Edwynn replied, “Though I am not fond of axes at the necks of innocent peasants! Perhaps when they get their affairs in order, and allow the peasantry a few basic rights. God above, and Fiorentino at his side, somebody mention another state!” Edwynn was by now a bit agitated.
It was the Marshal who spoke next. “What of Vohemia?” He asked the monarch.
“Vohemia?” Edwynn asked aloud. He scratched his head, slightly ruffling his white hair. “I’d think they’d still be bitter over the reclamation of our soil. I doubt they’d come here and offer us a good deal. Any other ideas?” He queried the group.
Nobody said a word. The king looked around in vexation, but finally said, “You may all go. We can discuss this further tomorrow.” Near everyone filed out of the room.
The only person left inside by the end of it was the pontiff, who hurriedly chased after the monarch. "Your majesty, I have to tell you something!"
Edwynn paused in his tracks, and turned around. "Please be quick pontiff, I am getting tired, and need to rest my knees."
John nodded, "I received a scroll from the Pontifical States. I am to partake in the election. I would like to ask for a ship and a few guards. I am certain the archdiocese is already in order should I leave. If you would loan me a boat and a few men for security purposes, I would be very grateful."
Edwynn fervently bobbed his head. "Go then. I'll have the Admiral and the Marshal work together on this. A few men to guard you, and a fast carrack. Maybe three to ensure that nothing bad happens to you. Yes, that should do perfectly!" He declared. "You should be able to leave in about a week. How's that sound?" He questioned.
"Very good, your majesty. You are most generous," John answered, a wide grin on his face. The cleric turned to leave the palace.
The Pontiff of Reheba, desiring to go to sleep, is interrupted by a scroll from the Pontifical States. The next morning, he and four other men head into the council chambers of the palace. The topic is what to do with Reheba's lumber crisis, as it has been for a month. Fun is had at the expense of the duke. Although the issue is still a bit unresolved, the king has made a decision that Reheba should look towards the outside for help. At the end of the meeting, the pontiff asks for help from the king in regards to his safety going to the election. The king offers guards and ships. With the king's promise of help, the cleric leaves the palace.
The Alhena Palace in Lazamênia was a marvelous piece of architecture. Originally a mere hillfort built by a forgotten tribe of savages, it was turned by Recawith, the first true king of Beredia, into his capital. By the time the Timlukids first conquered Beredia, the hillfort had grown into a large town. That soon became the capital of the local governor. Centuries passed and when the Beredian knights finally kicked the Timlukids for good, there was no doubt on where the new capital would be. After all Lazamênia was the largest and richest city of the realm, and its palace was the only one worth of housing the Royal House.
Now, in one of the inner courtyards. Some of the most powerful men in Beredia had gathered to discuss the future of their kingdom under the pleasant shadow and breeze of the afternoon. The King himself, André-Maria. His trusted second in command, Prelate Hermogenes. Pontiff Mateus Pereira, the highest religious authority in the realm and almost a walking corpse. And Duke Pedro-Matias de Lavanca, the King's trusted lieutenant in the south. Notably absent was Queen Joaquina, who was too pregnant to do anything else besides languish in bed waiting for her water to break.
“The rumors are true then?” Duke Lavanca asked hesitantly, bringing a hand to his goatee as the King placed the letter bearing the pontifical seal back in the small table center table.
“Yes, the Presbyter General himself confirms it.” André-Maria replied, looking at his councilors, hands joined together in consternation. “The High Pontiff is dead.” There were no gasps of surprise or shock, His Holiness was an old man known in Beredia for his sickly disposition. Only a few short and murmured well wishes and prayers for his soul.
“This couldn't have come at a worst time.” The Duke sighed, covering his gaunt face with a gloved hand. “Now the whole continent will be too busy fighting for the seat to focus on the true enemy.”
“Fear not, my son.” Pontiff Pereira croaked with visible difficulty while sluggishly gesturing dismissively. “God and the Saints will intercede in our side.”
“But men and steel would also do wonders for our cause.” Prelate Hermogenes replied somberly, fidgeting with the rosary in his left hand, before taking a sip of juice. The King did not allow alcohol to be served when matters of state were being discussed. Specially one as important as this, when men needed all their wits with them.
“Well, we have to send someone.” The King countered, gesticulating slightly. “I doubt that we have enough influence to get one of our own elected. But we need to at least make the rest of the continent aware of the threat posed by the infidels beyond the mountains.” he paused, refilling his glass. “A High Pontiff at least interested in keeping the Timelukos at bay would lift a world of weight off our shoulders.”
“We should send Bishop Ananias.” The Pontiff coughed out, covering his mouth with a napkin. “He's a good man.”
The King glanced at the Prelate, as far as he was concerned the Bishop would be as good choice. But the Prelate was the one that actually understood the inner workings of the Beredian Church.
“An excellent suggestion, Your Eminence.” The Prelate replied amicably, placing a hand on the Pontiff's shoulder. “I happen to know the Bishop pretty well.” He then turned to the King. “I'm sure he will do our Kingdom proud in Aldmeria. And impress upon them the necessity of further care regarding the Timelukos.”
“I see no problem with the choice.” The King added. If Hermogenes thought he was a good pick then this Ananias was a good pick.
“I will inform the good Bishop Ananias immediately.” The Pontiff declared, with unusual energy. “It's a long way from Ilafrânia after all.” He paused as if to regain his breath.
“Now that this is dealt with.” The Duke started. “We must address the threat in the south.”
“If what you say is true.” The Pontiff replied, back to his frail self. “We must act decisively.”
“It is, Your Eminence!” The Duke snapped, blushing slightly soon after. “The Bandeiras are fighting raiding parties in the smaller passes and the lowlands.” He continued, more calmly this time. “Our merchants are being increasingly more harassed once they cross the border. And the traders from Sarbraz and Al-Vazan have stopped coming weeks ago. I also have reports from a few Marabeni merchants that both nations are mustering for a campaign. We need only to factor the recent marriages between the two realms and the origin of the raiders to know that we are being attacked.”
“I trust your judgment, Lavanca.” The King sighed. “Even if there's no invasion being planned, we can't let these raiders wander around our southern lands. It would do good to remind them what happens to their filthy lot when they enter Beredia.”
“Then do I have your leave to mobilize the southern Terços, Your Grace?” The Duke asked.
“We will mobilize the entire army.” André-Maria replied, rising to his feet. “If Sarbraz and Al-Vazan are working together we will need all of our strength to fight this coming war. Come, Lavanca, Hermogenes, we need to start preparations at once.” The Duke rose up with a nod while the Prelate helped the Pontiff to rise from his seat.
“I will take my leave now, Your Grace.” The Pontiff coughed again, leaning on his cane while gesturing for his aides to come to his aid.
“Your blessings, Eminence.” The King said bowing his head slightly as he approached the elderly clergyman.
“May God and the Saint watch over you.” The Pontiff intoned, resting his palm on the King's bald head. Before repeating the ritual on the other two men.
-Beredia is under threat of invasion as a few Timlukid factions mobilize for what seems to be another invasion.
-The Beredian Bishop is chosen and called to the capital to meet with the kingdom's Pontiff. The plan is to raise awareness of the Timlukid threat and get whomever is elected to send more support to Beredia.
Atop a mountain on the northern border of the Qaelun vale...
Bishop Anfonz Rigo looked through the his spyglass, gazing up at the star of the north. He had been at this work for several hours now, observing long into the night. This was the most recent in a long series of observations, stretching back several months. The clergyman would set out from his parish, or a day at court, and be alone with his thoughts and observations. Next to his tethered horse, a journal lay open atop a large rock, several feet away, with quill laid atop it to make notes. The Bishop himself was well enveloped in a thick woolen cloak, as black as the night around him. Especially this high into the mountains, it was bitter cold. And yet the the altitude made for the best observations. The Bishop peered through the spyglass intently, paying special attention to the apparent blinking of the star. Perhaps it is the aether...moving so quickly as to obscure and just as quickly unobscure the star. Perhaps we only see it through gaps in the aether? The Bishop frowned, dissatisfied with his reasoning. As he contemplated his thoughts, the silence was broken by the clatter of hooves coming up a mountain trail. Who would come out here? This trail is scarce enough used, let alone at this hour. A cloaked figure atop a well-bred white mare approached. The Bishop recognized the horse immediately, and addressed it's rider. "Sir Canto, I welcome your company, but can this not wait? I am at my observations!" The rider dismounted and threw back his hood, to reveal the weathered and balding old man beneath it. A jagged scar ran across the length of his chin on the left side, where he had narrowly escaped beheading by a Timluk soldier on the field of battle. This scar pained him in the bitter cold of the night, as the ice seemed to seep into his old wound. "You know I would leave you to your peace if at all possible." He reaches into the folds of his cloak and produces an envelope, closed with the seal of The Church. "This came for you, I think we both know what it is, given the death of the Supreme Pontiff." Even in this backwater, word of the momentous event had already spread. The young priest nodded grimly and took the letter, breaking open the seal and quickly skimming it's contents. "It is as you say. I am to attend the election..." The old knight grasped the Bishop by his shoulder. "Listen, I know you someone must attend, but let us send someone else in your stead. Please..." The Bishop shook his head. "Impossible. This land is of little note as is. I carry a certain reputation within The Church. It is expected that I be present." The Knight tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder. "Please. You are the only other voice of reason at court. With you gone, and the earl indisposed, Lady Joyce will further poison the court. You are the only one talking any sense. Please, I need you here." The priest grabs the steward's arm and removes it from where it rests. "You know I cannot stay. I am sorry." He pauses for a moment. "Please, leave me to my study." The old man sighs and not another word is said. He draws up his hood, remounting his horse and lighting a lantern to guide his way down the broken path of the mountain trail. The priest watches him go, for a while. The guilt eats away at him. He truly does feel for the plight of his friend, but his obligations are to God first. He watches him go, as he sees the lantern begin to shimmer and fade with distance. Shimmering...blinking! He quickly pulls out his spyglass, looking first at the Sir Canto's lantern and then at the stars. The blinking is the same! He hurries toward his book and hastily scribbles his findings. The stars...are made of fire! Like the lantern, the stars are burning!
Bishop Anfonz Rigo studies that stars and is interrupted by Sir Canto. Bishop Rigo is to attend the election, while Sir Canto is forced to hold things together at home. Bishop Rigo makes a scientific discovery.
The sun was beating down heavily on the dusty roads. At the horizon one could see the slowly meandering river moving, a small rim of palms and plants along speaking of shade and relief but up here the wind was relentless and scorching. A few vendors had set up shop at this small crossroads in the borderlands. It was not quite clear if this was still the Turchinan Exclave of Thurmatia or already the northern reaches of Muragenn, but of the shady traders that met here it did not really matter. The crossroads was Turchinan if a patrol of the Republic was close, and it was Muragenn when Riders of the Kaiser where close. Both cases send the Traders away in time to not be confronted by either. Dromedaries and Camels where chewing lazily. And chained men where sitting in what small shadow there was.
"Could I interest you in something to drink, perhaps? Some tea, or Muran delicacies?" Asked Dommak, a tall merchant in spices. "Our people are famous for our sweetmeats."
Agostino Maestri was looking at him stroking his chin beard. The short, beige clad turchinan smiled. "Your people are infamous for the tasting of other meats too." He said jokingly, but his face betrayed no ill will. "May I have a look at the merchandise?"
"Certainly. Such is the right of an interested buyer. Boberto! Get me my things!" A naked man standing behind Dommak rushed off, and returned with two others. All three were carrying large bags. They set them down with a loud thud, then dropped to the ground themselves. "Who said you could sit?" Dommak shouted angrily. They all scrambled to their feet and began muttering apologies in their Surani tongue. Dommak then turned back to the merchant. "Forgive this slight, my good sir. They have not had a thorough disciplining for too long."
Agostino raised an eyebrow at that, as opposed to most Turchinans he was not entirely opposed to holding slaves, often he had bought men himself, for his Plantations and Fabricoriums but the way the Southerners treated their own slaves was still after all these years distatefull to him. Well probably the other man would consider the Maestri way of holding men as far to soft and spoiling them, thus was the way of the world. With an experienced Eye he set about looking at the wares. inspecting grain and colour licking a finger full, nodding. "This is fine material, I like the colour and the taste is satisfactory too. How much can you sell?"
"That depends. How much do you want?" Dommak asked, chuckling. "But enough with business for now. Boberto! Bring my esteemed guest some tea! Quickly, or I'll have you flogged!"
Agostino gave a weary look at that, oh these barbarian southerners, not much different from the timlucks at times. "You honour me." He nodded at his own two bodyguards who relaxed just a little. "So how was the track down from the mountains? I hear one of the oasis has been plundered? "
"Oh yes, it was terrible. They burned the entire pak plantation, and killed all the slaves. If you ask me, His Excellency the Kaiser doesn't keep a good enough eye on his own men." Boberto returned, bringing with him a teapot and two cups and setting it down on the table. Dommak took the pot and poured the thick, rich brew, first into Agnostino's then his own. "All things are better with tea, no? Especially business."
Agostino nodded at that, "It grants the time and peace of mind to properly think about business and get to know your opposite, which helps coming to fair trades so yes. Also it honours both Traders, so there is that. So you only sell normal Stonesalt? Or can you organise Potash too? I know some of the mines have deposits of it too, and it is highly sought after at our plantations."
"Perhaps. We have salts in all forms. It would be little trouble to obtain some. Now, let us talk of value. I have been dreading this, for it causes bad emotions and disharmony, but in our line of work it is inevitable. What say you to twenty thousand Turchinans?" Dommak sighed.
Agostino made a surprised face, two can play at this game. "Did you hide a caravan of 50 Camels somewhere around here? In the name of the Saint, I could buy you and everything you own for that amount. Do not insult me, you have how much 50 sacks? No, we are talking about maybe 50 sacks you have here which would mean maybe one thousand at current price. Granted the price will go up due to the oasis, and no one can say I am not generous so make that one thousand and one hundred Fiorin."
"One thousand One hundred Turchinans? I pray to God that you are mistaken. Please, take the time to look at it's superior quality, it's fine grindwork. How about we drop it to eighteen thousand and call it there?"
"That may all be true, but we are not at the Great Palazzo in Turchina, but here out in the no where. My ships do not sail for free, my horses and camels need to eat, my workers and sailors ditto. No, no this will not do at all. thousand eighthundred, because you have shown me hospitality but that is what I can pay you."
"Well, I do enjoy a good jest as much as the next man, but please. Trade and humor simply do not mix. Does fifteen thousand sound about fair?"
"I agree, maybe I am mistaken here I was asuming we are talking only about the salt, why did you not say that you want to sell your animals too! Then we are slowly coming to realistic prices. A dozen Thousand with all your Camels and one of your slaves. Does that sound better?"
"As appealing as that may sound, my workforce is indispensable. You cannot expect a good Muran to part with his greatest resource. I offer ten thousand for my salts and one slave in a show of goodwill."
"That would be fair if you treated your slaves, properly like we civilized Turchinans do, but alas you treat them worse than I treat my dogs and it shows. They are broken wretched beings, and I would have to invest a lot to make them halfway useable. No, no. five thousand must do, and two of your slaves."
"My slaves are strong, and can take a good beating. However, we are both civilized men, loyal to the One True Faith. Surely we are not incabable of seeing eye to eye. My final offer is six thousand five hundred in exchange for my salt and two slaves, if you don't mind a humble trader starving."
"If the times were saver and I could count on seeing you again, and making business another time I'd mind but like this I am fine with this." he snapped his finger and one of his men threw him quite a huge bag of coins. "Feel free to count it at your laisure. We can inspect the salt once we are done with the tea."
Dommak clapped his hands, and Boberto picked up the bag and staggered away, out of sight. "I wish you prosperous trade in the years to come, good sir." He said, sipping the last of his tea.
Agostino did the same, smirking. If Dommak had known that he was not just any Turchinan merchant. It always made him giddy to go out incognito from his great plantations.
The Maestro di Orecchi was once more sitting at his desk in the small study up on the old Campanile di St. Fiorentino, late at night. Oh knowing everything was hard work, it really was. The hardest part of it was to actually make it seem easy. A little of the writing work could be delegated, but there was information so delicate that a man could only trust himself with it, and even then would need to be careful. To his key agents around the continent Boccanegra held contact via an own post pidgeon network. He could not trust other ways of communication, and the birds where dreadfully fast, maybe the fastest way to get informed save having mages scry for you. And who wanted to pay for that? Or even worse: Who wanted to have as pompous individuals as high magi know ones secrets? Thus the Maestro had pidgeon coops close at hand, under the Campaniles roof, where once the great bells had hung, before they had been moved to the new cathedral. Any bird coming in was sure to alert him even in his sleep as the Master of Ears even had his sleeping chambers up here in the tower.
Right as his candle had dwindled down to a small stump, and he was massaging the bridge of his nose just that happened. The black clad man sighed and climbed the wooden ladders. Soon he had found the animal. “There my little one, show me what news my little mice have found.” He said stroking the bird as he removed the tiny tube bearing the letter. A red silken ribbon? “Aldmeria? This will be important.” He said as he gave the bird an extra amount of feed. “You have done well, rest.” Then he quickly climbed down, igniting a new candle, the low blue flame of the old one was too small to read the miniscule writing. “It is not official yet, but the High Pontiff…” He gasped muttering loudly. What luck that he was not in his small clothes but still dressed from the last day. He raced down one stair and kicked at a door. Here his most trustworthy mice slept. A kid of maybe nine opened after a moment, blinking at the light of the candle. “Quick get the pontiff to the palazzo, the Dogaressa will want him. Hurry, Pippino. It cannot wait!” He himself raced onward, ever down the steep spiral steps. Then through the secret passage under the piazza.
***
The Palazzo Ducale is a huge building, taking up the entire opposite site of the Piazza St. Fiorentino. It houses offices, a prison, the council chambers and much more. In short it is the beating heart of the republic. At its own heart, can be found the Doge’s chambers. It is here, where these days the mindless ruin of a man is cared for in a huge bed. The ruler of the Republicca. The suite of salons and rooms beyond is entirely the domain of the true ruler though, the dark Dogaressa. The eminence grise was sleeping sound in a quite normal sized bed, seeming out of place in the opulent and heavily decorated room. The moons pale light was filtering in through the windows. The chamber was quiet, apart from the womans own calm breathing and from time to time the sounds of two guards, stationed outside her door, trying to not make sounds. A creaking broke the silence, and Caterina sighed turning around. Then a shadowed figure bearing a single candle detached from the source of the sound starting to ignite the other candles in the room. Boccanegra softly spoke. “My Lady, I am sorry to interrupt your sleep, but I have received news you will want to hear right now.” As he was done lighting the room, and addressing her he knelt down facing her bed lowering his head. It had been some time since news important enough to rush to her through the secret passages had come and the situation felt awkward somehow.
Caterina Marcellai was upright in her bed once she had heard him speak. Stark awake in an instant. She jumped up without a word, walking over to her wardrobe. She hid her, until then, naked form in a long white nightgown. Then she sat down at her desk. In a cold voice she said. “Rise Maestro Niccolo, I dislike it when you grovel around, you can do that when others are present.” She poured herself a glass of wine, drank a sip, then sighed and massaged the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “Okay so what is important enough to rush here in the middle of the night? Important enough to rush here and wake me?” She gazed at him angrily. The man rose and dusted himself off but kept his gaze lowered to the ground. “I am very sorry your highness, I know I am not to do this, unless it is important news. Well please hear me out, I am sure you will find that this is one of the times where this really is the case.” He looked up at her waiting for an answer. She drank another sip then impatiently waved her hand upward, signaling him to speak up “I just received word from the north. The Pontifical State to be precise.” He spore slowly with deliberation and as he took a breath to go on talking the door opened a fraction. A puzzled guard looked in to check on why voices where coming from a room with no other door. His gaze fell on the nearly nude lady who threw her glass at him “OUT.” She explaimed breathing heavily. Then she looked at Boccanegra again, visibly angry. “So what happened up there?” she muttered rubbing her eyes. But just as he opened his mouth to talk again she held up her hand to stop him. Listening. Outside a galloping horse could be heard, comming to a halt close by. A rare sound in the lagunal, offshore part of the city. She went on to listen for a moment then nodded, some of her anger apparently dissipated. Niccolo cleared his throat then finally spoke. “His Eminence the High Pontiff has just passed away.” He said quietly. Caterina opened her mouth then closed it, surprise all across her face. “The high pontiff is dead?” She shook her head. “This…why didn’t you say so earlier?” The maestro shrugged at that. Caterina paced up and down the room deep in thought then said. “This is bad. Very bad in fact. I had hoped to push a more suitable person into the office of Pontiff of Turchina, before this happens. Someone making it easy to incite the other Pontiffs to elect.” She stood up pouring herself a new glass of wine. Her spymaster waited, listening. “Now if we are unlucky they will elect some hardliner. Someone who would love to stoke the pyres even more. Someone who would maybe even fuel and support de Gelders’ madness, even incite him to aim for cleansing our fine mother city itself. No we cannot allow this.” She threw her hands up, in frustration. “Why do we just have this Prospero fool?” Boccanegra just looked at her waiting for her to end, he knew that an answer by him would not be welcome. “It cannot be helped, summon Prospero anyway.” She spat, as pounding footsteps could be heard outside, then a knock. “Your Highness, the Maestro di Legge is here, insisting he was summoned.” Caterinas expression derailed a second time to greater surprise. Then she grinned, walking past Boccanegra pinching his cheek and whispering to him as she passed “You sly fox. Get out.” She took position in the middle of the room gesturing for Nicollo to leave the room through the secret passage again. As the wooden panel closed behind him she loudly said: “Let him come in.”
The double doors where opened by the two guards standing left and right, one of them still splattered with wine and a bit red. They saluted as a disheveled looking Pontiff entered, bowing as he did so. Stuttering a bit in the beginning “You…your highness you summoned me?” He panted. The woman sat down again, taking note of the effect her translucent gown had on the clergy man. “Your Eminence will receive letter from the Pontifical State in a day or two, maybe later, notifying you of the death of his eminence the High Pontiff.” Pontiff Notaro finally looked directly at her, surprised, saying nothing. “A week later, maybe two, another letter will follow, calling you to travel there for the election of a new High Pontiff.” He muttered finally “My Lady, how…do you…?” “That is none of your business.” She snapped. “It will happen.” She then went on with a calmer voice. A voice with an edge nonetheless, cutting each word carefully. “Now there are two possible outcomes to this. My personal favourite, that you will like best too, is the first. It would entail for you to insure a benign and modern man secures the office. The Pontiff of Qualun comes to mind. There are two problems with this. Firstly, this man has no interest in the office I am told, so you will have to make him throw his hat in the ring. The second problem is that you need to fabricate his election in a way that he owes you, and knows he owes you. Even better in a way that he trusts you. You know so he can be influenced a bit.” She made a short pause and stood up. By now the Pontiff was staring at her, mouth agape, sweat trickling down his neck. “Trusts you like we trust eachother, maybe?” she said in a now softer tone, drawing uncomfortably near ”All this needs to be done subtly, without too many catching on that you had to great a hand in it.” She ran a hand along his jaw. “Once the office is secured a man like him will of course not want to busy himself with too much of the day to day business. He might want to use his influence and new funds to further his philosophical endeavors; to have better instruments made; to Do science, and suchlike.” She said walking away from him , her voice cold and businesslike again. “The pontifical work he would want to leave to a subordinate. Maybe a camerarius? Someone trusted that helped him? Maybe that would be … you?” Pontiff Notaro gulped audibly “My Lady, but how am I to…?” she turned, taking his arm and leading him to the door. “Some you will outright buy, I am going to equip you with the means to do so. Some will be listening to promises. Some you could make afraid of what the more … conservative candidates would be like. We still have a few days, maybe weeks before you need to go. Let the Maestro di Orecchio instruct you. Things like this are his area of expertise after all.” She opened the door leading him out. “Now do not worry too much. Have a good night.” She said and closed the door behind him.
As she turned Boccanegra was waiting. “This will not work your ladyship, you are aware of this, right?” she chuckled bitterly and grabbed her glass again. “I am no fool, Nicollo, but this fool is who we have for a Pontiff now. It would be best for you to look for other … options. And to look for them quickly.”
In which Nicollo Boccanegra, the Maestro de Orecchio (Turchinas Spymaster) is notified very early after the fact, that the High Pontiff is dead. He notifies the shadow Ruler of the Republic Caterina Marcellaii and the Pontiff of Turchina, Prospero Notaro is summoned. Some plotting to swing the election in a good direction for the cities interests ensues, but Boccanegra and the Dogaressa are sure it will be all for naught.
The High Cathedral of Saint Jehane was one of the greatest structures in the city; sitting atop a hill its towering spires and massive buttresses looked out over the capital. One could see the roofs of the buildings below stretching out in either direction, in one they extended to the city's great walls while in the other they continued on over the river, and one could see the impressive keep that was the royal palace sitting atop a similar hill as the cathedral. Constructed centuries ago, the cathedral was a symbol of the might of the Ambrusian Church as well as a testament to wealth of those who had built it, those people being the Ardäinesch Kings. And within these hallowed halls, high at the top of one of the Cathedral's spires, sat a man.
This man was one who the common people believed to be one of great wealth, power, and influence. The was Johannes Eriching, the Pontiff of the Kingdom on the Ardäin, and he was in fact quite wealthy. Even without the ecclesiastical vestments, which were made of the finest white and red fabrics and embroidered with golden thread, and the many bejeweled rings he wore it was easy to tell. For the Pontiff was not simply fat, he was the type of absurdly obese fat that one simply did not see among the lesser classes for whom a feast was a rare occurrence rather than a daily ritual. At present the Pontiff was standing out on a balcony looking out over the city, and sipping a glass of expensive imported wine. He was drumming his fingers restlessly on the bannister, and sighed as he stared into the glass before downing the rest of the wine in a single gulp.
"Please tell me you are not planning on jumping from the edge there, Pontiff," came a gruff voice from inside the room, and the Pontiff hurriedly looked up. What he saw was Alois vun Kinnekdrelaps, the King on the Ardäin. The King was fairly tall man of middle age, with a close cropped head of hair and an exceptionally bushy mustache which were both a grey-flecked black in colour.
Pontiff Johannes bowed appropriately deep to the King before responding, "Oh no, of course not, your Majesty. I would never imagine doing such a thing. I could not imagine doing such a thing."
"Bah, I was only joking Pontiff," the King replied as he walked out onto the balcony as well, "But you know why I am here, no?"
"I can only assume it has to do with the High Pontiff's unfortunate passing, your Majesty," Johannes replied, "And my duty to attend the elections for his successor."
"Then you would be exactly right; the upcoming election is a matter of some importance. And one I feel it necessary to discuss in person with you." Pontiff Johannes wanted to point out that the King obviously didn't think it important enough for him to not be late to the private meeting he had called, but to do so would be inappropriate and so the Pontiff held his tongue on such matter. "Now, I think we can both agree that you no chance in being elected yourself. And so trying to do so would be useless, agreed?"
"Oh, of course your Majesty. I am hardly High Pontiff material, and the others are likely to agree," the Pontiff responded, "So shall I attempt to wrangle concessions in exchange for my vote? Perhaps I can get one of the candidates to agree to grant you a divorce from your Queen."
King Alois just stared at the Pontiff for a long moment, before breaking into a wide grin. "Well, I must say you reminded me why it was you that I managed to force into this position, Johannes," he said, "I was going to suggest that very thing. Once I'm finally rid of that barren harlot, I can finally get myself a younger wife who can bear the fruit of my loins properly."
"Of course, your Majesty," the Pontiff said, "What else shall you have me consider in my vote?"
"Well, try not to elect one of fire-obsessed nutjobs if it can be helped. I don't mind burning a few peasants to keep the Church happy, but too many and it becomes troublesome," King Alois said, and then stopped to think. The conversation continued on for many long minutes in much the same manner, with King Alois informing the Pontiff of what he was to take into consideration when casting the vote for High Pontiff. Not once did the King ask for the Pontiff's opinion on any matter, and not once did the Pontiff offer his opinion. For he knew that only only was it unnecessary, but was actively unwanted. And it was only through the grace of his King that the Pontiff held a position of such impressive wealth.
Through the thick fragrance of yeast and baking bread and drying fish, the sharp must of woodsmoke could be detected. Plumes of black smoke blinded the honeying sun, bulging to greet the dusky streakings of cloud that whirred in the afternoon sky.
By God! The madness has seized them!
He knew that his time had run out. That even this frantic haste would only to deliver to him the affirmation of his suspicions.
By Fiorentino! They were burning her!
I’ll tear apart their flesh and piss in their eyes! I’ll crack their bones and chew out the marrow! I’ll burn them alive, so they shall never know salvation! I’ll cut off their balls and throw them to the pigs!
Davoy girded his destrier to a furious gallop, the streaming press of the market district eyeing him wildly and mumbling curses or vain prayers under their breath. He rode with abandon, without thought, without apprehension, to his own ruin, towards the Trout-Mouth Portal. The guardsmen, leaning upon their halberds, started at the sight of the Castellan so nonplussed, startling at his red roan as its hooves spattered against the cobbles with the tintinnabulation of shattering glass.
They were burning her, and none would dare to stop them.
It was, after all, the will of holy God. Divine judgement had been passed, and now its punishment would be meted.
May hellfire char their flesh and rats claw out their eyes for feasting! May they be forced to wander the hundred-hundred precincts of Hell!
Davoy believed in God. He believed in the hallowed benevolence of blessed Fiorentino. He had been baptized in the sacristy, had kissed the feet and the signet ring of the Bishop, had wept and prayed before the votives in the basilica. He was a small man, and faith granted him egress into a larger experience, a palliative to calm the wanderings of his soul.
But what did any of that matter now?
He was by the riverbank now, his roan, sweat lathering his haunches, kicking up clods of dark sand and cracked leaves between stands of black poplar. The smell of smoke grew thicker and thicker, mingling with the sulfur twang of mud. There was another scent, sweet, like roasted pork. Through the veil of crimson leaves and chapped bark he could make out the flailings of the pyre.
Tears—of rage or of sorrow he knew not—blotted the edge of vision like ink spots.
The road rounded a bend in the river, and the trees fell away to reveal a swathe of windswept plain, bounded by a russet sky as vast as the world could hold.
Davoy reined his destrier sharply.
There they were, beyond the trees, on a decline of grass and river sand, beneath the sun and sky.
The faithful stood congregated, gazing silently into the flames as the black smoke billowed towards the heavens. Father Odo, grim in his crimson-and-gold velvets, stood alone amongst them, his hands held out in benediction.
Before them, his sister and her lover smouldered into ashes.
He dismounted, and began to approach.
He was already imagining his ignominious death. The penalty for the murder of a clergyman was onerous. He had not himself administered it, of course, but he had delivered its sentence as a part of his responsibilities as castellan.
Castration, flagellation, mutilation, abacination, deprivation, mutilation...the many tortures described so vividly in the Codex Margarita. He had even heard of a footpaw submerged in a pit of rats. The privations that preambled long and painful death were limited only to the imagination of one’s torturer.
He’d kill himself right after, then. Or throw himself onto one of the guardsman’s pikes.
Davoy unsheathed his sword as he drew closer. Some of the assembled mob turned towards him as they heard it, the curious look in their eyes fading to one of recognition.
He did not dare look at them, those enjoined to the pyre. He could not bear it.
He thought of what he would say to him. How he would curse him and his forebears unto the depths of perdition. How he would laugh as he smote his bald head from his shoulders. How he would sing as he danced in their blood and rent their limbs.
They were all looking at him now, whispering, moving to shield Father Odo.
But the priest turned them aside, and matched Davoy’s gaze with cold grey eyes, his face darkening beneath the intermittent shadows cast by the smoke. A brief grin, rueful and full of invitation, dimpled his cheeks.
He stood then, before them all, his sword in hand, as the inferno flared beyond them, and did nothing.
At a gesture from the priest, they began to file past him, slowly, wending their way back to the tree shaded lane that led to the Trout-Mouth Portal. Odo was the last to leave, clasping his palms together and bowing towards him in a posture of blessing. Then, he was gone, in a swishing of skirts.
Davoy did not recall precisely when he dropped the sword, nor when he fell to his knees.
He wept, his face in the dirt, until long after the flames faded to glowing coals and the dying sun spilled across the purpling sky like an overturned goblet of wine.
When finally his traitorous feet returned him to the city, the impossibly vast heavens were dappled with milk-white stars.
Autumn, the City of Letwijs, Duchy of Innes, Cordonova
“I will recount to you, Davoy, the tale of Farha the Virgin.”
“She was the golden child of the House Janir, who, amidst the heathen, had taken up the mantle of the true faith. She was loved by, and loved, however, a pagan by the name of Absoud. They spoke, during their secret congresses, of fleeing to the desert and eloping. On the eve of their flight, they were discovered by their parents, who had found their beds unoccupied.
“Absoud was chastised severely and sent back to bed. But Farha, the poor child, was dragged by her prized long black hair through the dusty streets of Fazal by her father.
“‘Lord father, I doth!’ she exclaimed, ‘I hath lain with no suitor save the Lord, who cometh before all others!’
“He beat her, then. He tore her clothes from her, and endeavored, futilely, to investigate her maidenhead, in order to test the veracity of her claim. Yet she clawed at him, and swatted at him, and would not allow him to do so.
“She cried, and cried, and cried, ‘I am a virgin, before God!’
“Farha’s mother interceded on her behalf, saying that as a man he would not know even were it the case, and properly so. Her father turned away, then, at his wife’s urging. Finally, she called out to him, and when once more he turned to face his daugher, he saw that her throat had been cut and her life flown from her.
“He wept, and pulled at his hair, and cried, ‘She lay with the heathen! She stain’d her womb with wicked seed!’
“‘Nay, lord husband,’ the wife replied, ‘She wast a virgin unto death.’”
Davoy listened to the Bishop’s story reticently as they walked the battlements of Castle Letwijs, the wide steppe stretching endlessly before them, dotted here and there with stands of poplar and low-lying shrubs. Guardsmen saluted as they passed, their bannered lances snapping in the wind. It was gaining on mid-morning now, and far below “The Rock”, the pinnacle upon which the citadel had been built, the city was alive with activity. Faintly, one could discern the calls of the hawkers in the market, and the aroma of baking bread. A hawk wheeled far in the distance.
The silence grew between them as Barthóld stopped to survey the city.
Davoy stared at the flagstones, a gloved hand resting upon the pommel of his sword.
The Bishop, a frown creasing his pallid cheeks, regarded him with unyielding eyes.
“Tell me,” he began, slowly, “What do you think it means, the story?”
Davoy glanced upward, meeting his gaze.
He was silent for a moment, then murmered, “It is a tale of the mercy of mothers.”
Barthóld averted his eyes, scrutinizing once more some far quarter of the city.
“If only that were so, my child. A better world it would be, I think.”
He gestured, and they continued on their way.
“Whether Farha retained her virginity or no, it is said, is of little consequence. Our God, one must remember, is a jealous god. Though Farha was a virgin of the flesh, her spirit was whored. In her perfidy she courted another god, and according to Ambrusian doctrine, was tried and meted her punishment.”
“I understand,” Davoy replied hoarsely, “But why, my Lord, are you telling me all this? To what end?”
The Bishop chuckled softly, his hands drawn tightly behind his back.
“I apologize, Castellan. I am an old man, and disposed to my indulgences,” he admitted.
“Certain precepts of our religion teach that we must judge none so severely as ourselves. Not only ourselves, meaning the individual self, but also ourselves as members of a shared faith, a shared ideology…”
“This, Davoy…this is how they will justify it. What happened yesterday.”
The Castellan snapped his head towards the Bishop.
“My sister was no heretic! She was no witch!”
Barthóld sighed, and nodded in pained assent.
“I know.”
“It was rumor,” Davoy growled, “A jealous rumor used to further Odo’s ends. Do you realize what this signifies?”
“Only too well, Castellan,” the Bishop replied, “Which is the very reason I have come to you this day.”
Davoy raised his eyebrows at that, and halted in his tracks to regard the cleric. His eyes searched the Bishop’s face, a lost light briefly returning to them.
“I am summoned to Léonne,” Barthóld said, “by invitation of the Grand Duke himself.”
“The capital…And for what purpose?”
“To...give a mass,” the Bishop continued, crossing to the parapet.
“But...meaning no disrespect...why you?”
“I have my suspicions,” he replied softly, one hand resting upon the merlon. “In any case, I will be away from Letwijs for some time.”
He turned to Davoy, smiling faintly, his chain of office gleaming in the morning sunlight.
“I have a request for you, Castellan Davoy Ročtos.”
He placed a ringed finger upon the man’s shoulder, peering through his umber eyes.
“You are the true guardian of this city. We both know that. The Margrave lies abed, febrile, rarely quitting his bedchamber.”
He tightened his grip, hardened his voice.
“You must keep the faith, my son. This has been the first burning, and it will not be the last. Even whilst I am here in the city, their boldness remains unchecked. Who knows where it shall wander whilst I am away?”
Davoy looked away, towards the undulating hills of the Veldt.
“Keep the faith, Davoy Ročtos. And judge none so severely as yourself.”
“I understand, holy one,” he whispered.
At that, the Bishop released his grip.
“I depart on the morrow. The feast of Saint Ogbas falls on the first full moon of next month, and the journey shall tarry some time. I fear that I am no longer the vociferous traveller I once was.”
He paused a moment; then, “You shall inform the Margrave, I trust?”
“Of course, lord Bishop,” Davoy said, nodding just-so.
Another silence.
“I…” the Bishop began, before halting abruptly. Instead, he clasped his hands together, and bowed, just as Father Odo had the day before.
“May God be with you.”
Then, he was gone.
The sister of Davoy Ročtos, the Castellan of Castle Letwijs, accused of heresy and witchcraft, is burnt at the stake with her lover by the fanatical Father Odo, a Monsignor of the Church.
It is the first such burning in the Duchy of Innes to occur in some centuries.
Bishop Wenčel Barthóld, Duke Lirian's candidate for the Pontifical election, offers his condolences to the Castellan andd informs him that he has been invited to give mass in Léonne.
He will be departing the next day, as the journey to the capital of Cordonova will be arduous.
He warns that Father Odo is attempting to gather influence in the city, and cautions Davoy to be watchful, and to keep the faith.
Josef could feel each and every wave strike and slide as the rowboat reached closer to the quayside. He could feel his jaw loosen and a shroud of nausea tried to take over his mind. With a clenched jaw and a his vision focused on the land before his eyes, Josef held back his vomit's exodus to the sea.
Wedged between two bulky, sweaty sailors was the envoy Lothir Vilokana. A pale with a dark, curled moustache and chinstrap, Josef felt his shoes through the boards slide back, as if expecting Josef to heave on them.
"Have you heard of the election? They say that Pontiff Hyrnasir was found inebriated in the arms of a whore" Lothir said as ocean spray flung itself over the bow of the boat. "You don't know the half of it" Josef wiped his hand over his face after the ocean spittled at him.
"What do you say you're highness?" Lothir tilted his head to look over Josef's shoulder.
"Our Lord Fiorentino said that those generous with forgiveness, will be forgiven generously by god" Prince Stepan said, between acne beset cheeks and under his hair, near shaven except for the curly brown hairs dangling over his forehead. "The way I hear it my lord, the pontiff is going to need all the forgiveness he can get!" the envoy laughed over the heads of the sailors and the growls of the sea.
Josef looked back with a smirk across his face, the duo of carracks flying Vohemian colours behind them. Ahead was Reheba and the port of Belfry.
Waiting at an open dock was a redheaded man dressed in a green doublet and a matching green wool cap. Around him and almost surrounding the open dock was a part of the town guard. There were two open spaces for the ships to dock. Equipment and clothing of the guards varied some, but nearly all of them wore cabassets and had halberds or pikes.
A curious crowd had started to form as more and more people saw the ships with Vohemian colors, though they were a fairly safe distance away. A figure clothed in an orange doublet looked anxiously at the ships and back to the guards. This was a big event for the island kingdom, and no Reheban official wanted to mishandle it.
A sailor threw a rope up onto the quayside and the hulking, wooden landing boat was lashed to the stone blocks of the dock. A rope ladder folded and swung over the edge for the occupants to disembark. Josef was the first one to scale up the ladder, followed closely by the envoy with a grin wiped over his face.
"Greetings" Lothir was already dispensed with a bow before even taking the last step off of the ladder. "I am Lothir Vilokana, envoy for his majesty King Zikmund 3rd, bearer of the obsidian crown of Vohemia, Lord of the Kretz valley, Lord-Patron of the Damolong marches and Paramount of the southern snow" Josef was surprised that Lothir could remember all of that.
"I am honoured to also present, his highness Prince Stepan of Vohemia, heir to the obsidian crown of Vohemia and Duke of the Muromets Valley" Lothir stepped to the side as the prince straightened his back as he secured his footing on the quayside. His black half-cap over his left shoulder waving in the ocean wind and around his pale doublet.
The man dressed in green took off his cap and bowed in return, "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Vilokana!" He turned towards Prince Stepan, and bowed even deeper, saying, "You do our kingdom more honor than I feel we can bear." The man stood up and stated, "I am Duke Gerard Barrett, Lord of Belfry. I, and my countrymen welcome you to Reheba, and the port of Belfry."
He motioned a hand towards the man in the orange doublet. "That is Peter, Captain of the Guard." Gerard stated. "He will oversee the guard as we make our journey to the carriage. Then, we will head to my castle to discuss this delicate matter in a more private area." He added. "It's had a few renovations, and I do believe it's much more comfortable than it used to be." Peter turned around to offer the Vohemian delegation a bow, but didn't say anything. Soon enough he was back to looking at his men and making sure they were in line.
"The honor is mine" Stepan pulled up a smile with genuine appreciation in his eyes. The second row boat, filled with uhlans quickly climbed out onto the dock as the envoy and the prince followed the rehebian lord. Josef waited for the Uhlans to file into a column before carrying on after Lothir and Stepan.
Their boots thudded against the stone docks, smoothed by sea wind and the activity of people. The uhlan captain wasn't sure if they'd caught the locals by surprise or not, gazing at the crowd that had gathered and parted a way for their lord. He didn't think they would try anything, though if they did, the uhlans really only had their sabres and a few daggers between them. chucking their visored sallet's was a possibility.
Josef wrapped his gloved hand around the hilt of his sabre, behind the prince and envoy as they climbed into the awaiting carriage after the duke.
The coachman looked on as the carriage moved through the streets of Belfry. "Have you all had a pleasant journey to our island?" The duke queried. “I know the waters can be a bit rough at times, but you strike me as the tough sort.”
Prince Stepan was wedged on the seats of the carriage between Josef and Lothir. Lothir sprung a smile, "Aye, well thankfully it was a short one" the envoy regaled the duke as the wheels rumbled as they spung and the clops of horses filtered through the carriage windows. Josef watched as the uhlans filed into a columns beside the carriage and moved at a jog beside the carriage.
"Tell me Duke, are we to expect any noteworthies at your keep, present company excempt of course" Stepan brushed his curled hairs over the left side of his scalp.
Gerard nodded towards Lothir, "Always a good thing." He stated. He rotated his head towards Stepan, "A notable besides myself? If you are referring to the king himself, I am afraid he isn't able to be here at this moment. His majesty is reaching a venerable age, and his knees aren't what they used to be. He still rules with conviction despite this adversity I should note. As for other notables?" He asked rhetorically. "You will meet prince Radford and prince Ainsely at my keep. They and I will represent the king in our negotiations."
The duke adjusted the cap on his head, "They would have loved to have met you at the docks, I am certain of this. Though they wanted to ensure that you received a proper Reheban feast. They have been hunting in my woodland for two days along with a few other men. The plan is to eat after our dealings, but if you are hungry beforehand my kitchen is open to all of you." Gerard motioned towards all three men. "I wouldn't want to spoil an appetite however, as there will be much food. Fish and game of all sorts, fowl aplenty, and my personal favorite; seal."
"I agree, we should exercise temperance if a feast is being prepared" Stepan responded to the Duke, seemingly satisfied in his answer. Josef wondered if it weakened their negotiating position. The Rehebian princes directly represented their king, while Stepan was in joint representation with the envoy. It would appear as if King Zikmund didn't fully trust his son with this task. Perhaps Stepan was more here as a center of gravitas, with Lothir being the real negotiationing power. Then again, Josef remembered Zikmund's comments the last he'd seen him.
The carriage soon left Belfry, and headed onto a wide dirt country road. Within the period of a few hours, the castle was in view. The duke's statement that it had been renovated rang true, as the stone walls appeared to be clean and devoid of large cracks. Smoke billowed from beside the western curtain wall, a reminder of the feast that was being prepared. Two towers could be seen in the two front-facing corners; the turrets. They too appeared to be restored. Past the walls the keep could be seen; it looked less impressive than the two towers, as it was dirty in certain spots, and had a few cracks on the individual stones.
"Well, Ainsley and Radford should be back from their hunting. The feast can begin as soon as we are done with our dealings," Gerard proclaimed. Duke Barrett scooted towards the door, and opened it up. He exited the carriage, speaking all the while, "The Great Hall will be ready for the feast within the space of a few more hours; I'd say six to eight. We shall speak in there. We should have plenty of time before the food is brought in to seal a deal!" The duke said excitedly.
Josef thought the castle looked fancy enough, although he fought the refurbishment suited a country house more than a practical fortress. It seemed as though most of the activity was focused at the hall, as the courtyard they disembarked out to seemed rather quiet. "Very well" Stepan uttered as he stepped from the carriage, with envoy Lothir looking about at the architecture. "The walls remind me of the old imperial fort under Mount Wargmaller. I think it's the stonework perhaps?" Lothir said, tryinf in some way to compliment the design with a comparison to old imperial standards.
Josef inspected the uhlans that had followed them, panting and gasping into waterskins. Stepan was oblivious however and moved to follow the duke into the structure itself.
"The architects of this castle had the empire's fortresses in mind when they built it." Duke Barrett said, obviously flattered. "I'm glad you noticed, Lord Vilokana!" Gerard opened his mouth to speak some more, "Our history with the empire is a bit complex, as I'm sure you're aware. Though they knew how to make a good fort. The building also has quite a few Reheban influences; mainly in the chapel. There's a few carvings on the outside showing St. Adalberos preaching." The duke made his away across the footbridge. Upon seeing the carriage and those that made their way to the castle, a shout could be heard from the gatehouse, and the portcullis was raised. Following that, the thick oaken door behind it was opened.
Gerard made his way to the great hall; to the left, people could be seen going in and out of the kitchen, carrying food of all manner. A servant rushed over to open the door to the Great Hall. Within the building, two men could be seen. One who appeared to be in his early thirties, with brown hair and a cream colored leather jerkin. The other man appeared to be about the same age, though with black hair and clothed with a leather jerkin that was dark green in color. The two men sat at the high table, which was raised up by the dais.
Josef took to walking behind the Envoy and prince as they walked side by side into the great hall. As they walked upon the stretch of carpet towards the seated individuals, Josef glanced around at the ornate interior of the great hall. Josef stopped behind Stepan, who stood proudly as Envoy Vilokana took steps ahead of the prince.
"Your lordships, I present to you both, Prince Stepan of Vohemia, Heir to the obsidian crown of Vohemia and duke of the Muromets valley" Lothir bowed lowly towards the men who could only be the rehebian princes.
The man in the cream-colored jerkin offered the the Vohemian delegation a polite nod, "It gives me great satisfaction to meet you, Prince Stepan. I am Prince Ainsley, heir to the Reheban kingdom." He firmly stated the last sentence. The man in the green leather jerkin spoke next, "It is good to have you here, Prince Stepan." He followed his brother's example and offered the delegation the same nod. "I am Prince Radford, and I am heir to no landed titles, save for that which God may reward me with in heaven."
Ainsely motioned a hand toward the table, "Please, take a seat so that we may shake hands and discuss our dealings. We will have much to talk about I'm sure." Ainsely's statement was concluded by Gerard making his way around the delegation, and taking a seat on the side that the Princes were seated. Radford smiled, "I trust that you have been treated well while on our island?"
Prince Stepan whipped a smile over his face, taking the steps towards the offered seats. "Thank you and please excuse my poor rehebian" Stepan reached his hand over the table to shake the duo's hands, along with the envoy. Josef took to standing close to the wall and the seats. "Very well, your graces. We met with the duke at the quayside and he kindly showed us here" Lothir said as pulled back into the cushioned seat.
"We would also like to honour your good will and thank you for the bounty you'll be presenting us soon" Stepan said as he looked over to the envoy, who pulled a thing wrapped in pale linen. "This is the lance head of Saint Astal, when he fought the heathen kessites at Karva Ridge. It was the finest of my collection of relics that my father offers as a gift" Stepan said as Lothir unwrapped the bay leaf shaped chunk of rusted and blunted iron.
Ainsely looked on in awe at the rusted relic, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. Radford lightly tapped his brother's shoulder, and Ainsely regained his composure. As though embarrassed at being offered such a gift and looking on like a fool, Ainsely gave another neat and polite bob of his head, and said, "Thank you. You have reminded me of Saint Astal and my need to pray for his intercession more often. Even more, you have offered us his lance head? You are generous."
Both Radford and Ainsely shook Stepan and the envoy's hand. It was Radford that opened his mouth to speak next. "This relic will be treated well in a private chapel, safe from any who may do it harm." Radford continued to speak, albeit a bit more hesitant with his next words. "We didn't think a relic would be offered as a gift. Our own gift is less impressive I must confess, but it is a fine work of craftsmanship, and holds the story of one of Reheba's famous heroes." Radford looked down at his lap, and pulled up a thick leather book, gilded with gold and covered in a few gems. "It is written by hand, and is considerably old. Though not too old." Ainsely, meanwhile, gently reached for the rusted and blunted piece of iron.
"It's the thought that counts your graces" Envoy Vilokana received the tome with a smile and filled the gap the relic left in his satchel with it. "Now though, we have offers to make" Stepan said with a conviction beyond his age and leaning forward in his seat. Lothir straightened his spine before speaking. "His majesty King Zikmund understands that Rehebian merchants across Vohemia's ports have been looking for means of acquiring blackpowder and timber. Therefore, his majesty wishes to ratify a treatise on trade between our ports" Lothir said as if he was reciting a practiced line.
"In exchange, his majesty wants dozens of sakers and other field artillery pieces. As well as free access and supply to vohemian naval ships in Rehebian ports." Lothir continued with the vohemian proposition. "To solidify this treaty, along with building a foundation for an alliance. King Zikmund wishes to betroth Prince stepan to the Princess Greta of Rehebe"
The trio of Reheban men waited for Lothir to finish speaking. Ainsely smiled at the mention of more timber, but both he and his brother seemed to frown at what they had to give in return. At the mention of an Alliance, Radford grinned, but quickly wiped it away; he didn't want to seem too eager. "We are fond of this deal, save for one minor issue, or rather, a modification that we can make." Ainsely spoke. "If we are to build the foundation of an alliance, I see no reason why we cannot have free access and supply for Reheban naval ships while in Vohemia. I think it would make supply and access easier on all of us then, rather than it being given to one party." Ainsely concluded the statement by rubbing his chin.
After a few seconds of this, he looked to Gerard, and asked, "Duke, you know a good sum about cannons, do you not?" Gerard answered back, "I talked with a man who knew quite a lot about cannons, yes." Ainsely further queried, "What else can we offer these fine people and their kingdom in terms of weaponry?" Gerard thought for a moment, "Well, seeing as you have mentioned dozens of sakers," he motioned towards the Vohemians, "We would like to offer you some falconets as well. We will even offer a few basilisks. Out of fairness, I should note that I hear they are going out of style in some parts of Antova. However, basilisks, if properly placed, can be deadly, and they are intimidating in their appearance." Radford opened his mouth to speak. "As for a betrothal between princess Greta and prince Stepan? That would be met with jubilation by my family."
Stepan had relaxed into his seat, surprised that there would be jubilation. He looked to Lothir as if waiting for the envoy to look to him for some kind of approval, but he didn't. "Aye, it's only fair that your ships have the same liberties in Vohemian ports." Lothir stated and agreed with the rehebians without consulting the prince. "His majesty is keen on any and all armaments you are willing to supply Vohemia with. So he will defer to your arsenal's expertise on the best choices, Though the sakers are a must." Lothir continued, before peeling up a grin.
"In Vohemian custom, his grace prince Stepan will be ready for marriage at sixteen. Is the time from then to now be enough for your people to make preparations?" Lothir asked with a palm resting on the wooden table between them.
Ainsely nodded at the mention of Reheban ships having more liberties in Vohemian ports. Radford spoke, "Our father has been trying to marry off our sisters for a good while. Father is picky with whom he wants them to get married to, though this should more than suffice. She will be ready by the time prince Stepan is sixteen." He clasped his hands together and gave a toothy smile. "Shall we shake on it?" Gerard remained silent. He quietly observed the two princes, sometimes taking a look at the Vohemian delegation.
Envoy Lothir and Stepan took up the offered hands on shakes. Though Stepan's was noticeably more limp than the envoy's firm grip. As the shakes finished, Lothir clapped his hands together before speaking. "Do your graces have any more business you'd like to go over with us?" Lothir asked the duo.
"I don't think we do," Ainsely uttered. "Ainsely, we do have some business left." Radford said. "What's that then?" Ainsely replied. "The feast!" Radford exclaimed, and then continued in a softer tone of voice, "It should be ready in a little while. Until it's time to eat however, I'm sure we all have a few interesting stories to tell; I'll start."
"May I come in, cousin?" asked a small, diminutive man standing outside a door. The door was ornate, with expensive jewels embedded in it every few inches. Even the doorknob was made of some crystal or other. It's meaning couldn't get more obvious if a sign reading "here is the Kaiser's room" was hung on the front.
"You will address me as Mine Kaiser!" shouted a deep voice on the other end.
"My lord, please. If we could get through with the-" a second voice chimed in.
"SILENCE! Can't you see I'm speaking with my family!" shouted the first voice.
"Of course, your Excellence," replied the second.
The man just rolled his eyes, and pushed the door open. Inside, the Kaiser Mura XVI knelt, in front of the Pontiff of Muragenn. The Pontiff was about to pour holy water upon his head, and perform a ritual body cleansing. Unfortunately, kneeling didn't seem to bring his ego down one bit. The Pontiff was so nervous and sweaty he looked like he was made of wax.
"Get out, Verrk, can't you see I'm busy?" Mura groaned, getting up from off the ground. Verrk just nodded, slowly.
“I’m sure your daily abusing of our holiness can wait until the evening, cousin.” Verrk responded. He then gestured to the Pontiff. “This is a private matter. You are dismissed.” The Pontiff seemed relieved to escape the room. He quickly shuffled out of their sights, and the clacking of boots running across stone floor resonated through the hall.
“Very well then. You’ve interrupted my cleansing, sullying myself in the eyes of God and the Stars. Whatever it is you’re about to say had better be important.”
“Yes, Mine Kaiser. It is,” Verrk said, stumbling over the words. He sighed, and began piecing together the case he had made the day before. “Your men are ready, Your Excellence. They await your orders at the city’s outskirts.”
“Excellent, tell them to break camp immediately. We shall strike first at the Sevanne Trail.”
The rain came on in sheets, falling on the already wet mud, leaves of trees, and the heads of the Muran raiders. It was nearly impossible to see more than 10 feet ahead, and the Grii commander expects them to shoot people? Avas rubbed his forehead, feeling the mixture of rain and sweat that has decided to roost there. Hold on . . . the commander was saying something. He could barely hear, with the rain, and the distance, it all sounded muffled.
“Ready . . . . on the left . . . . glory and victory . . . . may be promoted . . . “ the commander shouted, trying in vain to get over the din of the falling drops. At least, that’s all Avas could make out. Another noise invaded the sanctity of the muddy ditch everyone lay in. A sort of steady thudding sound. It seemed to gradually get louder, and then someone next to him buried his head in the dirt.
“Get down!” whispered the guy next to him. “The merchants are going to see you!” Avas didn’t know who he was, but already he hated him. The commander was relaying orders now, in a chaotic mix of hand gestures and whispered phrases. No one knew what he was trying to convey.
“Now!” someone shouted, and everyone began peppering the caravan with shot, arrow, or stones. The military funding was still low as ever. The merchants were in anarchy, running this way and that, bumping into each other or cowering behind their carts. That was supposed to happen. What wasn’t supposed to happen was a few brave merchants getting up and grabbing pistols, then shooting right back. Wait is that one aiming at Ava- CRACK!
And then everything went black.
Kaiser Mura gives the go-ahead for a merchant trail raid.
Minutious collaboration by TheSovereignGrave & Hygswitch
The sun was high in the sky, shining down on the Mermaid's Palace in Mierbuerg. This including a rather spacious, but minor, courtyard which served as a garden. It was filled predominantly with a rainbow of different flowers, some native and some foreign to the Ardäin. Many of them grew straight from the ground while others grew in short shrubs, and a few were even small, cultivated trees. The centerpiece, however, was a thick tree that grew at the top of a small hill, meant to give shade to anyone enjoying the garden. And at present this consisted of small group of young woman, including Cosima Idoni, the young daughter of Pierro Idoni.
The young woman was currently laughing at something one of the others had said. She seemed a bit less inhibited by a noble upbringing then the others, or just maybe it was her southern temperament. In this moment her being at the watershed between womanhood and girlishness was very aparent. Despite Ardäin not quite being like all the knightly sagas described it she had come to like her stay here. It had been a week since they arrived, and her father and the duke, together with a number of consultants where working on a contract to formalise the trade between the Ardäin and Turchina. Time in which she had gotten to know the other women of the court. Quite some of them about her age, so the stay was not too unpleasant.
However, their discussion was somewhat interrupted by the arrival of Wellëm vun Mierbuerg at the edge of the garden. The Ardäinesch ladies present stood to give the man a quick curtsy when they saw him and a chorus of 'My Lord', which he responded with a nod of his head before speaking. "You know that is not necessary ladies," he said with a smile, then turned his attention to Cosima, "And hello to you, Lady Idoni."
Cosima had curtsied a moment after the others but had not said anything. Now she seemed a bit baffled at being directly adressed by the young Lordling. Two of the other ladies giggled a bit as she curtsied again, flustered. "Um, yes hello, Lord Wellëm, hello." she quickly blurted, much to her own chagrin and much to more amusement of the others, who decided to leave her stranded with him. Or from another point of view, to give them some more space.
Wellëm simply watched the others leave, which suited him just fine. They were permanent residents of his father's court and none of them had ever really caught his eye, while Cosima was different. "Oh, there's no need to be nervous," he said, still smiling as he sat down underneath the tree, "Please, have a seat. And all the formalities are unnecessary. Please, call me Wellëm."
She calmed a bit at that though kept on standing chewing her lower lip. "I am sorry Wellëm, I am just not used to this level of etiquette. It is easier at home without all those titles. I just... do not wish to offend, or cause any trouble." She sighed, frustration emanating frustration. "I am sorry I should know this all better from all the knightly lengends and sagas, but in reallity, well it is just so real."
Wellëm laughed at that, "True, it is quite real. And I dare say that legends and sagas do not do much to prepare one for the reality. If they did, then I wouldn't have had to learn from experience. But I must say, from what I have seen you've done well for someone so new to it all." Then he patted the ground beside him, "But really, please do sit down."
She gave him a look but then sat down, carefully holding her dress in place to not expose too much of herself. "It's just, Wellëm you are a flesh and blood ardäin knight, sitting right here." She looked at him in a meaningfull way. "It's a bit like the heroes of old come to live in front of me, Willbur the flower knight or Ramfrey the undying." as she spoke the gesticulated a lot compared to the ardäin women. She stopped holding up her hands then let them sink "I sound like some kind of madwoman to you don't I?"
Wellëm gave the young woman a smile before shaking his head, "Not at all. Of course all this is normal to me, but I can see how it could be overwhelming. Honestly, I likely felt the same way as you once. When I was only 17, I was made a Knight Paramount of the Order. Any nobleman who can hold a sword is sworn in as a member of the Order of Saint Aloysius, but a Knight Paramount? It's an honour that only the greatest knights hold, and it was almost overwhelming. I was standing where the greatest knights that the Kingdom had ever produced had stood, being granted the same title they had been granted. And meeting the other Knights Paramount was even worse; according to my father, some of those men would've been legends had they been born in an earlier time."
She listened intently, looking directly at his face nodding. "It might be, too much of a peacefull time for knightly heroism. A time of people like my family." She sighed, not sounding happy about this, but also greatly showcased how guarded her upbringing was, and how little the burning pyres of much of the continent had reached the blue city.
"Well, I like to think that valour and honour will always hold a place in the world. It will be a sad day when they don't, if you ask me," Wellëm replied, though his tone indicated that he felt the same way about it as Cosima, "But it truly is a peaceful era; my eldest brother was the youngest in my family to see battle, and it was before I was even born. I may be a knight, but I wonder if I'll ever get a chance at real glory."
As they had been talking Cosima had slowly leaned a bit closer to Wellëm, now a mere handbreadth divided them. "It is easy to say that, you are living in Ardäin, where there still are a lot of honourable people. I am from Turchina, I am not sure you know it but we are basically ruled by a shadow ruler without a real claim." She looked around to see if enyone was listening, then drew closer to him and whispered conspirationally. "Some say she even killed her husband and it to blame for the sorry state the real Doge is in."
Wellëm listened closely, and then looked around for a long minute to make sure nobody was listening. After all, he had more to lose if anyone heard him since he actually lived here. "Well my brother-in-law may be King, but the man has no shred of honour. And there are far too many sycophants living in Kinnekdrelaps. All of them agreeing to the King's lies to his face. Like blaming my sister for my niece and nephews' poor states," he whispered back to Cosima, "But let us stop speaking of such things; no good can come of it. And I do not enjoy speaking of my brother-in-law in the slightest."
Cosima blushed a bit at that and shifted uncomfortably, nodding in agreement. "I am sorry, I think I volunteer my opinion too freely. I might be hailing after my father when it comes to this." she said apologetically.
"Oh, there is no need to apologize; I can hardly fault you for being honest," Wellëm said, chuckling, "Honesty is quite the virtue, after all."
She smiled sweetly at Wellëm, a certain awkwardness to her demeanor. Wellëm returned Cosima's smile, though he was not anywhere near as awkward as she. Then he looked around the garden, once more checking on whether there were any onlookers present, "You know, Cosima, I have actually wished to speak with you all week. But unfortunately, the opportunity had not shown itself until today."
She was genuinely surprised by this. "Oh, you...did?" she asked softly. "So yes, I guess a foreigner is more exotic in these parts then in a trading hub like my home. What did you want to talk about? Sir....I mean Wellëm?." She tilted her head slightly as she askes, unintendedly pronouncing the noble form of her slim neck.
"Why, is it not obvious? I wished to speak about you," Wellëm replied, moving his hand to brush against Cosima's jaw, "Truthfully, I do not care that you are foreign or exotic. But I cannot recall the last time my eyes fell upon a maiden as fair or beautiful as you."
She tensed, surprised at the sudden closeness, but instead of pulling back actually twitched against Wellëm's hand, the slight blush from her ears quickly spreading. Her cheek was soft and feminine and comfortably warm. She stammered startledly, but no real words came out so she just sat, staring like a deer before the hunters arrow hits it. Wellëm opened his mouth to speak once again, but this time his words were interrupted by a polite cough from the entrance of the garden.
The young lord looked up from Cosima to see one of the castle's servants bowing low. The man's gaze lingered on Cosima for a moment, though what his gaze held Wellëm couldn't tell. Then he looked back to Wellëm and spoke, "My Lord, I apologize for interrupting but your father has requested your presence."
Wellëm sighed, removing his hand from Cosima's face and pulled back before looking back to her once more, "I am sorry my lady, but I cannot keep my father waiting. Until we meet again."
Cosima sighed involuntarily at that, truely disappointed that her time with the young knight was cut short, she stood up gracefully, curtsying to Wellëm, "By all means heed your fathers summon. I cannot wait for this moment to arrive." she said softly, indicating with her posture that she would not be averse to a handkiss, actually biting her lip as she hoped for it intensely.
Wellëm was more than happy to oblige the young woman, quickly taking her hand in his own and planting a kiss upon. Then he looked up to Cosima and smiled, "Farewell, my fair maiden." And then he was gone, following the servant to where his father was no doubt waiting for him.
As he turned Cosima sighed slightly, looking where he had left until she was interrupted by the noisy crowd of young courtly women returning. Quite a lot of excitement was apparent in all of them at how close Cosima had come to Wellëm, and how he had treated her. Instant fame (or maybe infamy?) was sure for the young turchinan Lady now. Nothing short of a divine intervention could stop the gossip from spreading now.
-Cosima Idoni, the daughter of Turchinas Shipmaster get's to know Wellëm vun Mierbuerg, a bit. -Might this be the beginning of a courtship?
Queen Joaquina hated being pregnant. Everything hurt and swelled, she got fat and moody. And every pregnancy carried a chance of killing her in the birthing bed. And yet as Queen, it was one of her duties to secure the succession line. And no matter how much she argued, apparently one daughter wasn't enough to secure the future of the Royal Line in the eyes of her husband. Or rather, in the eyes of that thrice-cursed Prelate, who held an unacceptable amount of influence with Andre-Maria.
Sometimes she even wondered if all the pain and anguish was really worth it. But then she remembered all the power and influence she held as Queen, usually that was enough to calm her doubts. Though at the moment said power and influence were beyond her reach. “You need your rest, wife. Don't worry yourself.” Her husband had said before locking her up in this bedroom weeks ago. And as much as it irked her, the Queen had to admit that she wasn't in conditions to do anything besides groan and puke, not with a belly this big. Joaquina had no wish to try her luck this time. A fifth failed pregnancy would just be too much for both her body and mind. Though the realization did little to counter he growing restlessness.
The Queen had to distract herself, but she doubted she would even be able to focus on a book even if she tried. So she settled on watching view out of her window. It was one of the many courtyards of the Alhena, sporting a large rectangular fountain surrounded by garden beds. From her vantage point Joaquina could see attendants and servants scurrying to and fro. Last she had heard, the High Pontiff was dead, but she was sure she had seen Duke Lavanca a lot in the Palace grounds alongside with a host of other commanders. This concentration could only mean that the army was mobilizing. Joaquina struggled to not fill the blanks with the worst case scenario.
Her thoughts were interrupted when her personal crier, one of the few luxuries she was adamant about maintaining all times, brusquely opened the door and stepped into the room:
“Announcing His Royal Majesty Adre-Maria of the House of Abravantes and the Infanta Real Marina-Josefa!”
And just as fast as he had entered the crier returned to his position outside the room. Replaced by her daughter and husband, in tow.
“How are you feeling, mother?” Her daughter asked, curtsying perfectly, or as perfect as an 11 year old could manage.
Joaquina gave her daughter a strained smile. In better days she would complain about her daughter's hair-it wasn't terrible, but still fell short to the standards of a girl of her standing-. The King didn't looked his best either, Joaquina knew her husband enough see the weariness in his posture and tiredness in his eyes.
“I'm feeling fine, dear. Don't worry.” The Queen replied, forcing herself to look cheerful. One had to keep up the appearances after all, despite her sorry state. “But what about you? It has been days since you last showed up to see your mother. Don't you want to get to know your little siblings?”
“I've been attending my duties as Infanta, mother.” Marina intoned solemnly and Joaquina noticed Andre's hand squeezing her shoulder. “Father is taking me along as he mobilizes the Exército!” So there was actually a mobilization going on. And if Andre-Maria was taking their daughter along then it meant the situation wasn't as bad as she thought. For all his faults, Joaquina's husband wouldn't allow himself to be distracted by the girl if the Timlukids were at the gates.
“I thought I was supposed to give her the news, Jo.” The King chuckled before his expression hardened. “But yes, we are mobilizing. Though I figured that much you knew.” He added, moving towards the window. “The Timlukids are moving against us and I intend to ride out and meet them before they have the chance to cause too much damage. I shall depart by the weekend, Prelate Hermogenes will stay behind to rule in my absence.” He looked straight at her, pointing to her swollen belly. “I presume that you shall accept the arrangement, considering your current condition.”
Joaquina nodded, doing her best to control her temper. It would no good for her to blow up at her husband, specially in front of her daughter. She hated it of course. Being left powerless while the Prelates. Saints, how she despised the man, ruled the nation like he had any rights. But she also realized that she wasn't in any conditions to handle the stress of acting as regent. Too bad it took a lost baby to learn that particular lesson.
Andre-Maria must have noticed her sudden mood change because he was soon kneeling by the bedside. Holding her left hand in his and looking at her as if she would break at any moment:
“You shouldn't worry. Hermogenes will take care of everything. Nothing will bother you.” He turned his head towards the Infanta: “And I'm sure Jo will love to keep your company here. It must be dreadful to spend so much time with only your thoughts.”
“I promise you won't have a single moment alone, mother!” The Infanta smiled as she approached the bed.
Another knock rocked the door before the guard entered the room:
“Duke Pedro-Matias de Lavanca requests your immediate presence, Your Majesty!” The guard shouted.
“Something must've come up...” The King muttered. “I have to take care of this, dear.” Andre-Maria turned to their daughter. “Keep your mother's company. I will send someone to fetch you for dinner.”
The Infanta curtsied and the King left. Leaving his daughter to drone on about what she had learned on what she had learned watching her father organize the mobilization and the Queen pretending to care about it.
A black haired woman sat atop a chestnut horse, dressed in a red gown and her hair braided in the front, ribbons tying up her hair in the back. A decorated cap kept her hair covered. Next to her on a spotted horse was a slightly heavyset man with brown hair, clothed in a cream colored doublet and a matching cap. Rustling could be heard from the nearby brush, and the woman raised her stonebow. A hare came running out of the undergrowth of the forest, and the woman pulled the trigger. Without a look at the hare or what happened to it, the man spoke up, “Abigail! Have you ever even hunted before? Your aim needs improvement!” He chuckled, under the assumption that Abigail had missed her target.
She smugly pointed at the corpse of the hare. “More than you have, Edwynn. Why, you didn’t even look before you passed your judgement.” A few courtiers that were behind the pair chortled quietly. Edwynn looked back and glared, causing the courtiers to quiet themselves. He wouldn’t be shown up by a woman. “The day is young, and a hare is only a small amount of meat. By the end of it all I’ll have much more than you!” Edwynn proclaimed, certain that he would best her.
Edwynn sat on a bench in the palace gardens, staring at a nearby fountain, his mind elsewhere. What year did that happen? It was before they had children, he was certain of that much. Maybe it was 1553, or 1554, he couldn’t quite recall. The elderly monarch stayed still, thinking about his wife and their relationship before she passed into the halls of the saints. He would meet her soon, he was sure of it. She was one of his only true companions in a mass of people who followed the crown, that same mass caring little for him as a person.
That’s why he was here! His mind focused back to what he was supposed to be doing next. His daughter was to see him. He was going to tell her the good news about her marriage. How it would shape the relationship between Reheba and Vohemia. “You wished to see me, father?” A soft voice from behind him spoke. Edwynn turned his head around, his attention focused on Greta. Edwynn nearly choked up at seeing her. It was as if someone had carved out an exact likeness of Abigail, save for the one feature he had given her; his nose. “Come, sit next to me.” Greta complied, and sat next to her father on the stone bench.
“Greta. You have been talking about me finding you a suitable husband for quite some time,” He began. She interrupted him by asking a barrage of questions, her neutral demeanor transforming into one of glee. “Who is he, father? Is he tall? Is he a prince, or a duke? How old is he? Where does he come from? Is-“ Edwynn raised his hand, “Still your tongue, girl.” Greta quieted herself, a smile still on her lips. Edwynn continued with a hint of amusement in his eyes, “According to what I have been told, he has black hair, and is fourteen. I don’t know if he is tall, or any of his other physical attributes. He’s from Vohemia. I’m sure you’ve heard of Prince Stepan before.”
Greta’s smile turned into a frown, “Fourteen? Does he have pimples? I bet he has pimples! Being that age he’ll probably be grabby too!” Greta exclaimed. Edwynn sighed and rubbed his forehead, “Greta. You won’t be marrying him now. You’re just betrothed to him. The wedding will happen in two years.” The princess’ voice dripped with sarcasm, “Two years! I’m sure all of the pimples and the lecherous attitude will be gone by then!” Edwynn remembered one of the reasons why he wanted to marry off Greta. Sarcastic comments were alright every now and then, but with the frequency that his daughter fired them from her mouth he was afraid that it would jam.
“Greta,” He started, “Neither you nor I have met Prince Stepan. I’m certain he’s a wonderful lad, and will be an even greater man in two years. I’m sure the pimples will clear away with time as well.” Greta looked about ready to say something else, but Edwynn spoke before she could, “Greta, your comments will be your downfall if you keep them up. Curb this attitude you have and accept your betrothal. He was the best option that we had!” Edwynn almost shouted.
Greta opened her mouth to speak, but her father glared at her, as if daring her to say another comment. She decided not to speak, and instead went inside the palace in a huff. “We have two years to turn her into a respectable lady and convince her that this decision was the proper one,” Edwynn thought aloud, “Good. Ample time to at least stop her from making her damnable comments.” The elderly king shook his head, and then bowed it in prayer.
The king sits on a bench in the palace garden, reminiscing about his wife.
The monarch recalls why he was sitting there in the first place; he had called his daughter to talk about her betrothal.
Greta, his daughter shows up.
The king tells her about her betrothal to Prince Stepan.
She is not pleased, but only manages to make one sarcastic remark.
Edwynn is sure that he can convince Greta to more fully accept the betrothal, and bows his head in prayer.
