No, Rella thought with sudden realization. Jacob Ward knew better than anyone what sort of weight lay behind such a question. He’d shouldered its full weight in the span of a heartbeat—and shrugged it away . That any man could so casually consider and then utterly dismiss such terrible glory without even reacting left her utterly stunned.
“My Lady,” spoke a rough but feminine voice. Mette, the warrior queen, had crossed the plaza while Rella was indisposed. “I can’t help but feel something dire almost happened—oh, and you’re bleeding.”
Rella dismissed Mette with an annoyed wave of her hand, letting her mind go back to Jacob after wiping the blood from her mouth with a cloth one of The Twins offered her. Something had most definitely almost happened, and she’d have to make up for her rudeness later—but she had to return to the two Worldwalkers.
“Perhaps that is best,” the priest was saying with a gentle smile. “There’s been enough bloodshed back home over such things to sate a hundred worlds.”
“Truer words,” Jacob replied, closing his hand around the other man’s upper arm. “I do have one thing I hope to discuss with you, though.”
“Really?” The Preacher asked, cocking his head. “I thought the [Oracle] would be waiting for you with all the other pompous fools calling themselves noble.”
“Aye, the [Oracle] can wait. I’d like to take confession, if you have a moment.” Jacob’s expression grew serious, and The Preacher nodded as he stepped away from the children to whom he’d been handing out bread. He passed the basket to an older street urchin before turning and gesturing for Jacob to continue. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been…” Jacob trailed off, confusion writing itself across his face.
The priest chuckled. “We’ve been here in this world for nearly ten months, by my best reckoning,” he said softly.
“It’s been some time before that since I last…”
Their words faded as the priest made the same gesture Rella had seen him perform quite often, touching his forehead, then his chest, then each shoulder. She pushed harder with her Sight, feeling whatever was being spoken was of great import, and then—
The Preacher halted, his shoulders stiffening as if he knew he was being observed. He seemed to step out of himself and turned toward Rella, his imperious gaze freezing her in place. The rest of the world, too, seemed to still, leaving The Preacher and Rella alone.
Through her Sight, he looked her directly in the eye, golden flames dancing behind his irises as he Spoke:
“The sanctity of the Confession is absolute .”
Despite the distance between them, those Words came as clearly as if they’d been spoken directly into Rella’s ears, for her and her alone. As The Preacher returned to The General, Rella felt her Sight turned aside with a feeling of near contempt. She gasped, thrown back into her own body, and her shock rippled through the souls residing in the mantle. Places like the Wildlands or the Elemental Desert could obscure or confuse her Sight, but never before had anything simply denied the gaze of the [Oracle].
The sound of boots on stone brought her back to her senses, The Fortress having stepped around her to raise his shield against Queen Mette’s closer approach. The queen raised a placating hand before saying, “Peace, Protector; I mean your Lady no harm. Is everything all right?”
“I…don’t know…” Rella’s voice trailed off as she considered the consequences of what had just happened, although she smiled with the realization that the queen’s word had struck a chord in the mind of Wyatt Reinholt. The possible futures where he didn’t become her champion had just dwindled to a narrow few when she called him her protector. It was a balm to soothe the nervousness she felt at someone being able to so completely block her Sight.
* * *
Millie didn’t understand what was so important about the strange man in the black coat with his white collar. Taller than Miss Erin, and thin, but with a kind face, he’d been handing out food to children even younger than herself. Millie certainly approved of anyone who fed hungry brats; after all, she’d been able to count herself among their number until she became a soldier. He wasn’t as tall as the Battlemaster, barely coming up to the commander’s armored shoulder plates, yet Jacob held obvious respect for the stranger. He’d removed his helmet and greeted the man like a friend, and Miss Erin had even bowed slightly! The General’s Wife didn’t even bow for Lord Davin from South Hollows, the highest-ranked noble in the caravan.
She didn’t need to understand what had just happened. Both Jacob and Erin Ward had spoken quietly with the funny looking priest, and both Worldwalkers seemed much calmer and more relaxed the rest of the trip to the large pavilion where the [Oracle] waited with the kings and queens of Anfealt. Much of the weariness and exhaustion seemed to have been lifted from their shoulders, and they both smiled more. At least, they did until they passed a large field where many fancily dressed people were drinking, shouting, and playing games. Jacob’s smile melted back to the familiar scowl that usually meant people were about to die. Millie hoped not; she didn’t like not having her drum when fighting happened.
The man leading them—Jargo, she remembered—led them the rest of the way through the sprawling city. There were many piles of rubble and burned-out buildings, though those blocks were outnumbered by the new construction. The City of Prophets hadn’t sat idle since the Deskren attack, and Millie was reminded that more than just the caravan had suffered. Her belly growled at the scent of sweet breads and pastries. Over their long march, the food stores they’d started out with had dwindled to austere rations of plain dried meat and biscuits, washed down with water, and the pleasant aromas from the city proved very distracting.
They halted before a series of broad stone steps that led up the bluffs overlooking the city. She could see flags at the top, most of them bright and colorful. None were as grim as the Black Lance, the flag carried by Mister Davin, Miss Jenna’s husband. Jacob sat still as everyone else dismounted, looking up at the flamboyant display. A cool breeze from the sea made the flags and banners dance, but the Battlemaster’s banner hung unmoving, weighed down by the black collars sewn into the bottom like so many tassels. Hett sighed loudly with relief at being back on the ground, shrugging his shoulders to settle the axe on his back.
“A lot of pompous jackassery up there for a bunch of kingdoms facing invasion,” Jacob said, before finally dismounting from his massive charger. The horse stamped one foot and simply looked at the stable-boy who tried to take the reins “He won’t move until I tell him,” The General said to the boy. “Leave him be, I doubt we’ll be here long. At least, not if I have any say.”
“Easy, lad,” Jargo told the boy, flipping him a copper coin. “The lady up top told me this would probably happen; just have some water and feed brought up here for the horses.”
Erin helped Millie dismount, the horse being slightly too tall for the girl to manage easily on her own with one arm. Hett and Davin likewise helped the last of their party to the ground. Calvin Descroix had been pulled from the mud, caught in the top of a tree by the floodwaters before his shield had collapsed. Bound but not mistreated, Jacob had ordered the prisoner brought along. He kept his head up, however, captured but not cowed or cowardly, and Millie could respect that, though she didn’t really like him. Jacob pulled a small brown satchel out of a saddlebag, tucking it into his sword belt, and they began to ascend the steps without fanfare or announcement.
* * *
Mette Weldt, Queen of Weldtir, eyed her royal counterparts warily as the sun neared its zenith, all of them waiting for the [Oracle] to officially convene the Gathering. She had little respect for most of them, and Aomhar of Forvale least of all. Tensions had been growing between their nations since the odious man had claimed his father’s throne, two centuries of peaceful trade and history cast aside when the new king repeatedly raised transport fees at several river crossings. Her spies could never prove it, but a drastic increase in river piracy and banditry had the scent of
privateering.
As angry as she was at this Worldwalker General for destroying the northernmost levee and flooding several towns and a vast tract of farmland, she had to admit that the new position of the river would, in time, be a boon to Weldtir and her family’s ancient holdings—as soon as the floodwaters receded, and the river became passable once more. As much as she hated being obliged to ride north while the southern half of her homeland was under attack, the Gathering hadn’t been entirely useless: she had in her belt pouch a sealed agreement from King Lamon Dale of Meadowspire. Grain from the Golden Meadows meant her people wouldn’t starve before the land recovered, and with the river now bordered on both sides by Weldt lands, she could repay the debt far more quickly than before. Aomhar was incensed at the loss of crossing tariffs and shipping fees, and that loss was Weldtir’s gain.
Nine small shaded pavilions encircled the ancient courtyard: one for each Crown, and one, in the middle, for the [Oracle]. The courtyard itself was vast enough that one could have raised a small village within its expanse, if one would have dared entertain the thought. Not all of the pavilions were occupied; these were set more for tradition’s sake than anything else. Arctern, the northernmost kingdom, had had no ruler for centuries, and Glenhollow, the southernmost, had collapsed into a squabbling, infighting mass of lordlings and aspirants following the first Deskren War. It had never recovered, or remained conquered long enough for one dynasty to cement its rule, which Mette found profoundly sad. The forests and hills of the Glens had once provided rich and profitable trade, but South Hollows had been its last, true city. There wouldn’t be much left once the Empire was driven out.
Desena Kos, the queen of the far eastern monarchy of Kosala, was an enigma. Extremely reclusive, the Kosalans traded mostly with the Dwarves of Thun’Kadrass: dwarven cannon and military support, in exchange for the bounty of the eastern seas brought in by Eastharbor’s massive fishing fleets and mercantile reach. They had barely a token ground force of their own beyond the various city guards, but they rarely suffered Deskren raids, simply by dint of geography and the Empire’s utter lack of any real naval presence. The Gathering was probably the first time the diminutive and quiet queen had ever left her own capital, and would probably be the only time she did so.
One ruler she did respect nodded back at her from across the pavilion when his eyes met hers. Hanz Geremas of Drakenth was by far the oldest and most grizzled of the assembled monarchs. The Drakengard Sky-Knights had once been known across the breadth of Anfealt before the bulk of their order had been wiped out in the disaster that had been the Battle of Oasa. It had taken three centuries for their numbers to recover after losing so many breeding pairs of Drakes, only to be brought to the brink of extinction once again during the Steel Crusade. What few they had left now never left the high reaches of Drakenth’s mountain ranges, save for risky patrols a few times a year across the Wildwall to make observations near the Silent City. This was more to discourage would-be adventurers than anything else; the golems of the Ruined Kingdom stayed in their city unless disturbed, and no one sane would risk provoking them ever again.
The queen turned her attention to the central pavilion and its four occupants. She thought the new [Oracle] showed signs of promise, and resolved to watch her closely. Close-shorn tawny hair and an eyepatch contributed to her mystique; while Mette was curious about its necessity, to pry would have been unseemly. She certainly didn’t lack for the requisite boldness, having claimed a Worldwalker as bodyguard, and two more as personal attendants. Or perhaps as apprentices; Mette’s own eyes and ears had found precious little information in that regard. As always, the [Oracle] was impossible to track when she chose to be, and this Rella with no family name had vanished from the temple during the Purple Night only to reappear in Brackholt over a month later. She’d promptly snatched up The Fortress and The Twins and vanished with several more of the town’s guardsmen, and no one knew for sure where they’d travelled before showing back up at the Temple of Possibility just in time for the Gathering of Kings.
The Fortress and his sisters were a bit easier to understand in some ways, Worldwalkers or not. Teenage girls were teenage girls, regardless of origin, and they seemed to be making the best of being in a new world. It was just as well, Mette considered, the [Oracle] found them first. Much could be gleaned of new magics and technologies just from what such people knew of their homelands, and not all peoples of Anfealt would have been kind in the asking.
The boy was certainly impressive, though. Tall and not done growing, he stood in his armor as if he’d been born wearing it. A crooked nose and scarred face sat below eyes that never stopped moving; he’d never be pretty, but he had his charm, and the queen had noticed the way Rella glanced at him when she thought no one was paying attention. The girl would have been hard-pressed to find a more suitable protector, abilities with the Sight notwithstanding.
Her thoughts had been confirmed when the [Oracle] had suddenly gasped and rose up on the balls of her feet as if entranced. The young man had stepped between Rella and the crowd to interpose his shield between them, and the movement had been as natural and fluid as it had been preternaturally quick. He had the makings of a born defender the likes of which Mette had rarely seen, and, though young, he already had a solidity of presence to rival veterans of a shield wall. You’ll need that strength, she thought, especially with another Deskren War on the horizon.
A clamor by the steps leading down to the city distracted her, Aomhar and his guards protesting as one of the [Oracle]’s guardsmen led a group of newcomers into the pavilion. Mette feared the whisper of steel being drawn as a man in black armor nearly as tall as an Ursaran strode between the columns at the entrance despite the protests of the Forvalen King. He was followed by a brown-haired woman, much shorter of stature, and a grizzled old man with an axe strapped to his back. The figure tugged at her memory, but Mette had no time to linger on the thought. On the warrior’s other side walked a girl with one arm, little more than a child. She had black hair cut almost as short as a boy’s, and her single arm was encased in a gauntlet of exquisite workmanship matching the chain mail over her plain brown breeches and polished boots. A red chevron decorated the shoulder plate where her gauntlet was secured to the rings of the mail. As disturbing as the tall warrior, the girl’s red eyes bespoke a terrible capacity for violence, chained by absolute discipline. I know a soldier when I see one.
Behind the man, whom she realized—with a flicker of impotent rage at the destruction he’d caused—could be none other than The General, walked another couple. Of middle age they seemed, both weary from the road and wary of their surroundings. They seemed especially wary of the man they led between them, hands bound in front with rope. This man she knew very well, at least by description, and Mette’s hand drifted toward the blade at her side. Calvin Descroix, under close guard or not, was hardly a welcome guest at the Gathering. Is The General insane? she raged internally. Bringing one of the heirs to the enemy throne was almost certain to end in bloodied steel, Gathering or not.
Before the grumblings could turn into something more physical, the sun reached its highest point overhead to cast perfectly aligned shadows from the pillars around the circle. Then, the [Oracle] Spoke.
“By the ancient Bargain of Kings, this Gathering is convened.”
Chapter 41: Unending Duty
Rella felt the words reverberate in her chest. Speaking with the full voice of the Mantle was unnerving at the best of times, and while never actually painful, it still took her several moments to recover. A Gathering was an occasion that occurred only once or twice a century, and traditions stronger than law dictated the reactions of everyone, save the Worldwalkers. Her proclamation snapped Aomhar’s jaw shut, and though his expression was sour, he returned to the slightly raised flagstone in front of Forvale’s table. The rest of the rulers did likewise, leaving Jacob Ward standing at the top of the steps near the edge of the circle. He didn’t quite have a scowl on his face, bu
t it was close.
“Weldtir stands by the Bargain,” Mette said.
“Meadowspire stands by the Bargain.” Lamon Dale seemed almost bored by the theatrics, though he hadn’t been born at the time of the last Gathering.
“Forvale stands by the Bargain,” Aomhar said, more politely than his expression would have indicated.
“Kosala stands by the Bargain.” Desena Kos was by far the youngest of the group to wear a crown, and eyed the others warily. The young queen had never left her homeland until now, but Rella knew the nervous outward demeanor hid a mind as shrewd as any other. Bound to neutrality, she couldn’t have spoken of the scheming games the girl had played to discredit her aunts and uncles to clear her path to rule even if she’d been so inclined to reveal that Story.
“Drakenth stands by the Bargain,” Hanz Geremas coughed.
“The Five Crowns have answered. The Bargain is upheld!”
That is so unpleasant! I know the words; you made me memorize them! thought Rella at Koma’s echo, floating just beneath the surface of the Mantle.
This is part of our job, came the wry response. You know the rest; you have to get them to agree before our last guests arrive.
Koma wasn’t referring to The General. Jacob Ward stood just outside the circle, and she silently thanked him for his patience. The man was angry, but held his emotions in check, bound in an iron grip as disciplined as any warrior she’d ever met. Someone with lesser self-control would likely have completely disrupted the Gathering, ending any chance of her binding the Crowns together in a unified agreement to make war on the Deskren. Another Worldwalker yet approached, however, so the young [Oracle] knew time was running out. How The General would greet The Hammer was a thing not even she could predict.
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