Cwen Errich seemed to suddenly realized there were other people in the room aside from the old knight. Her green eyes skimmed over the Giant and then settled on Sorin.
“And why are you here with a boy?” she asked. “The Giant I can understand, but a boy barely come to manhood? What trick is this?”
Before Sorin or Thomas could reply, the warlock stepped forward. “The boy is more than you know, Your Majesty. He is…unique. I have seen it. Do not be rash with him—he may still have great value to us. He should not be permanently harmed. After all, if the old man won’t share his information with us, the boy may be our best chance to learn where the threat against your family was born and when the next attempt may happen.”
“Lin,” Cwen Errich said, and the wolf rider came to her side.
She looked Sorin over, and her interest bore into him. “There is a light in his green eyes that I can’t quite place. He knows much.” She grabbed him roughly and turned around to view his hands. “You have laborers’ hands, and the burns and scars you possess name you a blacksmith. What is your reason for being here?”
Sorin did not answer and prepared for the inevitable.
“If your companion will not divulge his secrets to me, then I will beat it out of you,” she said. Lin kicked Sorin to the ground. He fell hard, a fire igniting in his shoulder as it struck the stone floor. He grimaced but made no sound.
Relnyn strained in his bonds, but they did not budge. The guards squeezed closer to the Giant with spearheads glinting in the torchlight as they moved to a handwidth from Relnyn’s neck. Tem turned away. Thomas’s eyes burned with anger, but he too remained silent.
“It matters not,” the Woman King said as she moved toward her throne. “Soon you will feel my wrath, and in time so will your countrymen. Rillian. Lin. Take them to the dungeons.” She paused. “And kill the spy. With his Godwyn training, he will give us nothing.”
The company was forced from the room. As they left through the doorway, Sorin turned back to glance at the man who had doomed them.
The warlock grinned as he stepped up to Henrik Mattah, his black eyes promising death.
Chapter 32
A new day was dawning outside the Pontiff’s chambers, the warm golden light pushing aside the last of the blustery gloom from the previous day’s broken summer storm, but Pontiff Erol Tal was already awake and leveraging his resources for the campaign to come. Birdsong flew into his open windows, accompanying the morning and all of its possibilities, but his own thoughts drowned it out. Erol had much to plan for, and the morning’s wonders could not help him in his pursuit for a unified and strong Kingdom of faith.
He sat at his desk in the office of his private chambers, looking over the correspondence and news that had arrived in the middle of the night from all over the Kingdom. There was nothing important enough to have woken him—all except one message that had immediately begun his day on a sour note. In the couple days since being appointed, Erol had learned quickly that much of his new role required patience to oversee the bureaucratic nonsense streaming onto his desk and into his life.
Most were issues for the Council and the Bishops to consider. Patience he had, but time he did not, and although he had known his life would change—and he had been willing to take the negative with the positive—some of the duties were below him.
But there was no one else who could solve this message’s problem.
He had spent the last several days in individual meetings with each Council member to bolster their commitment to him and his new tenure. It had mostly gone well. Pontifices Cyrus de Lille and Valerie Reu were already on his side, and their meetings were for appearances. The others did not go as well, although no one showed him disrespect. Merian Aron and Geoffrey Lonoth had expressed misgivings over the conflict that had arisen in the Kingdom and about the Council’s lack of direction, but that, Erol promised, would soon be remedied.
Dendreth had also met with Erol. Although the ancient Pontifex had given his fealty, he lacked the conviction Erol craved, and again he wondered what Dendreth was up to.
The Pontiff reexamined the note. The old Pontifex had left Godwyn Keep once more, called on by the High King for purposes unclear, this time sailing from the Keep. It bothered Erol that the West Sea’s Pontifex had taken his own leave with so much yet to do, but it was no easy task going against the will of the authority of the Kingdom either.
High King Nialls Chagne. He was a problem for the Pontiff and his plans. Erol had no desire for the throne; it involved a level of complexity that often weighed down any possibility for progress. The High King was mired in bureaucracy deeper than Erol was, unable to produce change at a quick rate, and that did not interest him. Religion gave control; it pervaded people’s lives with governance over their daily activity.
But he also needed a High King who was willing to lead with strength, vision, and certainty—to protect his Kingdom from the hate and tyranny that rose about them. From what Erol knew of him, Nialls simply did not possess those attributes. The High King chose diplomatic recourse and open communication when the sword should have been his answer. A threat like that which stirred in La Zandia did not answer to political assurances; it responded to stern commanders, battalions of warden, and the weapons they carried.
In the last few evenings, Erol had walked the numerous hallways of the Keep, visiting those who were in the Seven Libraries, watching the last warden training sessions of the day in the Courtyard, making his presence known and his wish to know everyone better. The people of the Keep had to see him—had to know he was there, a real person, and not a Pontiff that separated himself from his constituents. In that knowledge they would follow him anywhere out of respect. Erol was not one to lose, and once he garnered the reverence he needed he would begin orchestrating—slowly at first—the changes he had in mind to strengthen Godwyn Keep’s influence across the Kingdom.
And his influence would spread eventually beyond the Kingdom.
For now, life went on much as it had for centuries, and Erol knew not to disturb it with wild proclamations and tidings of war. Instead, he would let the High King do that. The land would believe the High King was responsible for the war, and once the campaign began, Erol knew it would be he and his priests who would save the day in the battle of La Zandia.
Erol was finishing his last reply to his stack of messages when a knock came at his door. “Enter,” he uttered.
High Captain Rook entered the room, dressed in his customary Ward garb.
“Take a seat, Rook,” Erol greeted, motioning to one of the chairs. “I’ve limited time today, and you were the first on my agenda.”
The High Captain of Godwyn Keep sat, his movements fluid and purposeful. “What do you need of me, Your Grace?”
Erol straightened his desktop. “Later this morning, I travel to Aris Shae at the summons of the throne to discuss the expanding threat of the Marcher Lord in La Zandia. The High King and his First Warden will be conducting the first war council of the Kingdom in more than a century.”
“It is a council with wise advisors then,” the High Captain said. “I trust the First Warden with my life.”
“I have been asked to implement ideas to overcome the pagan madness that has flared to life,” Erol replied. “Eventually, despite the Kingdom’s efforts to neutralize the threat through diplomatic reasoning, war will come and we must be ready.”
“Terrible tidings, Your Grace.”
“Evil tidings, Rook. Evil,” Erol corrected. “The faith of Godwyn Keep will be present in the southern province for two reasons—one, there is no defense to the pagan’s witchcraeft other than our faith and power in the All Father and, two, once Laver Herid is quelled and his rebellion ended, it will be our role to convert their passions to that of Godwyn. These are very important issues, but they are also delicate matters; it is important to be assertive with La Zandia without leaving our own home destitute of defensive measures.”
“You wish to know what the
Keep’s standing ranks are and the logistics of what I can promise you in the advent of war?” Rook asked, his brown eyes unwavering.
Erol nodded. The High Captain was direct and to the point; Erol liked that about Rook.
Rook took a moment. “I believe it will be a contingent built solely around the warden. Those in the south and east have never favored the Feyr, and I’d rather remove them from the conflict altogether as they would—through no fault of their own—end up being a disruptive presence. Old animosities die hard, I am afraid. Twelve hundred warden will answer your needs, and Pontifex Aron can supply the proper amount of trained clerics to reinforce and protect the warden from the magic of the pagans.”
It was what Erol was hoping for—just enough to look like Godwyn Keep was sincere about its involvement without compromising the Keep’s defense. Several thousand people lived within the walls of the Keep at all times—mostly students who would never join the ranks of the church but would return home to share their knowledge—and that meant Erol was responsible for the well-being of the sons and daughters of the Kingdom. In his new role, he had to protect Godwyn Keep’s image as well as Godwyn Keep itself.
“I’m assuming I will be attending you and Godwyn’s force in La Zandia, Your Grace?” Rook offered.
Good, Erol thought. Rook’s already proving to be an asset. “Do you have a good choice to command Godwyn Keep’s forces who shall remain here?”
“I do. Commander Starnes is more than adequate to oversee the Keep’s defenses. He has the respect of the warden and feyr’im, but most importantly, he has my approval.”
“That in itself is enough, Rook.”
Erol thought back to the night before he had been elected Pontiff. It had unnerved Erol that the Marcher Lord’s spy had entered the Keep so freely and his worry had grown. Godwyn Keep had to be protected—not only in a time of war from the sword and the axe but from witchcraeft as well. Leaving a strong contingent of soldiers and clerics behind in the event of an unforeseen attack on the Keep was one of Erol’s top priorities.
“Not to be so bold, Pontiff Erol, but how much longer can the Kingdom wait before we lose those who still abide by Godwyn faith in that province? News and rumors arrive to the Keep daily about the conflict in the south. Do you feel it will come to war?”
“To protect our interests here in the Kingdom, I believe it will, Rook. The Marcher Lord has already proven himself to be an adversary of cunning; he stems from a family bloodline that has been a thorn in the Kingdom’s side for all time. I think eventually the High King will come to this realization and put an end to Herid’s uprising.”
“Do you know what we are up against?” Rook asked. “Pagan magic is a strong power.”
“I do not know what exactly we are up against,” Erol stretched the truth. “Rumors are a terrible way to get to the truth. The Marcher Lord has a group of Witches with him that never leaves his side that I know of. Pontifex Aron will have to pick wisely those clerics who will stand opposite the forces of the Marcher Lord and see his servants’ pagan power nullified. Other than that, I know not. I’m hoping to learn more today.”
Erol stood and escorted the High Captain to the door. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime, Rook?”
The High Captain shook his head. “Not at the moment. It seems the majority of what could be done has been taking place in the Courtyard every day. The Keep’s forces are prepared for the worst, Your Grace. They will follow you and the Kingdom into eternal fire to keep our faith safe.”
“Let’s hope it does not come to that,” Erol said, squeezing his sparring partner’s shoulder for emphasis. “I want you to prepare those warden you deem fit for this venture. You know better than anyone what is needed. When I return, I will sign the proper documentation to use Godwyn Keep resources to raise the army we need. I will not do so until I speak to the High King—perhaps he has a better solution. The Council will be ready to take action as well. I pray the High King can end the threat by the pen, but the realist in me knows that will not happen, and it is best we are prepared and prepared early.”
He thought of his family, dead all those decades past by pagan hands. To honor their loss was to prevent something similar from ever happening to anyone again.
“All of those hours sparring with you, my friend, may make a huge difference in the days to come, and the friendship we share may be the very thing to keep us safe,” Erol finished.
“Hopefully this time you will beat your opponent fairly.”
Erol did not say anything; he did not have to.
* * * * *
The trip to Aris Shae was steady and uneventful. There was a change on the air, a softening to summer’s brutal heat that pervaded the land and loosened its stranglehold. Autumn was approaching like a shifting ache from an old injury. Soon winter would be upon them.
A dozen Wards Rook had hand selected as the Pontiff’s Aegis Guard—clerics taught by Pontifex Aron and trained by the High Captain as soldiers—surrounded him in a protective ring of lightweight, silver armor, shining weapons, and red capes snapping in the wind of their passing. The Aegis Guard would not leave Erol’s side until he was safely within the walls of Aris Shae. The Pontiff liked having the Guard with him; they were a decoration to his person and highlighted his entrance into the capital city, making the populace aware of his arrival.
The enormous city grew larger as they approached at a steady canter from the west, the shadowy sprawl of Dockside at the foot of the Kingdom’s jewel a stain filled with much of the evil that could spring from hearts of men. Somewhere in the midst of Dockside and Aris Shae, the Watchman orchestrated the balance between the powers of the Kingdom for his own profit. Thinking about the Feyr brought a dirty grit to the Pontiff’s mouth; Erol had heard no news of an attempt on the Woman King’s life, and he grew increasingly impatient.
Then again, the Watchman and his other two brethren should have been able to end the dispute in La Zandia. But if Laver Herid had removed all people he did not trust and his Witches tested the rest, no spy or assassin could get close enough to him to end the Marcher Lord’s life and restore balance to the Kingdom. As Erol had planned, it would have to be done with the might of the Kingdom behind his back, and that suited the new Pontiff perfectly.
Erol was still annoyed by the Watchman’s inability to end the reign of the vengeful Cwen Errich. Perhaps the three Watchmen were not as powerful as Erol had suspected.
His party rode through the West Gate of the capital city, through its myriad twists and turns of rising streets, toward the palace and its beautiful spires of glowing white stone. Aris Shae was an amazing city, especially given its history; two millennia before, nothing had existed on the site where the city now stood. It had been a hillside of green grass and grazing sheep with a fishing village its only form of civilization where Dockside now met the Bay of Reverence. It had been a hidden corner in the Blackrhein Empire.
But that had quickly changed with the coming of the Wrathful’s army. With the Giant horde seeking to destroy the last remnants of the fleeing Feyr nation and the Empire already fled into its Reach, the world had transformed dramatically. Now the city was the focal point for the Kingdom, and no pagan army would change that.
Riding into the gates of the royal compound and leaving all but two of his retinue to the barracks, Erol strode into the depths of the palace with the Chancellor of Aris Shae, Luc Chiret, at his front and the Aegis Guards at his rear. Luc was a thin man with long limbs and a quick smile, his receding hairline the only tell of his advancing age. For three generations, the Chiret family had overseen the arrival of visitors to the palace of Aris Shae and maintained the elegant splendor of what it meant to visit the capital’s palace. Erol also imagined the man was privy to many of the secrets the royal family possessed and preferred well hidden.
Luc wove through the dizzying array of corridors to a small room with a wide oak desk centered amidst walls lined with books and maps. A musty smell met Erol’s sen
ses; the room was not used often. Two chairs were pushed near the desk and a larger chair faced them from across the desktop while aged maps littered the top of the table, some rolled and others flattened from use. The only door to the room was the one he had entered through. The room was wholly functional for discussion and privacy; it was a place meant for secrets.
“Your Grace,” Luc said while pulling a chair free from the desk. “The High King regrets he could not greet you in person, and First Warden Rowen will be joining you very shortly. Do you care for refreshment of any kind?”
“I do not, Luc, but thank you kindly for the offer,” Erol said, finding it difficult to keep the impatience from his voice. “How long will the High King be?”
“The High King is currently with the royal prince, overseeing the final ministrations of the move from Godwyn Keep to the palace, Your Grace. His Majesty will be with you as soon as he can.” The Chancellor bowed and then left the Pontiff alone with his thoughts.
Erol sat and waited. Nialls had decided to move his son from the caring confines of the Keep back to his home, an attempt to wake him through familiar surroundings. It would be a futile attempt by a desperate man. If the healers of Godwyn Keep could not resuscitate the prince, no one could. But the High King was still young enough to wed anew and father children, and the Pontiff hoped in time that would be the case; a strong Kingdom needed a strong family at its core.
First Warden Rowen entered the room soon after Luc Chiret left, his chiseled face and brusque features denoting a military man of stature. “Greetings, Your Grace,” Rowen said, bowing. “Congratulations. I trust your short journey was comfortable.”
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