by MJ Blehart
The Baron actually bowed to him.
“Thank you, Speaker Broyva,” stated the Baron. He was escorted from the room.
“That was different,” commented Sir Garvol, “May I read the other scrolls, if you please?”
Erlonn Broyva shook his head. “Not yet. The Order of the Common gets to see them first.”
He looked towards the entranceway. “Guard!”
“Speaker?”
“Tell the Herald to post a cancellation of this afternoon’s meeting of the Common. Tell him to inform them we meet again in the morning. Then, please, have the Order of the Common gather in the private hall.”
The guard saluted, and left.
“It is time I present you to them, as well, Sir Garvol,” remarked the Speaker.
Sir Garvol inclined his head respectfully.
Erlonn Broyva gathered the scrolls, and went to meet up with the other members of the Order of the Common.
The hall was a private room, where delegations, envoys, or any other small group could meet in. Also, various committees from within the whole of the assembly could gather here. One of many, this space of late had served as the meeting place for the Order of the Common.
Erlonn Broyva found he was not the first to arrive. Baroness Kurrman and Lord Umar were already seated, talking quietly. She recognized the Speaker as he arrived, but was clearly startled upon seeing Sir Garvol.
“What is going on?” she asked.
“I’ll explain when the others arrive,” replied Erlonn Broyva.
She harrumphed indignantly, and turned to the Underchronicler, ignoring them.
Lord Tamon came next, taking his place at the side of Speaker Broyva. He threw a nervous look at Sir Garvol, then he joined in the conversation with Baroness Kurrman. A moment later, the Archivist of the Common, Sir Brodan Cirgan, entered. The revered Archivist was the oldest member of the Order, past eighty now, his sparse hair was completely white. He was lean and tough, but every day he looked more old and sickly. He glanced towards the Speaker respectfully, and to Sir Garvol as well.
Erlonn Broyva had always liked and admired the elder statesmen, and was sad to think his tenure would be coming to an end soon.
Finally, Garen Val-Sharron entered. He would be the last of the Order present today, as Baron Riforr, Lawspeaker of the Common, was absent, called to Royal Commission. The Herald acknowledged Sir Garvol, who returned the gesture. Erlonn Broyva cleared his throat as the Herald took his seat. Sir Garvol continued to stand, leaning against a wall, arms crossed.
“My fellow members of the order,” began the Speaker. “As you note, Sir Garvol, Warlord of Sharron, is present with us today. In addition, word has come to me from the King himself.”
“What this time, Erlonn Broyva?” asked Baroness Kurrman testily. She was not best pleased with the King, and his Invocation of Royal Commission. Since then, she’d been short with everyone, and pleasant to none. As the highest ranked noble in the room, she generally ignored the Speaker, commoner that he was. She was far more irksome like this.
“Word has come to me of the Falcon Raider situation,” continued the Speaker.
“Again?” remarked Baroness Kurrman with obvious irritation. “I still object to your call for the Princess to account to us. Were I Speaker...”
“Which you are not,” interrupted Garen Val-Sharron. “Cease this bickering, and let the Speaker say his peace.”
Baroness Kurrman glared, but was silent.
Sir Garvol was grinning wickedly, amused to see the Order of the Common squabbling.
“Thank you,” acknowledged Speaker Broyva. He continued. “I called Princess Lyrra-Sharron Anduin to account on the insistence of the Crown and Council.”
“What?” exploded Baroness Kurrman again. “And you did not tell us of this?”
“Enough!” exclaimed the Archivist. “You have been passing insufferable for days now, Beviara. Erlonn Broyva is Speaker, and entitled to respect as such. Leave off, and let him finish.”
“I was made privy to information held by Crown and Council regarding the situation with the Falcon Raiders,” continued the Speaker, undaunted. “I was asked to call her to account before us, while a trap was laid out in her path. Her presence would thus spring that trap, and the danger she represented would be removed.”
“So the trap was sprung?” questioned Lord Tamon.
Erlonn Broyva shook his head. “No. The King sought her out, and settled matters without bloodshed,” he turned to the Warlord. “Sir Garvol, would you please fill in The Order with the details?”
“Of course, Speaker,” remarked Sir Garvol, at last taking a seat. He gave the details of the plans that had been laid out to ensnare Lyrra-Sharron.
“So he was going to take advantage of us?” asked the Baroness, when Sir Garvol was finished “Of course, no respect for the Common. Always contemptuous of the Common. As per usual, the Crown disrespects our position...”
“Stop,” ordered the Speaker quietly, before Sir Garvol, Garen Val-Sharron or Sir Brodan could step in. It took a long time, but at last Erlonn Broyva reached his breaking point. “Remember your place, Baroness or no. You are Chronicler of the Common. I am the Speaker. I might also point out, the most popular Speaker in a very long time. You seem to forget what that means. You made your claim to the position, and were not even considered, did not even get a nomination. You have done your best to thwart me at every opportunity, and I will have it no more. So cease this hostility, and mind your manners, please.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
It was out of character for him to address anyone like that. Even as Speaker, Erlonn Broyva had continued to be respectful to the peers. Today he’d had enough. Silence followed his last statement.
“Very well,” he began once more. “We were not ‘taken advantage of’, as you would put it. As Sir Garvol has already pointed out previously, we actually played a crucial role. The stability of the Kingdom was at stake. With respect, his Majesty placed us in a position of tremendous importance to the Kingdom. These scrolls will explain everything, but the information herein does not leave the Order. Period.”
He passed around the scrolls, save one. He looked to Garen Val-Sharron.
“This one is for you, my friend,” he presented it to him. Below the seal was printed the Herald’s name and office.
Garen Val-Sharron eyed the note curiously, broke the seal, and read.
The letters were examined, and passed about. Soon, all had been read by the entire Order, and Sir Garvol.
“Leave it to Lyrra-Sharron to be as unpredictable as her father,” commented Sir Garvol, smirking, having read the last scroll.
“Do you understand now?” asked Erlonn Broyva of the Order.
“It’s hard to believe,” remarked the Archivist. “I hope the battle does not go badly. I’ve lived through three Kings, now. Varlock-Sharron is the finest the nation has seen in many generations. Long may he live.”
Garen Val-Sharron had been quiet, staring at the table before him, but now looked to the archivist. He gestured solemnly.
“When did you arrive, Sir Garvol?” asked Baroness Kurrman, more calm than before. The news of the situation had shaken her, as her husband had been called to battle.
“Yesterday,” he replied. “I was here to keep an eye on this, and to explain it all to you, and the whole of the Common, depending on the outcome of Varlock-Sharron’s mission to his daughter.”
The members of the Order acknowledged that.
“You know what is going on. You see what I have done. While I have not legally overstepped the boundaries of my office, the secrecy of this mission and my role in it could become questionable. Therefore, I want a vote of confidence right now. If you find me unfit to continue my duties, I shall step aside,” remarked Erlonn Broyva.
They all looked stunned at that. It was totally unexpected for any in the position of Speaker to so easily give up the office.
“Underspeaker?” asked Erlonn Broy
va.
He shook his head. “You are the Speaker, Erlonn Broyva.”
“Archivist?”
“You remain where you are, Speaker,” said Sir Brodan staunchly.
“Herald?”
“There’s no question in my mind, Erlonn Broyva. You are Speaker.”
“Chronicler?”
Baroness Kurrman was shaking her head. “No wrong has been done. You do what you must. You are the Speaker, Erlonn Broyva.”
“Underchronicler?”
“You remain Speaker of the Common, Erlonn Broyva.”
“Thank you,” the Speaker. “There is much still to be done. The King has, as you read, placed Baron Foltupp at my disposal. I, in turn, place him before you all.”
He paused, noting the responses around the table. “We are done here, then. You may go.”
They departed, all save Garen Val-Sharron and Sir Garvol.
“Do you wish me to address the Common, Erlonn Broyva?” questioned Sir Garvol.
“It would make things much easier. They’ll take the news better, coming from a member of Council.”
Sir Garvol bowed his head. “Indeed. I see now the Common serves a greater purpose than we’ve credited you with. You lead brilliantly, Erlonn Broyva.”
The Speaker of the Common had heard that the Warlord did not give compliments lightly. “Thank you, Sir Garvol.”
Sir Garvol looked to Garen Val-Sharron, gestured respectfully to him, then left the room.
“Garen?” queried Erlonn Broyva after Sir Garvol was gone.
He wore a pleased but notably sad look on his face. “My son. The King sent word of my son. He is among the Falcon Raiders. An officer, no less.”
“Are you disappointed?” asked Erlonn Broyva.
“Not really. I should be. After being drummed from the Guardsmen, to join the band that has been so much trouble to this kingdom...but to follow the Princess...”
He paused. “And to think he is so trusted by her as to be one of her Lieutenants...” his eyes sparkled. “No, I actually find myself quite proud of him. He’s done well for himself after all.”
Erlonn Broyva placed a hand on his Herald’s shoulder. “The Falcon Raiders go to Penkira. Your son is with them. They fight for the Crown, now. They are outlaws no more.”
Garen Val-Sharron looked thoughtfully at the Speaker. “Then he will do me proud, in the end. I only hope I get a chance to speak with him again.”
“If he’s at all the fighter you are, my friend,” Erlonn Broyva commented. “I cannot doubt the chance will present itself.”
Chapter 33
Cam rode at the side of the King, leading nearly three-hundred Baronial Guardsmen of houses Dovan, Foltupp, and formerly Tilroan, en route to Vantirr. Varlock-Sharron decided along the way that he would dissolve the house of Tilroan, and had already taken the guardsmen as his own, now.
Tilroan’s soldiers would be loyal to whoever paid their wages.
They spoke often, Varlock-Sharron and Cam. The Sorcerer told him of his journeys, the libraries he’d visited, the lands he’d seen, the cities he’d passed through. He talked quietly of his abilities, and at night coaxed Varlock-Sharron into learning some of what he could do with his own untapped powers.
“What harm can it do, your Majesty?” asked Cam patiently the first night they’d camped.
“I am unsure, Cam,” replied the King quietly. “I have never been comfortable with this. I am not certain I want to learn its use. Can you help me block it?”
“No, your Majesty. That’s not possible. And believe me, its loss is devastating, so I wouldn’t even consider that. Unused or not, you have this skill. Why don’t we start small?”
“How about we not start at all?” remarked the King.
Cam shrugged. “The choice is, of course, yours. For a man who claims to be a scholar, I’m surprised you would not wish to learn what this might make you capable of.”
Varlock-Sharron said nothing for a moment. “You are asking me to turn around a belief I have held now for over thirty years. Sorcery killed my father, nearly killed me, and later took the life of my daughter. I have banned its use in this kingdom for most of my life, and denied my own connection to it.”
“Let’s look at this another way, then,” pressed Cam. “How did you feel when you began to study swordfighting, began to learn tactical and strategic planning? In the beginning, when you had no idea how it was done?”
Varlock-Sharron clearly looked into himself a moment. “I felt that my father wanted the impossible,” he recalled. “I did not think I would ever gain proper balance when I was fighting, and I just could not keep all the ideas of military operations in my head, and his generals inundated me with information.”
“Did you press on, or give up at any point?”
“One morning, I threw down my sword, cursed out the generals, and locked myself in my room,” Varlock-Sharron began to chuckle. “I was barely ten years old. But that was the first time my father spoke to me like a man. He explained that, with time, it would come to me. He expressed his confidence in me, and my ability to learn. He gave me the day to consider his words, and I began again the next morning.”
“How long did it take for you to prove the truth in his words?”
“Not long, really. A few weeks or so.”
“So you went on to become skilled with these things,” Cam concluded. “After that, you found that scholarly pursuits were something you enjoyed, correct?”
“Indeed,” replied Varlock-Sharron, the curiosity in his voice apparent.
“Sorcery, Varlock-Sharron Anduin, I have come to learn, is a life long pursuit. Before I came here, it was my everything. But now, I see it for what it truly is.”
“And that would be?”
“A tool,” stated Cam definitively. “Like any pen, or sword, or spoon, or shovel. But unlike those, Sorcery is misunderstood, even, as far as I have seen, by those of us who wield this tool. And so I now study it, more closely than before, to learn how to better its use. You, your Majesty, are a lifelong student, as you have said, and after all these years, I have shown you a different aspect of Sorcery. During our conversations, you’ve asked many questions…and for many of them, you could find answers on your own, if you begin to study this.”
Varlock-Sharron turned his head towards the Sorcerer, a look of deep consideration in his eyes. “You make an intriguing argument. Indeed, you have touched upon a lifelong curiosity, really. You are a very persuasive man, do you know that? Very well, then, in the interest of scholarly pursuits, why not? Show me Sorcery, Cam Murtallan.”
“As you will, your Majesty,” Cam smirked a moment, then began. “I’ve never taught anyone how this is done. I learned this all on my own, you know. This should prove interesting. Let’s begin. Seat yourself more comfortably.”
Varlock-Sharron shifted, until he sat cross-legged beside Cam.
“Now then, close your eyes. Take deep breaths. Inhale...exhale. Inhale...exhale. Good. Slow your heart. Listen to my voice....”
“This is uncanny, Cam,” remarked the King.
“This is the only way I know how to teach you,” Cam said patiently. “Will you heed my words, or not?”
Varlock-Sharron cleared his throat, regained his composure. “Very well, then. As a scholar, I am always interested in learning new things. Time to be serious. Let us try this.”
They went through the breathing exercises again. When Cam was certain Varlock-Sharron was at the edge of a meditative state, he continued.
“Concentrate. Slow your breath, slow your heart,” Cam paused, waiting. “Yes, like you do before you practice sword exercises. Good. Good. Use your inner eye, Varlock-Sharron. Seek inside yourself. You’re looking for a globe of light. An orb of intense energies, and power. Look hard. Start near your heart. If it’s not there, seek it out. Sense it. Try and feel it.”
“I...I see it,” said the King quietly after several minutes.
“Good. Don’t touch it. Focus on it. Tell
me, what do you see?”
“Colors...” said Varlock-Sharron quietly. “So many colors...too many to describe. Light...light playing all around it. It is beautiful...”
“Good, stay focused on this, Varlock-Sharron. This is the center of your power. This is the power within you. This is Sorcery.”
“I never knew this was here,” the King nearly whispered.
“Stay with me. Now, keeping in mind where that power is, open your eyes.”
Varlock-Sharron slowly opened his eyes, seeing Cam, then looking to the campfire. “The fire! It is so intense...so many colors...I see it so clearly!”
“Good, then you’re in the right place to do this,” said Cam. “Watch and observe, then repeat as I do.”
Cam took a moment, focused, then looked to the fire. “Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight: Make the fire dimmer, cease some of this heat and light. Bring the flames lower, and with this spell, mute its light. Dim the fire, lesson its heat, fire shrunken by my power...Dim!”
The fire dimmed, sinking down, the heat dissipating.
Varlock-Sharron said nothing, but Cam could sense him becoming slightly agitated.
“Stay with me, your Majesty, that was only half.”
Varlock-Sharron nodded his head mutely.
“Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight,” Cam began again. “Revive this fire, return its heat, and its light. Make the flames higher, with this spell, make them hotter. Raise the fire, increase its heat, fire grown by my power...Ignite!”
The fire roared up again, hotter and more brilliant than before.
“Are you ready, Varlock-Sharron?”
“I think so...” the King whispered.
“Gather the thought. Know your intent. Take it slow...and when you are ready, cast the spell.”
The King took a moment to do as Cam instructed, then he began.
“Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight: Make the fire dimmer, cease some of this heat and light. Bring the flames lower, and with this spell, mute its light. Dim the fire, lesson its heat, fire lessened by my power...Dim!”