“No, Reverend Father. I have long noted how something feels different in me since Brother Finn left.” Urban picked at a snag on his robes mentally adding that chore to his list of things to do. “I am comfortable with the men and possibly even more satisfied with my work. I want for nothing that I can quantify.”
“Perhaps that is the problem. Peace sometimes brings its own rigors and torments. You have always struck me as the kind of man that requires something resisting him, even if it is only a weak struggle. A resistance he must overcome, which gives his life direction and purpose,” the First Warpriest observed. He opened his hands in a wide welcoming gesture and smiled with the hypothesis. “A peaceful void does not suit you, Urban, my son.”
Urban pondered the comment for a moment, gave a quick moue and nodded.
“It is possible. You have always been a good judge of me, seeing things I myself do not,” Urban admitted to the blindspot in his awareness.
“Could it have something to do with Brother Finn?” the Reverend Father hazarded.
Urban looked at a small icon of the Virgin cradling the infant Jesus on the Athrkrigsprest’s wall. In his spirit, he petitioned the sublime figures for discernment as he considered the question. Outside the window he could hear loud clacking of wood, ringing iron and the smack of hard leather from Ragnarites sparring.
“I do not think so. When you gave me permission to look into some of the questions raised by Finn’s account of those events last year, I was satisfied with what I found. The notes from Abbot Colborne’s interview with Finn, before he continued on to exile from Saint Martin’s Academy, were illuminating. Their inquisitor’s own commentary regarding the Battle of Athrvorthfestning held no real surprises, but I am sure they filed it away on some high, unreachable shelf of their library. It was clear they did not want anyone else to speak of what we survivors knew.”
“And what do we know?” The First Warpriest craved Urban’s conclusion.
“The Kyrkja is failing in its heavenly commission to drive Satan out of this land, and no one desires to ask why.”
“Except brave souls like Brother Finn,” the Reverend Father whispered.
Uncomfortable silence filled the chancery as both men frowned over the distressing conclusion. Urban could see this topic would take them far afield if pursued. To the Orthodoxy, even mentioning such thoughts was blasphemous.
“I took the liberty of writing Brother Finn in Kynligrspiel,” Urban said breaking the silence. The eyebrows on the Reverend Father rose in surprise.
“You have maintained correspondence with him?” The boldness of the act caused the First Warpriest’s brow to furrow. Although not expressly forbidden, contacting a niding as notorious as Brother Finn could be thought scandalous.
“Jah. I have,” Urban said, grateful for the discretion of the Reverend Father.
“And?” the First Warpriest asked.
“He is well enough, but misses his old life. The adjustment to Lake Wanishinabinoogi has been…” Urban searched for the right word, “tumultuous, but fruitful. He does not talk much beyond the day to day experiences and interesting little encounters he has with the Forsamling there. In many ways, it seems to suit him.”
“It sounds like exile has been a good thing for him in the end.”
“Perhaps. But like anyone who is accustomed to another life, they long for what cannot be. The horizon always beckons, does it not?” Urban sniffed an ironic laugh. “Perhaps the inverse is true.”
“Eh? How do you mean?” the Reverend Father asked, scratching his bristly neck.
“Perhaps I have been away from normal life too long, cooped up here in an island fortress. I need to get away and remember what normal life feels like. Perhaps that is the source of my restless spirit. It would be nice to go back to Hitilopt Island and be among my aettir. I could visit my mother and father. Spending some time as a Canon Regular like an associate priest or friar might revive my spirit,” Urban explained.
Urban was almost ashamed to speak his desire, but now that the reasons were out in the open, he held his breath.
“How many seasons have you been here, my son?” the Reverend Father asked, leaning into his desk and steepling his fingers. His bushy blond beard flowed around them like a cloud. This curious habit of Urban’s master always made him think of a dog waiting to play. The image made him smile.
“To be flippant, too long. But in truth, eighteen seasons.”
“Six whole years,” the First Warpriest breathed and sat back. “That is too long. When was the last time you saw your family?”
“Four years ago.”
“Have you been giving consideration to marriage as well?”
“A little now and again, but only fleeting thoughts.” In truth, this was a faint way of putting it. The idea of marriage had been growing in his mind, but he felt his duties were more important than a legacy or lust.
“You do know that in your position you can take a wife.”
Urban nodded. Very few inquisitors were successful at balancing married life and the struggles of their position. He had been lucky with his long tenure at Athrvorthfestning, for it saved him from the same level of intrigue that many other inquisitors contended with. In more civilian offices, the domari and sogumathrs abused the inquisitors for personal and political intrigues. The Hird liked to pretend they were some sort of secret police they could use to manipulate the Kyrkja. But six years in this place, seeing combat on a regular basis against the increasingly powerful Skaerslinger, could wear down even the strongest of souls.
“I think you are right in asking for this, my son,” the Reverend Father declared quicker than Urban expected. “In fact, starting tomorrow morning, I am granting you a jubilee sabbatical. One full year to do as you see fit. Then, if you feel capable of returning to your post here, you are welcome to come back.”
His master smiled. “Something is troubling you, and I want you to discover what it is, confront it. Overcome it.” The Reverend Father gave a bittersweet smile. “God willing, you will come back to us.”
Urban’s jaw dropped. A jubilee? The generosity was astounding.
“In fact, I will go one step further. I am going to write a transfer order to any Ragnarite kyrkje and offer recommendation for any other sect who wishes to employ you as a friar or associate priest. Your wages will be made available from the stallare’s bank before you depart. They will be for all past wages, as well as two years future salary to satisfy your needs. That should keep you in a manner to which you are accustomed and give you enough liberty to find yourself, or return here to where you are loved. Of course, your title of inquisitor must be dropped, so you will only be Brother Urban till such time as you pick up the mantle again.”
The generosity overwhelmed Urban as he considered what all this meant.
“To what do I owe such generosity?” Urban sputtered.
“You are a fine inquisitor, and I respect you greatly for the service you have done for me, as well as for the Union and the Kyrkja. It is about time a modest reward be given unto you.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Reverend Father! I mean, there are-”
“That is because you do not see your own magnanimity! You have certainly earned this reprieve. I will not suffer rebuke or refusal for my sentiments either.” The First Warpriest’s smile was as warm as the sun, and Brother Urban blushed from it, thankful his own dark beard hid all but the tops of his cheeks.
“Then…” his voice clicked and he swallowed hard, “I accept your gift and give thanks to you for it.”
“Good. Now go. Visit your family. Do some good in the lives of the Forsamling proper rather than this exalted place.” The last was said with no shortage of mirth.
“I will endeavor to make you proud,” Urban said rising from his chair.
“I will miss you, Urban, my son.”
“And I you, Reverend Father.” He just could not bring himself to call his master by his given name.
“Do great things
for God,” the First Warpriest said, blessing the young man who had served him so well.
With a bursting heart, Urban turned and left to discover his life’s new calling.
3. Bedtime Stories
“…and without another word, Saint Ragnar slew the draugr and sent it to hell, saving the village from its evil, forever. The end,” the Visekonge said, finishing up his son’s bedtime story.
Compared to the problems of the Crown, his son’s bedtime ritual was one of Gregor’s daily joys. Olivr looked up at him with bright slanted eyes, his broad moon face aglow, and clapped for the triumphant saint. The boy always enjoyed the sagas of Saint Ragnar and his fights against the Skaerslinger and the draugr. He knew when even a single detail had been changed and corrected his father every time.
“Pader? May I have another story?”
“No, my son. No. It is time for bed, and I must go. My Crown is busy tonight,” he fibbed.
“Awww,” Olivr whined.
The Visekonge suffered his son’s disapproval in silence but with a smile. Sitting on the edge of Olivr’s bed was one of the few places where he found solace from his troubles. Here he could talk about great men who had already solved bigger problems than the ones he faced on a typical day. The petty infighting of the Statsraad was such a terrible drain at times, and this nighttime ritual brought peace to his spirit, reminding him of what it was he loved the most.
“Will you say prayers with me, Pader?” Olivr asked.
“Of course,” the Visekonge said, and then began for his son, “In Thee, O Lord, do I put my trust…”
Olivr picked up where he trailed off.
“Let me never be ashamed and deliver me in Thy righteousness,” the boy continued. His father raised his eyebrows and mouthed along with him.
“Bow down Thine ear to me. Deliver me speedily and be Thou my strong rock and castle to save me,” Olivr said smiling at his father’s silly faces.
“For Thou art my rock and my fortress, therefore for Thy namesake, lead me and guide me. Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me, for Thou art my strength.” He giggled a moment, before his father’s face became serious and encouraged his son on.
“Into Thine hands…?”
“Into Thine hands, I commit my spirit. Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, God of Truth,” Olivr continued, refocused on the words.
“Amen,” Gregor whispered.
“Amen,” Olivr whispered back.
The Visekonge leaned over and kissed his golden haired boy on the cheek.
“I love you, Olivr.”
“Love you, too, Pader.” The boy rose up a little to rub his nose against his father’s in a side-to-side motion he called Inuit kisses.
Gregor pulled the deep thick blankets up to the boy’s neck and rose to leave surveying the luxuries in his son’s room. All the toys and amusements Olivr enjoyed, that he was pleased to provide. Despite Olivr’s condition, he brought joy to those who knew him. A child of unending innocence and love. Gregor thanked God that he had ignored all the doctors and priests who demanded he expose the child. How could he? What sick, hard-hearted soul could destroy such a beautiful child? He was not cursed as so many claimed. Jah, he was simple, but not cursed by God. He was not a judgment upon the Sveinnaettir, for look at Leif and his twin sisters! How could this boy not be a blessing from God?
His wife waited for him at the door with a candelabra. He picked up his own and walked quietly over to her. His son, watching them leave, gave his mother a small wave. The Visedronning blew him a kiss with a smile. The boy caught it and put it on his cheek as they closed the door.
“You watched the whole time?” Gregor kissed his wife on the cheek.
“Not tonight. I was attending to Mirjam’s antics,” she said as they walked toward their apartment.
“Dare I ask what she has done now?”
“More of the usual mischief. She forged my signature and instructed the chamberlain to put the factor of Jarl Alvisaettir, who was here to present a marriage offer for Solveig, in the Red Study. Then she had the factor from Jarl Sutcliffaettir sent to the Hunt Cabinet with his offer knowing full well he was allergic to trophies! Then she reversed the whole process, and it took me all day to find them, let alone deal with a wheezing itchy factor who twitched and stuttered the entire audience. When I finally learned that the Alvisaettir’s factor was even here, he was highly insulted and very difficult to negotiate with, despite him being my fifth uncle.”
The Visekonge let out a sniff of a chuckle. He did not care one way or another for the factors, but their jarls were pompous fubrandes he needed to humor.
“My willful, mischievous daughter,” the Visedronning concluded.
Gregor shook his head, fighting to hide his amusement. “Well, at least it is set right again, and no real harm has come outside of some minor irritation and pricked pride.”
“I thanked God the Merciful she did not put them both in the Stag Cabinet! They hate each other,” his wife Marianne moaned.
“Where did you find her?”
“Watching the huskarls train,” Marianne said.
“With Solveig?” Gregor shook his head still amused.
“Always with Solveig.”
“I do believe you worry too much about her antics. She receives the greatest thrill out of your anger,” the Visekonge said, dismissing the issue.
The Visedronning sighed in exasperation.
“That is all fine and well with you, but Solveig’s betrothal is important. You cannot be offending the fathers or their mothers... or their factors with whom I must contend.” The Visedronning’s irritation at her youngest daughter was more a reflection of her personal inconvenience rather than an actual harm. Mirjam was always stirring things up in the palace in little ways. Pranks against protocol and precedence were her favorites. She delighted in the frantic scurrying to soothe wounded pride and blusters from chafed egos. The girl harbored a strong distaste for the conventional and expected and delighted in seeing chaos and awkward entanglements.
“What do you suggest I do about it? Send her off to be a nun? Lock her in a tower or dungeon?”
His wife’s nasty frown made sure he knew in no uncertain terms she was not going to humor his flippancy.
“This affects Solveig and me, the same way Olivr affects Leif and you and your relationships with the jarls.”
“I believe you overstate our children’s impact,” Gregor said, already weary with her snippy tone.
“Do I? The curse is upon Olivr, and despite our love and ability to see the good in his spirit, he is secretly scorned by the people. They believe it is a sign that the Sveinnaettir bloodline is weak and any child from your loins is cursed.”
“Marianne, do not start with that about our son! Olivr is not cursed! You have been listening to too many gobermouch lady servants of the Statsraad.”
“I did not say I agree with them!” she countered. “I am saying that those fools are speaking it out loud to one another when they think I am not listening.”
Gregor did not respond, and the two walked the rest of the way in silence.
They arrived at the door to their solar near the end of the hallway. The huskarl standing guard opened it, and they entered the opulent room between their bedchambers. Three stained glass windows from floor to ceiling decorated the southern wall to catch the sun. A central hearth and chimney allowed the heat to fill the room from all directions. Rows of well kept plants wreathed the base of the windows. Portraits of every Sveinnaettir family that had lived there covered the walls.
A valet brought them nightcaps. Gregor took both glasses by the pewter stems and went to his wife.
“My kjaere kone, let us not argue over the words of fools,” he said handing her a glass of sweet liquor.
“You know the Sveinnaettir will be forever judged by the petty and suffer the evil plots of resentful jarls subjugated by Halmar the Great who created this dynasty. The Sveinnaettir have survived so much thus far. Olivr will
not be the fatal blow.” He took a tiny sip of the blackberry liquor enjoying the way it warmed his mouth.
“But-” she said, succumbing to his assurances. He took her hand, and escorted her to their chairs before the hearth where they could enjoy the fire and keep the chilly spring night at bay.
“I know some of the jarls think they can topple us, but we have Leif,” he said sitting down, the chair creaking under his weight as he became comfortable. The fire and alcohol were having their desired effect. Marianne let out a deep contented sigh as she curled up in her chair, legs tucked and swaddled in her favorite alpaca quilt.
“We do have Leif.” She smiled at the thought of her eldest son and took another sip.
“As long as the jarls fight over our daughters, their actions betray their real beliefs of the Sveinnaettir curse as being nothing more than an old wives’ tale. Why would they fight to marry cursed blood into their aettir?” the Visekonge said with a chuckle.
“This is true,” his wife agreed sleepily. “I suppose I have nothing to worry about and should focus on making the best marriage arrangement for the dynasty,” she resolved.
As if completing her thought, Gregor added, “If we manage to find one she loves… all the better.” He reached out to her chair’s armrest and slid his hand under the quilt. She took it and gave it a loving squeeze. Outside the stars twinkled sharply in the cold spring night watching dispassionately over all.
4. Confession and Revelation
Bergfrid awoke to Aske turning and tossing in bed. It was hard enough for her to sleep lately, but now worry for her husband took precedence. Aske never wrestled with dreams. He was blessed with the heavy seal of sleep that sealed his eyes. Slumber was more difficult for her. Often, troubles would steal upon her in the dead of night, reviving worries over business or triflings from the day past, or of days yet to come.
Gently, she shook her husband’s shoulder. Aske did not respond. Instead, his arm flailed up over his eyes, and he gave a stark groan. What could trouble his sleep so?
Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves Page 3