Magnus and Derogynes stared at the warrior, and both began to speak at once.
“I said quiet!” The huge man slammed his fist on the table, splintering it. At last, the bickering was ended. “We can’t sit here fighting each other. Aren’t you all supposed to be friends?”
Magnus sighed, massaging his temples. “Forgive me. We’re all a little shaken. I had my doubts, about Stefan, about Cyril. To have it confirmed so vividly, I think, has us all on edge.”
Derogynes nodded. “Captain Sanidus told me about Cyril dealing with the slave lords of Torinus.”
“The Magisters,” Irene shook her head softly. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“My father must be stopped. That much is set.” Floriana trembled as she spoke, and her face wrinkled as she screwed her eyes shut. “It will be painful. But it must be done.”
Irene moved over to her niece, wrapping her arms over her shoulders.
“What does the Prophet say?” Magnus asked.
Matthias turned to the wolf; even he looked more grim and forlorn. “We continue on our path. We preach the virtues and remind the people of their Creator. We will not speak of Cyril.”
“What?” Matthias looked down with disgust. “You would have us do nothing?”
“What did he say?”
Matthias grunted. “He wants us to do nothing.”
“That’s not what I said. We will give the people the promise of my father. It was that promise that freed them from slavery; that promise shall free them from Cyril.
The warrior snarled at his father. “And did preaching about a god that hasn’t lifted a finger to help you or anyone in twenty years protect my mother?”
The disciples stared in shocked silence as the great white wolf pounced Matthias, knocking the warrior to the floor. He looked up at the snarling visage of the wolf, long, sharp teeth on full display as those blue eyes flashed green, and claws pressed deep into his flesh.
“You will not speak of your mother’s death in such a way, nor will you disrespect the Creator in my presence! EVER!”
Matthias met his father’s gaze, his face set. “As you say, Father.”
The wolf stepped off his son, and Matthias stood to his full height. “We will speak in private.” Without so much as a glance at the other disciples, Matthias led the way for his father into another room of the house.
“My apologies. Your mother has always been a sore spot for me. Had I spoken to Cyril even ten years earlier, I may have attempted to tear out his throat.”
“So much for ‘the Creator forgives you,’ then,” Matthias scoffed.
Stefan was silent for a moment. “Some wounds need more time to heal than others. I understand your pain, my son.”
“How could you?” the warrior said bitterly, staring listlessly out a window at the courtyard below. “Because of that man, I grew up without a mother. I grew up without you. And you pulled away my one chance for justice.”
“You made a vow, Matthias.” The wolf looked at his son, then changed tack. “Did I ever tell you about my mother? Your grandmother?”
Matthias didn’t answer.
“Her name was Lin. Many called her Lin the Barren, for she never bore children, regardless of who slept with her. She was a woman of low repute, even for a slave, for what her masters forced her to do. She was a good woman, and she loved me but a slave cannot protect her child. I lived with her until I was ten, when the Hegemon took notice of me and my intelligence. He bought me, and I never saw her again. It was only when I escaped, when I was about your age, that I met my father.”
The warrior chuckled drily. “Perhaps we’re not so different after all.”
The wolf pressed his head against Matthias’ hand. “You and I have the burden of prophecy upon our shoulders, but the Creator is with us. Just as I share your pain, so does he. I know you have your doubts, but if you are not willing to trust the Creator just yet, can you at least trust me?”
Matthias sighed, bowing his head. “I can, Father.”
“Good.” The wolf licked Matthias, as the warrior scratched his ears in turn. “The people are afraid and angry. We cannot undo Cyril’s plots all at once; right now, the best thing to do is to speak with the people, and drive them not to violence, but to peace. Hearts and minds must be won, my son; you cannot beat the truth into submission.”
Matthias grinned. “May I ask something, then, before we rejoin the others?”
“Ask, and I shall answer.”
“Cyril said you told him he was destined to betray him. Was he really?”
“It is a sad fact of prophecy and fate. If one person is destined to greatness, another, inevitably, is destined to infamy. I knew it would be Cyril, and I wept, for I loved him as my brother. But I believed the Creator granted him freedom for a reason. Even in an odious role, Cyril could choose how events could play out. You saw him in the throne room. When I offered my hand, it was not fate that stopped him; only his own bitterness and self-loathing.”
“What happened when you told him?” Matthias asked. His thoughts drifted to Alfred.
“He was disbelieving, and hurt that I would suggest such a thing. I had planned for him to stay away, for only a while, until we could find a solution. I begged him to meditate and reach out to the Creator, but he would not. He grew afraid of his wrath, and angry about his fate.”
“He felt as if he had no choice,” the warrior muttered.
“Of course he had a choice! There is always a choice.” The wolf grew agitated, his white fur standing on end. “But he never tried. He fell into despair and hid from the Creator, striking at Suyi because he felt she had turned me against him.” Stefan tore away from Matthias, beginning to pace. “Her death was so needless; she loved him as I did.”
The warrior nodded. “I understand. We do not need to speak of this more.”
“Indeed.” Stefan composed himself, sitting straight and tall. “Let us tell the others what they need to know.”
The disciples were skeptical at best; Derogynes spoke for the group as he furiously shook his mane. “So the great Prophet’s plan… is that we tell people how much your god loves them?” The ambassador scoffed at the wolf. “My friend, you have lost your senses. What is preaching going to accomplish?”
“He says it freed humanity,” Matthias grumbled.
Derogynes chuckled mirthlessly. “No. I’m sorry, Stefan. What freed humanity was diplomatic pressure from other nations, spearheaded by Theragos, choice elites in Qingren’s government wanting to end slavery, and the fact you had Hegemon Taizong wet himself when he found out you were, in fact, teaching humans how to use magic again. I’m a diplomat, I know the limitations of words alone.”
“Well, it’s what we’re doing,” the warrior crossed his arms.
Derogynes held up his hands. “Fine, fine. Far be it for me to question the inestimable wisdom of a talking wolf.”
“He says it’s better than listening to your ever-expanding gut.”
The Andrathi scoffed at the wolf. “Stefan wouldn’t say that. I don’t believe you.”
Matthias patted his broad shoulder as the rest of the group passed him by. “Some things you’re going to have to take by faith, friend.”
The disciples met with Ferrin out in the courtyard. The nobleman had a furrowed brow as he jerked his thumb over to the gate, where shouts could be heard. “There’s a crowd gathering outside demanding to see the Prophet. You won’t guess who’s out there with them.”
“Thrill us, Ferrin,” Irene said.
“Ambassador Bai Feng. The envoy from Qingren’s Hegemon.”
Matthias frowned, squaring his shoulders. “I’ve never seen one of Sinrun’s brood before. I will show him we’re not all like Cyril.” The warrior marched for the gates leading away from courtyard, and threw them open.
Even in the midst of battle, Matthias had never seen so many people packed into one place. The Bybics numbered in the tens of thousands, one of the largest tribes, but Stefanurb
em held a hundred thousand souls, and it seemed like every single one of them were waiting for him. As he and the white wolf came to the entrance, the crowd erupted into a roaring cheer.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Gwen, the blond-haired youth from Ferrin’s Glade, beamed up at Matthias. “We told them all you were here to free us from Cyril’s tyranny!” She turned to the crowd. “Down with the tyrant king! Hail to the Prophet and his son, blood of the Creator!”
The hulking man was used to crowds cheering for him, but now, he was acutely aware of the danger. Already on the periphery, he could see the Inquisitors in their black robes closing in on the crowd.
“I told you,” Derogynes muttered, joining his guards that were doing their best to keep order. “Pretty words won’t save us. This mob is waiting to be primed. Be their strong, guiding hand before someone else steps forward, and let’s get this bloody business done with.”
“Derogynes is letting his cynical side get the better of him. Don’t listen, Matthias. Remember, speak to them of things greater than Cyril or Fosporia.”
Matthias looked over the crowd, and as he was about to speak, every soul present was hanging on his word. He spotted a figure he had never seen the like of before, wearing flowing a robe, with blond hair tied back into a strange tail. His ears were long and pointed, his features fine and almost feminine, and his skin was as white as snow. This had to be Bai Feng, flanked by two more of his kind, but more monstrous looking, with black skin and huge, leathery wings.
And the Qingrenese Ambassador stared right at Matthias, locking eyes with him. His gaze was not reverent; he waited and watched to see what this warrior turned preacher would do. Matthias tried to shrug it off, but he was reminded of a mountain lion, watching its prey just before it pounced.
“You would have me and your Prophet storm Faircliff? Raze it to the ground, and kill Cyril for what he has done to you?” Matthias began, and the crowd roared their approval. The Inquisitors pushed people aside, and he spotted Braya among them, grabbing for her whip. “Would you have me cut a swath through the Inquisitors, spill their blood for your freedom?” Again, the crowd cried out with cheers. The Inquisitors were getting closer. “You would have me, warrior of a hundred battles, strongest arm of all mankind, and son of the wolf, be your vengeance, your sword, and strike down the unworthy and the unvirtuous?”
The crowd was working itself into a frenzy, howling and cheering as they pulled and pushed the Inquisitors trying to fight their way to the front.
“Matthias, what are you doing?” Magnus hissed, clinging close to the gate
“Tread carefully, my son.”
The Inquisitors, haggard, and still being prodded by the crowd, finally made it to the front. “Then I will give you my answer, Stefanurbem!” Matthias shouted. He withdrew his sword, and the bronze blade caught the dim light of the winter day, erupting in flame. Holding it aloft, all stared in awe, until Matthias drove it into the ground at his feet.
“If you cry out for blood, Stefanurbem, you must make the first cut.”
Matthias stood defiantly before the crowd, his arms crossed; no one dared move. The Inquisitors looked at him with suspicion. “You ask too much of me, because you ask something that you yourselves are not willing to do. Is this how the Virtuous carry their honor?”
“Nicely done.” Stefan’s voice resounded approvingly. “Do not dwell on lecturing, however; remind them of the Creator.”
Matthias suppressed a grin. “You look down for answers, for violence and hatred, when instead, you should look above.” He pointed up to the heavens. “Put your mind on things that are righteous, and look to them for answers, for all things righteous come from the Creator of all.” Matthias hesitated, here. “You…”
“They call Cyril a tyrant, but they themselves are separated from divine virtue. They must focus on the good things of the earth and beyond, or another tyrant will rise in his place.”
The looks on the mob’s collective faces was sobering as Matthias echoed his father’s words. Slowly, the Inquisitors lowered their weapons, even as Braya snapped at them to be at the ready. “Keep the virtues, for, just as the Creator, they will keep you. While you live, your troubles will be many, and you must choose what you are willing to fight for. If you are to come to my father, then you must be willing to lay down your life; do not ask others to lay down their lives for you if you are not willing to do the same. To conquer fear, to conquer sin, you must face both head on. Likewise, to conquer death, you need only...”
Matthias stopped, looking back to his father, the Prophet’s last words ringing in his head. The wolf had bowed his head, and would say no more.
“You need only die.”
Matthias did not speak further, and the crowd returned that silence. Slowly, they dispersed, huddling against the cold, each weighing the warrior’s words in their own way. Bai Feng weaved through the thinning crowd until he came face to face with Matthias, and bowed with his hands clasped.
“Teacher, what wisdom would you give to me?” he asked, his tone neutral. He still examined Matthias with a quizzical, scholarly eye, as if he were trying to unravel a puzzle.
“What makes you think I have wisdom for you?” Matthias scoffed.
The Jaoren smiled wryly. “Did not your father preach that wisdom is a light to be shared and lifted up, not hidden in the dark corners of this earth?”
“I know Bai Feng by reputation. He once stood against slavery; now he peddles the heretics Cyril is so desperate to be rid of. Remind him of that.”
Matthis furrowed his brow, looking down at the white skinned ambassador. “Honor, as I have learned, is like the crops of the field. Just because you till the earth and care for them in the past does not mean they will bloom forever. If the farmer were to burn his field before the harvest, what did his previous labor amount to? Nothing. So it is with our honor and virtue. When was the last time you tended your crops, ambassador?”
Bai Feng’s wry smile faltered, and he blinked with a wary and uncertain look. “Perhaps the crop must be burned, if the farmer’s master declares it so.”
“And what master is to be followed, if he leaves the farmer and all who depend on him starving?” Matthias returned.
The Jaoren ambassador was silent and nodded. “Well said. I sought human wisdom, and I found it.” He bowed again. “Thank you, Matthias, son of Stefan.” He turned to the Andrathi standing beside him, and bowed respectfully. “Ambassador Derogynes. May the Heavenly Lovers guide you while you stand in such fervent company.” Without another word, he left.
“What are we to make of that?” Magnus muttered, as they slowly trickled back into the courtyard.
Derogynes stroked his mane. “Bai Feng is over a hundred and fifty, and has been playing this game longer than any other diplomat I know. He is not a bad man, but not a particularly bold one, either. Something is off if he has drifted from Cyril’s castle, asking street preachers for advice.”
Matthias grunted. “He is of no concern of mine unless he gets in our way.”
The disciples stayed in Irene’s house for the rest of the day. The snow began to fall heavy, and with fires roaring and a roof over their heads, many drifted to sleep, seeking the comfort of heavy covers against the winter night. Matthias, however, remained awake; he had found the library.
It seemed when the house was built, at least, Cyril had some affection left for his sister. The library, if a little dusty, had been well-appointed. A small and intimate room, it had stuffed chairs and several shelves packed with books. Matthias had never seen so many in his life. Unsure of where to start, he set a candle down and picked one at random. It was large and leather-bound, and there were pictures of various plants, some that he recognized, others strange and alien. He strained his eyes looking at the letters, as if he could will them to make sense.
“Matthias?”
The warrior looked up to see Floriana and Irene standing in the room. “What are you doing in here?” Irene asked. “And what are you d
oing with…” she tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Julius Vindicta’s Tome of Alchemy? You have it upside down.”
“I—” Matthias grunted out of frustration, blushing as Floriana stifled a giggle. “I was only looking.”
“Mm-hmm.” Irene turned to her niece. “Keep the boy company, I think I have something that will help.”
Embarrassed, Matthias set the heavy book down, and wouldn’t look the princess in the eye as she settled down next to him. To end the silence, Matthias cleared his throat.
“You were brave to stand with us.”
Floriana smiled sadly. “It was the right thing to do.” She rested her hand on his. “Thank you, for keeping your promise. I can only imagine how hard it was.”
“I keep my vows,” Matthias echoed bluntly. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move his hand from Floriana’s.
“You know, it surprises me when you say you can’t read. You put on this rough, barbaric exterior, but…” She inched a little closer, playing with a strand of her hair. “Sometimes, you’ll preach, or, you’ll talk about the legends of the Altani, and you speak so poetically.”
“Warriors aren’t supposed to read. When I was young, Jarl Gunnar struck me when I tried to read one of Alfred’s scrolls. Like most things, I stopped being curious.”
Floriana reached up to touch his cheek, gently turning his face to meet her eyes. “You’re like your father before you; you fought for your freedom and the freedom of others. Now, you can be whatever you want. What do you want to be?”
Matthias rubbed the back of his thick neck. “You would laugh.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“It’s a stupid idea. A child’s dream.”
Floriana flashed him a challenging look. “Tell me. Or are you afraid of laughter?”
The warrior grinned ruefully, rolling his eyes. “One day, that’s not going to work,” he sighed. “As a child, I wanted to be a Skald. Our storytellers. They carry the whole history of the Altani people, from the Men of the Flaming Night, to the first High Kings, to Dagmar and Fravan, and all the rest of them. Skalds are welcome in any hold and hearth throughout the tribes; they bring laughter, inspire warriors, can reduce the sternest souls to tears, and everyone’s always happy to see them. If they aren’t a Bybic warrior, most are scared to see me, unless they know I’m around to kill whoever they don’t like.”
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