Julien stared blankly over the gardens, at a loss for words. By now sparrows and chick-a-dees added their voices to the darling song of the larks. The morning mist grew thicker and thicker as the morning light worked to undo the cold kiss of the frost. In the distance loomed heavy, deep blue-grey clouds on a course that seemed destined for Gossac. Smoke began to rise from distant chimneys as the city slowly churned to life. Julien found the scene ominous and beautiful all at once.
“Julien, do you know why council has been summoned this early?” Rosemary asked as the pair approached the far side of the gardens.
“Something has happened.” He said. “Something dire. Elsewise we would be meeting at the zenith, not the break of day. As to what, I can not say.”
“There has been another attack against the Valvian people.” Rosemary said, squeezing his arm.
“Of course,” Julien sighed. “Who else would have called such an early session other than Lucian? Any details I should be aware of?”
“Yes.” Rosemary nodded. “It happened a fortnight ago near the borders of Gryk and Ynoux.”
“What happened?” Julien asked, not sure if he truly desired to know what new act of villainy had befallen the fair people of Valvius.
“I am sure you recall the Valvian Chancellor had paid for a special tour of Wynne for a handful of poor Valvian families?”
Julien nodded in agreement. It was a costly, noble idea the Chancellor initiated. Julien admired the concept, knowing the gesture was in good taste, for it acknowledged the hard, working people under the Vavlian Chancellor’s care. In fact, Julien had been so inspired by the concept, he addressed the council with a plan to create similar tours funded by the council. However, it had fallen short of a proper discussion
“Well,” Rosemary paused. “ The airship was assailed by brigands. None…none survived.”
“Del Morte be damned.” Julien cursed. His heart began to feel sick and heavy. “Has this attack been tied to the previous ones, or is this a stand alone incident?”
“It is being claimed that it is, indeed, associated with the other events.” Rosemary’s voice was soft, laden with a somber dread.
“That would make this the thirteenth aggression against Valvian people since the turn of the moon.” Julien said. “It would seem this group is becoming bolder, and acting quicker between events.”
Over the past year the people of Valvius had been targeted by some secret organization. Kidnapping, murder and arson were not uncommon amongst the transgressions against Valvian people, regardless of where they lived. It was a terrible travesty, one that Julien sympathized with, however, the mandate of the council prevented Julien from acting on the desires of his heart; despite his desire to aid those in need, his role as a councilor denied Julien the chance to petition the aid of the afflicted peoples of Valvius.
A sullen silence fell over the two as they exited the gardens and continued onto the cobbled streets of Gossac. The everflame street lamps burned bright, despite the rising sun. Julien led the way through the slowly waking city, cane tap-tap-tapping like a mournful warning to those at peace in their homes.
“Rosemary, how do you know?” Julien asked at long last.
“Pardon?” she asked, caught off guard by his matter-of-fact tone.
“How do you know about this attack?” He repeated. “How do you know of the reason behind this urgent assembly?”
“Well, you see,” The lady paused for a moment. “Listen Julien, in truth I had ridden this morning. I had to find you. I had to tell you. When I espied you near the south market I dismounted and stabled my mount, to follow by foot; I did not want to alarm you so I had my steward take the steed to a nearby machinist shop.”
“Why?” Julienasked, upset for having been played the fool.
“Lucian has not informed any of the kinetic representatives, or their stewards.” Rosemary admitted. “He wishes to catch the kinetic representatives unaware and use your ignorance to his advantage.” She stopped walking, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Lucian claims to have new evidence that will change the way the council views the situation Valvius faces. He needs the kinetics to be ignorant of this information so he can garner the trust and aid of the other representatives of Wynne.”
Lucian Margoux represented the province of Valvius on the council. He was also a military man with a long and proud history. Julien had been one of the loudest voices against Lucian’s attempts to spur the council to actively interfere with the troubles Valvius faced. It pained the old kinetic to deny as much, for his baser instincts wanted to offer the assistance Lucian so deeply sought, but the council was not beholden to that kind of aid.
“Damn that accursed man!” Julien swore. He was at a loss. In all his long years, he had never thought he would be the victim of political scheming, especially amongst the Grand Council of Wynne.
The two council members continued to tread their way toward the Grand Tower of Time, where, at its base, a three-story manse rested against the base of the towering obelisk. This was the Parliament of Wynne. It was made of a soft limestone, with high arcing windows and cast iron balconies. A dome of glass rose out of the roof, enlivened by twisting bronze work. Large green marble pillars flanked the front landing, welcoming petitioners and councilors alike with a sense of majesty.
Sitting below the lip of the verdigris stained copper roof, a wonderfully majestic clock ticked away the morn. Julien often admired the design of the Parliament Clock, for it had been crafted with its gears and cogs showing externally, while its trim was a stunning blue and green alabaster shell inlay, bordered with antique gold. The length of the hands were intricately welded dark iron, mimicking the twisting vines of the dome’s bronze work.
Julien strained his neck to look at the Grand Tower of Time. He searched for the looming widows for guidance. It pained Julien to think of how the peace of Wynne was so greatly at risk. It was as if the councilors and populace forgot the lessons learned during the Great War, and the hope the people of that time had for the future of Wynne. The Great Peace had been intended to be everlasting, yet of late Julien sensed that peace was at a terrible risk.
When the Great Peace began, so too did the Grand Council of Wynne. The council was created with the amalgamation of dignitaries and representatives from each of the provinces and select members from each school of kinetics. The council’s mandate was to ensure the evolution of industry, science, trade routes with the Far East, and other minor socio-political issues that would benefit the populace of Wynne. Anything other than those duties fell onto the shoulder of each province’s Chancellor; policing, law creation, and military jurisdiction were not the duties of the council, despite what the people of Wynne thought.
Julien firmly believed in the council’s mandate, and felt his was the voice of reason in these trying times. In many ways, it bothered the old kinetic how hard Lucian strived to undo the work and peace of over two hundred years. Despite well-placed intents, Julien did not doubt Lucian Margoux would bring war to Wynne.
By now, the other members of council were trickling up the front steps into the gaping blackness of the large double iron doors, into the waiting assembly within. Julien’s heart beat with a wild fervor as he espied the Lucian depart his over-indulgent, exquisitely ornate auto-carriage.
“Rosemary,” Julien stopped short of the parliament, remaining well out of ear shot. “I thank you for confiding in me, but my bones tell me there is more for you to tell. I fear if I do not know it now, the future of Wynne will be at stake.”
The Speaker of the Commons sighed and took hold of Julien’s age spotted hand. Her grasp was soothing, warm and sincere. Julien knew if he were but a few years younger, Rosemary would have made him a perfect wife. He would have loved her well, but such thoughts were better left to the wild whims of younger hearts. Although, truth be told, Rosemary’s touch made the old kinetic feel more youthful. Julien tucked his cane under his arm, adjusted his lenses with his free hand and offered the lady a kin
d smile.
“Miss, Rosemary.” He said. “I do not know what this evidence is Lucian will bring to council. Nor do I know how this session shall end, but if you cannot bring yourself to tell me, it is most all right. Your insight already has brought enough aid and I cannot ask for more.”
“Then I have done my duty well.” She smiled. It seemed a weight lifted from her shoulders.
“I do not know where this is coming from,” Julien continued, “but I feel quite vibrant around you.” He paused, watching her confused expression at his ill-timed admission. “I…I know I am very much your senior, but I would like it very much if you were to accompany me on my foray to the College after this ill fated session. We have walked the Gossac city gardens by dawn, and I would very much like to show you the College’s famed Garden D’Lune by dusk.”
“My good ser,” her rosy cheeks burned a brighter red at his request. “I don’t know how appropriate that would be.”
Julien’s heart faltered for the beat of a second. He cursed himself for being so naïve and old. Julien tried to hide his blushing cheeks by looking away.
“However,” Rosemary continued, “perhaps with all the stress I have been under of late, a nice little get away would be lovely – as long as I do not catch anything deadly.”
“M’dear Rosemary,” Julien tried to repress his joy. “You have made this old kinetic a very happy old man. I swear you shall not catch a thing.”
Rosemary smiled, though hidden in her emerald eyes, Julien noted a small flicker of fear, or doubt. Though the fear he saw was something more, something far more rooted than a simple foray to the college with an old man. It seemed to Julien the lady held a deep, dark secret she feared.
“Julien, Lucian’s evidence,” Rosemary began with a nervous shudder to her tone.
“M’lady, you do not have to tell me. I shall soon discover it for myself.” He indicated to the waiting building.
The bell of the Parliment Clock began to knell the morning song as the pair of councilors stood in the chilled morning. Bing-Bong-Bing-Bong-Bing-Bong-Bong, it sang, declaring it was time for the world to greet the new day. Julien sent a cursory glance at the accursed clock, annoyed by its painful intrusion.
As the knelling bell faded, Rosemary looked to Julien again. With a reserved sigh she said; “Julien, Lucian’s evidence points the finger at kinetics. He hopes this shall spur the council to action.”
“He cannot hope…” Julien was at a complete loss for words.
“I am sorry Julien.” Rosemary said. “This is why the kinetic representatives were not told the reason for the urgency. Lucian does not want your kind to prepare a defense against his accusations.”
“I fear then, dear Rosemary,” Julien felt a wildness in him he had not felt since his younger days. “Lucian shall have to do more than an one-sided council session to catch this kinetic off-guard.” Julien drew his cane and took the first few steps that lead to the council building. “Come, let us set this bastard right.” Julien offered his hand to Rosemary, and led the way up the rising stair with a fire burning in his heart.
“Julien, wait.” Rosemary protested.
“What is it m’lady?” Julien turned to face her.
“Look.” She pointed to the sky.
“What new devilry is this?” Julien said.
Falling in slow, simple movements, like a feather on the wind, were small specks of white.
“Snow,” Rosemary said. “Snow has come to Driftwood Isle.”
Gossimer Morgan sat in the Steward’s Hall of the Parliament of Wynne, rolling a fresh cigarette. Beyond the safety of the walls, the snow whipped and howled. It was such a curious thing, this snow. For here they all sat, in one of the more tropical locales of Wynne, yet they had become a victim of the wild blizzards of the north. It was majestic, and odd, frightening yet delightful. However, being of a northern descent, Gossimer had grown bored of it long ago.
He looked across the small room to the other stewards, all of whom shared the painful look of boredom.
“How much longer d’ye think they’ll be Gossy?” A stringy haired youth asked.
“Dunno Gerrold.” Gossimer licked the thin paper and sealed his tightly rolled smoke. With gentle care, he tucked his cigarette into his waistcoat pocket. “They’ll be done when they’re done I suppose.”
A loud groan shattered the anxious silence amongst the stewards as the large iron doors of the entry hall were parted open. Fat flakes of snow blew into the entryway and the wind howled without. A lone figure entered the spacious entryway of the building. From his seat, Gossimer could see the snow building on the front landing of the parliament, hugging against the marble pillars without.
“Yer turn Gossy.” Gerrold said, leaning across the cherry stained table between them.
Gossimer looked at the bundled stranger by the door, to Gerrold and back to the stranger. With a sigh Gossimer rose from his seat of over four hours to greet the newcomer. Gossimer walked with a hurried step through the main hall as the ever-watchful eyes of the priestess’ of Del Morte followed him. He looked over his shoulder at the silent sentinels, who stood as wardens to the upper sanctum of the parliament building.
They wore pale sifts and thin veils, masking the features of their faces. Gossimer was not an overly religious lad, nor was he completely devoid of faith; however, when he came within sight of the silent sisters, he always felt unnerved, for it seemed as though Del Morte himself was judging Gossimer’s very soul.
His foot falls echoed like a solemn beat off of the marble floors of the grand hall as his quick strides brought him upon the stranger who stood before him in a pool of melted snow.
“Welcome to the Parliament of the Grand Council of Wynne,” he put his best smile on, extending his hand in greeting. “I regret to inform you that today’s council is not only still in session, but also a private matter. If you would be so kind as to follow me, we can get some warmth into your bones and take your name for the morrow’s petitions.”
The stranger looked at him through a small space between scarf and chapeau. Gossimer continued to smile despite being put off by the silent stranger before him. He looked over his shoulder to the side room where the other retainers sat in wait. They all shared a similar, confused expression.
“Is there something I can offer you for the hassle this has caused?” Gossimer asked, returning his attention to the newcomer. He was surprised to see the face of a beautiful young woman greet him.
It seemed, to Gossimer, she had taken the moment to pull down her dark-knit scarf. Underneath the woolen layers was revealed to be a smooth, dove coloured skin, which accented deep-set eyes that shone like sapphires in the radiating light of the everflame lanterns.
“I don’t s’pose ye would have any mulled wine back there would ye?” She asked with a voice as angelic as her face.
Gossimer nodded slowly, transfixed by the beautiful creature before him.
“D’ye mind takin’ me to it?” The woman asked with a small smile.
“Yes, uhm,” Gossimer cleared his throat. “Please just follow me mum.”
“Thankee, but please, call me Elenor.” She said, smile never fading.
“Elenor? Well then, you may call me Gossimer, if it pleases you.” He smiled and motioned to the side room. “You’re Di Delgan aren’t you?”
“Might be that I am.” Elenor replied. “An’ how would ye gather that?”
“Well,” Gossimer smiled, leading the lady towards the Steward’s Hall. “We don’t see many Di Delgan’s here, so it’s always easy to spot one.”
“Ye don’t say?” Elenor said.
“Aye.” Gossimer twitched his nose. “You have the characteristically defined cheekbones of the Di Delgan people, yet a subtle softness to your jawline.”
“Aye,” she chuckled softly. “Though, truthfully I am only half Di Delgan. Me mum was Pozian an’ me father Di Delgan. Though if it weren’t fer me features, ye’d most like mix me up as Valvian or Syntaran ‘caus
e the way I talk.”
“Why’s that?” He asked. Elenor looked at Gossimer with those big, blue eyes and winked. An awkward moment followed as he waited for his answer, which seemed to never come.
Doing his best to not let the oddity of this guest bother him, Gossimer continued to lead her to the small side hall. Upon entering the space, he directed her to a wing back chair that sat by the hearth, where a fire burned low. Elenor smiled in thanks, clearly glad to be near some form of heat.
“Thankee fer the choice spot, ser.” Elenor said. She removed her woolen mittens, revealing long, eloquent fingers that burned red with chill. “Back to yer question though. Me parent’s were Del Morte missionaries that worked fer his people in need, namely in the poor districts of Syntar an’ Valvius – fer that is where his message is needed most.”
Gossimer forced an understanding smile as he prepared a heavy Valvian red in a pot over the embers; Gossimer busied himself with preparing a simple mulled wine, trying to let the distraction hide his discomfort surrounding Elenor’s faithful up bringing.
“Is that what you do Elenor?” he asked as he placed a couple of fresh sticks of cinnamon into the pot.
“Me?” She asked. “Del Morte be good, no.”
“Why not?” Gossimer gave the wine a good stir with an iron ladle, hoping his surprise was not so obvious.
“The poor will always be poor an’ bitter.” Hints of sadness flowed in Elenor’s voice as she admitted the truth of the matter. “No matter how hard ye try to invoke pride an’ faith in their hearts, the poor jus’ keep on being poor. I spent many nights listenin’ to me mum cryin’ an’ father cursin’ ‘cause they jus’ couldn’t understand why the poor had so little faith in Del Morte.”
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