The Record of the Saints Caliber

by M. David White

  Tarquin’s eyes shifted and locked with Isley’s. He nodded slightly to Isley, but Isley kept his eyes locked on him. He saw Tarquin shift on his feet, uncomfortable with the gaze. Isley gestured at Tarquin’s left side with a slight nod from his head. Tarquin simply broke his gaze.

  Balin brought the formalities of calling the Council to order to an end. With a sigh, he added, “So, with that out of the way, let’s get right down to business, shall we?”

  “Where is Celacia?” asked Isley, his eyes still locked on Tarquin. He could feel all the Councilmen’s eyes turn to him, could feel the abrupt stop in Balin’s momentum.

  “I’m sorry?” asked Balin.

  “Where is Celacia?” asked Isley again, his eyes still on Tarquin.

  Tarquin scowled back and returned a hard gaze.

  Balin turned his head and followed Isley’s line of sight to Lord Tarquin. He turned back around. “I’m sorry, Saint Isley, I was not aware you had been appointed Standing Speaker of today’s Council?”

  Isley would never understand council room etiquette. It seemed so petty and trite. At that moment he decided once and for all that he really did hate council meetings even more than his language studies. “Forgive me.” said Isley. “I forget that this Council hears only answers to questions it asks.”

  A few of the Councilmen cleared their throats and shook their heads. From the corner of his eye Isley could see the smirk on Lord Egret’s face. Isley realized that he was something of an amusement to Lord Egret, even though he never meant to be. Isley just could not wrap his mind around some of these Durotonian ideas and customs, such as proper meeting etiquette. Seemed to Isley that more would be accomplished if everybody could just speak their mind and be done with it.

  “I will have Saint Isley review council etiquette.” said Egret. “Again.”

  Balin sighed, thoroughly unamused. “If it’s alright with Saint Isley, I would like to proceed?”

  Isley tilted his head in a nod. “My apologies, sire.” Now he was just being surly. Isley knew that in Duroton the word ‘sire’ was only used for addressing royalty. Nobles, such as the Councilmen, were to be addressed as ‘lord’.

  Balin puffed and pursed his lips up in a frown. His dark eyes fell on Isley. “Actually, Celacia is the topic of today’s meeting. We were hoping you might know her whereabouts?”

  Isley regarded Balin for a moment. “No.” His eyes shifted to look past Balin to Lord Tarquin. The man seemed to be getting quite upset with his stares, but Isley really didn’t care. “But I am willing to bet Lord Tarquin knows a thing or two.”

  Tarquin’s lips turned up in a snarl. He took a step forward out of his corner, growling a curse to Isley about how he wasn’t going to tolerate being stared at like some sort of abomination.

  “Your lieutenant is out of line,” said Balin, looking at Lord Egret. “Need I remind you that we are in Council?”

  Isley felt Egret’s hand fall upon his shoulder. “Saint Isley,” said Egret. “Fall to order, please.”

  Isley’s eyes narrowed at Tarquin, but he nodded his consent. “Forgive me, Lord Egret.”

  Balin blew out a breath and shook his head. He looked at Isley. “Lord Tarquin says you were the last to see her. We’re hoping you might shed some light on where she may have gone? As you know, she has not been seen in two-weeks.”

  “She only told me she was going away for a while.” said Isley, looking at Balin. “She would not tell me where she was going, and she would not tell me for how long.” His eyes shifted back to Tarquin. “But I believe Lord Tarquin was actually the last person to see her.”

  Balin turned and looked at Tarquin and the two seemed to exchange some unspoken words. Balin nodded at him and Tarquin scowled. Lord Tarquin stepped out from the corner, and with his right hand, through off his shroud. He was in his black armor with the gray spirals painted up his right arm. His entire left arm was missing at the shoulder. His blue eyes locked on Isley and seemed to smolder.

  “Lord Tarquin,” said Egret. “Were you attacked by Celacia? When did this happen?”

  “Two weeks ago. The bitch took my arm,” he spat. “She grabbed me. Withered it. The Jinn had to amputate the entire thing.”

  Balin looked at Isley and Egret. “As you can see, the subject of Celacia has become rather dire.”

  “Why would Celacia attack you, Lord Tarquin?” asked Egret.

  Tarquin’s stormy eyes shifted to Egret. “She demanded the Mard Grander. I told her where to stick it.”

  Isley turned to Egret. “He’s lying.”

  Tarquin snarled. “What did you say?” he spat, stepping closer. From the light of one of the gaslamps Isley could see that the skin on the left side of Tarquin’s face was yellowed and grayed in sickly looking patches.

  “Order!” boomed Balin, holding up his hands. “Saint Isley, this Council will not endure another outburst from you.” He paused a minute to let Tarquin settle back down. He cast Isley a disapproving glance. Then he said, “Celacia attacked Lord Tarquin and he narrowly escaped. She has not been seen since.”

  “Why was I not informed of this?” asked Lord Egret. “Tarquin, as there is no longer a Saints Alliance, you fall back under my command. This should have been reported to me immediately.”

  “This Council felt the need to keep this matter secret.” said Balin. “King Dagrir approved. With Celacia seemingly having run off again, we did not want to start any kind of panic until we were sure what to do about it.”

  “And what has this Council decided to do about it?” asked Egret.

  Balin cast Egret an even gaze. “Lord Egret, as you are aware, the dragon skull has found its way to its new home in the Yotun Mountains. Already our best blacksmiths are on sight with the Jinn to figure out how they might go about reforging star-metal. This Council has sought and received approval from King Dagrir to appoint Lord Tarquin to oversee the operations there.” Balin grabbed a paper from the table and handed it to Egret. Egret took it and looked it over. “By order of King Dagrir, Lord Tarquin is now Commander of Operations of the Dragon Forge. His command no longer falls beneath you, but beneath the King and Council directly. Much like your own.”

  Isley could see disapproval painting Egret’s face as he handed the document back to Balin. Egret looked at Tarquin. “Commander of Operations of the Dragon Forge? That’s quite the title. Congratulations are in order, it seems.”

  Tarquin’s scowl never softened. “Thank you.”

  “Lord Egret, Saint Isley,” Balin addressed them. “This Council, as well as Lord Tarquin, would like to thank you both for your service in protecting and guarding the Mard Grander. However, with the skull in place and Celacia seemingly disappeared, we are going to be seeking permission from the King to have the Mard Grander moved under the care of the Dragon Forge directly. As you know, it is the desire of King and Council to see it reforged, and there is no better person to see it done than the very Commander of Operations there. We trust you’ll be able to get us the hammer in a timely manner?”

  “If King Dagrir asks me to retrieve it, I shall try my best.” Lord Egret regarded Balin for a moment. “But it could prove challenging to get.”

  Tarquin pushed his way past Balin. “What do you mean, challenging? The Mard Grander was left to your care. Where is it!?”

  Lord Egret stepped forward, chest to chest with Tarquin. He was slightly taller and looked down at him. “It’s in the most secure location me and Isley could find.”

  “And where might that be?” growled Tarquin.

  “Order!” yelled Balin, and he pushed the two apart. “Lord Tarquin, Lord Egret, need I remind yet again that we are in Council?”

  The two took a step back from each other.

  Balin let out a long breath and composed himself. “Lord Egret,” he said. “We understand that you were charged with keeping the Mard Grander safe and secure, and in doing so it may require some time to obtain it. However, this Council needs to fully understand what you mean when you say
it will be ‘challenging’ to recover it?”

  Egret glanced at Isley, and then looked at Balin. “If King Dagrir orders me to get it, then I shall let the King of the Grims know you have requested it.” said Egret.

  “What?” Balin and Tarquin both spoke over each other.

  “What?” growled Tarquin again, pushing past Balin.

  “Fall to order,” said Egret, coolly, as Tarquin invaded his space.

  “I am no longer under your command.” said Tarquin. He pushed Egret on the chest with his remaining hand. “You will get me the Mard Grander!”

  Egret just stood there, looking down at Tarquin. “I take my commands from King Dagrir alone.”

  Isley could see Tarquin’s blue eyes smolder with scarcely controlled anger. A darkness befell his face.

  “Order!” boomed Balin. He grabbed Tarquin by the shoulder of his missing arm and pulled him back. “Please, Lord Tarquin. Fall to order.”

  Tarquin tore his shoulder from Balin’s hand and cast Egret and Isley each a hard look in turn before walking back to his place in the far corner of the room.

  Balin looked at Egret. He exhaled deeply. “Lord Egret, do you mean to tell this Council that you have given the Mard Grander to Brandrir Thorodin?”

  Egret nodded. “There’s no place more secure than the Grimwatch, and Brandrir would see the Mard Grander in nobody else’s hands but Duroton’s.”

  “Treason!” roared Gefjon from the table. He pushed himself up from the table and pointed at Egret and Isley. “This is treason!”

  There were a number of mumblings of disapproval throughout the council table.

  Balin looked at Egret and Isley. His voice became dire, “Lord Egret, unless you can tell me that King Dagrir himself approved this, we have no choice but to arrest the both of you for high treason. Brandrir has proclaimed himself King of the Grims, which in this Council’s opinion, was no less than an act of war. Handing the Mard Grander over to the enemy is high treason.”

  “In that case you’ll be happy to know that Dagrir knows about it.” said Egret. “And it is a good thing that the King does not share your opinion on what is an act of war.”

  Balin held his forehead in his hand and looked away. Isley could see his face heating red with anger. The Councilmen all mumbled amongst themselves, equal parts confused and upset by this revelation.

  “If there is nothing else?” asked Egret.

  Balin looked at the Council. He looked at Tarquin. He looked back at Egret. “Do you mean to tell this Council that King Dagrir approved of you giving his brother the Mard Grander?”

  “I thought I had made that clear,” said Egret. “But yes, he did. He is fully aware of it.”

  Tarquin stepped from his corner, his face dark and threatening. He grabbed Balin by the shirt. “Brandrir will never give up the Mard Grander!”

  “That was exactly our point in giving it to him.” said Lord Egret. “If there is nothing else?”

  There was only stunned silence. Lord Tarquin released Balin and stormed over to the wall and punched it, his gauntlet chiming on the stone.

  “Congratulations on your promotion, Lord Tarquin.” said Egret.

  He and Isley bowed and made their leave of the room.

  — 25 —

  URSULA

  The baby Claudia wailed in Britina’s arms, its voice coming in those raw, pinched bursts that only newborns make.

  “Shh,” said Britina, looking down at her red, little face. “Mama’s here.” She smiled and exposed her milk-heavy breast from her blouse. It took the newborn a moment to find the nipple, but once she did, she fell into silent suckling.

  As baby Claudia drank her fill, Britina sat down upon the rocking chair, hoping the rhythmic motions would put both her and her baby at ease. Britina looked around the dimly lit cottage, trying to focus on the paintings hung on the cobblestone walls or take in the scents of the herbs drying from the rafters of the thatched roof. She gazed at the crackling fire in the fireplace. Nothing eased the burn her stomach felt. Anxiety was thick. It hung in a palpable cloud around her. It was a looming threat that could almost cast a tangible shadow over her.

  Britina got up, clutching baby Claudia to her bosom, and walked over to the window. A chill breeze that smelled of summer storms caressed her face and fluttered the curtains. Valdasia was a dark country. Clouds more black than gray dogged the afternoon sky. The sun tried to shine upon the deep greens of the blossoming fields, but could never sustain its light for more than a fleeting moment before another dark cloud rolled by.

  Britina looked down the cobblestone path that ran through their small garden and disappeared among the many cottages nearby. Far upon the stormy horizon, the deep gray stones of Castle Valdaria loomed upon a hill of dark greens and gnarly trees. Thunder rolled and fingers of lightning spread out, as if caressing the spires and towers of the castle.

  Another chill wind swept the cottage, and upon it Britina heard something. A woman’s cries. A boy weeping. A baby’s screams. coming closer. Britina’s heart began to race. She drew the curtains and stepped back. Beyond her cottage’s walls she could hear the muted but unmistakable sounds of doors slamming and windows being shuttered. Britina raced back to the rocking chair and sat down. Her legs nervously bobbed as she rocked more forcefully than necessary and caused Claudia to start to fuss. She took the bonnet off her head and began twisting her hair up around her finger, a habit she had whenever she was nervous.

  She tried to tell herself she had nothing to be worried about. Valdaria was a large city, after all. Many babies were born here every day. There was a good chance Saint Ophelia would not be making a call to this house. Still, Britina’s husband couldn’t get back home soon enough.

  Just then there was a fumbling at the door. The wrought iron knob twisted. Britina’s head snapped in its direction. The timber door swung open violently and slammed against the cobblestone wall. Britina shot up to her feet and Claudia began screaming in her arms. Her husband rushed in, his brown coat fluttering in the wind. In his arms he cradled a crying baby wrapped in dirty, white linens.

  “Quickly!” he said over the wailing infant in his arms. He wiggled himself out of his coat with one arm as he held the baby in his other. “They’re coming!”

  A painful lump instantly formed in Britina’s throat and her mouth went dry. “Here? Are they coming here?”

  “I don’t know,” said her husband, but his eyes caught hers. She held his gaze. His brown eyes were wide. He was a strong man. He worked the fields. He had served time as a soldier. Britina had never seen his face so pale, or such dread painted on it. They were coming here. She knew it. He knew it.

  “Quickly,” he said again, rushing over to her. Britina could now see the baby he carried. She was older—not a newborn—but was frail and skinny enough to possibly pass. She had dark hair on her tiny little head, and her black-blue eyes were scrunched up as she wailed.

  Britina looked at the child he had brought home. Her mouth opened and closed. She wanted to tell her husband that she might not be able to do this. But she had to. She looked down at Claudia, the baby in her own arms. She had to do this.

  “Quickly!” hissed her husband, shoving the new baby into her arms and taking Claudia from her. “She cost us a pretty penny. I know she’s a little older. Too old to pass as a newborn. She was the youngest one they had there, but she’s skinny enough. You know how the ones from Jerusa always are. The man said her name was Ursula.”

  “No!” said Britina. “Don’t tell me her name. Don’t tell me any more! It’s unbearable enough!”

  Just then there was some commotion outside. Shouts of men. The unmistakable voice of Saint Ophelia barking orders.

  Britina looked upon her husband, her eyes growing wide. “They are coming here, aren’t they? They are!”

  Her husband looked at her. He nodded once. He gripped Claudia tightly to his chest. He looked one last time at the baby he had just brought home as she wailed in Britina’s arms. He loo
ked back at Britina. “It’s the only way.”

  “But… I…”

  He placed a finger to her mouth and gave her a peck on the cheek, and then hurried into the kitchen with Claudia. She heard the cellar door creak open and then fall shut, his footsteps disappearing into the darkness beneath their house.

  Britina gripped the small, dark-haired babe to her chest. She was crying, but she dared not look upon it or coo to it. She dared not bond with it for even a moment. Britina paced back and forth a couple times, shaking her head, saying No, No, No to herself as the baby screamed in her arms. It was unbearable. She couldn’t do this. How could she hand this innocent baby over?

  There was a pounding on the door.

  “Child Collection!” the voice of Saint Ophelia was well known in Valdaria. It was like a crow-song. “Open up!”

  Britina froze. A whimper escaped her lips. Her arms squeezed the baby tighter.

  “Child Collections!” More pounding. “Open up!”

  Britina felt her breath stick in her throat. She couldn’t bring her legs to move toward the door.

  There was a terrible crack and the door burst open and smacked so hard against the wall that it cracked and broke off its hinges. Britina fell down into the rocking chair, clutching the screaming babe to her chest. A tall, lithe figure in Star-Armor stepped through the door, star-metal boots clomping loudly—threateningly—upon the wooden floor.

  Saint Ophelia of the Many Tears looked upon Britina with those large, round eyes of polished obsidian. Her hair of that same black gemstone was long and straight and draped down the sides of her face and to her shoulders, curling out at the ends. Her narrow face held a pallid cast against the blackness of her eyes and hair and armor. Her breastplate was narrow and round, upon her shoulders were pauldrons that swept up with wing-like flourishes. The armor upon her arms and legs were similarly smooth, but curled up with elegant, crested embellishments. At her side, in a scabbard of polished black leather, hung a sword of star-metal.