Her eyesight finally returned to normal, and she could see the darkened halls past him. “What’s the hour?”
“One, maybe two hours before dawn. I’ll wait in the common room.” He turned and walked away, and Valyrie closed the door.
Though she wanted to give parting words to the others, she decided simply to pack her things and leave. After dressing, she met Jurgen in the common room, and they departed the headquarters.
Upon passing a familiar street, she said, “We’re not far from the inn.”
Jurgen glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the road ahead. “Yes, no more than two or three blocks.”
She wondered how long it would be before her uncle got word of her father’s passing. I hope he doesn’t find me when he does. The man’s never liked me. I’d surely find myself given up as a ward of the church. Her thoughts drove her to miss her father even more. She knew he would have never allowed that to happen, but he was gone.
Jurgen led her along the familiar boulevard, which opened to the view of the Ancient Quarter. Before Jurgen had returned, she would often visit the ancient structures and dream up stories of people and places long ago, and when she told her father her tales, he took it harshly. Quit fooling around, girl, he would say. You’re wasting your time. Learn a trade, do it well, and get hired with a noble family with sizable wealth.
As they passed the rich mansions, she smiled. Like that one, Father? she mused, observing a seneschal holding a cumbersome ledger while being chastised by his employer, a well-dressed noblewoman who had probably never lifted a finger to do her own work. That would have been a better choice?
Jurgen entered the portcullis of the Ancient Quarter first, and he quickened his pace. The familiar gray and tan stones seemed more vibrant inside the Ancient Quarter, as if washed and maintained on a regular basis.
“Slow down,” Valyrie said, picking up speed. “Why are you so hasty?”
“These are the consuls’ houses. I don’t want to be seen.”
Once beside him, she slowed to match his pace. “You’ll have to be seen eventually. Isn’t that why we’re coming here?”
He raised the cowl over his head. “Yes, but not too soon. We must go to the steward’s house.”
“The Ancient Quarter has a steward?” She recalled the last time the local steward had visited the inn—to collect taxes and make sure everything was on the up and up. “What’s the need?”
“He handles the housing assignments in the Ancient Quarter, amongst other things. Vicars aren’t required to pay rent, but we must check in.” Jurgen stopped at a door fronting a common house smaller than the others she’d seen, but by and large better than the domiciles of the lower quarters. He knocked and received a muffled, unintelligible reply from within.
“Yes?” a man asked, opening the door. “Oh, it’s you. We weren’t told of your visit, Vicar Jurgen.”
“With war swirling on our very borders, I thought it best to make my way back. I’m in need of a place to stay, along with my charge.”
The man stepped back inside, leaving the door ajar. Sorting through a cabinet of drawers, he produced a key, then returned. “Here you are, Your Grace. Anything else I might do for you?”
“No, and I prefer to announce myself at the consulship today. No need to spread the word prematurely.” Jurgen exchanged a smile with the man and took the key. “I’ll let you know.”
“Very good. And good to see you back, Your Grace.”
After giving the man a nod, Jurgen walked with more confident steps, seeming to know the way without instructions. Valyrie followed him to the end of the row, and they stopped in front of a smaller townhouse set off from the street. Though not as large as those close to the entrance of the Ancient Quarter, the house had been constructed with the same fine materials. The yellow bricks gleamed in the morning light, and the exposed wood of the supporting posts shined as if freshly lacquered.
Jurgen slid the key into the lock, then pushed open the door. Inside, a staircase led to the second floor, and the first floor seemed to be some kind of storage area—too small and uncomfortable for a living space. Upon reaching the upper level, Valyrie took note of the narrow build of the house, the open floor plan, and the stairwell along the western wall. Each section clearly had a specific purpose—a writing desk, a sofa, and a table with chairs in the back, and each area had been plotted with no more room than necessary to perform its function. Tight, but comfortable. Like the inn in many ways, but much nicer.
The memory of her former home fell upon her like a ton of heavy timbers, and she collapsed to her knees, tears streaming from her eyes. “He’s gone, Jurgen! My father’s dead and gone, and he’ll never be back!” The surreal feeling suddenly transformed into a very real, very present ache in her heart. Each time she thought she caught her breath, the air escaped her body like water from a bucket riddled with holes. She wept for her dead father and felt a whirlwind of emotions—the anguish for his loss, the contempt for his plans for her, the mistakes for which she could never apologize.
Jurgen rushed to her side and took her by the hand. “Come, have a seat on the chair.”
“They killed him! How can we help those men? How can we help men who would do such a thing?” She tried to restrain herself, but she couldn’t contain her rage.
“We were betrayed, Valyrie,” Jurgen said. “It’s my fault. I see that now.”
“Yours?” She wiped her eyes, shocked by his statement. “How could it be yours? You didn’t kill my da.”
“I may not have thrown the dagger, but his blood is on my hands. He was killed on my account. My return to this city triggered a chain of events that led us to our present circumstances.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Jurgen.”
“Then you cannot blame those men, for their error was in trusting their friend. All we can do now is right the wrongs and stop this war. What’s done is done, but we will always remember these sacrifices.”
“I miss him. Creator! All of our future moments lost by the utterance of a lie. All of them, Jurgen, destroyed by a traitor.”
Jurgen closed his eyes, a frown forming his wrinkled face. “I miss him, too. Arthur was a dear friend, but we have little time. We can either wallow in our pain or do what we must to end this fighting.”
She wrapped her arms around her body. “I shall help you. I’m trying to be strong.”
“Be strong, but not so much that you lose what makes you who you are.” He brushed his finger against her chin. “Such is the path to callousness and a cold heart.”
Who could want this man dead? She had known Jurgen since before she could remember, and he had shown her nothing but kindness and compassion. Remembering those years past, she recalled more recent events. “They beat you, didn’t they?”
He seemed almost disheartened by the question. “Yes, but don’t concern yourself with that now. Such thoughts will only make it harder to do what we must do.”
“How can you move past them so easily? Even if done based on the word of a liar, the wounds aren’t closed by simple apologies.”
“I’m an old man, Valyrie. This isn’t the first time I’ve had hardships.” Jurgen sighed when she gave him a cross look. “No, the sting remains, but sometimes we must overlook smaller grievances to do our duty. Would I have liked to beat Piers as he did me? Perhaps. But we’d be no closer to our goals. We have no time for petty revenge, and like our sorcerer friend said, we need the help.”
Sorcerer friend—Lae . He had tried his best to hide his attraction to her—an attraction she shared, in fact—when they had first met. Had circumstances been different, she might have pursued those feelings, but her father was dead and a war raged. “Have you known him long? Our sorcerer friend, as you put it?”
“Long enough to know he’s grown wiser since our first meeting. Long enough to see he’s good at heart. Perhaps mages aren’t the demons the church proclaims them to be.”
“I never agreed with that line of thinking.�
�� One of the many arguments she’d had with her father came to mind, about sorcery’s place in the world.
“No?”
She shook her head. “Blanket statements have never sat well in my mind. The church would have us believe that the Al’Qarans are barbarians, but are they not known to sail the seas for trade? To build wondrous palaces and, somehow, keep cities in the farthest reaches which are not swallowed up by the desert? Surely not the behavior of the witless.”
“I can see your father did not instill in you his dislike for foreigners.”
“He tried, but his attempts were for naught.” She smiled. “He always said I had the will and stubborn nature of my mother.”
Jurgen paused, then grinned, seeming to drift through distant recollections. “Like the sky calling the ocean blue, is it not?”
“Yes, you knew him well.”
“Come,” he said, offering his hand. “Let us be off to the consulship. I hate the thought of being in that place, but I dread the thought of our doing nothing.”
* * *
Nearing the structure, Jurgen slowed. Valyrie couldn’t tell if his reduced pace was caused by the daunting size of the consul chamber or the number of people milling around in front of it. The building stood taller than most of the others in the city, the golden dome atop the perfect cylinder extending nearly ten stories into the air. Massive marble columns with gold and silver inlays ringed the chamber, the arches between them adorned with gold and silver banners. A huge censer hung by a thick chain from the ceiling, the incense burning within filling the room with a pleasant scent like roasted lemons mixed with fresh pine needles. Though Valyrie had seen the consul chamber many times before, she always stood in awe of it.
Seeming to recognize Jurgen, the commoners stopped and whispered to each other. They were apparently filled with warmth and excitement at his approach because the words spoken under their breaths changed to a dull chant, then mixed with applause until the entire square cheered his every step.
“It would seem the people are joyous at your return, Vicar,” she whispered.
Jurgen gave her a smile, then turned and waved at the crowd. “Thank you. Azura bless you.” Entering the arched hall to the central chamber, he whispered, “And may she watch over me here, too.”
Valyrie felt small and miniscule, more so than usual, and not because she was thin; the size and grandeur of the assembly room filled her with angst. So many eyes watching us enter already, and the place is but half full. Long, sturdy desks made rings around the room, each set atop a terrace of steps extending high above in every direction. The rings terminated opposite the entrance at a wide platform with a throne glimmering with gold, silver, and jewels. That must be where the Grand Vicar sits. Only the highest would be placed on such a chair.
A man rushed over. “Vicar Jurgen? We didn’t expect you. Can we help you?”
Jurgen removed his fine overcoat and draped it across the man’s arm. “I’ve come to sit at the consulship, of course.”
“Y-yes, as you wish,” the man said.
“Can you point me to an empty seat, Chamberlain? Or have things changed since I’ve been gone?”
“No, of course. Please, this way.” The chamberlain escorted Jurgen to a desk on the floor, and Valyrie followed, her footsteps echoing no matter how lightly she walked. “I hope this is fitting, Your Grace, on such short notice.”
“Fine, worry not. When arriving without warning, a traveler must take whatever he can get.”
“Your Grace is kind.” The chamberlain bowed, then scurried away to attend the other vicars.
Sitting, Jurgen extended his hand to offer Valyrie a chair at his side. “The chamber is different since last I sat within these walls.”
“How so?”
He studied the walls as if they had an answer scrolled across them. “The priests are anxious and uncertain. You can tell by the looks on their faces and the trembling of their hands.”
Sudden drumming startled her. She scanned the circular balcony lining the wall high above. The drummers beat the solemn tune for the Grand Vicar’s approach, a rendition she remembered well. Then she saw him on the raised platform, a platform which extended all the way to the Grand Vicar’s palace to the east. His silken robes shined with dyes of silver, gold, and purple. Atop his head sat a thin golden circlet—a mark of his office and the least impressive of the jewelry he wore. The magnificent onyx ring on his hand caught her attention as it seemed to shimmer with an artificial vibrancy. Beneath the pomp and pageantry, his pale skin and blue eyes were a stark contrast to his jet-black hair.
Sitting on the ornate throne, Grand Vicar Tristan IV gazed over the crowd until the drums stopped. “Vicars,” he said, then didn’t speak again until the room grew quiet. “We are at the precipice. All that we have worked toward is under threat of being undone. The Albiadines will not join us, and the Lasoronian claim they are stretched too thin across the swamps.”
The Almatheren Swamp? She recalled the tales told by her father and others of the dangers and undead within those wetlands. The Vicar’s words were met with haughty sighs from the assembly.
“We must stand on our own against the Sorbian enemy, it would appear—well, with our only friends, the Falacorans.” Tristan clasped his hands.
Valyrie had seen a Falacoran once, a gruff man dressed in darkened armor adorned with studs and spikes. The Falacorans were known to be deeply religious and strong supporters of the Heraldan church. The Falacorans, strong, resilient warriors and craftsmen, were the church’s perfect ally—a military arm to protect it from those who would see it demolished. She briefly imagined the sketches of massive cathedrals and castles she had seen books, the structures rife with arches and steep roofs. Falacorans had both a preference and a need for high, angular architecture. It reflected strength and power and had the added benefit of keeping snow from gathering too thick in the colder months.
“Our blessed church cannot stand on its own. Even with the help of the Falacorans, we will see great difficulty in the coming days without tightening the reins. Sorbia is a strong, proud nation, and it is a safe haven for the heretical sorcerers. To once and for all rid ourselves of this dark menace, I propose to this consulship a measure to fight this war. I ask you all to confirm and anoint me Protector of the Faith.”
“No!” one of the other Vicars shouted amidst the gasps and whispers of the assembly. “We’ve governed ourselves for hundreds of years without one.”
“And during that time, we’ve seen no threats as serious,” Tristan said. “Is now not the time for strong, confident leadership?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then, we must do this, lest our holy land be ravaged by the heathens!”
Jurgen stood. “Vicar Aberlin is correct, Your Grace.”
Valyrie clenched her fists under the desk when the Grand Vicar turned their way. A look of surprise dominated his features at first, then he gave a stern glare. “Vicar Jurgen, we weren’t aware you would be joining us.”
“I’ve come with worry, Your Holiness, for I have heard rumors recently of trouble abroad.”
“You have heard correctly, Vicar. The witches of Sorbia threaten our very existence with their unjust war.”
Jurgen stood and walked onto the floor the way a performer would enter a stage, then turned to face the congregation. “Yes, an unjust war indeed. Of course, war is rarely justified.”
“Then join with me in doing what is right,” Tristan said.
“We must do what is right, yes. I cannot agree with you more, but declaring Your Holiness as Protector of the Faith seems a bit hasty. After all, we must remember our history. The last time this body did such a thing, the power wasn’t returned to its proper place once the threat was resolved.”
Tristan stood and cast off his cloak. “You dare question my loyalty to the church? To this assembly?”
Jurgen respectfully bowed toward the platform. “Your Holiness, I only mean to say that such steps are not necessary at
this juncture.”
“Not necessary?” a woman shouted from the gallery. “The enemy is loose in our own country. Perhaps you didn’t know since you’ve been cloistered in Balfan this entire time, or have you been?”
Fishing, Valyrie mused. Be careful here, Jurgen.
“I’ve heard the rumors, yes,” Jurgen said, apparently unwilling to divulge anything more. “And I give my condolences to His Holiness for the loss of his brother. May he rest with Azura.”
Tristan relaxed on the throne. “I thank you for your kind words, Vicar, but we are still no closer to a resolution on this matter. I call for a vote.”
“A vote, yes. What a magnificent idea, Your Holiness,” the woman said. Valyrie craned her neck, but she couldn’t see the woman.
“Agreed,” Jurgen said. “Whatever suits His Holiness and Vicar Forane shall suit me.”
Forane. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
When Tristan clapped his hands, chamberlains approached, placing a sliver of parchment before each clerk.
What in the hells do I do with this?
Jurgen took a seat next to her and whispered, “Tristan will pose the question to the assembly, and we record our answer. The chief amongst the chamberlains will record the result and report his findings. The Grand Vicar is not allowed to vote unless it is tied.”
“What if they vote for it? What will we do?”
“Fret not. I take the worried looks from the majority of the consuls as a sign it shall fail. Regardless of the outcome, we will find a way.”
Tristan stood and leaned against the rail. “Here me now! Those in favor of my anointing to the status of Protector of the Faith, record ‘yes.’ Those who would oppose should record ‘no.’”
“We, of course, will say ‘no.’” Jurgen pointed at the scrap and the quill. “Write the response.”
After the chamberlains collected the votes, the chief went through each one. He then stood and walked to a podium near his seat. “By the grace of Azura, we congregate to do her will in all things. It is the will of the consuls that Grand Vicar Tristan IV not be anointed—”
The Consuls of the Vicariate Page 5