Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  “You may be aware that in Andaryon, an Heir’s right to the throne is only as strong as his power, and much of that power depends on the support he has gathered around him. Such support in turn depends as much on his physical strength as his metaphysical prowess, for the death of a Hierarch almost always results in a bloody scramble for position, and no one will support an unprepared or physically weak candidate. Many an Heir has been ousted by a noble with greater power, and I had been thrust into the position with no time to prepare.

  “My father was still alive, of course, but he was weakening, and he could see the nobles circling like tangwyrs above a corpse. Their rebellion infuriated him, and his efforts to whip them back in line put a strain on his aging heart. He died with the situation still unresolved, leaving me facing a serious challenge to my succession.

  “Partly out of respect for my father, and partly because the strongest of the nobles was a man known to be hostile toward Albia, Morgan, who was then about twenty-five, offered me his aid in suppressing the insurgents. I was happy to accept. In addition to his bardic skills, he was a powerful Artesan, a talented swordsman, and a gifted tactician. Such qualities persuaded the nobles still loyal to my House to respect him, and his counsel proved invaluable. Together, we defeated the rebels and secured my right to the throne. Morgan’s selfless endeavors on my behalf earned him my deepest gratitude and undying friendship.

  “Three years after my coronation, I married the Lady Idriana, daughter to the Lord of Selkiar, one of our southern provinces. Morgan was my guest of honor and groom’s man. He played for us that day, music he composed especially for the occasion. I remember it still so clearly. The melodies come readily to my mind although I have not heard them for many years now ….”

  “What instrument did my father play?” Sullyan was reluctant to interrupt, yet desperate for any knowledge that would bring her closer to her sire.

  Pharikian’s gaze sharpened and he smiled at her. “He was accomplished on many instruments, child, but mostly he favored the harp.”

  She flushed with pleasure. “I have some skill with the harp myself.”

  Pharikian was delighted. “I shall have Gaslek unearth his scores, child, and you shall have them. But only on the condition that you play them for me.”

  Her heart too full for speech, Sullyan nodded. She closed her eyes as Pharikian went on.

  “Two years after our wedding, I learned that Morgan had married his long-cherished sweetheart, Bethyn. He had spoken of her many times, but I had never met her. Once they were wed, I insisted he bring her to Court. I had to see her for myself, as I could scarcely believe his descriptions of her beauty. But when she came, when I saw her walking beside him with the light in her tawny hair and the love shining bright from her eyes, well, I could see he had spoken the truth. She was a gentle beauty indeed and well suited to Morgan’s generous heart. I gave her a wedding gift of four rare fire opals set in gold. It gives me immense pleasure to see you wearing them, Brynne. They sparkle as brightly on you as they did on her.”

  Sullyan still could not speak. Her throat was too tight. Pharikian squeezed her hand, his own voice unsteady.

  “My lady Idriana took Bethyn to her heart, and we found much pleasure in each other’s company. After that first meeting, Bethyn often accompanied her husband when he came to Court. The following year, Idriana gave birth to twin daughters. One of them died within hours. Morgan and Bethyn grieved with us, for Bethyn had recently suffered a miscarriage, and she and my lady comforted each other.

  “Two years after that, my son Aeyron was born, but Bethyn had miscarried twice more in that time. She was very brave about it, but we all knew how sad she was. A child was her heart’s wish, and she felt incomplete without one. But that sorrow aside, they were happy. Over the next six years, our friendship deepened and I was pleased to be able to help Morgan achieve his potential as an Artesan. We held a lavish celebration here when I acknowledged him as Senior Master.”

  Sullyan finally found her voice. “Was my mother gifted too?”

  Something flashed in the Hierarch’s eyes, but his voice remained level. “Bethyn was an empath, child, as my dear late wife had cause to know. It was your mother’s deep understanding of Idriana’s sorrow over the death of our child that helped her overcome her depression and enabled her to conceive our Heir. We were all distressed when Idriana didn’t live long enough to see Bethyn carry a child to term.”

  There was a brief silence. Then Pharikian sighed and took up the tale once more.

  “One day, one of my physicians—a talented and precocious youngster named Deshan—came to me, saying he thought he had found the reason for Bethyn’s trouble. After her third miscarriage, she had not quickened again in six years and had given up all hope of ever bearing a child. Deshan’s news encouraged us all, and Morgan brought his lady to stay at the Caer for treatment. They lived here, in this very suite, as they always did when visiting us. To our delight, the treatment was successful. Bethyn conceived and managed to keep the child past three months. However, once that dangerous time was over, Deshan advised her to return to Albia, as remaining here in an alien realm might prove damaging to the baby.

  “I was sad to see them go, but Bethyn decided she would give birth here at the Caer, in order to take advantage of my experienced physicians. And I think she wanted me to be the first to see the child. She felt it would in some way repay me for what I had been able to give her.”

  Sullyan leaned forward. “Where did they go? Where was their home?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, child, I don’t know. I travelled the Veils only rarely in my youth, and never after I became Hierarch, so I never visited them there. Morgan rarely spoke of Albia when we were together, and he never mentioned his home. I’m sorry.”

  “No matter.”

  Her tone was light, but it still made Pharikian frown. Changing the subject, he reached for the plate of sliced meat and offered it to her again. “You don’t eat enough, Brynne.”

  She smiled, accepting his tactic along with another slice of the delicious meat. “So Rienne has told me.”

  “Rienne?”

  Her smile faded. “A very dear friend. She is a gifted healer who is also an empath. She helped save my life when I was brought half dead out of Rykan’s captivity.”

  At the mention of his rival’s name, the Hierarch’s expression darkened. “Then I would welcome the chance to thank her.” He took a sip of wine before continuing his tale, his tone warning her that this part wouldn’t be easy to hear.

  “When Bethyn was close to her time, Morgan brought her back. All was well, Bethyn was happy and healthy, although sad that my lovely Idriana had died of a fever during the winter and wouldn’t see her child.”

  Sullyan closed her eyes, but not before a tear managed to squeeze under the lids. Pharikian touched her hand, lending her some strength. She pressed his fingers gratefully.

  “Bethyn’s labor began normally,” continued the Hierarch, striving to keep the emotion from his voice. “All seemed to be going well until Deshan realized that the baby wasn’t moving along the birth canal. Hours went by, the contractions got weaker, and there was still no sign of the baby coming. Deshan and his team did all they could. Both Morgan and I tried to lend Bethyn the strength to carry on pushing, yet nothing we did seemed to help. For some reason, we couldn’t reach her. Even our combined metaforce couldn’t break through the barrier that blocked us.

  “And then Bethyn began to hemorrhage, and Deshan reluctantly decided that our only option was to remove the baby. It was not an easy decision, as it meant almost certain death for either mother or child, maybe both. But as both would certainly die if we did nothing, we had no choice. Bethyn, weak and fevered though she was, begged us to save the baby, so Deshan opened her stomach and delivered it. It was a beautiful, healthy baby girl. It was you, Brynne.”

  Sullyan was weeping openly now, neither hiding nor denying her grief. Robin came to her side and held her hand
as Pharikian, his voice betraying his emotion, continued the tale.

  “Bethyn had lost so much blood and was so weak. Despite Deshan’s best efforts, there was no saving her. She was able to hold her baby briefly and speak her name, the name she and Morgan had decided on only a few weeks earlier. She died with you in her arms. Morgan was devastated by her loss, and we had to lend him strength to get him through that terrible day.”

  Sullyan was overcome by guilt and sorrow. “Did he blame me for the death of my mother? Is that why he abandoned me?”

  The Hierarch gripped her shoulders. “Oh no, child, no! Your father was full of love for you. It was only that he had poured everything he had into willing Beth to survive. He simply had nothing left for himself and was dismayed by his failure to save her. He blamed himself for not being strong enough, but the truth was no one could have been. We were simply unable to reach her. Morgan couldn’t accept that. He was so distraught that he became suicidal. We nearly lost him too that day.”

  Pharikian fell silent, his eyes seeing that long ago day, a fateful day that should have been so joyous. Sullyan sat fingering the fire opal at her throat, the jewel worn by her mother as she died giving birth to her child.

  Her gaze briefly met the Hierarch’s, and she knew he was trying to gauge how she was taking such grief-laden family history. He had been gentle in the telling, yet his words would inevitably take their toll on her weakened vitality. She knew there was more, and knew also that if she didn’t hear the whole tale now, she wouldn’t rest. And she badly needed to rest. She would have to be at full strength on the morrow if she was to break through his generals’ prejudice and convince them to listen.

  Pharikian waited quietly until she was ready to continue. She took a deep breath, met his gaze, and nodded. He smiled slightly and she cocked her head, puzzled by his wry expression. “What is it, Timar?”

  “Nothing, Brynne. Only that I’ve seen that determined look before on your father’s face.”

  Tears threatened again, but she fought them down. “Tell me, please, Timar, what became of him?”

  Pharikian sighed and glanced down at his hands.

  “In the years following my succession, there was much civil unrest in Andaryon. The faction that opposed me had been repressed but not destroyed, and they continued to gather supporters from many provinces. I was forced to fight several battles over those years, and the constant strife was damaging the realm. In practical terms, Andaryon was split in two and the economy was on the verge of collapse. By the year of your birth we had reached an impasse, neither side being strong enough to conclusively defeat the other.

  “Eventually, it was agreed that the most powerful nobles of each faction, together with their military leaders—many of whom were also Artesans—should call a temporary truce and convene a Grand Council in order to reconcile our differences before we completely destroyed the realm. This Council was scheduled for the week after your birth.”

  Sullyan leaned forward. “My father attended the Council with you.”

  The Hierarch shot her a look of surprise. She waited for him to continue, a tremor starting deep in her body.

  “Yes, he did. Although he was Albian, Morgan was one of my most trusted advisors, and despite his despair, he wouldn’t stay away. But you had only just been born, and Bethyn wasn’t there to care for you. He had to make hurried arrangements for your safety before he could attend the Council. The original plan was for you and your mother to return to Albia and for Morgan to follow once the Council was over. With Bethyn gone, he was forced to take you himself. When he came back, he told me he had left you with relatives who would care for you until he could return.”

  Sullyan’s eyes closed in pain. She was unlikely ever to know why her father’s family had rejected her. “But he did not return for me,” she murmured. “Let me guess what happened at the Council meeting.”

  Pharikian raised his brows, inviting her to continue.

  “The two sides could not reach an agreement. The balance of power was equally distributed, and no one was willing to back down or give ground. Only one course of action remained, only one way to avoid the carnage that outright war would inflict upon the realm.” She stopped and Pharikian bowed his head. He stared at his hands as she added, “And that was the Primal Sacrament.”

  Robin’s hand tightened on hers. “Primal Sacrament? What’s that?”

  “It is an ancient Andaryan tradition, one that goes back to the times when a much higher percentage of the nobility possessed great powers which could be used equally for good or for ill. Many held the rank of Master-elite, Senior Master, and even, I believe, Supreme Master.”

  Robin frowned, he hadn’t heard of that particular rank.

  Pharikian nodded. “That is true. You seem to know much of our history, Brynne. But there hasn’t been a Supreme Master for time out of mind, and it’s my belief that we’re slowly losing the abilities our forebears once had. It’s a great tragedy, I think, but all things change. Please carry on.”

  She gave a tight smile. “Terrible wars had been fought by those possessing such tremendous forces, and they caused great devastation. If the realm was not to be literally torn apart by such strife, then a new way of settling conflict had to be found. The formalized Codes of Combat came into being at that time, but they were aimed primarily at individuals, not those commanding vast numbers of troops. For warfare on this scale, a new treaty was needed, a powerfully binding and unbreakable contract. The kind of contract which would actively discourage the disputes it was designed to resolve.

  “And so the ritual known as the Primal Sacrament was devised. Should two or more powerful factions find themselves in stalemate, they were obliged under law to either undergo the ritual or forfeit their claims. Whichever side produced an Artesan willing to make the Sacrament—and he had to be willing, he could not be coerced—that side would be judged the victor. Each Artesan involved in the dispute would then surrender a tiny portion of his psyche to the willing one, signifying the end of all grievances. They were bound by this not to resurrect those grievances while they or their Heirs survived.”

  She captured Pharikian’s gaze. “It was by this ancient ritual that the Council decided to resolve the strife that followed your succession.”

  His expression was rueful. “I’m impressed by your knowledge, Brynne, and you’re quite right. The nobles all agreed to be bound by the Sacrament and even accepted my stipulation that wholesale raiding into other realms should also cease.”

  Her reply was barely a whisper. “They accepted it because they never expected to find someone willing to make the sacrifice.”

  “Hang on,” said Robin. “Sacrifice?”

  She glanced at him. “You know of the Sacrament, Robin. In Albia, we call it the Pact.”

  Understanding flooded his face. He knew that a Senior Master Artesan had died to broker the Pact, but no one knew who he was or why he had lost his life. “Are you saying …?”

  Sullyan couldn’t answer him. Confirmation was left to the Hierarch, who gently gathered her trembling form into his arms.

  “The Senior Master who gave up his life to the Sacrament that saved my rule and my realm, and also ended the tradition of raiding into Albia, was my dear friend, Morgan Sullyan.”

  A few moments of silence passed. When she was calm again, Sullyan said, “What drove him to it, Timar? Did he so wish to die?”

  Pharikian paused before replying. “I cannot truthfully say, child. I would never have taken him with me had I thought he might offer himself. I think the simple truth is that he was totally devastated by your mother’s death. He knew that without the Sacrament I would have to abdicate, and that would lead to yet more years of civil war being unleashed upon the realm. He also knew how much this land meant to me, so maybe in some way he thought he was repaying me for our friendship. And as I said before, he believed he had made suitable arrangements for you.”

  His eyes strayed to the fire opal glinting at her throat.
“You know, I never realized he had taken Beth’s jewels and left them with you.”

  She put a hand to the stone. “They are the reason I knew my family name. They were in a small leather pouch around my neck when I was found, and although it was badly worn, the name ‘Sullyan’ could just be read upon it. The stones and that name were the only things I had in the world.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, my dear child, I’m so sorry you spent all those years not knowing who you were. It shames me, and it would have distressed your parents greatly. I am grieved that I can tell you nothing more about your father’s family, but I can perhaps offer you a small grain of comfort once I finish Morgan’s story.”

  Sullyan shrugged, doubting that any comfort would make a difference now. She had grown up knowing she was abandoned, but somewhere in the deepest part of her soul she had nurtured a tiny hope that her parents might still be alive. Now she knew they were not. Nothing else mattered. There was no comfort to be had.

  Pharikian returned to the subject of Morgan’s sacrifice.

  “After Bethyn’s death and before the Council meeting, Morgan merely went through the motions of life. I could see he was becoming increasingly withdrawn, but nothing I said made a difference. He had been with Beth so long—they were childhood sweethearts—that he simply didn’t know how to live without her.

  “Morgan rarely drank liquor, even wine. He was addicted to fellan, the stronger the better, but he began to find solace in drink. Never enough to incapacitate him, but enough to impair his control. Given time, perhaps we could have helped him overcome his depression, but the Council meeting came too soon.”

  His gaze turned inward, his expression sad. “The session was long and stormy. No one was in the mood to give ground. Accusations were flung, offences given and taken on both sides. There were angry words and drawn swords and the whole thing was about to degenerate into a brawl when my father’s chamberlain, Baron Arlow, mentioned the ritual of Sacrament. It stopped us in our tracks, and the nobles, many of whom had never heard it mentioned before, demanded to see evidence of this ancient law. Arlow had brought the parchment with him, and there was no disputing its authenticity. To be brief, each noble, including myself, eventually agreed to be bound by the law. I am sure you are right, child. Most never dreamt that anyone would be willing to take such a burden.