An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)
Page 6
“My liege,” a voice called to him. “Dancing with children? You should be dancing with a well-rounded woman, haha.”
“Lord Alexander,” Kalafar replied and they shook hands. “Always a pleasure to see the lord of Frosthelm in good health and high spirits.”
“As long as the gods give me good health, I’m pleased to be seen anywhere.” They laughed. Lord Krakov wore a black doublet fastened with silver buttons, and a bear pelt covered his back and shoulders. He was looking a little red. “The sun seems to shine stronger here. I’m close to sweating inside my clothes from this fur.” He took it off and handed it to one of his menials. “I like the music… very cheerful.”
“Isn’t it? I’ve brought the best players in the realm for this occasion.”
“Though being a northlander,” Krakov chuckled, “I confess that I much prefer the drums to the bagpipes. The only good times for music are a battle and a wedding; which are very much alike, if I may say so.”
“Gods, this is how a true soldier ages like; rough tone, able back, and always in good humor. I remember my father talking with his housecarls about your battle prowess during the civil war. Of how you managed to fend off the black knights of the west, while being outnumbered two to one. He said that your sword swing was quick as an arrow, and terrible as a mace’s blow. While your shield and armor made you appear like a charging castle wall – a wall made of bricks of steel.”
“He was a great man, your father,” lord Krakov said in solemn tone. “I’ve never met another like him – such a quick mind for stewardship and war. The Three rest his soul. It’s because of his stratagems that the lord of Rogfort never managed to set foot on the Streamlands, to save Castle Spire from the Inquisition’s siege. When Jorghel Sodomis died, so did a part of my heart…” Krakov sighed.
“Such a tragedy his early death was, not just for the north, but for the Empire as a whole. He would have accomplished great things to improve the life of the small man. Now, that eastern lord who sits in his place… what’s his name?”
“Erasmus Verwick.”
“Yes, him... He’s been as useful for the realm as horse droppings on frozen earth.”
Kalafar nodded in agreement, and made a sign to one of the serving girls to approach. “Sweet Sun, my lord Krakov? Or some other vintage from the western or eastern regions? I have dry white and red from Tritholn’s vineyards, and only white from those of Prospero. It’s either that or ale.”
Krakov shook his head. “I’m fed up with dry tastes. I’d prefer a sweet one, my liege.”
“Sweet Sun for us both,” Kalafar told the serving girl. Swiftly enough they received their wine-cups and made a toast.
“To your father. A true ram in times of war and a true steward in times of peace.”
“To the dead,” said Kalafar. “May they rest in peace, and may the living never forget their names.” Both of them wet their lips with the wine, then poured some on the ground. After that, they drank.
“It’s a good red this,” said Krakov. “Sweet but not too much, and rich in flavor.”
Kalafar gave him a smile. “Say what you will about southlanders, but their country makes good wine.” He thought about asking the good lord about the wedding, about his brother marrying a lowborn’s daughter, and not a lord’s. Kalafar didn’t want to spoil the man’s good disposition, but if he asked in a polite and warm sort of way – he might find out. And at the same time, not appear as desperate for gossip. And so he asked…
“My liege, I have no opinion on the matter.” The lord of Frosthelm answered without apprehension. “Mine own boy has married into a minor noble house. I see nothing wrong with that. And I’m expecting grandchildren… sooner rather than later, if the gods wish to bestow that joy unto me, while my eyes still work. But I do not lean my ear to gossip.” Krakov took another sip of wine. “Mmm, some might say about me – that I’m not highborn enough. And likely, I would agree with them. The same they may say about… ahem...” His words caught in his throat.”
“Speak freely, lord Alexander. The same they may say about?”
“About their liege lord... descending from... foreigners... a pagan house; but what of it? They are empty words. And empty words are dust in the wind. Blather it’s all it is, and blather I call it.”
“Others may call it contempt, others treachery…” Kalafar replied with vagueness, as he shifted his weight to the other leg.
“But what does my liege call it, I wonder?”
“I would call it mere trifle.” And with that reply, the lord of Frosthelm appeared relieved. For but a moment his face had turned pale. “So let’s drink to that, shall we?”
“Blather and trifle, my liege. Aye. We are in accord.”
“And I hope we’ll be in accord on a great many things, lord Alexander.” Kalafar finished his cup, gave the master of Frosthelm a polite bow and left him.
Meanwhile, the music of the bagpipes brought the rest of the people out in the courtyard. Even the guards were pacing a foot on the song’s rhythm. The knights were already caught by the ladies and brought into dancing. Among them, he spotted sir Falken Trent being quite lively with the tune and with lady Amelia Treegreen by his side. And Dagincourt’s sons were pacing each with the prettier serving girls. Unlike the rigid formalities of the southern courts, the northern ones displayed no such rules. Aristocratic pride and etiquette were replaced by the pride of honest and hard rule over the cold lands. By healthy appetite for food, bluntness, drink, music. And most of all, the absence of southern intrigues and poisoned honeyed words. A northlander cared more about essence than form, in both speech and gesture.
“May I dance with you, lord Sodomis?” Penelope Mayflower came from behind, and asked in a child’s sweet voice. She was two heads shorter than him – young and fair. Her smile filled up her reddish cheeks.
Or is it the cold? “It would be my pleasure, sweet lady.”
And so they began. They circled, switched the weight from one foot to the other… danced and danced. The magic of Northlander’s Heart appealed even to the ears of a southlander. It was easy for Kalafar to move with the music, for Penelope looked nothing like her sister. It only postponed his melancholy; but the wedding would be over soon. And after the feast, he would drink away his sadness. Between his dancing and Penelope’s, between those of the other couples, the lord of Weiyenor saw her amongst the crowds, seated at a table with her family. Juni wasn’t watching the dancers, but the sky. A flock of grey clouds had shrouded the sun.
Kalafar’s dance, however, was interrupted by his lord uncle. With a strange parchment in his hand, Alghernon Sodomis was grinning. “Word from the capital, nephew, from the Sun Throne. Hagyai Rovines invites you to a banquet.”
Chapter IV: The Sister Of The Temple
The loud rings of the great bell signalled a new dawn, as they had for almost a thousand years. The tables for the high councillors and the Matriarch were already prepared. The sisters of the cloth were always dutiful, especially when tending to the needs of the hierarchs. Their fast was broken with bread and honey, while the chorus sang the morning prayer – scented halls with breaths of meaning.
The Patriarchal and Matriarchal branches of the Triune Faith were separate, but not all that distinct. Both orders incorporated in their doctrines the three aspects of the true god. But as fitting the gender of the celestial spheres; so did the men worship the male aspect of the sun, and the women the female aspect of the moons. The rights, customs, and governing laws of the orders were different, but not so much now as in the days of the Inquisition. That had been a sole Patriarchal institution, one meant to inquire upon all matters of religious dissent and impart judgement.
Eight years after the civil war, and the five realms were still brewing; but life’s hardships could not be endured in silence forever. This she knew, for she had overheard the whispers of the clergy. Life in the High Temple was not always about duty and worship, the true constant being that of politics. Drakanes had a talent
for eavesdropping; an old habit of her past life. Devotion hadn’t brought her into the order’s robes, but necessity... The necessity of survival, of shelter, food, and medicine.
Though all the women who joined the Holy Temple renounced their worldly selves as well as their pasts, Drakanes could not; not in truth. Her past had been white, and black, and grey. No vow, no promise of wind to a soulless structure of authority would change that. There is much I don’t remember, and much I won’t forget. Thus, she kept to herself, to her chores, ears open to all whispers. Drakanes had found safety at the High Temple of the Matriarchy, but such things were not handed out for free. The works she did earned her keep, though, this life was not the sort she dreamt of.
Her parents had died when she was just a child – murdered by brigands. Now, looking back after so many years, she couldn’t even remember their faces, neither their voices. Was I twelve when it happened, or ten? I don’t recall. She knew she should feel ashamed for not remembering, but she didn’t. The haze of those memories offered no excuse, but no condemnation either. Drakanes didn’t even know her exact age. Mayhaps it’s five and twenty, or six and twenty. I can’t be sure. Regardless, she had been fortunate enough to live a good life as an orphan. And a good life made men and women forget about spiritual matters, about the importance of piety and devotion. At least, that’s what the Faith claimed.
But what she clearly remembered where the stories. The legends of the Old World. Lords and emperors. Commoners endowed with pureness of heart and a mighty sword. The songs of terrible beasts and sanguine travelers. Werewolves and krakens. Ghosts and griffins. Giants and devilmares. Demons and demigods. Songs of sorcery, of invisible cities, of ethereal beings, of diabolical men with ruinous ambitions...
These tales she remembered, some more clearly than others. What I wouldn’t give to have a life of such adventures; of song and fire. Drakanes sighed deeply and bit her lip.
Many of the order’s sisters called her a different name; each one different but all the same in purpose. Names that suited her queerness as well as their scorn. They call me fiendish eyes. But Drakanes had learned to pay them no mind; to let their words of ridicule wash over her like the summer’s dry breeze over cloth and skin.
The Matriarch’s mandate would soon reach its term, and with it, that of the high councillors. The rattle of the coming elections was all about the High Temple. Fasts, prayer, incense, and politics went hand in hand. Both orders shared the same elective system. With aristocratic influence, the general mass of the five realms elected the High Councils for each of the two orders. And the new councillors were to travel to the Westlands and gather under the roof of the Holy See. There to retreat in their hall for long sessions of deliberations to elect a new Matriarch from amongst their own.
As the chorus sang the prayer, the golden sun grew in light and shape. The sky was filled with white clouds. Only scarce patches of blue could be seen along the horizon, stretching over the Ivan Forests, and to the east over Goldfield and Strongbrass.
At the morning prayer’s end, the Matriarch and councillors were finished with their meal. The rest of the sisters could now eat. They were served porridge, unsalted, unsweetened… plain porridge. Drakanes didn’t care much for the food; it was just something to fill her stomach with, something after which she could drink water. Before her and to the left and right, the sisters were whispering about the coming elections. If the western noble families would give a new Matriarch; or if the proud houses in the other four realms would claim that sacred office.
There were five High Temples for the Patriarchy and five for the Matriarchy – and both orders followed the same elective laws. Each High Temple for each great region of the Empire; and all of them appointed two councillors. The hearts and minds of the orders, the centers of the Holy Temple were two. The See of the Matriarchy resided in the west, between Bernn and Goldfield, while that of the Patriarchy resided in the east near the village of Omburg, in the silver city of Prospero. Both orders held vast acres of farmland, owned livestock, granaries, mills, and had ample coin. There wasn’t a single lord in the whole of the Empire who could outmatch the combined wealth of the clergy. And Drakanes thought there was no lord on earth who could.
Between all the feverish whispers, she found herself thinking about the election… of how life would be if she were to win a seat on the High Council. I’d have the power to choose the next Matriarch. To have a say in the order’s traditions and laic affairs. To have menials tending to my every need. To enjoy better food and more comfortable a bed. Not to mention the garments and stipend that come with such an office.
Yet the High Council was not a place for commoners, but for sisters of noble birth. All the Matriarchs of history had been the scions of noble blood, save for one – one whose ancestors had been serfs. And her sacred mandate had not endured, for it was ended all too quickly by poison. The practitioners of simony were always vengeful.
“Drakanes, who will you vote for in the coming election?”
Sister Laurel was one of the least annoying souls at the temple. Drakanes and her were more or less the same age; but they had never been too close. She had never been close with anyone for that matter. From a young age she had learned to doubt each and every person. Appearances deceived all the time. But given Laurel’s impatient tone, Drakanes answered nonetheless. “I will vote for whoever is most likely to lose.”
Laurel frowned at that. “But why? Surely you fancy one of the great noble houses to be right for that holy title? A Blackway, a Manheim...”
Drakanes snorted. “Why would I vote for any of them? I’d rather vote for myself.”
She took a spoonful of porridge, chewed silently, then swallowed it down with water. Drakanes didn’t move her head much, or lift it… not when she was this close in company. She didn’t want their judging and irritating stares upon her, so she did not encourage them – even though the poor light of the hall made her eyes bigger and somewhat obscured their odd coloration. Her right eye was a pale grey, the left was brown. That, combined with her shaven skull, made Drakanes seem queer in the minds of others. It was nothing new; she had carried the burden of such a fiendish trait all of her life. And she had learned to live with it.
“I have some thoughts on the election,” Laurel said while drawing circles in her porridge with the spoon. “The good sister Anthea surely is favored. Edmund Blackway’s own daughter... Huh, the gods know that cunt’s ambitious for her age – ”
The comment made Drakanes choke on the last spoonful of porridge. And when she burst out in a snort of laughter, the sister seated across the table from her had her cheeks and forehead littered with bits of porridge. Drakanes cleared her throat and wiped her mouth with a sleeve, then she apologized to her stained sister. Of course, she couldn’t help herself not to chuckle. And everyone else was laughing as well – some softly, others rough like pigs.
“Look at what you did!” The stained sister said furiously. “I’m going to tell on you! Right now!” She got up from the table and strode with haste toward the kitchens.
Laurel grimaced. “Perfect. Now the Sister Superior is going to ruin everything.”
“It’s your fault, Laurel. Your jest made me laugh. But still, I don’t mind the Sister Superior’s yelling and the occasional stick over the hands. What I despise are her chores. I don’t like feeding the pigs, nor shovelling their shit and smelling like dung all the time.”
Laurel giggled. “Please forgive me, sister. I did not mean to get you into trouble.” She put a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eyes.
In response, Drakanes turned her head and shrugged off Laurel’s grip.
“Don’t. Your eyes are beautiful. I’d love to have mismatched colours like yours do.”
Drakanes pushed away the porridge plate in front of her, and shook her head. “You’re the first to say that. You think it’s pleasant being called names all the time? Being teased and talked about behind your back and even to your face?”
Drakanes didn’t know how to take that. All she did was to give a shrug and bite her lip. We’re gossiping now, aren’t we? She reflected, while chewing off a small piece of loose skin which dangled from her lip. We’re no better than them, I suppose.
“Regardless, I think your eyes are beautiful. And you should not hide yourself beneath that cowl any longer. If people don’t like it, they can just avert their gaze.”
That’s easy for you to say. She released a deep sigh of frustration. “And this day began so promising. Sister Superior is sure to work me to exhaustion, if I know my luck.” And she did know it, for the old hag came out of the kitchens on a long stride, holding the porridge-misfortunate sister by the arm.
“There. Her. It was her. She did it!”
“That one?” The Sister Superior grinned. In spite of her age, the crone was very active. And had a very demanding temper, not to mention sharp tongue. “You,” she pointed at her a long pink bony finger. “Yes, you, fiendish eyes. What have I told you about japes and laughter, humph? You wicked girl!”
“Sister Superior, I didn’t do it on purpose. She’s exaggerating – ”
“That’s right,” Laurel intervened. “She choked on a spoonful of porridge, that’s all.”
The victim shook her head, eyes frowning. “You shut up! You’re lying to protect her. She did it on purpose and then laughed at me!”