The Emerald Crown

by L J Chappell

  ‘When you think of Gods, what kind of Gods come to mind? Gods that watch over you or influence your luck, perhaps, or grant prayers and wishes? Maybe Gods that cause the sun to rise, and summer to return?’

  ‘None of these, really,’ Lanvik admitted. ‘I don’t see why they would be real and I don’t really understand why so many people seem to believe in them.’

  ‘Don’t let the pilgrims hear you talking like that,’ Vrosko Din laughed. ‘The kind of believers who travel to the ends of the world for their Gods probably wouldn’t hesitate to beat some sense into your Human skull.’

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong, then,’ Lanvik said. ‘We’re surrounded by thousands and thousands of fervent believers and they can’t all be stupid, or misguided, or ignorant. So maybe I’m missing something.’

  ‘Do you believe in anything supernatural?’

  Lanvik shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  ‘What of death?’ Vrosko Din asked: ‘What comes after death? Do you go to a happy place, or a sad place?’

  ‘Why would you go somewhere else after death?’ Lanvik was baffled.

  ‘Oh, this is very poor,’ the priest shook his head. ‘It seems that you cannot remember your faith or, even worse, that you have no faith.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Kiergard Slorn laughed. ‘If truth be told, I probably have no faith also. Or very little. And Vrosko Din … for all he sometimes professes to be a priest, he demonstrates a surprising amount of learning and knowledge but very little faith.’

  ‘Perhaps one cannot have faith and learning at the same time,’ Vrosko Din suggested. ‘Perhaps learning poisons the mind and the soul against faith.’

  ‘Ah, the platitudes of priests. They sound clever, they suggest deep wisdom and reflection upon the true nature of things, but they also cannot stand up to the power of reason. This one is patently untrue: through the centuries, there have been many men of faith who have also been highly educated.’

  ‘It seems that you have uncovered a paradox,’ Vrosko Din admitted.

  ‘It’s not a “paradox” at all. It’s just not true.’

  ‘It is by marvelling at the wonder of such paradoxes that true understanding comes, and true faith.’

  Slorn laughed again and applauded. Then he turned to Lanvik and asked: ‘So, if there are no Gods, then what makes the sun rise and set? What makes it move across the skies every day?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t move, does it? It’s like all the stars: they seem to move across the sky every night because this world spins round and round.’

  ‘Everyone who’s had any schooling knows that,’ Bane shrugged.

  ‘Yes,’ Kiergard Slorn agreed, ‘but it is interesting that Lanvik knows this, but doesn’t remember anything else of his schooling, such as the names of countries or towns or Gods or anything about the place where he grew up … or any of his magecraft, if magecraft is taught in schools. So why does he remember that the world spins?’

  ‘Here’s another question for you,’ Bane interrupted.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you don’t believe in Gods or in the supernatural, then do you believe in magic?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ Lanvik admitted at last. ‘It doesn’t make sense, either.’

  ‘Perfect!’ Bane laughed. ‘We have a mage who doesn’t believe in magic. Perhaps that’s another one of Vrosko Din’s paradoxes.’

  ‘And what of you?’ Vrosko Din changed the subject. ‘How have you passed this evening?’

  ‘We …,’ Ethryk said: ‘We have been drinking with a group of Confederacy soldiers.’ He didn’t sound as if he had enjoyed the experience.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Very unpleasant,’ Kiergard Slorn shook his head.

  ‘We thought we’d avoid the pilgrims,’ Bane explained. ‘You talk to them for a while, and before you know it they’re trying to convert you. Or explaining their own mystical journey to the truth: how it’s given them a purpose and a direction, and how it’s made them better as people.’

  ‘But the Confederacy have only really brought soldiers, not religious men,’ Ethryk said, ‘so we thought we were safe.’

  Lanvik had seen the Confederacy soldiers around Darkfall: they stood out from the rest, felt somehow different. There were Imperial troops as well, in uniforms, but they seemed somehow relaxed – shabby, even. The men from the Confederacy (and they were all men) looked sharp and neat: unlike everyone else, they made no concessions to the weather – there were no coats, no hats or scarves. He’d even seen groups of them marching through the town, rather than simply walking.

  They were also very visible in the bars and taverns. At a religious festival where many of the devout practised restraint or even complete abstinence, the men from the Confederacy were quite happy to become very drunk and very loud. Still, they seemed happy, they kept largely to themselves, and the ones who could still walk helped their companions back to their compound. So he hadn’t given them much thought.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Bane said. ‘It turns out that the soldiers of the Confederacy are just as fanatical as everyone else here. But their religion revolves around their uniforms and their flags and themselves.’

  ‘They told us all about their new complex here. It’s huge, they say: the largest by far. And it’s new – only six or seven years old. In their eyes, “larger” and “newer” seem to make a thing better: age and size are how they judge the value of a thing. Apparently they’ve had workmen here over summer, all the way from the Confederacy, adding to it.’

  ‘Adding the columns at the front,’ Ethryk laughed.

  ‘Oh yes, it seems they’re very happy with their columns. And they’re very proud of how clean it is.’

  ‘They don’t like dirt,’ Kiergard Slorn explained. ‘They say it’s typical of the Terevarna. And that’s the way our conversation went after a couple of drinks – how superior the Madarinn are and how inferior the other races are, particularly the Terevarna. As they drank more, it transpired that they don’t really like anyone who’s not from the Confederacy … even other Madarinn. We’re all corrupt.’

  ‘Why are they even here, then?’ Lanvik asked. ‘I thought the Dead God was Terevarna?’

  ‘They’re here because everyone else is, and they don’t want to miss out,’ Bane said.

  ‘It’s a chance to impress everyone else, especially those who live far from the Confederacy and know nothing about it,’ Kiergard Slorn said. ‘That’s why they have all the uniforms and marching – it impresses them, so they think it will impress other people. They also want to send a message about how powerful they are.’

  ‘They liked us so much that they tried to convince us to become citizens,’ Bane laughed.

  ‘Weren’t you tempted?’ Vrosko Din asked. ‘By their perfect society?’

  ‘Too many rules,’ Bane explained. ‘They have all kinds of rules they have to follow.’

  ‘Oh, they like their rules,’ Ethryk agreed.

  ‘So where are your Confederacy friends now?’ Vrosko Din asked. The others had been drinking alone when they arrived.

  ‘They left, just before you got back,’ Ethryk said. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t hear them singing in the street. They wouldn’t have liked you, anyway: Terevarna and Human.’ Apart from Slorn, Bane, Ethryk and Karuin, the entire Company were Light Elves. Plus Lanvik.

  ‘And what about you? Did you find out anything about your Stormchild?’ Bane asked.

  ‘Sadly not,’ Vrosko Din shook his head.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lanvik asked.

  ‘It seems there’s new God, in the Hurandani jungle,’ Bane explained. ‘We heard about him a few weeks ago.’

  ‘They call him the Stormchild,’ Vrosko Din explained, ‘and apparently he’s a living God, not just a prophet. Whatever that means.’

  ‘What are his teachings?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Something about storms, perhaps. I was hoping to find out here, maybe meet some of his followers and talk to them, but I haven�
��t seen any. Or if I have, then I didn’t recognise them. Very disappointing.’

  Bane stood, a little unsteadily: ‘Time for me to retire,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Slorn agreed: ‘hopefully by this time tomorrow we will have completed the first part of our commission. And for that, we must be rested, confident and sharp.’

  Everyone else nodded and stretched and shuffled away.

  ‘Can I borrow your eyes for a minute?’ Slorn asked Lanvik, as the others left. ‘There’s something I’d like to ask your opinion about.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He reached down and pulled out his grey bag from under the bench – Lanvik had noticed it yesterday as well. ‘You’ve seen the Emerald Crown, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have, yes,’ Lanvik admitted. ‘I stood in the queue and tried.’ He shrugged: ‘Nothing happened, obviously.’

  ‘But you secretly hoped you might be successful: convinced yourself so thoroughly, in fact, that you were actually disappointed when nothing happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lanvik laughed. ‘I suppose everyone thinks that. Everyone dreams, and from time to time everyone believes that their dreams are on the point of coming true. Just for a moment.’

  ‘Very true,’ Kiergard nodded. ‘Here.’ He reached into the bag and carefully brought out an Emerald Crown. He passed it over: ‘I picked this up from one of those stores near the Grotto. What do you think?’

  Lanvik turned the crown over in his hands: ‘It’s very good,’ he nodded. ‘The shape’s just like it.’ He felt its weight in his hand: ‘And it’s quite heavy, too. Is it glass?’

  ‘Some kind of glass,’ Slorn agreed. ‘Most of them are just painted wood or painted metal, so they don’t have the right look at all.’

  ‘Yes, it’s good,’ Lanvik agreed. ‘But the rim is probably just painted.’ The Emerald Crown had a bezel around the bottom and top which looked like gold. He turned Kiergard’s crown over and used his nail to make a small scratch on the inside, revealing a dull dark metal underneath.

  Kiergard snatched it away: ‘Careful!’ His eyes flashed angrily.

  ‘Sorry. It’s just a little mark.’

  ‘It took me hours to find that one,’ he shook his head. ‘And look what you’ve done to it,’ he glowered at the scratch on the finish.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t know it was important.’

  Lanvik felt briefly uncomfortable. There had been an odd look in Kiergard Slorn’s eyes – not simply anger, but the real possibility of violence. For all the trust and friendship he projected, for all his easy-going manner and his laughing and joking, he was a dangerous man; quick to anger; unpredictable.

  They headed back up to the rooms without saying anything else to each other.

  Chapter Five

  Devotions and Entertainments

  1

  Unlike his father, whom he had never known, Pireon of Kiritas did not aspire to adventure or to travel. For as long as he remembered, all he had wanted was for nothing to ever change. Or, even better, for things to return to a largely imagined younger life when the sun sparkled on the water and the sky was a deep clear blue: an everlasting summer on his parents’ estate, when he had done nothing but run and play with his older brother and sister.

  That life and those years existed only in the imprecise overlap between his childhood memories and his childhood imagination. Yes, he and Dach and Dasha had been together after their parents had died, and they had largely been by themselves. But that brief life had ended when Pireon was four years old and his brother Dach had left for Elagion and the Priesthood.

  After that, Dach had returned each year for the three days of the Homeday Festival – Heart and Home and Soil – and the children were briefly reunited. They talked and played and swam together, and the times Pireon remembered most clearly were when his brother spun him round and round until he was too dizzy to stand. The world around was a blur of grass and water and sky, green and blue and blue, and all he could hear was the sound of his own laughter.

  That was the happy life that Pireon longed for. But he knew it wasn’t real, and it hadn’t lasted.

  Dasha was joyful whenever Dach came home, but between those brief visits she had faded, becoming grim, serious and older – a shadow of his bubbling skipping sister. And Pireon himself had spent his days sitting in the library, reading whichever of the family books took his fancy. His uncle had tutted and complained that if he read so much then he would turn into his father. That had made him want to read more.

  Reading was something that Dach had done with ease, from when he was very young. His older brother had devoured texts so easily that his right hand was always hovering, ready to turn to the next page. In contrast, Pireon struggled over words and had to concentrate to understand what the writer was telling him: had to pause to reflect, to fit whatever he had just read together with what he already knew.

  Three years after his brother, when he was seven, Pireon had also been sent to Elagion as a Novice. The Priesthood was always eager to accept children from the aristocratic families: they delivered status and stability, as well as a mechanism for political and financial leverage. And for the families in question, the Priesthood was a useful, safe and traditional occupation, particularly for any children who might complicate an otherwise simple and straightforward inheritance – such as their uncle’s assumption of the family estates.

  It was reluctantly acknowledged that, within the Priesthood, there was a slight risk of travel.

  Normally no-one from Corvak, the Kingdom of Light, travelled. Instead, people from across the Three Lands came to Corvak to marvel at its wonders: the Dams, of course, and the Four Lakes, and the Twenty-Two Cities but also its temples, rituals and traditions, and its sights, smells and sounds. A small number of Priests, though, might be posted to one of the Temples outside Corvak, which often shared compounds with embassies, permanent delegations and trading missions.

  Their father had travelled: travelled for no good purpose, people said, but simply by his own inclination. He had been unusual: eccentric. And because of that, there were people who remembered him with a kind of resentment – they resented him for being different; perhaps for being so wealthy that he could indulge his unusual passion. Pireon had noticed that these were usually the same people who talked of his early death as if it was some inevitable retribution for a lifestyle that they disapproved of.

  But however far his father had travelled, whatever foreign lands he had visited, Pireon doubted that he had ever come to a place as alien as Darkfall. A place built from black stone, where it was so cold that the water turned to ice and where the sun shone for only a handful of hours each day. A place packed full of the most bizarre people from all across the Three Lands.

  Yet his two sons, Pireon and Dach, were both here.

  Almost inevitably, the grandest compound in Darkfall was that of the Empire. Its magnificence was a little worn and faded by the centuries, but inside was golden and lush: it wore its decadence with style, with high ceilings and lavish decoration. It projected power: casual and confident power.

  The new buildings of the Confederacy were larger, and built in a massive but simplistic way that spoke of arrogance as much as real power. Their compound they lay in the outskirts of Darkfall. They had a smaller building in the centre as well but, for all their efforts, they had been unable to secure enough nearby blocks to construct what they considered a suitable replacement. In the streets of Darkfall, their delegation also seemed to be the largest, but lacked any specific purpose other than to simply swagger around, being visible.

  Pireon felt a sense of satisfaction, almost pride, that the most opulent and most striking compound, as well as the busiest, was that of Corvak. Half temple and half delegation, it effortlessly blended the arcane with the mundane and blurred the lines between where sacred icons and imagery merged into the functional and the merely decorative.

  In a town where no building reached higher than two storeys, the Temple of Corvak incorporate
d a low central dome that raised it a touch above the rest of the skyline.

  Priests from the Mother Temple on Elagion came here every three years for the Festival of the Emerald Crown, and pilgrims visited the Temple in their tens of thousands to consult them, to worship and to make offerings; and to simply look and wonder, of course. When else could you taste the mystery of Corvak, without having to travel there? So the Temple compound became almost a pilgrimage site in itself and it took all of their efforts to keep it operating smoothly during these busiest days.

  Their party included no soldiers or guards, no-one from outside the Mother Temple, Seminary and Oracle complex on Elagion. They were mainly Priests and Initiates, but also a small number of artisans and artists to repair and restore the fabric of the buildings, as well as to add whatever they felt would benefit the building for future generations. The inside and outside walls had been endlessly overlaid with colours and materials, like the Temples at home: packed with centuries of intricate and careful detail.

  Their delegation was led by the Hierarch of Corvak, Father Ykerios, as it had been for the previous seven Festivals.

  They had brought their own draught animals, carriages and wagons in three ships that had sailed for five weeks, first along the eastern shore and then across the Northern Reach, before finally docking at Stormhaven. Pireon’s memories of that journey were dominated by the snow and the cold. There had been snow on the boat as they left the Bay of Torkensvall: snow that was so thick that you could hardly see the person beside you, flurries that were caught by the wind and whipped in waves across the deck like ghostly white snakes, snow that was unlike anything they had ever seen. And half of them had stood on deck and marvelled at it, tasted in on their tongues, caught it on their hands, breathed warm breath on it until it crumpled and melted. But its principal attraction was its novelty, and that wore thin very quickly.