The Great Hall at Lownell, XIV Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Twelve. After Tierce.
Sir John shivers in the draughty hall, and pulls his cloak tighter before reaching for his flagon of mulled wine. His Lordship takes a tentative sip, pauses, and then follows with a longer drink. He looks up and smiles coolly to the rest of the hall.
Before him at the great table to his left sits his old seneschal, Claudius. Sir Harold Grimpate, the bald, burly knight, sits glowering to Sir John’s right. Beside Harold sit Sir Burchard and Sir Waleran, whose mutual attention is focused on a game of nine-mens-morris. Across from the knight sit two Rotting Eye ruck-men, notable for their clean garments, combed hair, and serious demeanor. They pay no heed to the game, but instead keep their gazes fixed steadily on Sir John.
At the other end of the table, a small, cloaked figure sits calmly and quietly across from Lownell.
“Good my Lord,” begins Claudius, “Is it not meet that at this juncture, we should discuss the disposition of your much-contested southern holdings, in the (perhaps misplaced) hope of resolving this unfortunate misunderstanding prior to the commencement of…”
But Sir John holds up a hand to his garrulous seneschal, and the old man falls silent. Instead, the bastard son of Lownell sets his gleaming eyes on the hooded figure at the other end of the table.
“In time, dear Claudius—all in good time. For the nonce, I have other matters to mind. Thou there: report to me!”
The hooded figure stands and bows with a dramatic flourish.
“As you please, my lord. I bear most intriguing tidings from the west. Princes Nestor and Argus have settled in to their respective winter castles, and their armies are expected to idle until the spring thaws.
“Argus hopes that the winter respite will afford him the opportunity to attract new recruits. He wishes to conceal from his sovereign father and rival brothers the full extent of the losses that he suffered in driving off Kirke, and quashing the Army of the Ebon Quill.”
“Ah yes,” murmurs Sir John with a wicked grin. “The casualty reports that were issued to King Tereus lacked a certain… how shall we say… dilligence in their reckoning. Argus was certainly lucky to have overcome Kirke that day. But of the Ebon Quill, tell me—have there been any more curious stories there?”
“Indeed, my Lord,” replies the hooded figure. “In fact, the stories are spreading apace like weeds in an untended garden throughout the ranks of Argus’s army. Hardly a week passes without some ruck claiming to have seen a vision of Mark or Luke, appearing all in shining armor, and always commanding the visitant to convert to the Five.”
At this, Sir John giggles. “How simply wonderful!”
“But my Lord,” continues the figure, “there is more. And this knowledge that follows is dearly gained, for Argus has taken great pains to keep this information secret, even going so far as to execute loyal officers…
“Recall that Argus had dispatched his own bodyguard to destroy the Ebon Quill. But in the months since that costly victory, his bodyguard has gradually fallen apart. Almost every officer has declared a heartfelt conversion to Pentianity… even knowing that such a confession is a death sentence in the eyes of their jealous and wicked prince. Perhaps these converts have also received visions, or perhaps they were simply moved by the astonishing bravery and conviction of their doomed foes.
“Nonetheless, these officers of Argus have come forward, one by one, to testify to their new-found faith, despite all the executions, each one crueler than the one before. Argus is beside himself with rage. Those officers that have not been purged have deserted in the dead of the night. Only a handful remain from that once dreaded unit.”
Sir John claps his hands together. “My, my, my—that is an interesting turn of events, and may even suit my own ends. Thou hast served me well and faithfully in acquiring this information. And in return, let us make sure that word reaches the armies of Argus… discretely, mind thee, ever so discretely… that all brave Pentian soldiers fearful of persecution would be welcomed here in Lownell with open arms. Yes, let the word be spread!”
The hooded figure bows in acknowledgement.
“I shall obey you in this, as in all things, my Lord,” he cries, gallantly.
The Great Hall in Upchurch. St. Thirsten’s Day, XXVI Whitland. Sext.
Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Father Anselm, Friar Sidrach Landry, Vandoren, Oswald, Renton, Mendelor, St. James, Dirk, Brandon Frey, Old Cerdic, Mot, Nym, Bardolph, Pyers, Jacob, Lady Alice Rowland, Maid Martha, [Various others].
Cerdic, the weathered old porter of Upchurch, sits at the head of the great table and beams broadly, his face flushed with good spiced wine. Upon his head, the porter wears a crown made out of rushes. Beside him sits Bardolph and Jacob, who are, like Cerdic, also crowned and drunk. The merry crowd in the hall laughs as Sir Aleck, Sir Garnfellow, and Sir Hamral rush to carry jars of wine to the three servants who have been proclaimed lords for the day.
“Saint Thirsten’s Day has always been a favorite festival of mine,” says Vandoren with a smile. “I remember at the Cathedral school, when the slowest pupils were made lords, and the teachers pressed into their service. Such sport!”
“Yes, yes, my son,” says Friar Sidrach, drinking deeply of his dark beer. “And ‘tis good to see our friends embrace this comic reversal.”
Mendelor smiles warily, and eyes the room. “Where is that damned Vavasor—I have not seen him for several days, and I grow worried when I cannot keep an eye on that caitiff.”
“I have not seen him at all since the Yule began,” answers the friar. “Mayhap the holiness of these celebrations aggrieves his wretched heart…”
Mendelor frowns. “Mayhap. In any case, I think we need to take care of this Vavasor problem. My vote is to take him to Canglen. Perhaps the very sight of Agnes would drive the demon from him. Of course, I know nothing of this witchery, and have not yet sought the council of Valerius. What say you, Friar?”
“An interesting thought, my son,” says Friar Sidrach. “An interesting thought indeed.”
“And where is Valerius?” asks Brandon. “I fain would know his rede on what we might do for Kirke.”
“Yes, yes,” says Mendelor. “We should consider what might be done for Kirke. I was gladdened when you brought us word that the Count had survived his defeat at the hands of Argus. Even now, Kirke must be preparing to raise another army in the spring.”
Brandon nods. “Yes. And most of the fighting men that I led away from that disaster are itching to rejoin our lord. The first break in winter weather, and they will head out. But perhaps a score or so are willing to stay here in Upchurch, in case Nestor should move against Sir Aleck.”
Mendelor nods in approval. “There is much work to be done here in the spring to fortify the manor house: cutting trees back, building earthworks and so on. I would also like to send word to the Derwich rebels that the regrouping army of Kirke could use their assistance. Cutting off Argus’s supply lines and slowing his pursuit is much needed.”
“A good idea,” says Dirk. “Prince Busirane has relinquished much of the pressure on my friends from Derwich, as he has been distracted by his campaign against King Weremach. Doubtless the rebels would be eager to turn the fight against another one of these damned brothers.”
A loud and raucous whooping interrupts the discussion, as Sir Aleck and his lady Alice take the floor. Sir Garnfellow sets a bow to the strings of his viol, and the dancing commences.
The Guest Quarters at Upchurch. IV Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Thirteen. Near Matins.
Valerius.
The thin magician smoothes the pale parchment scroll against the tabletop with the back of his knife. He scowls for a moment, and then sets a quill tip into the ink.
Dear astute and talented compatriot of the ars magica,
Your Ladyship, you and I have come to reside on opposite sides of the fence on this issue of who shall rule the Frounter. This is unfortunate, as I am sure that we would have been fast friends had not the evils of politics separated us.
I would like very much to set aside our differences for one afternoon and have us meet with one another, not as rivals and combatants but as professionals in what is a rare and sadly repressed art.
I propose that we meet at a place neutral to both of us, and we each may bring two companions but no more.
I give you my word that as long as no move is made to harm my friends or myself that I will in no way attempt to harm you or yours.
All I seek from this is your advice on a matter that I have found most troubling. If you seek something in return please let me know.
With great thanks,
—Valerius
Over the hills. Far away. High above. Snow below. With the wind. Behind. Cold. Clear. On Master’s bidding. The message. To HER. The towers. Sisters say. A long winter. Sisters say. The towers near. Great feasts there. Before the walls. Horseflesh and manflesh. Warmed and softened. By the Sun. Sisters wings. Blackened the sky. Before. There. The towers. HER towers.
Over the walls. HER vassals. Huge. Brooding. Silent. Sulk in their aeries. Watch me. Wings bowed. Hackles bristling. Teeth bared. HER vassals. Faster than hawks. Stronger than eagles. Crueler than kites. HER vassals. Let me pass. Over.
HER realm. Thick. With power. Ancient. Terrible. HER realm. The highest tower. HER tower. Window. Opened. For me. SHE is waiting. The room within. Warmed. Light. SHE offers water. In a copper bowl. SHE offers flesh. Sweet with decay. SHE strokes my head. HER voice. Soft.
“Ah, pretty thing, your master chose well. A raven to honor the Grandmother and the old ways. A lucky choice, and full of promise. That line always bred true, did it not? But he has so much to learn. A poor blind foundling, tormented by a fool who is become lower than the worms. You agree, pretty thing? It is time, and perhaps past time. You must rest here tonight, and fill your empty belly—tomorrow you shall fly back, and tell him that I accept his invitation.”