I had considered dressing in the loyalist fashion. When I saw the effect of my Obsidian Cabal regalia, though, I knew that I had made the right decision. Awe. Fear. Hope.
“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” the prince murmured as I settled in beside her.
I chuckled.
“One does one’s best,” I murmured back.
I was impressed with the banquet hall they had managed to carve from the tunnels of an abandoned mine. It had probably begun when the prince was still far too young to begin plotting her return to the throne in any but the broadest strokes, and making her court-in-exile visually impressive as well as strategically secure would have been essential. When had they begun this? No less than five years ago, I guessed. While I was exploring the Wolfwood? Or even before that, while I was making friends in Tanirinaal?
Servants appeared, bearing heaping trays of fine-smelling food and endless decanters of white Vencari wine. It was … a lot. I had not eaten so richly since before Aemillian’s rebellion. I did my best to eat slowly, and drink lightly.
The first course was light: cubes of feta cheeses and preserved fruits, airy bread dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The next one was richer: pheasants, ducks, and quails, slow roasted with vegetables and then drowned in sauce. A flight of deer came after, some roasted, some grilled into steaks. Then a rich and flavorful fish stew.
Each course was punctuated by toasts, recitations of poetry and of passages from various holy books by the learned nobility of Vencar, performances by minstrels from Vencar and Georg and even one of the warrior-bards of Namora, who had accompanied the representative of the king. In the Imperial Court, such performances would have been bracketed and accompanied by music and dancers and acrobats, perhaps even demonstrations by sword masters of various schools. Given the famous prudery of the House Traianum, I wondered if the court in exile had disdained to recruit or hire entertainers, or if they had failed to attract them.
Nothing of substance was discussed, at least never within my hearing. The prince and I made small talk with a slow-moving rotation of courtiers. All were shocked to learn that I had been living quite comfortably in Georg, making my living as a blacksmith rather than a wizard. They could scarce imagine such hardship. I very politely did not laugh in their faces for characterizing such an easy, simple life as hardship.
“When did you take up blacksmithing?” the prince asked me at one point, during a lull between waves of courtiers.
“As a young man,” I told her truthfully. “When I first came to Vencar. Before I had the money and the opportunity to apprentice as a wizard.”
“You’re a bit older than you look, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I admitted with a smile.
I was surprised how few people I recognized in the loyalist court. I had not expected to find many old friends, but I had attended the old Emperor’s court countless times in the company of Aemillian and the House Solirium or on behalf of the Obsidian Cabal. I reminded myself that it had been nine years, and that most of the people I had known had sided with Aemillian, or been too loyal and unlucky to make it out of the palace.
There were a fair number of guests dressed in religious vestments: priests and initiates of various temples and cults that either believed House Traianum was favored by the gods, or who at least wished to hedge their bets in the event that she succeeded in reclaiming her throne. I recognized an ambassador from the Initiates of the Divine Triumvirate, of course: the scions of House Traianum were their most famous devotees. Next to him sat a representative from the Court of the Sun; their presence was equally unsurprising. Sun-cults in general were well represented, which I had expected. But so, too, were the earth cults – the Temple of Enhyl Earth-Mother had sent a senior sister, and so had the Lady of the Woods. I also saw the symbols of a number of other small cults, temples and initiatory traditions that had not always fared well under Traianum but which apparently remembered them more fondly now that Solirium ruled: the Starry Labyrinth, the Silent Dancers, and the Counters. That concerned me, some. The worst of the rumors coming out of Vencar City were still patently absurd, but clearly Aemillian was doing something to upset the pious peoples of Vencar.
“Do you have any words you would like to share,” the prince asked me during a lull in the rounds of courtesies. “I do not wish to paint you into a corner, but as the guest of honor, it is certainly your prerogative.”
I had been considering the matter. I had even had a few words prepared this morning, though the steady progression of wines had blurred them. I was, it appeared, very much out of practice at the games of the court. But my time with Aemillian had proved what the priestesses who had raised me had always taught: that appearances were the foundation upon which politics were built.
“When and if it suits you, your grace,” I demurred.
She chuckled.
“Before the desert course,” she said. Which was soon.
We suffered one last round of courtiers to approach us, an assortment of youngest children from very minor houses. Gladium and Shaar and Iramon, the last of which possessed an unlikely dark aura and raised her eyebrow at me in a way that suggested she saw far more than most. I returned her gaze with a bland smile.
Then it was my time to stand. My head swam a little as I did so; I had had entirely too much wine. I rested my right hand on the brow of the mask at my belt, and my left hand on the pommel of my dagger. I looked out at the brightly dressed people below me. I caught the eyes of a few, particularly the handful that I had spent the last weeks travelling with.
So many expectations. So many opportunities for failure.
But this part, I could certainly do.
“Hail to the loyalist court,” I said. “May the light of the gods shine upon you all.”
There were so, so many things I could say. I could woo them. I could flatter them. I could attack them. I depreciate myself. I could glorify myself. I could do them all by turns. I could be loquacious. I could be brief.
“I thank you for your hospitality, and your warm welcome. I am honored.” I paused again. In Georg, my pauses would have been filled with applause, maybe cheers. In Vencar, such things were considered interruptions, loss of attention, an insult to the speaker.
“I know that you expect great things from me,” I said, adopting an archaic grammar and using words rarely seen outside of certain holy texts. “I am meant to be a balance on the scales of justice, a counterweight on the scales of war, as you seek to restore order to your worlds.”
Lounging men and women sat up. Sitting men and women sat straighter. To my right, the prince watched me, her face soft and her eyes shrewd.
“I will apply my weight as best that I can. I will pursue justice. I will pursue order.” A final pause, shorter than the others while I drew a breath. Then I quoted the Writ of the Sun: “Them that cleave to right order know the mercy of justice. Them that know justice know the warmth of the sun.”
I left the following lines unsaid, leaving them to wonder. “Honor the mother and father who made you. Honor the kingdom that made them. Honor the king that I have placed to rule you. Kneel beneath the light of the sun.”
===
The next day, a more intimate council was convened. We met over a light breakfast of fruit and bread and cheese. I found myself at one end of a long table, opposite the prince. Sir Rennin stood at her right hand. Lord Sir Orland and a pair of military-looking men that I did not know sat at the table to my right. Two wizards and a priest – Adlos Runei of the Jade Order, Clarissa Lunaria of the Imperial Academy, and Recitus Septimus, a Sun Priest of the Triumvirate, all known to me from my time at Gustinos Traianos’ court – sat at the table on my left. Standing behind me and to my right, opposite Sir Rennin, stood a young man in livery who, once we were seated, rushed to pour each of us a cup of strong tea.
I had resumed my Georgi costume, preferring the tight doublet and voluminous pants to any Vencari garment I had on hand. Everyone else had donned simple Vencari tunics and wrapped themselves in cloaks and shawls against the chill of the mine.
“Let us begin simply,” said Elana. “My lord Derrek, how may we pierce the magics that protect our enemy?”
I smiled slightly and sipped my tea.
“As you have no doubt surmised by now,” I began, “the aegis cannot be penetrated by any means of conventional weapons or enchantments.”
“That’s the gods’ own truth,” said one of the military men I did not recognize. “We’ve tried everything we can think of. Enchanted swords and arrows. Assassins in the night. Even dropped a building on the bastard.”
I wondered how they had achieved that last, but decided to ask later.
“The aegis is impenetrable,” I restated. “It draws its power directly from the Shadow Realm, so Aemillian need not exert effort to maintain or increase it.”
“From the Shadow Realm,” exclaimed the Sun Priest. “So it’s true? You did recreate the cursed gift of Shii?”
“I thought you told us not to speak his name,” said Elana at the same time.
“Your protections here are more than sufficient to keep his name from his ears,” I said, answering the prince, first. “And, yes master Septimus, I did unravel the secrets of ancient shadow sorcery. Have no fear that the veils between this world and that will be rent as they were when Illustria fell. Aemillian Solirius is but one man. Even if he or I were ever to share the secret, a mere wizard’s order is not the weight of an entire empire.”
Elana shook her head and waved her hand dismissively.
“We will return to that matter another time,” she said. “Tell us, Derrek. Can the aegis be pierced?”
“Yes,” I said. “All things of mortal make are mortal, themselves. Nothing is without weakness. When the impenetrable wall was built around Aemillian, it required a gate. That gate required a key. The key we named is the Blade of Xadaer.”
A moment of stunned silence followed that pronouncement.
Then: chaos.
“The mythical weapon of a dead demigod?” demanded Clarissa Lunaria. “How did you find such a thing? How did none of us know of such a discovery before now?
“Are you a heretic or a fool,” demanded Recitus Septimus. “There is no such thing. The Elder World and its relics are lies of the Leviathan.”
“Silence!” Elana Traiana’s voice split the cacophony. Everyone went quiet immediately.
“Are you a heretic?” The prince demanded, staring at me. “A believer of the Arcmedian delusions?”
I sighed. That had been less entertaining than I had hoped.
“Whether I am convinced of the merits of Arcmedus’ visions is immaterial,” I said. “The Blade of Xadaer was wielded by Xadaer, son of Horaath, son of Althaeruh, in the Heroic Age of this world, before the Holy Lands and the Many Hells were separated from this mortal world. The Blade rests with its wielder, in a monumental tomb at the edge of the Holy Lands, just beyond the Eastern Veil.”
“How could you make the aegis without its key at hand?” asked Adlos, his voice full of both wonder and doubt.
“And how are we to acquire this supposed blade,” demanded Recitus, “if it lies beyond the mortal world?”
“I will lead a party to retrieve it,” I said.
Another stunned silence fell.
“To that end, I will require a band of heroes.”
That proclamation earned me a round of laughter.
“Fortunately, such a band has already presented itself to me.”
Stunned silence, again.
“Surely,” said Recitus, “you are not suggesting that our prince and her companions go on such a dangerous quest.”
“The blade of a great hero can only be retrieved by the hero who intends to wield it,” I said. “The most likely candidate is Sir Rennin Ösh, but I believe that it is possible that the blade will demand our grace, herself, be the one to take it up. With the prince and the knight already at my side, I see no reason not to include Lord Sir Orland Borgon, the Shan Khul Master Veralar Tann, and the elf-wizard Master Khanaarre – who are all already comfortable travelling and fighting together – and every reason to bring them, should danger arise on the journey.”
All eyes turned to the prince, who watched me as though I had become a box that might hold either the key to her dreams or a deadly viper.
“What road does one travel to the Holy Lands,” she asked after a short pause. Her tone was regal, but stiff with hope and fear. “Very literally, my lord, how do we get there? And how long will it take?”
I met and held her gaze.
“North,” I said. “Then east. Through the Wolfwood. I have friends among the children of Enhyl who can be convinced to guide us to the place where the veil may be pierced by a wizard of sufficient strength. Once we have crossed into the Holy Lands, I have spells that will guide us to the blade. As for how long the quest will take? I cannot say. It is two, perhaps three weeks walk to meet my friends among the children of Enhyl – and it must be a walk, the Wolfwood is no place for a horse. I have no idea how long it will take to reach the Eastern Veil, or how long the journey through the Holy Land might take.”
“Utter madness,” murmured the third military man. His compatriot agreed vehemently. Borgon looked skeptical.
“Madness,” Recitus agreed, “and blasphemy.”
“Perform whatever divinations you like,” I said. “Consult your libraries and your oracles. The prince’s one and only hope to secure the throne lies in following me to the Holy Lands to secure the Blade of Xadaer with which to confront her enemy.”
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