XXVIII. Set in Motion

Duke of Briartach, Charles Templeton III, mopped the sweat from his brow under the unseasonably warm Aes Sidhe sun. While it was technically summer, the country rarely got more than a month’s worth of nonconsecutive sunny days. Today was the third day of blue skies and uncomfortable warmth.

He lowered the window of his carriage, filling it with the sounds and smells of the city. Not al of which were pleasant. Briartach was less of city and more of a small nation. It was often said in boasting that all of the major settlements of Aes Sidhe along the Sorrow could comfortably fit within its city limits. No one was sure how or why it had grown so massive, but it was readily accepted that it simply had always been that way. There was evidence supporting this beliefe in the form ruins, both above ground and beneath it. From a massive, automated sewage treatment network set in place by wizards of the distant past, to interconnected tunnels beneath the length of the city, all were touted as proof that the city had been this large if not larger pre-collapse.

The carriage bounced as it took the ramp onto the ancient, elevated roadway known as the M-1 track. A steady stream of foot and cart traffic flowed past him, the thoroughfare was the most efficient way to cross the city and was the primary way goods were moved in and out. Charles withdrew a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and clicked his tongue in annoyance. He rapped the driver’s box with his cane, urging him to hurry. The driver cursed in the old tongue of the far darrig and guided the carriage around a rabble of farm carts arguing with merchants over right of way. Several gaggles of tourists milled about slack jawed, further adding to the crowding and confusion.

The Duke ran his hands through his thinning blonde hair and cursed the midday congestion. The latest census reports put roughly seventy percent of Aes Sidhe’s population in the capitol alone. As such, there was always someone out doing something, and that something was usually in someone’s way. Despite being one of the larger kingdoms, much of its land was wilderness, or undeveloped seas of green fields, gently rolling hills, ancient sylph groves, and fey woodland.

The roadway was a prime target, if not the only target for invaders, yet it had remained relatively unharmed in the initial attack from invading Xanavene. Though it was less than a year since the war began, it had quickly faded from the public eye. The citizens were simply content to go about their business. They left the war room discussions to pubs or a politician’s council. Charles leaned his head against the window frame and let the cool salty breeze wash over him. Their ability to choose ignorance was enviable.

In the near distance, he saw the gold and silver steeples of the Cambrian Towers. His driver cursed again in the old tongue and guided the carriage around an overturned cart of still flopping fish.

* * *

Marble columns fronted Coheed Hall. An arcade lined with statues and massive stairway, which led to the portico. The two Cambrian towers glimmered in the sunlight, with wrap around balconies and spires that ambitiously kissed the heavens. One could get a glimpse of Briartach in its entirety on a rare clear day from their apex. The carriage came to a stop between the fountain and the portico. The driver flung open the privacy window and thrust a ruddy hand into the cabin for payment. The Duke handed the man several banknotes and he pulled the lever, unlocking the door. No sooner had he stepped from the carriage, the horse snorted out smoke and soot before galloping off for the next fare. Charles unfastened his collar and hastily climbed the flight of stairs to meet with his waiting aides.

A colonnade encircled the hall, giving it a cavernous, yet majestic feel. Frescoes depicting Aes Sidhe’s mariner history covered the vaulted ceiling. Inside, the towering, coffered ceilings and columns of Coheed Halls, the hurried footsteps of nobleman echoed throughout. The Duke brusquely waved off his attendants as he hurriedly made his way into the building. He breathed heavily as he dashed into a grand sitting room, his ten attendants close behind.

Arranged before the fireplace, nearly a story high, were several Windsor chairs. Bookcases and paintings filled the wall space; niches with busts of prominent men long dead alternated between them, casting oddly malicious shadows from the roaring fire. Despite the weather outside and the fire in, the chambers were still rather chilly.

An elder nobleman with greying muttonchops rose from his chair and raised a brandy sniffer in salute to the new arrival. He wore a simple smoking jacket and slacks with a gold chain dangling from his pocket. His face was hard lined from a life of both solemnness and mirth. Beside him were two Generals, a look of annoyance on their faces as they gripped their reports with clenched fists; their glasses were filled with untouched water.

“Duke Briartach! So good of you to join us.”

The Duke’s attendants entered with poise and bustled over to unfurl a massive map atop the great oaken table. The duke however nearly doubled over as he paused to catch his breath. The curtains were drawn despite the rare sunshine outside, leaving the room dark and rather foreboding. The Duke bowed slightly before he made his way to the table.

With a shaky hand, he poured himself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher. He gulped the water and poured another glass. While not in the best of shape, it was not the heat and the hike that caused him to tremble so. He had suffered many a sleepless night worrying for his daughter, lost in the wilderness after a rebellious choice to travel the world as a commoner.

In the corner, several admirals spoke casually amongst one another over tea as their attendants readied their files and reports. The Duke found their nonchalance regarding the security of the waters along their shores insulting, particularly in the face of the rumors that had been swirling about. Too many corroborated sightings of black sails upon the Sorrow several months ago had been simply swept under the rug due to pride and childlike stubbornness. The curse was the only thing that allowed them to become the economic powerhouse that they were, if it had been somehow circumvented, it could prove disastrous.

“Is this all?” The Duke mopped his forehead with a decorative handkerchief and took a drink.

“Calm down Charles, they’re on their way.”

“My king, if we could continue with the discussion at hand…” The general with the shaven head pleaded.

Céolsige rolled his eyes and took another sip of his brandy. “What more is there to discuss Sir Kevin? We secure the borders and send an army to crush Xanavene.”

“Calm down? My daughter, your cousin, is in the heart of this bloody mess! Whilst we sit on our laurels my poor Alice is dead or worse, living like a proletariat!”

He ran a hand through his hair again, still struggling to catch his breath. He felt a panic attack coming on.

The other general snorted in irritation. “I fear that may be the least of your concerns—”

The king held up his hand for silence. “Charles, a moment, I’ve not forgotten about dear little Alice.”

“My king, it is not as simple as it may seem,” Sir Kevin pleaded evenly, “we’ve but a hundred-thousand men in the entire kingdom. Granted they are elite men who’ve spent a lifetime training, it is still one-hundred thousand to protect forty-million!”

The king did a double take. “Is that all? Then how the devil did Xanavene get so many men?”

“Conscripts Your Majesty.” Charles interjected. “They drafted common men into service and utilized a relatively short training period of no more than a year.”

The two generals snickered and were quickly shushed by the king.

“My squires had more training than that man! Are you quite certain?”

Charles took a sip of water and nodded. “Yes, I have it on good authority; several men were captured trying to sneak across the border at Arlien recently. Apparently, these men were deserters trying to get home. A hot plate of food and they told us all we needed to know and more.”

Sir Kevin guffawed riotously, slapping his knee, and clutching his side as he tried to catch his breath. The other general and admirals present also let forth belly laughs, as the King choked on his brandy mid chuckle.

“I retract my previous concerns your majesty!” Sir Kevin said as he wiped tear from his eyes. “I need but only a division of cooks and we can have the entire country conquered by supper!”

“Their numbers are still more than ten times that of our own.” Charles warned evenly. “Disloyal and unskilled they may be, but ten to one odds can topple even the greatest warriors.”

“While I am loath to admit it,” the second general said over the ongoing laughter. “The Duke does make a valid point.”

“Agreed.” The king wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “While I’ll not stoop so low as to thrust a halberd into the hands of every random farmer and merchant, we do need to increase our ranks.”

Sir Kevin mopped the sweat from his brow and cleared his throat. “What would you suggest your majesty?”

The king chewed on his cheek for several moments as he stared into his brandy. Charles finished his water and set down the glass, well aware of what the King was debating. He had suggested it shortly after the Xanavien army so easily blew through their defenses, and one the King had been adamantly against. He picked up a nearby tablet of paper and snapped his fingers for an attendant to bring a pen in anticipation of the King’s final verdict.

“Charles.”

He dipped the pen into an inkwell and prepared to write. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Send word to every noble household in the kingdom with two or more sons, one child over the age of fifteen but less than twenty-five must report to the nearest garrison for training. Those within Briartach shall be compensated a home within city limits or a vessel and berth. Those out in the country shall be given a plot of land and serve under their local lords.”

He hastily wrote down the King’s edict in a graceful, flowing script. “Only noble houses my King?”

Céolsige scrunched his face in irritation. “Yes Charles, I’ll not spit in the face of tradition and copy the savage tactics of Xanavene. Times are not as dark as that.”

“Here, here!” cheered Sir Kevin.

“As you wish Your Majesty, I only asked because—”

“I know bloody well why you asked!” The King thundered. “Our infantrymen have always been volunteers, that way we get those that want to be there, men who will fight and die for something they believe in, or at least for the bloke beside them. Their lives are hard enough, those sons are usually the only employees in the shops or hands on the fields, whereas the nobility are often left to idle ventures and vain pursuits. The service will do them well. There are thousands of noble houses in this city alone, but until their training is completed, we will be forced to make do with what we have.”

The door opened and several men entered, they wore deep blue long coats with gold trim and fringed ropes looped around their shoulders, quarter length capes hanging from the opposite one: the officer’s garb of Rhodarcium. Their faces were all stern and severe, as if carved from stone. Charles groaned and turned away in contempt as they entered. The other officers present were equally uncomfortable in the presence of once bitter enemies. The leader, a grim-faced young man with closely cropped brown hair, dismissed his subordinates with a curt wave. They made their way to the table to set up models on the map Charles’ attendants had unfurled. He looked over to the fire and grimaced, swearing under his breath in Rhodarcian.

The King took a sip of brandy and raised his glass in salute to the new arrival. “Well met General Izarius. Where is your handler?”

“Your majesty, King Céolsige, this is most unexpected.” He said with a forced smile. “Your humor is pleasant as always.”

Céolsige laughed heartily as he refilled his glass. “Quite, quite! But in all seriousness, where is that blasted Cardinal?”

Izarius examined the figures that were being set up on the map. “He should be arriving with the Thiudoricans. Are these accurate?”

“Last I checked, yes.”

The admirals hastily picked up their charts and paid their respects to the King before a rapid exit. The King beckoned his two generals near and whispered something into their ears before they also left the room. The Duke glanced around, aside from himself; the only Aes Sidheans left were his attendants and the King.

“Where are the servants?” Charles asked as he glanced around the cavernous sitting room.

“Dismissed them, you know how chatty they can get, particularly about things they ought not to have heard.”

“Quite prudent Your Majesty.” Izarius said disinterestedly as he looked over the table.

“I suppose…” The Duke tapped on one of his attendant’s shoulder, tearing him from his task. “You there, be a sport and fetch me some wine, this unseasonable heat has me out of sorts.”

“More like out of shape.” Izarius muttered under his breath.

Izarius held out his hand to a subordinate, who handed him a small stack of papers. He scanned them with a furrowed brow, not exactly thrilled with what he saw. The gong of a clock sounded the hour, followed by the muted chimes of the three dozen or so clock towers scattered about the city.

The door opened again and four sages of Asketill entered, seeming to glide with their floor length robes and dresses trailing behind them. Céolsige took a seat and put on a pair of spectacles to see who had just entered. An old Eurithanian man in the cap and gown of academia shook hands with the Duke, unlike his contemporaries, he wore his salt and pepper hair short, his beard trimmed and well groomed. Charles recognized the man as one of the King’s regular visitors but could not quite place his name. He looked somewhat out of place in relationship to the chest length white beard of his companion.

“Ah! Thoth! How long has it been?” Céolsige stood, his arms outstretched.

“Far too long my friend.” The two men embraced. “Trying times, we find ourselves in.”

“Hmm. Indeed,” Céolsige took a sip of brandy and reflected whilst staring into the glass. “It is times such as these that I lament the loss of Garrick’s wisdom and camaraderie.”

“Aye, indeed. A pity he never took your offer to leave those damned towers.” Thoth said with a nod.

The King laughed. “You know what he asked me when I offered him Captaincy of the King’s Guard?”

Thoth smiled and shook his head.

“He looks me dead in the eye and with utmost sincerity he asks: ‘Will I have to step foot in Eastfaire?’” The king laughed again and took a sip of brandy before continuing. “So, I tell him, ‘It’s certainly possible, as King I often tour my kingdom and a King’s guard is always by his king is he not?’”

“And Garrick?”

“Turned me down flat, he said ‘No bloody way will I step one ruddy boot in that pisshole of a town!’”

The two men shared a laugh, with the King resting his arm on the sage’s shoulder for support. When the tittering subsided, Thoth removed his spectacles and wiped them off with a rag. Charles also shared in the laugh, as far as he was concerned, they were both pissholes of a town, though he would never dream of expressing that sentiment to the General.

“Did he not leave a son?”

The King took a drink and shook his head. “Aye, he did, but the poor boy was in Elysia. Likely, he fell with The Order. A pity he had no heirs.”

The King sifted his brandy and stuck a cigar in his mouth. “But enough reminiscing like the old men we are, who are your companions?”

“Oh! How inconsiderate of me!” Thoth turned to introduce his group of patient fellow scholars. “These are my colleagues, Lilura, Dean of Elemental Studies.”

The woman bowed slightly, an air of polite restraint about her. Unlike so many other women of Asketill, she did not use her magic to imbue herself with youth, opting instead to tie her grey hair in a simple bun and age gracefully as nature intended. She had the gentle look of a grandmother, and not that of a sage.

“Rún, Professor of Philosophy and finally, Cierra and Erebos our Directors of the Black Arts.”

“By Dawn…” Céolsige took the cigar out of his mouth and examined it, patting himself down in search of a match. “Where is my bloody matchbook?”

Erebos stepped forward to address the King as he continued his search for matches. “One of my students was the man in charge of Xanavene armies. Osric Miroshnik. Or I should say he was only my student for four years, after which he was taken to the swamps.”

“Well, where is that instructor?” Izarius snapped, joining in the conversation.

Erebos looked to Izarius with condescension at his interruption. “You must understand those of southern Asketill work independently of the rest. It is a region inhabited by recluses and hermits. Our only contact is when one of them comes in search of a suitable apprentice.”

“A very mysterious lot, there are four of them I believe.” Cierra added. “They can hardly be blamed for their pupil’s deviant behavior in any regard.”

“They refused to come.” Thoth said absently as he took a seat and partook of the brandy upon the end table. “They are quite disdainful towards the outside world.”

“It is just like the Asketillian’s to be so arrogant!” Izarius shouted, edging toward a confrontation.

The doors opened once more, held open by Knights of The Order of Dawn in red and white instead of the usual blue, the colors for personal escorts of a Cardinal. The Rhodarcian officers faced the door at attention and the King set down his glass. The Asketillians shifted uncomfortably and Thoth waved a hand in dismissal of the whole affair. A herald stood at the doorway and announced their latest arrival.

“Presenting his Holy Eminence, Cardinal Eosphorus the Seventh, Keeper of the Temple Alighieri at Catharone, Appointed by Her Holiness Priestess Renata the Calm.”

A short procession of Bishops entered swinging censers upon gold ropes chain as the herald hastily made his exit. A young man with black hair that fell to the small of his back soon followed. His frame was slight, and he was swimming in his flowing white and red robes. Charles was struck by how young and effeminate he looked; he had expected the head of The Order in Catharone to be an elderly man with a certain physical presence. Instead, he met by a waif-like child who was likely more woman than man in matters of bedroom liaisons. Two more knights bearing standards with emblems of The Order and a dozen clerics followed him. The room went silent at his entrance; several present bowed or made the sign of The Dawn.

“And what exactly do you mean by that Izarius?” The Cardinal spoke softly, though his voice was not lacking in power.

Following his procession, three burly, bearded thiudorican men in armor of fur and leather entered. Sweat from the summer heat outside covered them as they adjusted to the artificially chilled halls of Coheed. He doubted they had ever felt the heat of the sun or even seen its brilliance in that perpetually frozen wasteland they called home. If not for the mines, he could not see a reason for anyone to ever live in such a place. The two knights at the door pulled them shut, the sound of the massive locks turning over echoed the chamber.

“Your Eminence.” Izarius dropped to one knee and made the sign of The Dawn.

“Rise my son, the journeys just begun.” The Cardinal returned the salute and crossed the room towards the war council table. “And you should really control your temper my friend, we could hear your shouting down the hall.

“In any case, it is most unfair to place the blame solely upon the Asketillian’s. However, I am curious, how is it that this man came to be exiled, and why did you not keep a closer eye upon him? Surely some accountability must be attributed in that regard.”

Erebos turned to the Cardinal with a start, looking from the man to the door to the man again before pointing to himself in a silent inquiry. The Cardinal nodded slowly and flashed a disarming smile. Erebos cleared his throat and looked to the heavy doors again, wondering how the man was aware of the conversation. Charles watched the Cardinal with equal suspicion, the command he had on General Izarius was particularly interesting, it went beyond deference to rank or polite observance of dogma.