Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

Stephen suppressed a smile. “Shame on you both. Isn’t Madeleine your cousin?”

Dunstin sighed comically. “Too true, I’m afraid to say,” he said, shielding his face in feigned shame. “But please, gentle lord, do not judge our family too harshly for producing her. No one save the All-God is perfect.”

“Though some of us are less so than others,” said Quentin, draining his mug of spiced rum.

The carriages were discharging their passengers slowly now to keep them from being trampled by the wagons of townsfolk. Stephen motioned to Gerald Owen, his chamberlain.

“Owen, send the third regiment to see if they can direct some of the wagon traffic to the forest road and through the western gates,” he said. He waited until Owen had nodded his understanding and departed, then turned to the Baldasarre brothers.

“If Tristan has his way, one day Madeleine will be our queen,” he said seriously. “Perhaps it is best not to joke so much at her expense.”

“My, we’re a grumpy old sod today, Navarne,” said Dunstin thickly. “You apparently haven’t had enough of this lovely mulled wine.”

“That’s because you finished off a legion’s worth all by your rotten self and there’s none left for another living soul,” Quentin retorted before Stephen could say anything. “Next time perhaps we should just fill a trough with it and let you guzzle with your snout in the trench. Souse.”

“Well, Cedric is here, at last,” said Stephen hastily as Dunstin gave Quentin an angry shove. “His carriage is unloading now, along with the ale wagons of the count.”

“Huzzah!” bellowed Dunstin. “Can you see which one is Andrew’s?”

Stephen looked into the sun again and spied a tall young man, lean and darkly bearded, directing a quartet of wagons loaded with wooden barrels. “The one in the front, taking to the forest road now—there, can you see him?” He waved to the man, and received a quick wave in return. Lord Stephen smiled.

Cedric Canderre, the Baldasarres’ uncle and father of Madeleine Canderre, the Lord Roland’s intended, was duke and regent of the province that bore his name. Though his lands were not as politically powerful as most of the other provinces, Cedric’s arrival was always anticipated greatly at the winter carnival.

The reason for this was twofold. First, Cedric Canderre was a merrymaker of great reputation, a portly, jolly man with an appetite for all of the finer things in life and the excesses they could lead to. When Madeleine’s mother was alive, some of those appetites had been a source of great consternation and occasional embarrassment to the family. Her untimely death had left the door open for Cedric to delight in his indulgences, and he did so now with a vigor that was enjoyable to be around, especially at a festival.

The second, and probably more pressing, reason was the bounty of his province that came with him in the wagons. Canderre was a realm that produced luxury items, amenities that were known throughout the world for their unsurpassed quality, in particular various types of alcohol, wines, cordials, brandies, and other distillations. Cedric’s merchants charged high prices for these goods, and paid no tariffs to his interprovincial trading partners, so the free distribution of these rare and pricey treasures at Stephen’s carnival was always anticipated with great excitement.

Sir Andrew Canderre, the Viscount of Paige, the northeastern region of Canderre that lay at the borders of Yarim and the Hintervold, was Cedric’s eldest son and primary councilor, and a good friend of Stephen Navarne.

Count Andrew was the diametric opposite of his father; where Cedric was stout and moved with a portly man’s gait, Andrew was lean and nimble, often working long hours beside the merchants and carters of his province. He was also known to participate in the manual labor that sustained his holdings; the stables and barns of the nobleman were legendary for their cleanliness. Where Cedric was self-indulgent, humorous, and quick-tempered, Andrew was wry, generous, and patient. Between them the House of Canderre was well regarded, in Roland, across the sea, and around much of the sea-trading world. Stephen shielded his eyes again as his smile broadened; Sir Andrew was making his way toward them, having arranged his caravan’s passage through the keep’s gates.

“Looks to be another good one, Stephen,” he said, extending his hand. “Well met, Andrew,” Lord Stephen answered, shaking it. “Well, there he is, the Ale Count, the Baron of the Brewery, the Lord of Libations,” slurred Dunstin, extending a tankard to him. “Impeccable timing, as always, Sir Andrew. You’re just in time to spare us from this inferior swill of Stephen’s. Have a swig and you’ll see what I mean.”

“As always, a pleasure to see you as well, Dunstin,” said Sir Andrew dryly. “Quentin.”

“Andrew, you’re looking well; good winter to you,” said Quentin. “How’s your intended, Lady Jecelyn of Bethe Corbair?”

“Good health to you, sir, and may next year’s solstice find you the same,” replied Andrew. “Jecelyn is well, thank you. Stephen, may I impose on your time for a moment? I want to make certain the carters deliver the casks to where you want them.”

“Of course. Gentlemen, please excuse us.” Stephen bowed politely to the Baldasarre brothers, took Andrew’s elbow, and led him down the path to the buttery of the keep where the forest road entered.

“Thank you,” he said to Andrew as soon as they were out of earshot. “My pleasure.”

, the Invoker of the Filids, smiled as he watched the Patriarch’s benisons exit their carriages to the lilting strains of Stephen’s court orchestra carried on the wind. The various Blessers had arrived as much as five hours apart, yet some had remained in their carriages all that time in order to ensure that they made a proper entrance. Word from Sepulvarta had indicated that the Patriarch was in his last days, and rumors were flying hot and fierce among the nobility and the clergy alike as to who the successor would be.

The first to leave his carriage was Ian Steward, brother of Tristan Steward, the Lord Roland. He was the Blesser of the provinces of Canderre and Yarim, though his basilica, Vrackna, the ringed temple of elemental fire, was located in the province of Bethany. Bethany, the capital seat, sent some of its faithful to worship in the basilica of the Star, Lianta’ar, the Patriarch’s own basilica in the holy city-state of Sepulvarta.

Despite Tristan’s influence, it was unlikely in Llauron’s opinion that the Patriarch would choose Ian as his successor. While a likable man of seemingly good heart, Ian Steward was fairly young and inexperienced to be given such a tremendous responsibility. Still, he might be the Patriarch’s choice just for that youth. Several of the other benisons were almost as old as the Patriarch, and would bring an inescapable instability when they themselves passed on to their rewards in the Afterlife a few years hence.

Two of the best examples of this problem were the next to disembark, and they did so together, leaning on each other for support. Lanacan Orlando, the heartier of the two, was the Blesser of Bethe Corbair, and held services in his city beneath the holy bell tower in the beautiful basilica of Ryles Cedelian, the cathedral dedicated to the wind. Quiet and unassuming, Lanacan was known as a talented healer, perhaps as talented as Khaddyr, but he was nervous around crowds and not particularly charismatic. Llauron did not judge him to be a likely successor, either, and was fairly certain that Lanacan would be relieved to see himself off the list as well.

Colin Abernathy, the Blesser of the Nonaligned States, to the south, who leaned on Lanacan as they made their way across the icy path, was older and frailer than his friend, but more politically powerful. He had no basilica in which to hold services, a fact that often occurred to Llauron as he ruminated on who the host of the F’dor might be. A demonic spirit would not be able to stand in a place of blessed ground, and each of the basilicas were the holiest of blessed ground. The five elements themselves consecrated the ground on which they were built. Even a F’dor of tremendous power should not be able to stand in such a place.