Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

“Slow down,” Valyrie said, picking up speed. “Why are you so hasty?”

“These are the consuls’ houses. I don’t want to be seen.”

Once beside him, she slowed to match his pace. “You’ll have to be seen eventually. Isn’t that why we’re coming here?”

He raised the cowl over his head. “Yes, but not too soon. We must go to the steward’s house.”

“The Ancient Quarter has a steward?” She recalled the last time the local steward had visited the inn-to collect taxes and make sure everything was on the up and up. “What’s the need?”

“He handles the housing assignments in the Ancient Quarter, amongst other things. Vicars aren’t required to pay rent, but we must check in.” Jurgen stopped at a door fronting a common house smaller than the others she’d seen, but by and large better than the domiciles of the lower quarters. He knocked and received a muffled, unintelligible reply from within.

“Yes?” a man asked, opening the door. “Oh, it’s you. We weren’t told of your visit, Vicar Jurgen.”

“With war swirling on our very borders, I thought it best to make my way back. I’m in need of a place to stay, along with my charge.”

The man stepped back inside, leaving the door ajar. Sorting through a cabinet of drawers, he produced a key, then returned. “Here you are, Your Grace. Anything else I might do for you?”

“No, and I prefer to announce myself at the consulship today. No need to spread the word prematurely.” Jurgen exchanged a smile with the man and took the key. “I’ll let you know.”

“Very good. And good to see you back, Your Grace.”

After giving the man a nod, Jurgen walked with more confident steps, seeming to know the way without instructions. Valyrie followed him to the end of the row, and they stopped in front of a smaller townhouse set off from the street. Though not as large as those close to the entrance of the Ancient Quarter, the house had been constructed with the same fine materials. The yellow bricks gleamed in the morning light, and the exposed wood of the supporting posts shined as if freshly lacquered.

Jurgen slid the key into the lock, then pushed open the door. Inside, a staircase led to the second floor, and the first floor seemed to be some kind of storage area-too small and uncomfortable for a living space. Upon reaching the upper level, Valyrie took note of the narrow build of the house, the open floor plan, and the stairwell along the western wall. Each section clearly had a specific purpose-a writing desk, a sofa, and a table with chairs in the back, and each area had been plotted with no more room than necessary to perform its function. Tight, but comfortable. Like the inn in many ways, but much nicer.

The memory of her former home fell upon her like a ton of heavy timbers, and she collapsed to her knees, tears streaming from her eyes. “He’s gone, Jurgen! My father’s dead and gone, and he’ll never be back!” The surreal feeling suddenly transformed into a very real, very present ache in her heart. Each time she thought she caught her breath, the air escaped her body like water from a bucket riddled with holes. She wept for her dead father and felt a whirlwind of emotions-the anguish for his loss, the contempt for his plans for her, the mistakes for which she could never apologize.

Jurgen rushed to her side and took her by the hand. “Come, have a seat on the chair.”

“They killed him! How can we help those men? How can we help men who would do such a thing?” She tried to restrain herself, but she couldn’t contain her rage.

“We were betrayed, Valyrie,” Jurgen said. “It’s my fault. I see that now.”

“Yours?” She wiped her eyes, shocked by his statement. “How could it be yours? You didn’t kill my da.”

“I may not have thrown the dagger, but his blood is on my hands. He was killed on my account. My return to this city triggered a chain of events that led us to our present circumstances.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Jurgen.”

“Then you cannot blame those men, for their error was in trusting their friend. All we can do now is right the wrongs and stop this war. What’s done is done, but we will always remember these sacrifices.”

“I miss him. Creator! All of our future moments lost by the utterance of a lie. All of them, Jurgen, destroyed by a traitor.”

Jurgen closed his eyes, a frown forming his wrinkled face. “I miss him, too. Arthur was a dear friend, but we have little time. We can either wallow in our pain or do what we must to end this fighting.”

She wrapped her arms around her body. “I shall help you. I’m trying to be strong.”

“Be strong, but not so much that you lose what makes you who you are.” He brushed his finger against her chin. “Such is the path to callousness and a cold heart.”

Who could want this man dead? She had known Jurgen since before she could remember, and he had shown her nothing but kindness and compassion. Remembering those years past, she recalled more recent events. “They beat you, didn’t they?”

He seemed almost disheartened by the question. “Yes, but don’t concern yourself with that now. Such thoughts will only make it harder to do what we must do.”

“How can you move past them so easily? Even if done based on the word of a liar, the wounds aren’t closed by simple apologies.”

“I’m an old man, Valyrie. This isn’t the first time I’ve had hardships.” Jurgen sighed when she gave him a cross look. “No, the sting remains, but sometimes we must overlook smaller grievances to do our duty. Would I have liked to beat Piers as he did me? Perhaps. But we’d be no closer to our goals. We have no time for petty revenge, and like our sorcerer friend said, we need the help.”

Sorcerer friend-Lae . He had tried his best to hide his attraction to her-an attraction she shared, in fact-when they had first met. Had circumstances been different, she might have pursued those feelings, but her father was dead and a war raged. “Have you known him long? Our sorcerer friend, as you put it?”

“Long enough to know he’s grown wiser since our first meeting. Long enough to see he’s good at heart. Perhaps mages aren’t the demons the church proclaims them to be.”

“I never agreed with that line of thinking.” One of the many arguments she’d had with her father came to mind, about sorcery’s place in the world.

“No?”

She shook her head. “Blanket statements have never sat well in my mind. The church would have us believe that the Al’Qarans are barbarians, but are they not known to sail the seas for trade? To build wondrous palaces and, somehow, keep cities in the farthest reaches which are not swallowed up by the desert? Surely not the behavior of the witless.”

“I can see your father did not instill in you his dislike for foreigners.”

“He tried, but his attempts were for naught.” She smiled. “He always said I had the will and stubborn nature of my mother.”

Jurgen paused, then grinned, seeming to drift through distant recollections. “Like the sky calling the ocean blue, is it not?”

“Yes, you knew him well.”

“Come,” he said, offering his hand. “Let us be off to the consulship. I hate the thought of being in that place, but I dread the thought of our doing nothing.”

* * *

Nearing the structure, Jurgen slowed. Valyrie couldn’t tell if his reduced pace was caused by the daunting size of the consul chamber or the number of people milling around in front of it. The building stood taller than most of the others in the city, the golden dome atop the perfect cylinder extending nearly ten stories into the air. Massive marble columns with gold and silver inlays ringed the chamber, the arches between them adorned with gold and silver banners. A huge censer hung by a thick chain from the ceiling, the incense burning within filling the room with a pleasant scent like roasted lemons mixed with fresh pine needles. Though Valyrie had seen the consul chamber many times before, she always stood in awe of it.