Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

Seeming to recognize Jurgen, the commoners stopped and whispered to each other. They were apparently filled with warmth and excitement at his approach because the words spoken under their breaths changed to a dull chant, then mixed with applause until the entire square cheered his every step.

“It would seem the people are joyous at your return, Vicar,” she whispered.

Jurgen gave her a smile, then turned and waved at the crowd. “Thank you. Azura bless you.” Entering the arched hall to the central chamber, he whispered, “And may she watch over me here, too.”

Valyrie felt small and miniscule, more so than usual, and not because she was thin; the size and grandeur of the assembly room filled her with angst. So many eyes watching us enter already, and the place is but half full . Long, sturdy desks made rings around the room, each set atop a terrace of steps extending high above in every direction. The rings terminated opposite the entrance at a wide platform with a throne glimmering with gold, silver, and jewels. That must be where the Grand Vicar sits. Only the highest would be placed on such a chair .

A man rushed over. “Vicar Jurgen? We didn’t expect you. Can we help you?”

Jurgen removed his fine overcoat and draped it across the man’s arm. “I’ve come to sit at the consulship, of course.”

“Y-yes, as you wish,” the man said.

“Can you point me to an empty seat, Chamberlain? Or have things changed since I’ve been gone?”

“No, of course. Please, this way.” The chamberlain escorted Jurgen to a desk on the floor, and Valyrie followed, her footsteps echoing no matter how lightly she walked. “I hope this is fitting, Your Grace, on such short notice.”

“Fine, worry not. When arriving without warning, a traveler must take whatever he can get.”

“Your Grace is kind.” The chamberlain bowed, then scurried away to attend the other vicars.

Sitting, Jurgen extended his hand to offer Valyrie a chair at his side. “The chamber is different since last I sat within these walls.”

“How so?”

He studied the walls as if they had an answer scrolled across them. “The priests are anxious and uncertain. You can tell by the looks on their faces and the trembling of their hands.”

Sudden drumming startled her. She scanned the circular balcony lining the wall high above. The drummers beat the solemn tune for the Grand Vicar’s approach, a rendition she remembered well. Then she saw him on the raised platform, a platform which extended all the way to the Grand Vicar’s palace to the east. His silken robes shined with dyes of silver, gold, and purple. Atop his head sat a thin golden circlet-a mark of his office and the least impressive of the jewelry he wore. The magnificent onyx ring on his hand caught her attention as it seemed to shimmer with an artificial vibrancy. Beneath the pomp and pageantry, his pale skin and blue eyes were a stark contrast to his jet-black hair.

Sitting on the ornate throne, Grand Vicar Tristan IV gazed over the crowd until the drums stopped. “Vicars,” he said, then didn’t speak again until the room grew quiet. “We are at the precipice. All that we have worked toward is under threat of being undone. The Albiadines will not join us, and the Lasoronian claim they are stretched too thin across the swamps.”

The Almatheren Swamp? She recalled the tales told by her father and others of the dangers and undead within those wetlands. The Vicar’s words were met with haughty sighs from the assembly.

“We must stand on our own against the Sorbian enemy, it would appear-well, with our only friends, the Falacorans.” Tristan clasped his hands.

Valyrie had seen a Falacoran once, a gruff man dressed in darkened armor adorned with studs and spikes. The Falacorans were known to be deeply religious and strong supporters of the Heraldan church. The Falacorans, strong, resilient warriors and craftsmen, were the church’s perfect ally-a military arm to protect it from those who would see it demolished. She briefly imagined the sketches of massive cathedrals and castles she had seen books, the structures rife with arches and steep roofs. Falacorans had both a preference and a need for high, angular architecture. It reflected strength and power and had the added benefit of keeping snow from gathering too thick in the colder months.

“Our blessed church cannot stand on its own. Even with the help of the Falacorans, we will see great difficulty in the coming days without tightening the reins. Sorbia is a strong, proud nation, and it is a safe haven for the heretical sorcerers. To once and for all rid ourselves of this dark menace, I propose to this consulship a measure to fight this war. I ask you all to confirm and anoint me Protector of the Faith.”

“No!” one of the other Vicars shouted amidst the gasps and whispers of the assembly. “We’ve governed ourselves for hundreds of years without one.”

“And during that time, we’ve seen no threats as serious,” Tristan said. “Is now not the time for strong, confident leadership?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then, we must do this, lest our holy land be ravaged by the heathens!”

Jurgen stood. “Vicar Aberlin is correct, Your Grace.”

Valyrie clenched her fists under the desk when the Grand Vicar turned their way. A look of surprise dominated his features at first, then he gave a stern glare. “Vicar Jurgen, we weren’t aware you would be joining us.”

“I’ve come with worry, Your Holiness, for I have heard rumors recently of trouble abroad.”

“You have heard correctly, Vicar. The witches of Sorbia threaten our very existence with their unjust war.”

Jurgen stood and walked onto the floor the way a performer would enter a stage, then turned to face the congregation. “Yes, an unjust war indeed. Of course, war is rarely justified.”

“Then join with me in doing what is right,” Tristan said.

“We must do what is right, yes. I cannot agree with you more, but declaring Your Holiness as Protector of the Faith seems a bit hasty. After all, we must remember our history. The last time this body did such a thing, the power wasn’t returned to its proper place once the threat was resolved.”

Tristan stood and cast off his cloak. “You dare question my loyalty to the church? To this assembly?”

Jurgen respectfully bowed toward the platform. “Your Holiness, I only mean to say that such steps are not necessary at this juncture.”

“Not necessary?” a woman shouted from the gallery. “The enemy is loose in our own country. Perhaps you didn’t know since you’ve been cloistered in Balfan this entire time, or have you been?”

Fishing , Valyrie mused. Be careful here, Jurgen .

“I’ve heard the rumors, yes,” Jurgen said, apparently unwilling to divulge anything more. “And I give my condolences to His Holiness for the loss of his brother. May he rest with Azura.”

Tristan relaxed on the throne. “I thank you for your kind words, Vicar, but we are still no closer to a resolution on this matter. I call for a vote.”

“A vote, yes. What a magnificent idea, Your Holiness,” the woman said. Valyrie craned her neck, but she couldn’t see the woman.

“Agreed,” Jurgen said. “Whatever suits His Holiness and Vicar Forane shall suit me.”

Forane . The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

When Tristan clapped his hands, chamberlains approached, placing a sliver of parchment before each clerk.

What in the hells do I do with this?

Jurgen took a seat next to her and whispered, “Tristan will pose the question to the assembly, and we record our answer. The chief amongst the chamberlains will record the result and report his findings. The Grand Vicar is not allowed to vote unless it is tied.”