Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

“Though I’ve known Greathis to be neutral, I cannot maintain an expectation of anyone based upon my experience. After all, Forane is much different since the last time I saw her. No, we must act with the utmost caution. We must assume all are potential enemies unless otherwise proven.”

Valyrie looked up saw a group of vicars standing before them.

“Vicar Griffinwold,” Jurgen said, dipping his head to the eldest amongst them. The man, judging by his robes and jewelry, seemed equal in both age and status to Jurgen.

“Winfred,” Griffinwold responded, and Valyrie likened his accent to that of a Falacoran, but sharper and with an aristocratic bent. Lasoronian, perhaps? “We’ve known one another too long for that, Aldric.”

Aldric ? Valyrie had never heard Vicar Jurgen’s first name. Not even her father had referred to him so informally.

“How might I help you gentlemen?” Jurgen asked, eying the two standing with Griffinwold.

“Causing quite the disturbance, are we?” Griffinwold asked. “It would seem you are drawing battle lines with His Holiness.”

“I only do what I feel is right and proper, what I feel Azura would will.”

Griffinwold smiled. “Indeed. I was just remarking to Vicars Tumolt and Carrenhold about the spectacles demonstrated before us, and we began thinking that perhaps Vicar Jurgen might care to join us for our midday meal?”

“I would be delighted to join you. Could my clerk come along?” Jurgen asked.

Griffinwold displayed a broad grin. “So long as she shares our disdain for the current situation.”

“It is safe to say that she does.”

“Good.” Griffinwold gestured toward the grand entryway. “Let us go. I know a quiet place where we can speak.”

* * *

The sign outside the establishment stated, “The Refined Palate,” and from the moment Valyrie entered, her eyes and nose were assaulted with all manner of delectable sights and smells. Having not eaten much since her father’s passing, her body responded strongly to the offerings of the tiny restaurant.

“A shame this place doesn’t see the kind of business befitting of its quality,” Griffinwold said, taking a seat at one of the large, empty tables.

“I’ve always understood the food comes at a price here.” Jurgen sat next to him and offered Valyrie a chair at his side. “A price not all are willing to bear.”

Griffinwold waved at the serving maiden. “Bring us a feast to rival that of the palace, and as quick as you can. I starve!”

“So, you dislike the current circumstances?” Jurgen asked once the maiden left to fetch the order. “I’ve been discontent since I heard rumors of priests training in miracles of an offensive nature-battle spells, as mages would call them.”

“What sane man could like them? If we train as mages, are we not mages ourselves, the very thing we hope to avoid? Though I am Lasoronian, I do not follow blindly, a behavior many of my Falacoran allies failed to unlearn after the War of the Eagles.”

“The War of the Eagles, yes, and the Zyvdredi influences. I’ve never truly understood the relationship between Falacore and Zyvdred, Winfred. It seems… complex.” Jurgen grinned at the serving maiden when she brought a round of drinks.

“Zyvdred, yes. It has long been a protectorate of Falacore, a place whose mystery is surpassed only by the strangeness of its inhabitants. In the black mountains, they practice old rituals and even older magic, and they rarely pass their borders for anything other than trade. Little is known about what goes on deep within that country, but the Falacoran monarchy maintains close ties. The only certainty is that strange beasts and men live in those isolated reaches, and few dare to venture there.”

Valyrie toyed with her salad, removing unwanted bits from the pile. I’ve never understood why rich people like onions on everything .

“Perhaps I shall never understand it. I would think a nation as strong in the faith as Falacore would impress Azura’s teachings upon the Zyvdredi,” Jurgen said.

Griffinwold gave a dismissive nod. “It seems strange, does it not? I’ve been told that the Zyvdredi maintain their old ways, and the Falacorans can do little to change that, no matter how much they try. Besides, sometimes I think their King Elson keeps up the relationship only to have his hand in everything within his reach.”

“One day, perhaps.” Jurgen sipped from his cup. “But, as you were saying…”

“Yes, the matter at hand,” Griffinwold said, snatching a fresh roll from the basket as soon as it landed on the table. “It would seem you mean to stand between the Grand Vicar and his army. You make dangerous enemies, Aldric.”

“The church was never meant to fight wars of conquest. I feel this entire situation has gone too far.”

“Wars of conquest? You mean of defense, don’t you?” Griffinwold eyed Jurgen for a moment. “Or has Aldric Jurgen come across some new information?”

Valyrie stared at her lap, refusing to look any of the men in the eye. The full reality of the situation gripped her mind; she was seated across from the Lasoronian vicar primus and his associates, and Jurgen had let down his guard at a dangerous time. Please, think of something , she thought, as if to will the notion into Jurgen’s head.

Jurgen sat for a long while, seeming to ponder his answer at length. “Yes.”

Griffinwold’s eyes brightened. “Yes? That’s it?”

“If I tell you these things that I know, you and your friends shall join me in danger.” Jurgen paused, studying each man’s features. “Your expressions tell me that you are prepared to hear the truth.”

“Tell it, Jurgen,” Griffinwold whispered, evidently aware he was missing a piece of the puzzle. “What have we been denied?”

Here it comes . Valyrie closed her eyes. She only hoped that the words crossing Jurgen’s lips would be well received, or Jurgen and she would be making a trip to the nearby prison for a prolonged stay.

“I have been in contact with a sorcerer, and he has advised me of some rather grim news-the truth of what happened, how this war started. The Morcaine mage academy was attacked preemptively… by Gustav Drakar.”

“You, Jurgen? Approached by this sorcerer?”

“Yes. I know it may be difficult to believe, but I assure you that this is the truth.”

“I knew it,” the man across from Valyrie said, his accent crisp and posh. “Why would Sorbia declare war upon us out of nowhere? I never bought it for a second.”

“You’ll have to excuse Vicar Carrenhold,” Griffinwold said. “His disdain for Tristan comes from a constant disrespect-”

“Disrespect?” Carrenhold asked. “That’s putting it lightly.”

Griffinwold bowed slightly. “Yes, the Grand Vicar gives him fits about his being from Albiad and their inability to help us in this war. He’s shown disdain for me, being that I am Lasoronian, but he gives Carrenhold hell. Go on, Jurgen.”

“Gustav and his men massacred the Sorbian mages, then fled. His death is the result of his own misdeeds, and I feel that His Holiness knows the truth, but keeps it from us.”

“Then we must do something,” Griffinwold said. “This war is a farce.”

“That is what I’ve been working toward these many days. I want to see this war ended and its true reason known-and those who are responsible punished.” Jurgen took a piece of meat from a serving tray. “We must find a way to remove Tristan from the Vicariate.”

“And who did you have in mind to replace him, Vicar Jurgen?” Vicar Tumolt asked.

“This isn’t about me, if that’s what you are implying.” Jurgen sighed. “I have no great aspirations. I only want what is best for the church, and I can assure you that Andolis Drakar no longer works toward that end.”