Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

“Smells delightful,” Jurgen said, looking up from his papers at the writing desk. “I wasn’t aware the house came stocked with all manner of spices.”

“It didn’t.” Valyrie wiped her hands on a scrap of cloth. “To cover my steps, I visited the market and purchased some spices before going to the headquarters. If anyone had been following me, I don’t see how they could have kept up after that.”

“A wise move.”

“A few more minutes on the goose, and we’ll be ready to dine.” She sliced a carrot and dropped it into the bowl with the rest of the greens. “I’ve made a salad, too. I saw how eagerly you ate the one at that restaurant.”

“The Refined Palate?” Jurgen stood and joined her at the counter. “Since Griffenwold paid, I thought it would be disrespectful not to indulge.”

“Then, I made it for nothing?”

“No, no. I only mean to say that I didn’t favor the one from earlier. Yours, however, looks splendid. Yes, I think I shall enjoy every bit of what you’ve made. Thank you, Valyrie.”

She couldn’t tell if he was lying to make her feel better. “I hope so.” She sighed, leaning against the counter.

“Is everything all right?” Jurgen asked.

She nodded. “Just tired. I haven’t had much sleep lately-the moving around from place to place, the nightmares, the fear.”

“Nightmares? Your father?”

“Sometimes, sometimes not. In one of them, I find myself locked in my cell in the basement of the Shimmering Dawn. That’s the one I have the most.” She paused. “I hear your anguish as they beat you, and I’m waiting for my turn, for whatever they have in store for me. Every time I see Piers’s face, it reminds me of the terror I felt.”

“Our dreams have a strange way of reminding us of our deepest fears.” Jurgen took the salad bowl and sat at the small dining table. “They also have a way of showing us our greatest hopes, despite the darkness.”

“It’s silly to indulge in dreams,” she said, sitting next to him. “The bright or the dark, they’re all the same-not real and fleeting.”

“The same way it’s nonsensical to deal in fables and tales untrue?” Jurgen gave her a grin. “I know someone who fancies doing just that. Don’t allow yourself to grow bitter from this.”

“Perhaps Da was right about the whole thing. Had I become a seneschal, I’d be far removed from any of this plight.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Jurgen said. “But what sort of life would you have as a bookkeeper for some noble? Living is something not done from writing desks and with your nose deep in ledgers. Not at all.”

“What do you suppose, then? After all of this is said and done, what is to become of me? I have no trade and no money, and I won’t go to my uncle. I can’t.”

“I know not, but if I survive this, I wouldn’t see you cast out in the streets. Your choice will become clear to you in time.”

“Thank you.” She went over to the goose, carved a few pieces, and gathered them on a dish. “Just right. The outside is crispy while the inside is tender and juicy.”

“Wonderful, thank you,” Jurgen said when she returned to the table. “Shall we pray?”

Pray? She remembered the practice, but prayers had rarely been said in her home. “Yes, that would be fine.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes.

“Azura, protect us in this dire time and show us the way. Give peace to Valyrie, for she suffers greatly outside of your grace. Pass your blessings unto her that she might have satisfaction in your name. Bless our meal that it might provide sustenance and resolve against those who would not do your will in all things. Be it so.”

Valyrie repeated, “Be it so,” and opened her eyes. She took a portion of meat and a bit of salad.

After a while, Jurgen broke the silence. “You were right.”

“About what?”

“The goose. Perfectly cooked. I applaud your efforts.”

She smiled. “It was rare that we’d have a goose, but I managed. Cooked it about the same as I used to prepare roast duck.”

“Quite fine.” Jurgen turned his head. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Yelling, perhaps?” He stood and approached the window. Valyrie got up to stand at his side.

On the street below stood four men, three militiamen and a fourth man opposite them, some twenty paces away. The guard in the front was pointing at the fourth, a man clad in black from head to foot. Valyrie spied red markings along the back of the man’s cloak, but she couldn’t derive their meaning or purpose. All she knew for certain was that she had never seen such markings.

The guard leader stepped closer to the man, and the unknown man held up his hand. Valyrie was left breathless when she recognized what he held in that hand-a wand. “Mages? Here?”

Jurgen took a deep breath, his eyes widening. “They’ve come for us, Valyrie.”

“Who? Who are they?”

“I do not know. Go to my room and retrieve the weapons.”

“Weapons? What weapons?” she asked, trying to control her panicked breathing.

“I procured two swords.” Jurgen pointed. “Get them. It seems we shall need them in due course.”

Bursting through the door, she searched the room and found the swords leaning against the bed. I wonder if Jurgen’s ever used these. No matter. Fighting gives us a better chance than doing nothing .

She crept to the window when she heard a loud noise outside, and she caught a glimpse of a bolt of lightning before it fizzled out of existence. One of the militiamen lay dead, smoke rising from his chest. Trembling, she watched the two remaining guards rush the man in black. One of the militiamen blew hard on his whistle. The chirp echoed off the buildings and into the night air.

Please, take him down . She eyed the swords in her arms. If left to us, we’ll fare no better than the dead man. A blast of swirling flames took one of the militiamen to the ground. The other grappled with the man in black, trying to wrest control of the wand. In the chaos of the struggle, a stream of fire shot from the wand, igniting the roof of a house across the street. The flames quickly swept across the roof, and people ran out screaming.

With apparently all of the strength he could muster, the militia man pulled the mage’s hand to his right. Valyrie saw the tip of the wand pointing her way, and she took a few steps backward. An explosion deafened her and incinerated half of the room in a flash of light. She felt the floor give way, and she reached out through the smoke and debris flying through the air, catching a plank before she fell through to the first floor.

A haze came over her, and she felt the prickles of wood splinters lodged in her skin. If you can feel that, you’re still alive. Pull yourself up before the next spell! With all her might, she tried to lift her body onto the landing, but it was no use. She looked below, and though she thought she would survive the fall, landing in a pile of broken wood, nails, and bricks made her think twice about letting go. Glancing up, she saw a hand close to her face, and she grabbed it.

Jurgen pulled her up, then brought her into the common room. “The swords, where are they?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking with fear and pain. “They might’ve fallen.”

“No matter. We have to get out of here.” Jurgen helped her to the stairs. When they had made it halfway down, the top of the house exploded in a firestorm. He ran, almost lifting her off the ground as he pulled her behind him, and burst through the door into the street.

She stared at the man in black, his eyes seemingly full of rage upon seeing them emerge from the burning structure. Losing no time, Valyrie grabbed Jurgen’s hand and ran toward the closest portcullis leading out of the Ancient Quarter.