Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

Laedron wrapped his arms around her. “It’s all right. I’ve felt that way many times, but things get better.”

She returned the embrace. “Do you think you can walk?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to try,” he said, sliding one leg off the bed.

“If we can make it to the common room, I have a fine soup simmering.” She took his arm to help him walk. Upon reaching the long dining table, she helped him to a seat, then went after the stew. “I hope you like rabbit.”

“One of my favorites,” Laedron said with a smile.

Driven to the point of exhaustion, the horses slowed, apparently unable, or unwilling, to press on at the same speed. Night had fallen, and Marac looked up at the endless sea of stars in the cloudless sky. “Peaceful. Only fitting for a night such as this.”

“A night when we return with hundreds of injured soldiers?” Jurgen asked.

“At least we’ve saved some, Jurgen. That’s got to count for something.”

“Of course, but I fear the negotiations we shall face with the Sorbians. What if they demand our surrender? To think, our holy places occupied by foreign troops, our people living under the heel of an occupying army.”

“You think he’ll demand it?”

“I don’t know,” Jurgen said. “Anything can happen. He could demand anything, regardless of our acts of kindness and professions of peace.”

“Whatever the outcome, I’m certain that it will be for the best.”

“Truly?”

“At least no one else will die needlessly in the war. At least the lives of the people will be spared. That was our only concern from the onset.”

“I only hope that you are right.”

* * *

Once inside the city, Jurgen led the long procession of wagons to the Vicariate Palace.

Marac dismounted, gave the reins to a stable hand, and said, “You have our thanks.”

Marac and Brice helped Jurgen and the other priests unload the injured soldiers from the wagons.

“Where are they going to stay?” Marac asked.

“Only the palace would be large enough to house them all.” Jurgen started walking. “I must rouse the steward and have him prepare lodgings for these men.”

Brice nodded. “What about us? What do we need to do?”

“Check on our sorcerer friend. He’ll likely be awake by now.” Jurgen turned to climb the palace steps.

“Well, back to the headquarters, I suppose,” Brice said.

Marac touched his arm. “Not so quick.”

“Why not?”

“Laedron… he could be upset.” Marac stared down at the cobblestones.

“Upset? About what?”

“The spell. Jurgen using the soulstone.”

“Nonsense. He’ll be as pleased as I was. Who could complain about being alive?”

“You don’t know Laedron as well as I do,” Marac said, shaking his head.

“That’s silly, Marac. Come on, and don’t worry about that.”

Reluctantly, Marac followed him through the streets on the way to the Shimmering Dawn. How is he happy all the time? It seems like nothing gets Brice down. Maybe he knows that if Laedron’s mad, it’ll be me taking the brunt of it. Or perhaps he really believes what he says .

Brice walked in first, and Marac paused before entering the headquarters building. How bad will this be?Might as well get the tongue-lashing over with .

Marac overheard Laedron ask, “How did it go?”

“Good, I guess,” Brice replied. “Jurgen summoned all the priests in the city and brought-”

“All of them?”

“Yes, from what I could tell. They healed the soldiers and brought them back to the city. Duke Fenric was there, too, and he was alive.”

Marac crept the rest of the way into the room, trying his best not to be spotted, but he gave himself away when he noticed Laedron’s complexion and hair. “You’re back to normal? But how?”

“Don’t play stupid, Marac. You know exactly how. Jurgen performed the spell at your request.”

“No, have you not seen your reflection in a mirror? The gray tips, the wrinkles… they’re gone!”

Laedron glanced at Valyrie, then back at Marac before struggling to stand. “What do you mean?” He took a metal plate in his hand, angled it with the light, and peered into it. “Creator! How can this be?”

“Did you not notice these things?” Marac asked.

“I wasn’t that concerned with my appearance when I awoke.” Laedron tilted the plate and his head, looking at his reflection at different angles. “We need to find out why this is so.”

Marac relaxed slightly, glad that Laedron didn’t seem to be angry with him. “And how do you suggest we do that, Lae?”

“By finding someone who knows. Perhaps Victor?”

“Victor?” Valyrie asked.

“Victor Altruis, the Shimmering Dawn mage of Westmarch. If anyone’s left who would know, he’d be the one.”

Marac nodded. “Certainly, but only after our mission is complete here. Jurgen may need us yet.”

“Then we must go,” Laedron said, returning the plate to the table.

Valyrie shook her head and took Laedron by the arm. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere. You can’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” Laedron said, patting her hand. When they exchanged a smile, Marac knew precisely what feelings lay behind it. Perhaps we should’ve left you two alone longer. Looks like the caretaker’s smitten with my boy.

“Let’s be off, then,” Marac said, interrupting the moment. Though it’s nice to see, we can’t wait around all night for them to stop staring at each other .

* * *

They reached the Ancient Quarter and heard a commotion from the consulship building. Entering the consul chamber, Laedron stood in awe of its splendor. How many men and how long would it take to build something like this?Surely years and hundreds of workers .

Jurgen had apparently called the meeting, and the consuls sat silent, staring up at him from the gallery. Few seemed to perceive Laedron and the others enter, but Laedron noticed the blood stains on most of them.

“Ah, you’ve joined us,” Jurgen said. “Might I present my friends, Laedron Telpist, Marac Reven, Brice Warren, and Valyrie Pembry. Their hard work has helped to bring about the end of Andolis Drakar.”

Sporadic applause came from the gallery, but it was clear that none of them were in the mood to hand out medals or high praise, and for him, the clapping seemed to be almost a slap in the face compared to the trouble he and his friends had gone through in dealing with such a terrible threat.

“Might I speak to the assembly?” Laedron asked.

Jurgen extended his open hand to the floor. “Laedron is a Sorbian,” Jurgen said, garnering a few hisses from the audience, “but he would like to speak with you.”

“I have heard that you went to save the soldiers you could,” Laedron said, walking to Jurgen’s side, “and you have done the right thing. What have you decided to do, Vicar Jurgen?”

“Nothing as yet,” he replied. “We can surrender or seek a truce, but we can do neither until Duke Fenric has recovered completely.”

“Surrender? You’re considering that even now?” a vicar asked, standing in the gallery. He was a younger man, older than Laedron, but not as aged as the other vicars as the average went. “They’ll lay waste to our capital, to our honored traditions!”

Laedron waited for the gallery to grow quiet. “Andolis Drakar has done more damage than the Sorbian army could ever hope to do. No, your honored traditions and your capital have been besmirched by treachery and lies, and you were led by the nose to this day.”