Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

In the main hall, Duke Fenric sat with a group of his soldiers. A priest offered them food and drink. Fenric must not have trusted the man or his charity because he simply ignored the offerings.

The first thing Laedron noticed about the duke was the impressive signet ring which bore the crest of the Sorbian royal family. The duke’s armor glimmered even in the dim light of the palace halls, and it had hardly a scrape or scratch from the previous day’s engagement. His face, goatee, and hair were all perfectly groomed.

“Duke Fenric,” Laedron said, bowing.

“And who are you, young man? Another priest coming to placate me?”

“Your servant, my lord. Your subject.”

“My subject? Your dulcet words will garner you no more favor with me than speaking plainly,” Fenric said with a sneer.

“I do speak plainly, Sire. I am Laedron Telpist of Reven’s Landing.”

“Telpist… a name that I have heard before, yet I cannot place. Reven’s Landing, you say?”

“Yes, my duke. My father Wardrick Telpist was appointed as Bannor of that village by your brother, the king.”

“No need to avert your gaze, then. My countrymen should look me in the eye when speaking.”

“My apologies. I had gone so long in the guise of a Heraldan that their customs have become natural to me.” Laedron looked up at Fenric’s face. “I have come to talk of peace with you, my lord. These priests, being of weak will and filled with want for a time since passed, had elevated a charlatan to their highest office. The man persuaded them into a false conviction, then launched an attack against us in secret to provoke this war.”

“What matter or concern is that of mine? Mistakes on their part do not facilitate a change of heart on mine. My nephew, your crown prince, lies dead at the hands of these miscreants, and my brother, your king, has ordered me to capture this country. Nothing has changed.”

“My lord, I beg to differ,” Laedron said, glancing at Fenric’s soldiers. “You have few men left, too few, in my mind, to continue. Thus, now is the best time to consider alternatives.”

“We can send word for more men. Surely, you know that we have many more men willing to fight-and die, if need be-for his majesty, King Xavier. A vengeful father is slow to forgive.”

“Such a move is needless. His majesty has taken revenge upon the wrongdoers already, by my hand and those of my friends.”

“Yours?”

“We serve the Shimmering Dawn, my lord. We have completed our mission against Gustav Drakar, and we have done away with Andolis, more commonly known as Tristan the Fourth. This priest, Jurgen, has helped us every step of the way because he believes in justice, not power or prestige.”

“What of the Falacorans?”

Jurgen stepped forward and said, “If we declare a truce, the Falacorans will be forced to follow. They would have little choice.”

“Little choice? They possess armies, ships, and the will to continue the fight, Priest.”

Jurgen shook his head. “If we declare peace, I assure you that the Falacorans will obey the terms. They accede to our diplomatic actions in all things, especially those we create, and they would lack a case for war if they did not. The entire world would condemn them for continuing to fight without cause.”

“Then you can promise that the Falacoran fleet will leave the Wayfarer’s Strait and stop harassing our merchant vessels?” Fenric asked.

Laedron hadn’t considered the impact of the war on the grander scale. A Falacoran battle fleet in the Wayfarer’s Strait?This war has taken on a wide-reaching scale. For him to even mention their presence must mean they are causing havoc on the open sea .

“Yes, we will swear by it,” Jurgen said, offering his hand. “If you say the word, I will dispatch the fastest ship I can find to carry word to Wintermere, then on to Talamere.”

Wintermere and Talamere. A great port and the capital of Falacore .

Fenric took Jurgen’s hand in an embrace. “Good. Then, I shall return to Balfan and depart these lands. Give me a day’s time to return to my ships, and the blockade shall end. Your ship will pass unimpeded.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Jurgen said with a bow.

Fenric narrowed his eyes. “Strange…”

“Yes?”

“I have never had a priest bow to me before. They usually expect it the other way around.”

“No, my lord. I bow because you have given my people a great boon this day. The gift of life and peace.” Jurgen gestured to the door. “We can arrange wagons-”

“No need. My men can march. I, however, will require a horse. The sooner I can get word to my fleet, the sooner we can put an end to this madness.”

“Take one of the geldings from the palace stables.” Jurgen pointed over his shoulder. “Below those stairs and to the left.”

“I hope we are never forced to meet again under such circumstances,” Fenric said, approaching the door.

“So long as I live, I shall prevent it.”

Once Fenric and his men left, Jurgen turned to Laedron. “You never cease to impress me, Sorcerer.”

“Thank you, Vicar.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I shall speak to the consulship and inform them of this good news. I appreciate all you have done for us.”

Laedron watched Jurgen leave. The first of our goodbyes . They’d had their arguments and confrontations, but Laedron remembered some good times with Jurgen. He also knew that he would probably never see Jurgen again, as their roads were unlikely to cross in the foreseeable future. We’re from two different worlds. He’ll remain in his, and one day soon, I hope to return to mine .

Arriving back at the Shimmering Dawn headquarters, Laedron took a long look at the fountain out front, the golden chalice Meklan Draive had mentioned when he began the journey in Westmarch. The structure, a dilapidated church, housed the few men who remained of the order in Azura. It stood as a testament to strife and troubles in a time of madness and ancient grudges, a time of both triumph and defeat.

The journey had brought him a world away from his home, and he’d had the distinct privilege of seeing the best and worst of his fellows-the depths of Marac’s grief and the heights of his bravery, the transformation of Brice from a mere tailor to a picker of locks and seeker of adventure. The journey had changed Laedron, too. No longer did he concern himself with learning lesser magic to appease a teacher. Magic had become a tool of survival, and he wielded it well. Ismerelda had passed her legacy on to him, and he had taken up the banner of her teachings and carried it forward against the Zyvdredi. In a way, he felt a part of a war still waged, one in which he hadn’t realized he was a combatant. He knew that war, the ageless fight between the Uxidin and Zyvdredi, would carry on long after he lay down his scepter.

Some part of him didn’t want the war to be over, for an end to the fighting meant an end to their adventures. Perhaps the end need not come so soon. Maybe adventure lay before us still .

The streets had seemed kinder on his return to the headquarters. They no longer appeared as hostile as when he had first arrived or any of the times he had gone out into the city before the peace settlement. Smiling, Laedron entered the building and dipped his head to Marac and Brice sitting at the common table.

“What’s that smile all about? Have you done it?” Marac asked.

Laedron nodded. “It is done. Fenric has departed with an offering of peace, and the war shall soon be at an end.”

“Finally,” Brice said. “Now, we can go home.”