Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

The Audience Chamber contained more vaulted ceilings, paneled wood, silk and satin drapes, and tiered chandeliers. Huge marbled pillars marked the first two hundred paces into the room like monolithic sentinels. Representations of Hyzenki and Aeoli peeked from the tall, stained-glass windows partially hidden by satin curtains. Smaller windows with barely discernible images of Humelen, Liganen, Ilumni and Rituni were located just below the others. A flowered rug ran all the way to the dais.

“Sacrilege,” said Sakari, his voice still passive, his gaze fixed on the smaller windows. “They are a token gesture to the other nobles here, nothing more.”

Rosival missed a step and glanced back at Sakari.

“I wondered when you would say something. Maybe, you’re getting old after all,” Ryne replied, but Sakari offered no response as they stopped among the pillars.

King Voliny sat sprawled on his throne, a hundred feet from the room’s center. The large marble chair, with a likeness of a Waterwall carved into it, stood on a raised platform several feet higher than the dais where the Astocan spoke. Dressed in pristine cerulean blue, with gold scrollwork running up his coat sleeves, the King made for an imposing figure despite one sleeve ending at the elbow. A beak for a nose and hard angles highlighted his clean-shaven face, and his russet skin shone like oiled leather. Silver highlights set off his black hair, which was pulled back into a tight braid. A foolish person could mistake his lazed sprawl for inattention until they met those piercing blue eyes. His body shifted ever so slightly when his gaze crossed Ryne.

For an instant, the King’s aura appeared to change shades. None of what Ryne saw was malevolent, but something about the aura felt out of place. It tickled some familiarity in the back of Ryne’s mind. Where have I seen such an aura before? Try as he might, he couldn’t dredge up the memory. For the moment, he dismissed the thought.

There were no guards visible, but he could sense and see their auras all the same. They were positioned next to the pillars he and Sakari stood among and at various locations throughout the room. He found King Voliny’s choice for Royal Guards to be ironic. The man held Hyzenki and Aeoli in such high esteem, yet found it prudent to send Namazzi Matii whose strengths all lay in Forging the Flows, to be trained by the Svenzar in the elements of Forms. The same Svenzar who stood behind their Formist beliefs in their worship to Humelen and Liganen, and who the Astocans and their Flowic beliefs disdained.

Nevertheless, what these Matii did despite their weakness in the Forms impressed Ryne. Maintaining a constant Forge drained a person until they collapsed. Push beyond those limits and they would die, their aura torn in such a fashion their Mater spilled from them until they expired. Instead, these Namazzi had each placed a single Forge on themselves and the surface they used to Mask their presence. Then, they stood absolutely still in order not to disturb the Forge. The smallest motion other than breathing would reveal them. At least ten guards were Masked at the pillars behind Voliny. Ryne counted another fifty throughout the room. Impressive, indeed .

Ryne’s attention shifted to the Astocan on the dais.

“It is for this reason I believe we cannot wait,” said the powder-faced Astocan Lord. “If this threat is real, we should marshal our forces and strike first.” He waited for the King’s nod and stepped down.

A Cardian Lord came forward but dipped his head and averted his eyes as the Astocan passed him. He made a great show of bowing to the King and the other Astocans in the chamber. Ryne shook his head at the gesture. Cardians believed their distant cousins to be of lesser stock, but ever since the Astocans defeated them in their last war, Cardians showed deference to them. Except in their clothing. Cardians wore bright clothes to show off what they called their ‘purity of color’. Ryne couldn’t see himself bowing and scraping to any man, for any reason.

This Cardian was dressed in vibrant yellows and reds that highlighted his ebony skin. “King Voliny and my esteemed colleagues, the question is whether the threat is real to anyone but the Alzari. Did they finally run afoul of those who inhabit the Nevermore Heights?” His already harsh voice was made more so by the growling way Cardians spoke. “Could it not be the savage Harnan tribes from within the Mondros or the Nevermore? Why should we defend the Alzari after all they have done in the past?”

Those comments brought shouts from the Harnans, proclaiming their innocence and decrying the Cardian noble’s insinuations.

King Voliny’s sharp voice echoed through the chamber. “Whatever they may be, I saw the smoke with mine own eyes and several of my spies reported the clanholds did fall. Whomever the invaders, they are a threat to us all, Lord Traushen.”

Traushen dabbed a cloth over the wet slits on his neck, which opened and closed in a slow rhythm. “The Cardian Council hears this, but in light of the past differences between the five territories, we ask for time to consider and gather evidence on our own.”

“You ask for a commodity we may not have,” Voliny stated with a wave of his hand and Traushen stepped down from the dais.

A wide, bald-headed Banai ambassador stepped up after Traushen. He made a sweeping bow to the King before he began. “Your Majesty, our concerns differ somewhat.” The Banai’s voice, like so many of his people, was soft yet impressionable. “Memories of Amuni’s Children and before them, the Setian, still ring fresh among us Banai. We believe this threat is real. It has been foretold in the great carvings of Humelen and Liganen. The day when the dreaded Eztezian giants return draws nigh. On that day, gods and daemons alike shall cross the darkness of the Nether and chaos will rule our lands. Should we not band together, Ostania will fall and the rest of Denestia with it.”

An uproar followed the ambassador's words with many a voice decrying the Banai as a race, and shouting for him to have his people go back to hiding in their mountain cliffs and forests near the Broken Lands. Astocans yelled profanities about him mentioning the gods of Forms within their sacred halls.

“You dare to speak of the Eztezians to us?” berated Lord Traushen. “The ones who betrayed all? Who deserted their duties, allowed the shade to breach the Nether and enter Denestia in the first place? Those who fell from grace, whom the gods cursed with disease until their kind was culled from the land? You dare!”

“Enough!” King Voliny’s voice cut through the din. “There is a reason I commanded this audience every day. Debate and division has ever been our failing. I waited for someone that none of us can deny, in hopes my messengers would reach him, but it seems he is here even before they reached his home. Step forward, Master Ryne Waldron.”

“Wait here, Sakari,” Ryne said.

If there were any complaints during the King’s last speech, they died at the mention of Ryne’s name. Breaths sucked in and quiet chatter followed. As Ryne strode forward, silence grew heavy in front of him. Faces hardened then melted like wet snow when he strode by them. Some noses turned up, followed by a few sniffs. Ryne felt his lips curl. He must smell like an old dartan over a hunk of rancid meat. Postures of many around the room made an audible shift, some into defensive positions, and others as if they were ready to flee. When he passed, the murmurs spread behind him. Many mentioned his sword. Expectant eyes watched from all angles as he stepped onto the dais.

“Your Majesty,” Ryne said and inclined his head to the King.

“Master Waldron,” Voliny replied, “You have served the kingdoms well in many…endeavors. As can be expected, where there is strife, you appear. I assumed one as traveled as you would have heard about the clanholds, and I hoped you would come here. Thank the Flows my prayers were answered.”