Joel Shepherd - Petrodor

Alron stared down at the golden weight on his chest. Beside him, a girl with only a little time left to live watched on in mute disbelief. Rhillian sauntered closer. “Think of the power , Master Alron,” she whispered. “Long have you chafed at the brutishness of the Steiners. You fear to lose, but what if you win? What if the faithful rally to your cause? What if it is you who leads the victorious Army of Torovan into Enora and returns the holy star to its rightful place after two hundred years of absence?”

Alron wanted to touch it. He wanted to feel its weight so badly that his fingers itched. “I have Duke Abad of Songel,” he said slowly.

“You have Duke Abad,” she agreed. “He told me of his loyalty himself. And the Duke of Cisseren.”

Even in the dark, the symbols on the golden disk seemed to glow enticingly. Alron Maerler's fingers traced their outline in the air above…Ancient Enoran. The Scrolls of Ulessis themselves were written in Ancient Enoran.

“Flewderin are disinterested,” he said slowly. His heart was beginning to pound, but for a different reason than fear. His father and grandfather had dreamed of great prestige for Maerler and the southern families of Petrodor. The prestige of respect and glory, not of wealth and gaudy trinkets. Would his forebears have flinched should providence have delivered such a gift into their hands? Were they looking down from heaven even now, damning him for his cowardice? What a gift this was! The she-demon was a pagan, after all, and surely had no true concept of its significance. “You yourself have talked with Duke Rochel of Pazira?” He looked up, eyes burning with possibility.

“I have. Many times. Duke Rochel is most displeased at the prospect of war, and dislikes Patachi Steiner intensely, as you know.”

“Neither is he a great friend of mine,” said Alron with a frown.

“It is well known that the proud blood of Rochel takes unkindly to the perceived usurpers in Petrodor, be they northern or southern. But it is clear, Patachi Maerler, that if there were one patachi alone to come to prominence in Petrodor, he would prefer it to be the least powerful of the two. As you have so honestly admitted to me just now, that is you.”

Alron nodded slowly. “He feels he can control me more easily than Marlen.”

“But you will have the star. Such power is difficult to control. The champion of the masses, you will be. Think on it.”

Patachi Maerler took a deep breath. He looked up and smiled. “M'Lady Rhillian,” he said. “I thank you. You may go.”

His fingers closed on the cold metal chain. Immediately, the trembling stopped.

Alexanda Rochel threw his mug of tea at the wall. It struck the stone and bounced, splashing tea over a garden painting, then across an upholstered chair. The messenger-a soldier of Captain Faldini's-stood in the doorway, and said not a word. Alexanda put both hands into his thick, untidy hair and tried to come to terms with the calamity of the message. A teacup was not enough. He picked up the whole tray and threw it with a clatter and crash of breaking crockery. Then he threw a chair.

Varona entered, wide-eyed, her hair falling haphazardly from her half-completed style, tied up with curlers and pins. A pair of young maids hovered behind, anxious with hot irons in hand.

“Alexanda?” Varona looked angry at first then dismayed as she saw the broken crockery. Her husband could be ill-tempered, but he rarely broke things. Then, as she gazed at him, she began to feel frightened. Alexanda stared at her, bleakly and rubbed at his face.

“Patachi Maerler has the star,” he said at last, tiredly.

Varona stared at him for a moment. “I'd heard…” she ventured. “I mean, Elisa was just saying that she'd heard…someone saying that the archbishop was dead?”

Alexanda let out a long breath. She didn't understand. She was a damn sight smarter than many of the men who thought to advise him, but she was from a different world.

“Yes, the archbishop is dead,” he said wearily, leaning heavily on the tabletop. The table was all set for breakfast, rows of ornate plates and cutlery gleaming in the morning light. A breakfast with his favourite earls and their wives, a rare pleasure. He should have known better. “Of course he's dead, our girl Rhillian is sweet and civilised on the surface, but she's certainly no saint. If someone had ordered a massacre of my friends and family, I'd have done the same and worse.”

“You think Rhillian killed the archbishop?” Varona looked shocked.

“Her or one of her talmaad . It makes no difference, dearest, that's not what's important here…”

“Rhillian could never do such a thing! She's…she's such a sweet girl, and she respects human customs all too much!” Alexanda sighed and looked at the ground. Varona came close, upset and clutching the Verenthane medallion about her neck. “I…I heard that he'd been killed horribly, Alexanda! Elisa heard…she heard that he'd been…that he'd been…”

“He was found in very small pieces piled into a bucket, yes,” Alexanda said flatly. “The bucket was found on his bed, the archbishop's hat perched on top. There were guards standing watch outside his chamber. They never heard a thing.”

“There won't be enough for a proper burial coffin,” Varona breathed, horrified. “The rites will be…I mean, his soul…”

“Whatever soul that man had deserves hellfire and damnation for what he ordered,” Alexanda told his wife grimly. He took her hands in his. “He was not a true Verenthane, my sweet. Do you understand that? He was an impostor, and he betrayed every true believer with what he did.”

“But…but to kill a man of such stature in that way…I'd…I'd have thought the serrin had more principles !”

“The serrin are pagan, my dear. Principles mean different things to them. Just because they're well-behaved in polite society doesn't mean we should mistake them all for saints. They're also very frightened. The forces arrayed against them are formidable, and set on the annihilation of their entire people. Worse yet, Rhillian's friends were massacred before her eyes. Imagine you should see such a thing happen to me, to Bryanne, to Carlito and-”

“Oh Alexanda, stop !” Varona glared at him, horrified. “I will not contemplate such a thing!”

“What would you want to do, dearest, to the man who ordered it?” Alexanda gazed at her firmly. There was fear in his wife's lovely eyes. Fear and concern. Dear gods, he loved her so much. “Varona, Patachi Maerler has the Shereldin Star. I have no idea how, but perhaps some suspicions. He has declared himself its rightful guardian, and invited all who follow its cause to unite behind him as leader of the Torovan Army on the grand crusade.”

“And what will you do?” Varona asked fearfully.

“I will do what I have to do,” Alexanda said. “I will do what I've been desperately trying to avoid since the first moment I arrived in this gods-forsaken city. I will pick a side.”

Barely had the barricades been abandoned than they were being manned again. Grim, tired Docksiders stood in rows, improvised weapons at the ready. As late afternoon shadows fell across the incline, upper Petrodor was burning. Sasha sat atop a Dockside roof and polished her sword. There were fires everywhere. Famous houses were ablaze. Smoke blackened the sky and, when the wind shifted, there would come loudly the screams, shouts and clashing steel of battle.

A man climbed out the trapdoor nearby and sat beside her. It was Bret, his previous thin beard now shaved to allow easy access to a shallow cut on his jaw. He gazed up at the battle.