Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

Dunmore was a new kingdom, only seventy years old. An overgrown fief reclaimed from the wilderness by ambitious nobles with only passing pedigrees. It had none of the traditions or refinement found in the rest of Avryn, but it did have a plethora of mind-numbing titled offices. She was convinced King Roswort created them the way a self-conscious man might over-decorate a modest house. He certainly had more ministers than Alric, with titles twice as long and uniquely vague, such as The Assistant Secretary of the Second Royal Avenue Inspection Quorum. What does that even mean? And then there was the simply unfathomable, since Dunmore was landlocked, Grandmaster of the Fleet! Nevertheless, Julian had provided her with a list and she was doing her best to memorize it, along with a tally sheet of their imports, exports, trade agreements, military treaties, and even the name of the king’s dog. She laid her head back on the velvet upholstery and sighed.

“Something wrong, my dear?” Bishop Saldur inquired from his seat directly across from her where he sat pressing his fingers together. He stared at her with unwavering eyes that took in more than her face. She would have considered his looks rude if it had been anyone else. Saldur, or Sauly as she always called him, had taught her the art of blowing dandelions that had gone to seed when she was five. He had shown her how to play checkers and pretended not to notice when she climbed trees or rode her pony at a gallop. For commencement on her sixteenth birthday, Sauly had personally instructed her on the Tenements of the Faith of Nyphron. He was like a grandfather. He always stared at her. She had given up wondering why.

“There’s too much to learn. I can’t keep it all straight. The bouncing doesn’t help either. It’s just that…” she flipped through the parchments on her lap, shaking her head, “I want to do a good job, but I don’t think I will.”

The old man smiled at her, his eyebrows rising in sympathy. “You will do fine. Besides, it’s only Dunmore,” he gave her a wink. “I think you will find his majesty, King Roswort, an unpleasant sort of man to deal with. Dunmore has been slow to gain the virtues that the rest of civilization has learned to enjoy. Just be patient and respectful. Remember that you will be standing in his court, not Melengar and there you are subject to his authority. Your best ally in any discussion is silence. Learn to develop that skill. Learn to listen instead of speaking and you will weather many storms. Also, avoid promising anything. Give the impression you are promising, but never actually say the words. That way Alric always has room to maneuver. It is a bad practice to tie the hands of your monarch.”

“Would you like something to drink, milady?” Bernice asked, sitting beside Arista on the cushioned bench guarding a basket of travel treats. She sat straight, her knees together, hands clutching the basket, thumbs rubbing it gently. Bernice beamed at her, fanning deep lines from the corners of her eyes. Her round pudgy cheeks were forced too high by a smile too broad-a condescending smile, the sort displayed to a child who had scraped her knee. At times Arista wondered if the old woman was trying to be her mother.

“What have you got in there, dear?” Saldur asked. “Anything with a bite to it?”

“I brought a pint of brandy,” she said, hastily adding, “in case it got cold.”

“Come to think of it, I feel a bit chilled,” Saldur said rubbing his hands up and down his arms pretending to shiver.

Arista raised an eyebrow. “This carriage is like an oven,” she said while pulling on the high dress collar that ran to her chin. Alric emphasized that she needed to wear properly modest attire, as if she had made a habit of strolling about the castle in bosom-baring, scarlet tavern dresses. Bernice took this edict as carte blanche to imprison Arista in antiquated costumes of heavy material. The sole exception was the dress for her meeting with the King of Dunmore. Arista wanted all the help she could get to make a good impression and decided to wear the formal reception gown that once belonged to her mother. It was simply the most stunning dress Arista had ever seen. When her mother wore it, every head had turned. She had looked so impressive, so magnificent-every bit the queen.

“Old bones, my dear,” Saldur told her. “Come Bernice, why don’t you and I share a little cup?” This brought a self-conscious smile to the old lady’s face.

Arista pulled the velvet curtain aside and looked out the window. Her carriage was in the middle of a caravan consisting of wagons and soldiers on horseback. Mauvin and Fanen were somewhere out there, but all she could see was what the window framed. They were in the Kingdom of Ghent, although Ghent had no king. The Nyphron Church administered the region directly and had for several hundred years. There were few trees in this rocky land and the hills remained a dull brown as if spring was tardy-off playing in other realms and neglecting its chores here. High above the plain a hawk circled in wide loops.

“Oh dear!” Bernice exclaimed as the carriage bounced again. Oh dear! was as close as Bernice ever came to cursing. Arista glanced over to see that the jostling was making the process of pouring the brandy a challenge. Sauly with the bottle, Bernice with the cup, their arms shifting up and down struggling to meet in the middle like some test-of-skill at a May Fair-a game designed to look simple but ultimately embarrassed the players. At last, Sauly managed to tip the bottle and they both cheered.

“Not a drop lost,” he said pleased with himself. “Here’s to our new ambassador. May she do us proud.” He raised the cup, took a large mouthful and sat back with a sigh. “Have you been to Ervanon before, my dear?”

She shook her head.

“I think you will find it spiritually uplifting. Honestly, I am surprised your father never brought you here. It is a pilgrimage every member of the Church of Nyphron needs to make once in their life.”

Arista nodded, failing to mention her late father was not terribly devout. He had been required to play his part in the religious services of the kingdom, but often skipped them if the fish were biting, or if the huntsmen reported spotting a stag in the river valley. Of course, there were times when even he sought solace. She had long wondered about his death. Why was he in the chapel the night that miserable dwarf stabbed him? More importantly, how did her Uncle Percy know he would be there and use this knowledge to plot his death? It puzzled her until she realized he was not there praying to Novron or Maribor-he was talking to her. It was the anniversary of the fire. The date Arista’s mother died. He probably visited the chapel every year and it bothered Arista that her uncle knew more about her father’s habits than she did. It also disturbed her that she had never thought to join him.

“You will have the privilege of meeting with his holiness the Archbishop of Ghent.”

She sat up surprised. “Alric never mentioned anything about a meeting. I thought we were merely passing through Ervanon on our way to Dunmore.”

“It is not a formal meeting. He is eager to see the new Ambassador of Melengar.”

“Will I be meeting with the patriarch as well?” she asked concerned. Not being prepared for Dunmore was one thing, but meeting the patriarch with no preparation would be devastating.

“No,” Saldur smiled like a man amused by a child’s struggle to take her first steps. “Until the Heir of Novron is found, the patriarch is the closest thing we have to the voice of god. He lives his life in seclusion, speaking only on rare occasions. He is a very great man, a very holy man. Besides, we can’t keep you too long. You don’t want to be late for your appointment with King Roswort in Glamrendor.”