Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

Saldur continued to fiddle with the thread, wrapping it around the end of his forefinger, winding it tighter and tighter.

“You’re too arrogant for your own good,” Galien accused defensively. “The man is an imperial wizard. What he is capable of is beyond your comprehension. For all we know he may have been visiting her in the form of a butterfly in the garden or a moth that entered her bedroom window each night. We had to be sure.”

“A butterfly?” Saldur said, genuinely amazed.

“He’s a wizard. Damn you. That’s what they do.”

“I highly doubt-”

“The point is we didn’t know for sure.”

“And we still don’t. All I can say is I don’t think she was lying, but Arista is a clever girl. Maribor knows she has proven that already.”

Galien lifted his empty wine glass. “Carlton!”

The servant looked up. “I’m sorry, your grace, but I can’t say I know her well enough to offer much of an opinion.”

“Good god man. I’m not asking you about her; I want more wine, you fool.”

“Ah,” Carlton said and headed for the bottle, pulling the cork out with a dull, hollow pop.

“The problem is that the patriarch blames me for Esrahaddon’s disappearance,” Galien continued.

For the first time since Arista’s departure Saldur leaned forward with interest. “He’s told you this?”

“That’s just it; he’s told me nothing. He only speaks to the sentinels now. Luis Guy and that other one-Thranic. Guy is unpleasant, but Thranic…” He trailed off shaking his head and frowning.

“I’ve never met a sentinel.”

“Consider yourself lucky. Although your luck, I think, is running out on that score. Guy spent all morning upstairs in a long meeting with the patriarch.” He played with the empty glass, running his finger around the rim. “He’s in the council hall right now giving his address to the curia.”

“Shouldn’t we be there?”

“Yes,” he said miserably, but he made no effort to move.

“Your grace?” Saldur asked.

“Yes, yes.” He waved at him. “Carlton, Get me my cane.”

Saldur and the archbishop entered to the sound of a man’s booming voice. The grand council chamber was a three-story circular room encompassing the entire width of the tower. Lined in thin ornate columns set in groups of two that represented the relationship between Novron, the Defender of Faith, and Maribor, the god of man. Between each set was a tall thin window, which provided the room with a complete panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Seated in circular rows, radiating out from the center, gathered the curia, the college of chief clerics of the Nyphron Church. The other eighteen bishops were present to hear the words of the patriarch as spoken by Luis Guy.

Sentinel Luis Guy, a tall thin man with long black hair and disquieting eyes stood in the center of the room. He was sharp; that was Saldur’s first impression of the man, clean, ordered, focused, both in manner and looks. His hair was very black yet his skin was light, providing a striking contrast. His moustache was narrow, his beard short and severe, trimmed to a fine point. He dressed in the traditional red cassock, black cape and black hood with the symbol of the broken crown neatly embroidered on his chest. Not a hair or a pleat was out of place. He stood straight, his eyes not scanning the crowd but glaring at them.

“…the patriarch feels that Rufus has the strength to persuade the Trent nobles and the church will deliver the rest. Remember, this isn’t about picking the best horse. The patriarch must choose the one that can win the race and Rufus is the most likely candidate. He’s a hero to the south and a native of the north. He has no visible ties to the church. Crowning him emperor will immediately stifle a large segment of the population that might otherwise oppose us.”

“What about the Royalists?” Bishop Tildale of Kilnar asked. “They aren’t likely to accept this without a struggle. They have lands and titles. They aren’t about to simply hand over their wealth and power.”

“The Royalists will be given assurances of their own sovereignties. That is all they really want. It is where their greatest fear lies. They might not like the idea of bending a knee to an emperor, but they will not risk their lands and titles over it.”

“And the Nationalists?” the Prelate of Ratibor asked. “They have been growing in number. You can’t simply ignore them.”

“The Nationalists will be an issue,” Guy admitted. “For years now the seret have been watching Gaunt and his followers and it’s been discovered they are being covertly funded by the DeLur family and several other powerful merchant cartels in the Republic of Delgos. Delgos has enjoyed its freedom from monarchies for too long. They already fear the very idea of a unified empire. So yes, we know they will fight. They will need to be defeated on the battlefield, which is another reason why the patriarch has selected Rufus. He’s a ruthless warlord. He’ll crush the Nationalists as his first act as emperor. Delgos will fall soon after.”

“Do we have the troops to take Delgos?” Prelate Krindel, the resident historian, asked. “Tur Del Fur is defended by a dwarven fortress. It held out against a two year siege by the Dacca.”

“I have been working on that very problem and I think I will have a-unique-solution.”

“And what might that be?” Galien asked suspiciously.

Luis Guy looked up. “Ah, archbishop so good of you to join us. I sent word we were beginning nearly an hour ago.”

“Do you plan to spank me for being tardy, Guy? Or are you simply trying to avoid my question?”

“You are not ready to hear the answer to that question,” the sentinel replied which brought a reproachful look from the archbishop. “You would not believe me if I told you and certainly would not approve, but when the time comes…rest assured that if necessary, Drumindor will fall.”

“What about the people? Will they embrace a new emperor?” Saldur asked.

“I have traveled the length and breadth of the four nations promoting the contest. Heralds have announced it to the very edges of Apeladorn. There is no one who is not aware of the event. In the marketplaces, taverns and castle courts-anticipation is high. Once we announce the true intent of the contest, the people will be beside themselves. Gentlemen, these are exciting times. It is no longer a question of if, but when will the Empire rise. The ground work is laid. All we need to do is bestow the crown.”

“And Ethelred?” Galien asked. “Is he on board?”

Guy shrugged. “He isn’t pleased with giving up his throne to become a viceroy, but few of the monarchs are. I assured him that being the first to take off his crown will give him special privileges in the new order. I told him he would be a regent for a time, until Lord Rufus squelched any uprisings. I also suggested that he might remain as chief council. He appeared satisfied with that.”

“I still don’t like handing over power to Rufus and Ethelred,” Galien grumbled.

“We won’t be,” Guy assured him. “The church will be in control. They are the faces, but we are the mind. The patriarch informed me he will personally select a member of this body to serve as co-regent alongside Ethelred so we will have a representative in the palace.”

“And who will that be?” the archbishop asked, and Saldur could tell from his tone, perhaps everyone could, that he knew it would not be him.

“His holiness has not yet decided.” There was a pause as they waited for Guy to speak again. “This is a historic moment. All that we have worked for, all that has been carefully nurtured for centuries is about to bear fruit. We now stand at the threshold of a new dawn for mankind. What began nearly a millennium ago will conclude with this generation. May Novron bless our hands.”