Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

At the table’s foot stood a small, dark man, lean faced and empty eyed. There was no symbol on his cloak, no decor at its hem. His hair was the same almost-blue black as the Bard’s and his whisper of Tundran blood betrayed him – this was Adyle, Master of the Institute, the Council’s eyes and ears. He ignored Rhan and addressed the Foundersson directly. “There’s another issue here.”

Roderick saw Rhan’s expression congeal, saw the figment of dread and dismay as it gathered under his skin.

Adyle was smiling like a man with well-weighted dice. “It seems,” he said, “that the Seneschal’s ears are closed to warnings. Despite the policy of this city, a policy that’s been in place since the days of Tekisarri himself, Rhan has been importing eoritu from Amos –” he threw a small packet across the table “– and I have every reason to suspect the Bard is his distributor.”

What?

The accusation was so sudden, so utterly unexpected... Roderick’s blood thundered in his ears. His panic manifest. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow. As if from some huge, roaring distance, he heard every word, every breath, every shock, every sigh.

“You dare ?” Rhan’s flare of white anger was unexpected – he was furious enough to cover any fear. “You dare go through my house ?”

Horrified, the Bard realised that with this one stroke he had lost the Council, lost their attention and support and sympathy. He would never get the chance to speak his beliefs, to make them understand what he’d felt and seen, never enlist their help for what he now faced.

And the accusation itself...!

Without quite realising it, he was on his feet, shrugging off the escort’s attempt to push him back down. “What is this game you play? You know I did not do this!” His blood screamed at him, screamed desperation. Leaving the soldier behind, shouting startled orders, he started to jump down over the seat tiers. Mostak turned, his hand going for the weapon he had left at the door.

“Gods-damned sehvrak !” Rhan spat venom.

But the Justicar Halydd was louder. “I knew it! My Lord Seneschal, this time I’ll take you your head ! You and that Gods-damned crazed storyteller!”

“The Bard’s got nothing to do with it,” Rhan shot back, “this filthy little sehv is playing games. What do you want, Phylos? Why have your lackeys gone through my house?”

“Deny it,” Phylos said. Arms crossed over his huge chest, he was chin up, his expression severe. “Deny the eoritu’s yours.”

The game had indeed been reduced to two sides, and now one of them was winning.

The Lord Foundersson Demisarr was on his feet, hands helpless, mouth wordless.

Swearing, the soldier Mostak left his seat to intercept Roderick.

“Yes, the packet is mine,” Rhan said. “But...” He stopped at the look the Foundersson gave him, a hurt child, uncomprehending. “My Lord... Demisarr...” He deflated like a windless sail. “I...”

“You’ve just admitted it.” Grinning like a bweao, Phylos snatched the packet, opened it, sniffed it, threw it at Halydd.

The Justicar went purple, shaking with outrage. She shrieked, “ I will not have this substance in the city! ”

“Oh, get over it !” Rhan rounded on Halydd, his sudden snarl echoed from the walls. “It’s mine – alone. I don’t trade it, Roderick’s never been near it. Take my head if you can – if your sword arm’s still strong enough!”

Roderick vaulted the last of the empty stone seats and stumbled to a halt at the foot of the table. Before him, chaos – the Council of Nine, the rulers of the Grasslands, squabbling like children, jealous, vicious, greedy.

He had Ecko. There were monsters in the grass. He had witnessed a piece of the past come to life. The very elements stirred beneath their feet. Their harvest burned around them and they used it only for political gain...

He found himself angry. For the first time in returns beyond count, his hope and his fear were real, and close.

The world herself screamed in his blood.

This is a decision!

And to help her, he had to face down this theatre of fools.

* * *

“For SHAME !”

The acoustics in the theatre were flawless – the force of Roderick’s cry robbed the Council of breath, of motion. He stood at the foot of the table like an avenging black-clad figment, stood as though it were his to command. His gaze met that of the Foundersson.

“This is the Theatre of Nine, the leadership of the Varchinde, raised by the hand of Samiel and the vision of Saluvarith himself. This is no place for games!”

Shocked into silence, they stared.

“You hold the might of the Grasslands in your unready hands, fire spreads through the very thing that brings you life – and yet you sentence your people to perish? Are you so bored? So consumed by greed?” He looked around at each Council member. “How can you face the memory of the Founder with behaviour such as this? How can you sit in this place of your forefathers, and not be shamed?”

Phylos tapped his index fingers together, his eyes narrow and burning.

“Remember, as you struggle for power, that the world does not turn around the voices of this chamber; cares not for your politics. I have looked in the falling waters of the Ryll – and for all you plot and grapple and scheme, the thoughts of the world heed you not. If you do not look beyond yourselves, my Lords, your people will starve and perish – and hoarding their wealth will only delay the inevitable. The farmlands will burn, Merchant Master, they will be torn apart by creatures of nightmare, and you will live just long enough to watch .”

He had them now – Rhan shone, Demisarr held back tears. Phylos eyed him with a calculating smirk.

“I am here –” with a bound, he was on top of the table, standing there as if he could call fire from the very sky “– to plead with you, my Lords, to throw myself upon your justice and mercy as I have done once before. The elements awaken: alchemical creatures are loose in the grass and the stone of your city has life. I see harbingers of the very peril the world has long feared – the peril I have brought to this Council once before. The Count of Time threatens us all, my Lords – we cannot be turning, one upon another, hurling accusations, sacrificing the innocent for a mere moment of power, a false dawn.”

He walked, his cloak a billow of black in the cold, white room, crushing the herb and its accusation beneath his boots.

He stopped before the Foundersson.

“We must trust, remember what Fhaveon herself was built for. This is a city of power and strength – and I have come to give her new direction. If you wish to challenge the blight in your crops, then you must heed me. You must help me find the greater threat and thus bring the cure and new life to the Varchinde entire!”

Echoes of passion tumbled across the silence. The Council was still.

Then the Foundersson stood, looked up at the Bard with a gleam of hope in his pale blue eyes.

For just a moment, Roderick thought he had won – that he had brought the world’s fear to the notice of the Council of Nine.

For just a moment.

Then Demisarr spoke.

“You are a visionary, Sir Roderick, a crusader for a truth so ancient we’ve lost its meaning...” He paused, shook his head, looked to Rhan... Then his eyes were pulled back to the packet, contents spilled on the tabletop, and he seemed to fold in upon himself, weighted once again by the white cloak upon his shoulders. “Your ardour touches my heart, touches all of us, but you’re asking the impossible. As you say, I’m the son of my forefathers, bound by their law. The elements you speak of are but remnants of children’s superstitions, alchemy is a tale of Tusien.” He picked the packet up, spilled its contents onto the table at the Bard’s booted feet. “Such things have no place in here. I am the Lord of Fhaveon. I must do as the mandate of my family bids. I must care for my people.”