The City of Silver, page 1
part #1 of Moonsong Series
The City of Silver
Moonsong, Book I
By
David V. Stewart
©2014-2019 David V Stewart. All rights reserved. All persons depicted herein are fictitious. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design and © by David V. Stewart.
Cover assets by romanlv, yotrakbutda, konradbak, Leo Lintang, sommai, mdesigner125, Shutter2U, bint87, Igor Igorevich, and DigiZCP.
Map by David V. Stewart ©2019
Body Font: Arno Pro
Headline Font: Trajan Pro 3
Contents
Map of Western Deideron
Prelude: Power
I: Dry Highlands
II: The Silver City
III: Farthow
IV: Three Sisters
V: The Trail
VI: Just Johnny
VII: In a Pinch
VIII: Streets of Silver
IX: A Breath
X: Glamour
XI: Cadence
About the Author
For Houkje
Map of Western Deideron
The City of Silver
Prelude: Power
“Tell me, Vindrel, what is power?”
Sarthius Catannel turned his head away from the rail for a moment to regard Claire as she stepped across the threshold to the small balcony overlooking the courtyard. Below his shock of blonde hair, his green eyes stared at her with the same vacant stillness as when she had met the man years before. She felt a chill and drew her robes around her body tightly.
“Power, sir?” Vindrel, the dark-headed captain of the guard for as long as Claire could remember, stood beside Sarthius, his uniform of blue and green crisp as always.
“Yes, power.” Sarthius stared out of the balcony as Claire crept up to stand close behind him. “What does it mean to have power? To be powerful? This philosophical quandary has been on my mind of late.” She could smell the fire in the courtyard below, and quickly pieced together what was taking place. She didn’t want to look, but knew somehow, she would. In the end, she would not be able to avoid it. Sarthius would see to that.
“Power…” Vindrel looked down for a moment. “Power is the ability to exact your will. To do what you wish.”
Claire noticed the flintlock pistol that Vindrel openly carried in defiance of Church Law. It was a generally accepted fact that Vindrel was a Somniatel, though nobody ever dared to accuse him. Watching him look out to the courtyard with his familiar stone-cutting gaze, she believed he could, in truth, be a member of one of the strange rustic clans that as much as worshipped the magical and technological heresies of the Dream God, living like savages in wilds of the world. If it was true, it explained much of his retention with the young count; Dream-cultists were valuable sell-swords, just as much for their uncanny, even supernatural, skills as for their lack of ethics.
“Power to do as you wish… A good answer,” Sarthius said, “but not quite right, I think. A woodcutter chops down a tree because he wishes it. Is he powerful?”
“He is to the tree,” Vindrel said, scratching his thick, black beard.
Sarthius cracked a smile. “So he is. What do you say, Claire?”
Claire felt a lump in her throat as the count’s empty eyes met hers again. “I think the woodcutter is not the powerful one in this scenario.”
“And why?” Sarthius said.
“Because he can’t chop down the tree. He needs an axe. It is the axe that has true power,” Claire said, doing her best to stand up straight and look the part of her position as high cleric.
“Spoken like someone who truly understands the Canon,” Sarthius said. “I’d expect nothing less than an acknowledgement of the gifts of the Gods of Knowledge to man.”
“But it is the woodcutter who swings the axe,” Vindrel said. “The axe is just a tool.”
“Like you?” Claire said. The words came out with the wrong tone – far too assertive. A bead of sweat broke out on her brow.
“Aren’t we all?” Vindrel said, a slight smile parting his beard and bringing out lines around his eyes. “It is Count Catannel that is the wielder, even if the tools can think.” Vindrel’s eyes were narrowed in the bright light from the cloudless sky, drawing in shades of yellow to his iris.
“I like this analogy,” Sarthius said. “But it is incomplete.” His lips twisted into the semblance of a smile, though the shape was somehow perverted. He gestured for Claire to approach the rail. She swallowed, feeling the lump in her throat return. She stepped up beside the count, looking out over the ornate stone rail to the courtyard below. There was a raging fire beneath a raised earthen platform, a stage that usually served up executions in the form of hangings. That day, however, the deathly theater would not display such a casual disbursement of criminals. Fire was for apostates of the most dangerous sort. “The woodcutter has as much in common with the axe as the axe does the tree.”
“How so?” Vindrel said.
“The axe has no will. No real will, and like you said, power is the ability to exact your will, though it is also more than that,” Sarthius said. “The axe is merely doing what it was designed to do.” He nodded and smiled at Claire. “By the god Ferral, of course.”
“Of course,” Claire said.
“Not at all like myself and Vindrel.” Sarthius chuckled. “For the woodcutter is also doing what he was designed to do. He too is a tool, serving masters he does not even recognize as such. He cuts the trees because they have value to others, not himself. The trees are merely a means to some other end – his family and livelihood, perhaps.”
“That seems like life in general,” Vindrel said. “The baker bakes to feed others, not himself. If you don’t mind me saying so, aren’t we all just serving some other’s end with our actions? Even a king may serve the gods.”
“I don’t mind you saying what you wish. Better than groveling,” Sarthius said. “Everyone serves somebody else, thus sayeth wise Denarthal, yes?” He cast a glance to Claire, then turned as another set of footsteps entered.
It was Donovan Dunneal, a man who had been given his naval commission from his high birth and advanced it through a type of brutality that even the court cleric could not avoid hearing about. Claire envied him less that Vindrel, if only because she knew that in the shifting landscape of power on the Isle of Veraland, a birthright was more likely to be a liability than a blessing. At least beyond the Cataling court she had no claim to power, and thus nobody beyond plotting to usurp her.
“Yes, you are correct, my lord,” Claire said, choosing to lock eyes with the clean-shaven Dunneal as he approached rather than look out to the courtyard. She said formally, “Our place among all others is the gift of Denarthal. His knowledge is the foundation of our society. Our interdependence and interconnections are bound by his gift of the coin.” Feeling awkward staring at Dunneal, she looked down on the courtyard. Only a few people stood to witness what was going to happen. For what Claire expected to see, usually only the most perverse residents of the city enjoyed bearing witness.
“The truly powerful do not submit to such notions of interdependence, cleric,” Vindrel said. “The powerful do what they will.”
“Exactly,” Sarthius said. “I knew I made a good decision keeping you on. The axe would only be truly powerful if it cut the woodcutter, rather than the tree.”
“I don’t follow, lord,” Claire said.
“To be powerful, you must be able to make the wills of others conform to your own.” Sarthius gave her a smirk, but his eyes were as calm and still as ever. “To be powerful is to make the system into what you want it to be.”
“Such ideas are dangerous,” Claire said. “In the wrong company, of course. The same goes for your gun, Vindrel.”
“Are you the wrong company?” Sarthius said, raising his eyebrows.
“No, my lord,” Claire said. “As cleric to your grace and the church of the city, I am merely giving advice for your dealings with the world. You have done much to further the church and its ministry, but there are men who prefer to judge according to outward displays, and not actions.”
“I am lucky to have such a wise counselor,” Sarthius said. “Action… perhaps that is the last element of power. If you have the power to do something and never do it, who is to say you had the power at all? Yes, power only exists if you use it.”
“Otherwise a beggar could claim to be the greatest sorcerer in the world,” Dunneal said.
Sarthius chuckled, in a deep and scratchy tone. “Yes, of course. Let us observe an element of power. And of action, for the glory of the church and her holy gifts.” He nodded toward the platform below.
The scattered crowd of mostly men began to hoot as the door to the dungeon was opened and the guards appeared, chains between them holding a young woman, her white flesh shining brightly under the noon sun. She was naked, and even from the heights of the small room, streaks of grey grit could be seen on her flesh.
Ardala, Claire thought as she watched the frightened face dart to the men of the crowd. It was only a few weeks prior when she had seen the same woman in the halls of the castle, busying herself with bed changes and cleaning. She was one of the few servants that didn’t seem totally worn down by the atmosphere of the place. Eventually, all of them shared the same vacant eyes as the count. Claire wondered silently if her own eyes looked like that.
“So rare to see a mage burned in these all too dry times, eh?” Sarthius said.
“I thought she talked,
“She did,” Sarthius said. “She told us everything, and with not much effort, I must say. The torturer was disappointed.”
“Most disappointed,” Dunneal said, casting a sickly look to Claire.
“Yes, but she was lying,” Vindrel said. “The Lady was not in the tavern when we went.”
“She was telling the truth,” Sarthius said. “I could see it in her eyes.”
“Then why are you killing her?” Claire felt sick as she watched the young woman being led up the steps. The fire blazed off the end of the platform.
“Because I am a man of actions, not words,” Sarthius said. “Whether she lied or not, the result was the same.”
“But do you have to?” Claire said. She squeezed back tears as a leather bag was placed around the young woman’s neck.
“I do,” Sarthius said. “Power does not exist unless you use it. This must be done. For her. For these men here. For all who would betray me. And for the men below, their wives, their children… all the people of Cataling, who must believe not only that magic exists, but that their lord and their church are greater than it.”
Claire turned away, covering her mouth. “You… Have no betrayers here, lord,” she said through a choke.
“Do you not wish to watch?” Sarthius said. “It is so rare that we see a mage cleansed from the world. I do this as much for the church as for my court.”
“No, I don’t want to watch, lord,” Claire said.
“Then why did you come up here?” Sarthius’s eyes remained fixed on the scene outside.
“I just…” Claire took a breath and looked out the door. “Wanted to inform you of the death of King Grasslund.”
“That is good news,” Sarthius said with a smile, still never taking his eyes away from the scene below.
“Yes,” Claire said. “It seems that his grief over the excommunication and banishment of his last son was too much for him, and he succumbed to his sickness.”
“The writ of ascension?” Sarthius said.
“It is being cleared by the high priest as we speak,” Claire said. “We can organize the coronation as soon as the writ has been acknowledged by all the other high lords.”
“Good,” Sarthius said. “It seems your job will require a bit of haste, Vindrel. I want the Lady here for the coronation. I want the Grand Cleric to see her here with me.”
“I have a good idea where she’s heading,” Vindrel said, clearing his throat. “I’ll need a ship.”
“I’ll give you more than that. Captain Dunneal? Or is it admiral now?” Sarthius smiled at Dunneal.
“I think it’s a fitting time for that promotion,” Vindrel said.
Dunneal bowed with a smile. “Thank you. I shall not disappoint you, your highness.”
“I like the sound of that. Your highness,” Sarthius said.
Dunneal smiled. “Your highness, something occurs to me. Need the Lady be present for the coronation?”
“The church will observe the law,” Claire cut in. She looked down as Sarthius narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m merely letting you know the temper of the Grand Cleric, your highness.”
“What I mean,” Dunneal said, “is… How shall I put this? What if tragedy were to strike your beloved, and you were to remarry?”
“That would be quite a delay,” Vindrel said.
Dunneal chuckled. “We can write whatever story we choose. Right, Claire?”
“Yes, your highness,” Claire said.
Sarthius leaned over and looked down at the crowd. His eyes narrowed. “Yes. Who is to say that my wife did not already die, perhaps a month past, and that we held the news for our grief?” He scratched his jaw. “I have considered this. But then I would lose my ties to the Hviterland and the rest of the Northmarch.” Sarthius laughed. “You’re a good battle tactician, Dunneal, but truly you need a king to manage a war.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” Dunneal said.
“Coronation is merely the inevitable first step,” Sarthius said. “I do nothing without purpose. You must think beyond the battle and consider what our navy – the navy of a united Veraland – can accomplish on a broader scale. That is, if you wish to keep the position you have been promised.”
“Aye sir,” Dunneal said. “I will endeavor toward readiness as my highest priority.”
“Vindrel, you have your ship.”
“Understood, sire,” Vindrel said. “They won’t escape me.”
“They?” Dunneal said.
“She had help besides the witch,” Vindrel said. “I think I know who, based on my contacts.”
“We’re checking every ship that leaves,” Dunneal said. “Nothing that floats is getting out without a thorough inspection.”
“They’re already gone,” Vindrel said. “Out into the dry highlands. But don’t worry. Their options are limited. We’ll find them.”
Sarthius glanced back at the cleric. “Ah, Claire, you may leave now, if this scene does not suit you.”
“Thank you, my li – your highness,” Claire corrected herself.
“Oh,” Sarthius said. “I have another stipend for your daughter’s studies.” He reached in his pocket and drew forth a small bag.
Claire looked at Vindrel, who seemed not to react. The bag, made of burlap and topped with a simple string, sat in Sarthius’s palm.
My daughter. Marriage and children were not permitted for the devotees of Verbus, the priesthood that managed the church itself, serving as clergy to all other clergymen. The Church of the Twelve was the source of all knowledge in Deideron, and indeed the world, for beyond the divine strand and the fractured North the land seemed to be filled with warring savages: men who had forgotten the light of the Twelve Gods and their gifts, and people whose humanity was in real doubt – remnants of the old races.
Claire’s daughter Maribel was the result of her failing at being neutral with the nobility – failing to uphold her oaths. The girl’s father had been a prince in the warring kingdoms of the divine strand, the remnants of the last great holy empire, and that put her at great risk of harm from competitors to the eleven thrones. She had managed to enroll her daughter in a devotion path to Nostera, the goddess of healing, much younger than would normally be allowed, in order to keep her hidden away. This she kept a secret to all, even the girl’s father, but Sarthius had known about Maribel almost as soon as she had accepted a position as minister in Cataling. Somehow, the count knew everything.
He had come to her offering charity in the form of an educational stipend, but she understood what it truly was: a threat, and the sort of threat that keeps a woman up at night. Knowledge was part of his power, and that knowledge had been well-used against Claire. With her connections in the church, she had caused several key members of the nobility to be exiled as apostates, all with mysteriously sharp drawings of guilt and evidence of which Sarthius seemed always to know.
Maribel needs this.
Claire stepped forward to take the bag. At that moment, she saw, as if slowed in time, Ardala the servant girl being thrown naked onto the bonfire in the courtyard below. It seemed like she could not look away as a scream escaped her mouth. She felt her fingers clutching the bag, but turning away from the execution seemed impossible. Vaguely she felt Sarthius’s spider-like fingers around her wrist, holding her. Flesh blackened as smoke and flame enveloped the count’s victim. Silence in the crowd answered the woman’s tortured cries.
The bag of gunpowder around the woman’s neck finally exploded, ending her pain in a flash of fire and blood. Sarthius pulled Claire close and whispered with hot, sickly breath in her ear. It was like the hissing of a snake.
“Power. Remember.”
I: Dry Highlands
The stars stand blinking cold as winter frost
The constellations frozen overhead
Within the portal I’m forever lost
Through pathless wilderness I’m blindly led
Charlotte opened her eyes to see the firmament standing strong, with the moon in the west of the sky, barely peeking over the edge of the ancient wall. She was wrapped tightly in the wool cloak, and the fire still smoldered warm in the hearth, but she was alone. The song and voice faded, sucked into the wind, which whistled through the gaps in the walls, where the mortar that joined the ancient stones together had worn to dust and blown away. It sounded to her like a penny whistle and a voice at once, shrill and yet somehow melodious, blending with the song she heard even as it drowned the words. She drew the patched cloak closer around her body, wondering how much worse the wind would be outside the ruins of the old house.
