The Granite Shield, page 9
• • •
Then the news came of yet another DeMarian bastard.
• • •
Winter, Mean Tachwedd, 638 DR
Branbridge, Branion
Merrone’s Tower, originally known as the Sword Tower, had stood for centuries. It was, in fact, a much larger structure. Begun by Bran Bendigeid as a simple tower fortress to guard the easternmost boundary of Branbridge, it had been expanded by Demnor the First to include a moat and outer curtain wall. Atreus the First had given it to the Knights of the Sword in 350 DR in recognition of their service in Heathland, and they had expanded the inner buildings to include an enlarged barracks, hospital, expansive storehouses and a Sword Chapel.
With the official disbandment of the Sword Knights by Essusiate Aristok Kassandra the Fourth in 560 DR, the tower fortress had been handed over to the Order of the Knights of Merrone. Successive Captains had enlarged the armory, added secondary towers and armaments to the curtain wall, and walled up the chapel.
It also had a full complement of cells, both above and below ground, but they were far older.
Caliston DeFrances had visited Merrone’s Tower on many occasions. As Page to Drusus DeMarian, he had accompanied the Duke of Yorbourne there on official functions, been sponsored into the Order of Merrone, served his time as a Junior Knight guarding its battlements, and been given the Captaincy by the Aristok Marsellus, all within its thick stone walls. It was here that he went after he received the news.
Most prisoners were held in one of the many secondary towers around the curtain wall, but some found themselves in the somewhat more comfortable accommodations in the main tower. Barian Alder was one of these prisoners. Moved to this more secure location while awaiting execution, he was allowed the occasional visitor, but it was the Essusiate Lord High Bishop himself who visited most often.
Now Caliston nodded to the Knights on guard before entering.
The apartments were not large, but neither were they small. They included an outer and inner chamber, a tiny chapel room and tinier garderobe. Barian was sitting by the barred window of the outer chamber, reading a book, and he looked up as Caliston entered. He smiled mirthlessly.
“Another child has been born.”
“How did you know?”
The Priest snorted. “I have the Sight.”
Crossing the room, Caliston settled down on the stone bench opposite the other man. It was important to know the movements of the enemy; with his belief in a victorious future, Barian was always willing to talk, but Caliston had long ago admitted to himself that he simply liked the man’s company.
“I think one of the guards told you,” he scoffed.
“No, you don’t.” Barian put the book aside and reached over to pull a strategy board across the wooden table between them. They’d been playing the game for some weeks now, using green-and-black pieces carved to represent traditional eastern figures rather than the Branion red and Gallian white pieces common on the Island, in deference to their opposing political and religious beliefs. The Priest nodded toward the board.
“Your move.”
When the Bishop shoved one figure forward in an absent manner, the Priest made to set the board aside. “Your mind’s not on the game today. We’ll play another time.”
“Not at all. Make your move.”
After a few minutes in which neither of them spoke, Barian placed a knight next to Caliston’s high tower. “Flanked and overridden, Sword-Arm,” he said.
Caliston acknowledged the game and then stared silently out the window as Barian set the pieces back up.
“Another child has been born,” the Lord High Bishop acknowledged.
“Essusiate or Triarch?”
“I thought you had the Sight.”
“Indulge me. You need to talk.”
“Triarch.”
“I see.” Leaning back, Barian began to stuff his pipe with fenweed.
“A girl this time,” the Sword-Arm continued. “Born to Jessandra DeLynne, daughter of the Earl of Guilcove.”
“Is she in any danger?”
Caliston snorted. “She might have been once, if she’d been the first, but now . . .” he trailed off.
“Now?”
“Now it’s becoming as commonplace as spring flooding.”
“An interesting analogy. What does the Aristok think?”
“I have no idea. We’ll inform him when he returns, but I’m sure he won’t care.”
Barian leaned back. “And what does my dear friend, the Lord High Inquisitor, think?”
Caliston met the other man’s twinkling gaze and couldn’t help but give a tiny smile in return.
“She wasn’t happy,” he allowed.
“I’ll bet.” Lighting the pipe off a nearby wall sconce, Barian chuckled. “Well, I did tell you Tristan DeYvonne wasn’t going to be the last spark from the Living Flame’s loins.”
“So tell me now that whatever-she’s-to-be-called DeLynne will be.”
“Sorry.”
“So who will be?”
Barian blew a series of small smoke rings into the air. “I don’t know, but I will tell you this,” he leaned forward. “When I sought my vision in the Prophetic Realm all those months ago, I saw an owl perched in an oak tree.”
Caliston gave him a blank look. “And?”
“And strictly speaking the owl is the Spiritual Realm’s representative of Choice, but in this instance it could also be Change. The oak is found across the entire Island. It binds it together with its roots, which is why it’s the Earth’s representation. The owl in its branches is the Aspect’s Champion.”
“Not Avatar?”
Barian shook his head. “No. Truthfully speaking, there should be no truly physical Avatar for any Aspect. It destabilizes the Realms and is very hard on the Vessel.”
“What about Braniana?”
“Indeed what? Her merging with the Flame has been the subject of more religious debates than has which God should be in Ascendancy. It should not really have been possible, and it has destabilized the Realms. The history of the DeMarians has been the history of that instability. But that’s minor compared to what would occur if more than one Aspect’s True Avatar rose up. I mean Champion. My vision spoke of a person of pivotal importance about to enter this world, someone with the power to shape the future with both choice and change. At that time I thought it must be the Vessel’s firstborn, but . . .” he paused, an uncertain expression on his face.
“But?”
“But the sense of anticipation is still with me. The owl has not yet arrived.”
“Arrived?”
“Been born.”
“Lovely.” Caliston shook his head in disgust. “The more DeMarian children we have running loose about the countryside, the greater the potential for civil strife, and that’s not good for either of our people, whatever your sense tells you.”
The Priest gave a barking laugh. “That’s where we differ in philosophies, Sword-Arm. I believe it will be very good for my people. I have Seen it.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot.” The Lord High Bishop rose. “I don’t think I feel like another game just now, Barian. It’s been illuminating as always. Is there anything you need?”
“You could let me know what Jessandra names her child. I’m drawing up a family tree.”
“I’ll bet you are. I’ll send word.”
He paused at the door. “Any new word on my death?”
“Nothing of note. Any word on mine?”
“Just that I’ve managed to convince Ariana to postpone it.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I told her your political knowledge made you more useful alive than dead. If the Lord High Inquisitor is anything, it’s practical.”
“Ah. I shall have to start lying to you, then.”
“Start? How nice to learn that you’ve been telling me the truth so far.”
His tone was sarcastic, and the Priest just chuckled in response. However, when the door closed, he stared pensively down at the abandoned strategy game. Three children born; three young fire-wolves; two Triarchs, one Essusiate. The Gods were setting up their own private board and only they knew how many pieces there would be. Puffing on his pipe, he wondered what champions Essus would name to pit against the Living Flame’s Fire-Wolf and Owl. He supposed he would know soon enough, if he lived that long.
• • •
Winter settled across the island with a vengeance. Rivers froze, and the hardened fields sparkled with frost each morning. Branion’s two conflicting religions settled into an uneasy truce as each side hunkered down to wait out the season.
Jessandra DeLynne named her daughter Flairalynne and the child’s grandmother, the Earl of Guilcove, sent a not-too-subtle threat directly to the Lord High Inquisitor from her southern stronghold: If any attempt was made against her grandchild, the DeLynnes and the DeKathrines would rise up in immediate civil war.
Ariana DeCarla read the message with her usual calm, placing it to one side to be read by the Lord High Bishop and the Duke of Yorbourne. Caliston was more eloquent in his response, the Prince Drusus more concerned.
The Aristok, wintering in Gallia as a guest of the Count of Anvre, did not even bother to reply to his brother’s letter informing him of his third child. But he, too, had received a sharp message from the Pontiff regarding the Gwynethian threat. Calling for a Page, he composed a brief letter to Murion DeFrances, Earl and Bishop of Lochsbridge, ordering him to deal with the problem, and left for his host’s hunting lodge.
Murion DeFrances received his instructions with a dark smile and called his people together to begin planning the invasion of Gwyneth.
• • •
Spring came slowly. The ice on the rivers thinned and thawed, and soon the fishing boats went tentatively out to stalk the new schools of fish. The rains began, bringing a veil of green over the brown fields and turning the roads to muddy tracks. Sheep and cattle left their winter homes and moved out to the open fields. At Castle Sidham in Suffolk, an Essusiate midwife was called to assist in the difficult birth of Etienne DeAndrea, born to the Earl, Celeste DeAndrea, cousin to the Aristok’s Consort. His flaming, gray eyes marked him as the fourth child of Marsellus DeMarian.
In Radnydd Brychan, Llewellynne ap Rowena gave birth to a second son named Llewen ap Tuedwur. He was born with the caul about his face and when Daralynne DePaula removed it, his eyes shone brightly for an instant before fading to the proper, unfocused gaze of a newborn. Sketching a blessing over the caul, Daralynne set it aside to dry. It would be crushed and mixed into a special powder to be used during his dedication ceremony.
Meanwhile, alert for the boy’s spiritual guide, Gwendolynne ap Marri watched as, at the sound of Llewen’s first cry, an owl emerged from a hollow oak tree nearby, fluffed up its feathers and took flight over the castle. She made the sign of the owl on the baby’s damp forehead and handed him to Tuedwur. After a quick conference, the two Archpriests chose a finely-woven red blanket to wrap him in, and Tuedwur carried him to Llewellynne for his first nursing. She nodded her agreement. All the signs were there. Llewen was a Seer.
Rhys, walking for some months, had just begun to talk. Uninterested in omens and guides, his first word when Vincent brought him to meet his new brother was: “Mine!”
• • •
Meanwhile, in the Sword Tower, His Grace Barian Alder awoke from a vivid dream of Prophecy. Two Gods sat before the familiar strategy game, the pieces carved in Triarchy red and Continental white. The Living Flame set the figure of an armored Seer, bearing an ornate shield embossed with an owl, beside the fire-wolf already on the board. The new figure’s face was covered by a closed helm beside that of a flaming sword, but the Priest knew who it was. The pivotal piece had arrived on the board, but the followers of Essus would not learn its identity so easily.
Across the board Essus responded by moving the figure of a Warrior Priest into Triarctic territory. Barian recognized the device on its shield and nodded his understanding. Essus had chosen Murion DeFrances as first Champion.
The game had begun.
• • •
Two weeks later, in his council hall, Owain ap Dafydd stood quietly at the head of the table, waiting for the Archpriest of the Flame to finish her blessing of his hastily called Council. The sun had not yet touched the landscape when a frantic and exhausted courier from Radnydd Hafren Commote had roused the Prince and his people from slumber. It was just past dawn now.
His hands clasped loosely at his back, Owain mulled over the courier’s words as Gwendolynne made the sign of the Triarchy and took her place beside Llewellynne, Llewen asleep in her arms. The others followed suit, then all eyes turned expectantly to Owain. The Prince of Radnydd Brychan looked briefly out the window at the morning sun, and then cleared his throat gruffly.
“Last night the Bishop of Lochsbridge sent a force of some thirty Church Knights under the command of Galerion DeSandra, Earl of Austinshire, to attack the town of Dol yn Llandrin.”
There was shocked silence around the room.
Misreading the quiet, Vincent DeKathrine looked up from bouncing Rhys on his knee. “Murion’s begun the hostilities early,” he noted. “The roads are still barely passable.”
Tuedwur placed his hand on the other man’s arm to silence him, but Owain turned to the young Shield Knight Captain.
“Dol yn Llandrin is the first community where Braniana DeMarian revealed her new bond with the Living Flame, eh? The Branions believe that place is Bricknor in Lochsbridge, but they’re wrong, mind. Dol yn Llandrin’s a sacred site of healing and meditation, the only residents Priests and the infirm? An attack against such a place in any season is a direct attack on the Triarchy. And they know it, too, the bastards.”
The Shield Knight Captain flushed as Owain continued, addressing his words now to the entire room. “The Church Knights attacked by night. They destroyed the chapel and set fire to the sanitorium. With a brand from the sanctuary’s Holy Flame, mind,” he added grimly. “They killed every Priest and every supplicant in the village save one acolyte. They sent him to Hafren Wells with the message that it was to be next.”
The outrage was tangible across the room.
“Hafren Wells is also a Holy Site,” Tuedwur said quietly to Vincent.
“I know,” he replied, his voice tight.
“I’ve sent a complement of troops under Lieutenant Cullen ap Llassar of the Flame Champions to protect Hafren Wells, I have,” Owain continued, “and another to Daffyn Tolmens in case this message was a feint, mind. I’ve also sent word to Powyn Fawr requesting additional troops from Prince Maude. The matter on the table this morning is one of retaliation only, eh? And I’m open to suggestions, me.”
Rosamund, Captain of the Flame Champions stood at once.
“Murion’s meaning is obvious, isn’t it?” she said angrily. “He intends to wage a religious war against the Flame’s new Vessel, he does. I say we respond in kind.”
“You mean attack Essusiate sites in Lochsbridge?” Caroline DeLynne asked. “The Bishop will have anticipated that and will be ready for us.”
“Then in Devonham, Snowshead, or Kraburn; wherever, as long as we strike back, eh!” Her fist slammed against the table, and half the gathered jumped. Rhys began to cry.
“Murion has many troops and the backing of the militant Orders and the Aristok,” Caroline DeLynne pointed out as Tuedwur lifted his son off Vincent’s lap. “Three times, maybe four, what we can put into the field. If he continues with this form of assault, and we try to defend every Holy Site on the border, plus hit targets in Branion, he’ll spread us out much too thin, and that will put the Vessel in danger.”
“We can’t let this action go unavenged.”
“No, we can’t, but we have to move cautiously and be aware of the ramifications.”
“That’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? There weren’t any Branions butchered at Dol yn Llandrin.”
“Enough!”
The two women were on their feet now, glaring at each other, but they checked at Llewellynne’s harshly spat word.
“Murion’s accomplished one thing already, hasn’t he? He’s forced a breach between Branion and Gwynethian at Owain ap Dafydd’s own table,” she growled, her dark eyes hotly angry. “In the Holy cave at Radnydd Hafren I swore to return the Living Flame to the heart of Branion, and I’ll not let you lot mess it up. Are we all Triarchs here or not? Anyone who can’t place that above regional loyalities can leave the Vessel’s service right now.” She pointed at both women. “One way or another, whoever they may be, mind.”
Iris ap Rosamund’s eyes narrowed, her hand moving instinctively toward the pommel of her sword. Owain moved to stand beside his daughter, and suddenly aware of her movement the Flame Champion Captain dropped her hand.
“Iris, your words were uncalled for,” the Prince said calmly. “Apologize, will you?”
Breathing deeply, Iris looked about to refuse, then abruptly obeyed, speaking the words through gritted teeth. Caroline accepted them with equal reluctance.
Owain then glared them both back into their seats.
“We can’t afford this kind of schism, eh?” he continued. “The stakes are much too high. There’ll be no more of it on pain of exile from the Vessel’s side, mind. Is that clear to everyone?”
The room was somber as each council member nodded. Rhys looked from one to the other, then launched himself back into Vincent’s arms with a sudden, “Yah!” The tension in the room eased.
“Now,” the Prince continued, “we were discussing retaliation, eh? So let’s discuss it.”
Agitated talk broke out across the table. It went on for some time, but when Tuedwur stood, the room grew quiet.
“I think we’d better stay clear of any Essusiate site, eh?” he said thoughtfully. “Remember that, although we’re all Triarchs here, Branion is both Triarch and Essusiate, isn’t it, and like it or not, we’re planning to place the new Vessel on the Branion Throne. He’s going to have to rule subjects of both religions. To my mind, leaving the ashes of churches behind is no way to begin a reign.”
