The Lamsmeet (II)

Experiencing the Lamsmeet was wonderful: seeing where all the Marshalls and the Lords were, what they’ve been doing, and mingling with the top of the empire’s leaders. Yet Prissy realized too late that those fabled stories - fed to him by his father for years - of the glorious, beautiful Lamsmeet depended on good news. Good news made a good Lamsmeet. Bad news made an awkward one.

And the news got worse. It was the morning a few days after the first meeting. He was joining Rhea at the outer gates. She urged him to go to breakfast with her, and he seldom entertained the whims of prostitutes, but there was something about her fluttering lashes and the way her fingers gripped his just right - it made him agree to her demands. Whispers of how he'd sell out the Arch of the Lane to the right flaxen-haired wench was untrue, of course. But if it were, it would have been Rhea.

In Ardalsalam, there were few canals, and most were brackish and filthy, but the flash of his father’s sigil gave them access to the outer courtyard. It seemed like a good compromise. But no matter how he tried to impress her, Rhea showed no surprise. She was comfortable and at home in the gardens of the College as much as she was at home in the alleyway hostels where he first met her.

“When are you going back, Paroussi?” She leaned forward and locked lips. “I hear the Lane is beautiful this time of year.”

“Would you like to see it?” He flashed a grin. “I can bring you and your sister to Wentlane, and together the two of you can live in my father’s study. He never uses it.”

“I know what you do to those girls," she smiled, "you want to shutter me away like a secret.” The way she said it seemed to carry no malice. The tone was sing-songy, bouncing and airy as if they weren’t words she was speaking at all. “Is this is the request of the Horn of Wentlane?”

If he was a more attentive man, Prissy might've seen the rushing of knights through the gates or heard the click-clacking of their greaves. However, it took the loud ringing of the tower bell to catch his attention. Annoyed, he turned his head to see which ruined his mood.

It was the bell above the Sunlit Chamber. His blood ran cold. “Wait here.” He begged her. He tapped his hands on his waist. No blade, but no matter. It was the castle, and nobody would try anything in the midst of so many soldiers.

“Wait, Paroussi, what am I supposed to do? I’ve no money!” He heard her shout as he ran off.

Knights were clustering around the gates, senior Medicalers and teachers lining up. Some of them had the same frantic, confused stare as he did. With a flash of his father's insignia, they parted, bowing as he went deeper into the heart of the castle. He fetched a featureless sword from a nearby rack. Vera soon joined him.

“Auntie Vera.” He said. She nodded as the two of them quickened their pace. “What’s going on?”

“No idea, I’ve only heard the bell, but I’ve not a clue. I hope it’s nothing…well, it’s the bell. It has to be something serious.”

“How serious?”

“I don’t know; the bell rarely rings.” Vera's gloved hands gave off a faint noise as they tightened.

“When was the last time it rang?”

“When Anaxales went missing.” She said.

Anaxales. Anaxales. He remembered that name, a ringing since he was young. He had never seen the older sister of King Radan, but he heard tales of her strange inquisitiveness and even stranger company. But she had been gone for a long time, so if that was the case, then wouldn’t it have been almost a decade since the last ring? “What about the others? Have you heard from Arathas? What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know,” Vera responded with impatience. “I know as little about this as you do. Move!” She pushed the knights aside, and while they opened their hands to stop Prissy, they dared not stop her.

A row of the royal guard kept a firm barricade outside the doors, which was opened a crack. Medicalers came in and out, followed by members of Radan’s harem. Some of them had looks of relief on their faces, whereas others were puzzled. The two of them entered the Chamber.

Laying on the bed, eagle spread, a wheezing and coughing Radan stared up at the blue sky. The chains on his arms were waning in their glow, the usual rich shine melting into a featureless, black. Each time he coughed, it would spring back to life, and then it would fizzle back into chilly iron. Clear fluid was coming out of his nose, and he complained of his back, tossing and turning, clutching his chest.

He was coughing, and it was more violent than anything Prissy had ever seen.

“What’s going on?” Vera asked Arathas.

“Miasma.” He answered. A flick of his hands and a healing aura hummed around Radan, but it softened nothing; he shivered, teeth chattering. He was delirious and trembling. “But how miasma got into the Sunlit Chamber eludes me.”

“Bring me Shayle.” He snarled through a locking jaw. “Bring me Shayle now!” He stared at a stone-faced Issadara, who bowed with grace and, without a word, left at once.

By now, Haron had come, flanked by his assistants. “Should I bid them leave, my King?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Radan said, eyes closed. “Where is Shayle?”

“Issadara has gone to fetch the Headmistress. She will be here shortly. Please, rest and be patient.”

The word ‘rest’ made the room much hotter, the air much more humid, and the ground to simmer. Prissy danced around at the pain on the soles of his feet until it subsided seconds later.

Haron, if he felt it, showed no discomfort. “My King, how can I help?”

“Be quiet.” Radan barked through chattering teeth. His skin was blackening from a deep red to a dark blue.

They could hear the Headmistress’ heels in the distance. Flanked by two Medicalers, she rushed to Radan’s side but was rebuffed by a gust of hot air. Her assistants lifted her, and she spared no time, “My King, I understand you are sick, but I implore you that such rude - ”

“Rudeness?” He growled, his face refusing to meet her. “You bring in that corpse and poison me and deign to speak of my actions as rude? Oh, what a snake you are, Shayle, to sling your venom in my presence and make a mockery of me.” It became difficult to think. Sweat poured from everyone’s brows. Blasts of air emanated from a fraying bed. Water and urine started to steam. The girls began to collapse. Medicalers started to buckle, and Arathas was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. “I should have boiled your girls alive if I knew you were going to do this.” His voice ebbed and wheezed, his throat strained.

Another fit of coughing. Blood and phlegm came out every time. Medicalers rushed around him, but he would have none of it. “King Radan, until your brother arrives, let us examine you! We’ve sent word to find Liarus; if you can hang on, we can ensure your full recovery!”

A ring of fire rose from his back. “Please, stop using magic!” Haron begged him. “I cannot bear the sight of this!”

“If I don’t, which one of you will have the stores to hold the Wall? I will not be the one to let it fall back into Salah hands, not after we’ve held it for so long.” The voice with which he spoke to Haron was much calmer and clearer. “The Wall cannot fail.”

“Let the Wall be damned! Curse that foul wall. Not a single Salah has tried to breach it since the last war, my King.” Haron’s claws raised into the air, and as he did, he scowled at everyone around him. “Don’t stand there, you parasites. Heal your king! Heal him!” The others fumbled around to cast healing magic, but there was very little happening. They were losing magic; they could feel his body absorbing it. Yet whatever was happening, it wasn’t working.

Radan continued to cough. His cough continued to spew out phlegm and blood.

Prissy stalked around the room while he watched the Marshalls try to heal the king. As Radan shook, Prissy saw a deep liquid and a foul stench seep from his gown. He was losing control of his body, and fast. His blood was a deep brown, but he continued to complain about the cold. What was going on? Did the Headmistress do this? Did the corpse do this? How?

“My King, no matter what you think, I assure you I did not poison you. On my life and reputation as Headmistress of the College of Medicalers, I had nothing to do with this disease.”

“On your reputation and life indeed. Arathas, Haron, take her to the prisons, and we will decide her fate sh-sh-sh-shortly.” His chattering was getting worse. His jaw was giving up.

Before Arathas did anything, he looked at Haron with a solemn, grim stare. His hand was already on his sword, the air around his other starting to crackle with embers. “Haron, is this the disease you saw? At Ardalvsil?”

“Almost.” Like Arathas, Haron was prepared, though his hands and his feet were telling very different stories. He seemed in no rush to arrest the Headmistress, who looked on with fear, but he also held onto his glaive with a tight grip.

“Almost?”

“My King is having a much more difficult time for it. Someone rarely hangs on this long.” Haron clenched his fists. “But it’s only a matter of time before it begins to bubble beneath his skin, and he fully turns blue.” A matter of time was a loose way for Haron to describe it; Radan was already turning blue. And for the pustules, few men and women in the room would admit it, but they were certain they heard a ‘pop’ here and there.

“King Radan, I beg you, please -” he spat in the Headmistress’ face as she tried to temper his suspicions. She wiped off the blood and decided it was enough. “Radan Ardal, I understand you’re angry, but I’ve stewarded you and your family since before your father took Ardalsalam. In any sane measure, you cannot mark me as a foe against the crown I built. Too long have I had to deal with you squandering my girls, my gifted girls, for that twisted lineage to maintain this pointless wall, and yet you do nothing but bemoan your fate." Eyes were on the Headmistress. Most of them knew her thoughts on Radan; it was no secret. However, many of them hadn't expected her to say it here, now, when he was coming apart. "You are nothing more than a child who at first sight of trouble must blame everyone else except him.”

Radan's eyes were getting dark red. Sores on his body were forming. He sat up, sweat running through his sheets. He needed to keep his eyes open. “You want the Wall? Take it.” He stood but fell, tripping over and seizing the Headmistress in the process. His hands around her neck, Issadara and Vera fought to pry them apart. Vera sat him down. Issadara helped her up.

“Arathas, Haron. Dungeon.” He was sitting at the edge of the bed, eyes closed. “Dungeon…now.”

“I don’t think this is wise, King Radan,” Prissy spoke up. Was it a fool’s pride or a fool’s fear? He wasn’t sure himself, but watching the Headmistress, whose frail body struggle against a delirious mage, made him uneasy. “All we can do is wish for your health and stop the bloodshed.”

“Don’t. Say. Boy.” Radan’s hands fell. He was still shaking, each breath more and more a laboured wheeze. “Go. Dungeon."

"You're nothing more than an animal." The Headmistress snarled. "You're an oversized pox-hound whose only ability is the magic in your blood, with neither brains nor talent to use it in any way. You've done nothing to best Anaxales, and you've done nothing to make Liarus proud. All you are is a blood king, killing women and girls to satiate that twisted rage-lust you carry." She stormed out, leaving the rest of them dumbfounded.

"Go," Radan ordered. Perhaps he meant for them to chase after the Headmistress, perhaps not. Most of them interpreted it as the latter. Haron chose to stay behind. "Go."

----------------------------------------

That day, Ardalsalam lost its reputation as the City of Perpetual Flame. Attended by a team of Medicalers, Radan’s once-massive magical pool seemed unable to maintain the Wall. Instead, he turned into nothing more than a powerless man, bones protruding from his peeling and popping skin. His weary eyes stayed unfocused as his skin flushed between red and blue. Nobody knew what was going on, but Radan seemed to be fighting it.

The next day, the Headmistress, who he so confidently claimed had poisoned him, also fell deep into sickness.

It began with a backache during one of her lectures. Then, the headache. She swallowed what little wyrmroot she had to ease her pain, but nothing could help it. And then came the coughing. A hacking, harsh, powerful cough, strong enough to threaten breaking her ribs. Then, the fevers. Chills and sweat slammed her teeth together with such force that her jaw began to shut. She struggled to ask Issadara for water as the muscles in her mouth gave up.

The College was teeming with whispers: something was going on, something was running rampant throughout the castle. Was it a punishment from above? Consider this: King Radan, a massive man of immeasurable power - reduced to a pitiful thing, trapped in his own bed by his own healers! What could save the Headmistress in this dire hour? It seemed her fate was sealed. Even Issadara and Irwin prepared for the worst with her blessing. Gassaria visited once to ask if there was anything he could do, and, unable to smile from the locked jaw, she nodded and patted his hand. It was the only graceful thing she could do.

But then, after a few days of torture, it ended. The Headmistress, so frail and sure to die, survived. The Wall, however, had already begun cooling. Night fell over the city for the first time in years, and watchful eyes from afar did not ignore this. The farmlands, once homes of evening mirth, became sombre and scared. The Wall is cold, they said. The Wall is gone. The Wall is dead.

Medicalers shut the doors of the Sunlit chamber, the harem removed. Only a small group remained behind.

As frost grew on the battlements for the first time, a recovering Shayle held another Lamsmeet. This time, one without Radan.

At her office at the College of Medicalers, the greater Lords and Marshalls of the Ardalian empire began the meeting with darting eyes. “We are vulnerable.” Haron snarled. “We are vulnerable because you were so stupid as to bring in a corpse - a corpse of all things! - into the King’s chamber. Tell me, did black magic swap your mind with one of your cadavers? Absolute lunacy to bring that thing in! I should have incinerated it before he could have gotten near!”

“I ensured - ensured, Haron - that the body was secure, that no miasma escaped the cage I made. And believe me, I know more about how to manipulate foul air than you, so don’t pin this travesty on me.” Her pointing was piercing and heavy, and with every syllable, she slammed her hands deeper and harder into her desk. Issadara, who had been sitting on the edge, slipped off and came between them.

“Why would our Headmistress risk her own life and limb if she planned on poisoning the King? What gain does she seek?” Though his one hand swayed between the two, keeping a respectful distance from Haron’s teeth, his other hand was resting on the pommel of his sword. “Consider that, Marshall Haron.”

“Anyone with half a mind would realize that she could have faked her own illness or not expected to become ill. And, frankly speaking, I am curious as to why you chose to bring that body into the Sunlit Chamber.” Vera asked.

A bead of sweat ran down the Headmistress’ face. “I. Did. Not. Know. Everything we’ve faced from the Salah thus far has been through foul air, and we’ve held them back with fire and wind. Regardless of what you think of me, understand well how my doctrine has saved us from Salah incursion. Do not forget who kept that doctrine in place, who maintains it, and who feeds Ardal with the blood of her children!”

“Oh, please stop it, Shayle,” Gassaria snarled, “You must end this charade. The ‘blood of her children'? You own the College as much as I own Magisalam. This is not your dominion. It was given to you by your predecessor and nothing but!” A frown grew on his face, the deep lines in Gassaria’s cheeks growing longer, sharper, and deeper. “And you know that Radan is the only one who can remove you.”

Arathas, who had been standing there with his arms crossed, looked at Prissy and nodded.

Vera’s eyes narrowed. So did the Headmistress’. “I know what you imply, Gassaria, but I will not suffer your implications. Tell me, truthfully, what you want to say. And if you are too cowardly to do so, then never repeat it!”

“Me? A coward?” Gassaria laughed. “The mere fact that I need not say it at all; is that not such a vicious indictment, Headmistress Shayle of Attam?” His grin twisted into a sneer. “Watch as I too conjure magic, for I can say nothing, and everyone can hear it. I know your intentions and your purpose, and you cannot convince me otherwise.”

“Greedy lout, fat cur,” Issadara shook his head. “Though it was only for a few measly years, your guilds have grown too voracious and avaricious to be of use. All you do is supply powder for the Medicalers. You have no real contribution to the flame.”

Arathas’ leg was shaking at the comments. Prissy, who had been leaning back in a chair, felt his palms sweat. Nothing shook Gassaria, but he refused to back down. “See how you fight against Nadashsalam without our help. Only through cheap palepowder can the fires continue to burn, and I will see that if you so much as attempt to do anything in the King’s absence, you will receive not a single stone more.”

“Sir Gassaria, please calm down,” Arathas pleaded. “We cannot risk fracturing at this moment. Radan is still weak. His strength may yet return. Remember the first Lamsmeet? He did not want to see us fight, and here we are, fighting amongst each other while he fights for his life!” The room softened. Some eyes looked at Haron, including Prissy. Perhaps, to recall Radan’s words, they would be able to soften the rat-general who had been fiery but silent, like a rolling storm.

“You’re right,” Haron said. His eyes stared at Arathas, but there was a dullness to it, a far-off drone that turned to an off-putting tone. “He did say we mustn’t fight, and as good Marshalls and Lords, we must listen to the request of our noble King!” Some of them nodded in agreement, slow and cautious. “And it is for that reason we cannot forget that he demanded we bring her down to the dungeons!”

The Headmistress shot up. Irwin and Issadara followed her lead. “Marshall Haron, we can only entertain such jokes for so long before we realize that your feverish ramblings are true and honest. I give you your chance now: rescind it, or I will respond to it in earnest.” Savan edged closer to her.

“And what will you or your catamites do anything about it?” Haron asked her. Standing on attention, Gassaria and Arathas reached for their swords. Vera stayed put, though the tapping of her foot was getting louder. Prissy’s clammy hands made it difficult to hold his handle, even as he hid it beneath the desk. “What can any of you do?” Haron bared his teeth, not as a taunt or a sneer, but like a hound preparing to bite. “I am the Marshall in charge of the southernmost fort, and while you are all growing fat and lazy looking at forests or raping girls, I have fought against, Siralians, pirates, Elders, and blood mages. And as far as I see it, the empire is writ on power, so who among you has the power to stop me if I so choose to enact our King’s desires?”

“The dog emerges,” Issadara mumbled. Haron heard it. A whip of fire from Haron’s tail slung into Issadara's unprotected stomach, scorching his shirt and sending him flying. "You mongrel!"

“Contain him!” Arathas yelled. Savan raised his morning star, and Irwin lunged with the bladed end of his staff. Haron dodged Arathas’ thrust, stomping down on the sword and bending it with a ridiculous force. Before Savan's mace could connect, a full-bodied tackle from one of Haron's servants knocked him down. Before Irwin could cast a single spell, Haron's glaive cleanly broke his staff and deeply cut his stomach. Issadara rushed to heal him.

Arathas let go of his sword. Fire danced around his hands, but Haron’s polearm was faster.

Thwack! Blood was on the floor. Arathas collapsed.

A metal ball flung right into his jaw. Self-heal kicked in, but it couldn't handle another swing. “Vera, Gassaria, Paroussi, help!” He spat out. Prissy’s hands shook. Vera and Gassaria stood by, arms crossed. “What are you doing? Haron’s mutinous actions, stop him!” Arathas dived for his sword, but the fast whip of a Vermite tail, flexible and hard, chitinous and powerful, lacerated his face, leaving a frightful scar.

He flew back. The tail slammed onto his arm. He screamed. Self-heal was losing. The arm was pallid and weak.

“He…makes a good argument,” Gassaria stroked his moustache. “The King did demand the Headmistress’ imprisonment, and if we are to follow Radan’s orders for civility, then we must also follow Radan’s orders for her capture.”

“That was the ramblings of a sick lunatic, one who takes pleasure in the murder of young men and women out of his unquenchable rage.” The Headmistress shot back. Her hands became hot, but she knew it was useless against someone like Haron. That staff of his was too long and too strong, and it was the skill of a monster too comfortable wielding something almost three times his size. “We cannot trust Radan’s words on his deathbed.”

Vera shook her head, her thumbs fiddling with the daggers in her hands. “He’s not dead yet. He may still survive.”

“As what? A powerless figurehead? I’ve seen what this does to people; Marshall Haron, you’ve seen what this does to people! Even if Radan survives this, he is King Radan no longer. The only thing that matters is maintaining the Wall, and if Radan is no longer capable, then all is lost.” She bowed her head, not as the Headmistress, but as Shayle. “Please, see reason, Marshall. I know you are loyal to Radan, and in my eyes, to a fault, but do not fall into this madness out of your love for him! He will bring ruin to us all!”

Haron seemed, at first, to calm down. His grip loosened, his tail stopped moving. The hairs of his fur drifted to a greyish down-like coat. “You speak of ruin, but your ruin is a dead girl or two. Dead Medicaler students or dead Medicalers do not move my heart. For every hatchling you lose, I've lost hundreds, even before this.” The fur began to rise again. Vera stepped back. She saw what was coming. Haron wasn't budging. “Shayle, you are nothing more than King Arnas’ favourite wench, gifted with a little power and a lot of cunning!”

“You’re right, it was Arnas who appointed me, Haron, and it was Arnas who had the judgment to not throw me in a dungeon for trying to help save this office!”

“I do not follow Arnas, Shayle. I follow Radan, and he has ordered for me to detain you.”

“Radan is in no position to make any orders! He is too weak - ”

“This conversation is going in circles. I am starting to think this entire meeting was a mistake.” Vera growled.

“It is no mistake. It merely reveals the real nature of the King’s subjects,” Haron looked at the Headmistress, “and traitors to the crown.”

“You cannot be serious, Vermite. Do you think locking up the head of the College of Medicalers will temper this disease? Your tiny rat-brain is reverting to your lesser, brute nature. Even if you are a general, you are becoming a general of dirt and nothing more.”

“This ‘general of dirt’ has done more and seen more in a day than you do in a year, Lord Issadara. You best be patient; otherwise, you may take another strike.” Vera’s words drew a gracious nod from Haron.

Issadara’s uninterested smile turned into a vicious glare. “Your huntress days are over, Marshall Vera. Allying with the Vermite will draw you no favours with the Medicalers.”

“This is going nowhere with the pomp on display. What use are the cinder-children if they don’t have the support of the empire? Overglorified priests who can cast a little flame.” Gassaria got up and threw his sword at Haron’s feet. The loud clang was greater than anything thus far. It was not that loud, but the action was clear. Issadara, unwilling to be upstaged, dropped his sword at the Headmistress’ desk.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Vera gently placed her dagger at Haron’s side. Savan, spitting on Vera's knife, placed his sword on the Headmistress’ desk. Irwin followed suit, throwing both pieces of his staff on the Headmistress' desk.

It took Arathas a while, his hands by his side, his face twisted in agony. His posture was, at this moment, small and weak, very different from the proud father who was the protector of Vendirsalam, the great citadel of North Ardal. “I cannot risk the Medicalers,” He said, “So much has come from this College, including you, Haron. I cannot let Shayle, who has nurtured so many, rot in some southern dungeon.” He placed his longsword on the desk.

Eyes turned to Prissy, the proxy of his father. Haron did not make any eye contact, but Vera and the Headmistress did. He got up but froze at standing attention. His fingers ran along the scabbard, his palms sweating. Was the room this hot?

“You represent your father.” The Headmistress said, her sharp and cold eyes fixated on his sword. “What would Parasson do? We Medicalers are the only things standing in the way of the Salah reclaiming the east. We do this for the empire. Twenty years of peace, remember that.”

“Paroussi,” Vera sighed, “I trust you and your judgment. You are an adult.”

Prissy looked at Arathas, who was avoiding eye contact. Haron was as well. What made sense? Haron’s fit of rage was strange and emotional, but who was to replace Radan? Shayle? The Medicalers? One without magical skill, Prissy already understood the benefits the Medicalers enjoy, and those benefits rarely helped the people. Healers indeed, but so much of it went to heal other Medicalers. And yet, could Ardal survive without them? It was undeniable - the flame lords kept the empire safe against the Salah.

And, he shuddered, what would that mean for his father, who was still waging war against the Western tower? What was the right move for Wentlane?

Wentlane? Why was that the thing that came through his mind? Why not the Arch of the Lane? Why Wentlane? Streams and strides and farms and merry beer and busty maidens, long hot nights and games. He bit his lip, shaking his head, and he threw his sword into Haron’s pile with eyes closed.

Arathas cursed beneath his breath. Prissy regretted it immediately. What an idiot I am! He thought. He couldn't take it back; they knew he faltered.

“You have undone the peace,” He told Prissy. “You are now under conspiracy to undo the empire, and by a vote of the Lamsmeet, you are under arrest for - ”

“Only the King has the right to call a Lamsmeet, and you are no king,” Vera interjected. “This is a coup of the highest order, and loyal lords cannot tolerate it. You cannot touch him for he is a proxy for Parasson unless you aim to arrest Parasson as well!”

“Arathas is free to do what he must to maintain order. As long as you are in this castle, you are in my jurisdiction.” The Headmistress replied. “Do not forget that I have not forgotten that you came for my head, and such actions deserve a punishment of its own.”

“If you can, then take it. But while Radan lies in the Sunlit Chamber, I bow only to one person and one person only.” Haron said before leaving. “You have no power outside these walls, and I will make sure you never do.”

“Must I repeat myself? As long as Radan remains under the care of my Medicalers, then you are under my jurisdiction.”

Haron paused for a second on those words. It seemed, only for a fleeting moment, that everything was starting to calm. Hushed sighs filled the room. Issadara tried to hide a smirk. Arathas closed his eyes, and his shoulders fell. It was a terrible gambit, but it paid off; as long as Radan was under her control, there was little Haron could do about it. He cared too much about Radan to risk his life.

Yet threats rarely moved him to comply. “You’re right,” Haron said, “I will take him to loyal lands.”

He left.

The others followed, trying to catch up. The Headmistress yelled something, but nobody could hear anything. All they could do was focus on Haron’s pounding steps as he rushed over to the doors to the Sunlit Chamber. He sped past the guards. He sped past the servants. He sped past the royal guards. He sped past everything and everyone, his hands on his glaive the entire time. At the closed doors, he kicked them open.

A ring of Medicalers around the bed tried to block him off. “Lord Haron!” They bowed.

“Marshall!” He yelled. “Show me a Marshall’s respect and let me see my King!”

“You cannot, Marshall Haron, please.” A Medicaler pleaded, his hands clasped together. “Under the Headmistress’ order, Radan needs his rest - ack!” Haron tripped him with a swing of his glaive.

“I will not suffer any challenges!” He pushed past them. He grimaced at the sight.

It was a weak man, eyes hollow, his lips thin and ghost-white. It was a tall man, a tall skeleton, wrapped in pauper's hemp and cloth.

It was Radan. He could only bleed and sweat with what he had left, no more than a log of skin and salt. “Who is that?” Radan asked. This was not the Radan Haron knew. It was not! “Who?”

But Haron, though a loyal beast, was also a clever one. “My King, Haron. Who is your heir and regent?” He bowed, head down to the ground. Radan didn’t turn to look at him.

“Ana? Where are you?” Radan whispered to Haron’s sinking heart. It had been so long he spoke those words, and for so long, they had been tinged in hatred. But here, in the weakness of this monster in the Sunlit Chamber, he asked for Anaxales Ardal, his eldest sister, long lost to horrific blood magic. “Ana?”

“It is Haron, my King.” He repeated himself, shaking with grief. The others had caught up to him, and Haron, realizing it from their footsteps, clenched his claws and flicked his powerful tail. “Who is your regent?”

Radan’s hands fell on Haron’s shoulder, and then he slipped out of consciousness. The Medicalers rushed to his side, but there was nothing they could do.

***

Nobody knew whether Radan’s hand fell on Haron because he was the nearest (which he was), but the castle was haunted with rumour. Rumour had it that Headmistress Shayle poisoned him, surely! How could someone with as strong of a magical pool as Radan be taken quickly and viciously while the Headmistress, a woman with relatively little magic, survive its onslaught? Was it the work of a few blood mages who had snuck into the chambers? Was he poisoned by one of his harem, dissatisfied by his manhood or tired of his treatment? Was it one of his generals, exhausted from fighting against the Salah? Or was it a Salah itself, finally finding a way inside the City of Perpetual Flame to seek revenge?

A darker implication emerged. Perhaps it was Heaven after all. Had the time finally come, now that an uninvolved Ardal lies in the Sunlit Chamber, for Heaven to undo the family’s honour? Was Liarus the rightful heir and not his older brother?

These speculations and rumours would hang from the tongues of sages for years as they chatted and wrote amongst themselves. They’d leap from the songs of penny-seeking bards and in the hushed conversations of drunken oafs and chatty housemaids and the smoke-filled rooms of banner-men across the manors of the greater and lesser lords alike.

But what they did know from the accounts of everyone there was that Marshall Haron left the room with his glaive in his hand, now a sceptre of sorts. He swept past everyone, including the Headmistress, and took the fastest horse to Ardalvsil.

What they did know was that the same night he returned, he ordered his remaining soldiers to melt every sigil and insignia of Ardalvsil into ingots and to tear apart every banner and stitch them into cloaks.

What they did know was that he declared in a passionate speech to his loyalists that they were no longer the Shield of the South but free men, and to him, free men chose their destiny.

What they did know was that in a much less passionate letter to the College of Medicalers and the Citadel of Vendirsalam, he penned a flier to be seen in all corners of the empire:

> Ardalvsil, now known as the Free Nation of Haronvsil, encourages like-minded talent and spirit to seek their fortunes and ability here. All those slave in steel and coin are forgiven of their servitude, for this is a nation of free-men and women, as the first humans out of the Lauch intended.

>

> Salah and Men alike are welcome. Beasts will find comfort here. Intolerance is past, no magic required or encouraged.

>

> Signed,

> Commandant Haron I

----------------------------------------

Leanne and Nara (I)

Leanne woke up earlier than usual to the rapping of a carrier pigeon on her windowsill. Head stinging from last night's drinking, she staggered and punched the latch so the bird could rush to a small plate of seeds. Messily scrawled on putrid vellum was Liassus' note:

> Ilma is lost to palepowder. I send Eli and Mara to Bowl’s Bottom Loweight. Ask for him. Send someone sharp and good with blade and go to Ithul. They will know what to do. Pernus and I will go to East Siral and rally. Ormoc manages West. Stay at Aura.

Teeth clenched, she shook. She knew it was a matter of time before they stumbled on the village, but the loss of Ilma was, even so, a strange feeling. She had not been there long nor often enough, but she knew who was there: young and old, lost and poor in need of shepherding. And Palepowder! There would be nothing left after that smoking inferno, that twisted cyclone of uncaring fire. She wouldn’t be surprised if the Medicalers burned the rest of the forest to the ground; they’ve already left Aura to its fate. Respecting rules were not part of their forte.

But Eli, this Eli…to Loweight? And the Bowl’s Bottom? A charnel pit in the shape of an adventurer’s guild, Bowl's Bottom was another meat grinder for young boys and girls ready to be roped into the company of uncaring sellswords and their grandiose dreams of mercenary life. There was nothing at the Bowl’s Bottom for him there; she was sure of it. All that waits is misery and debt. Why would she bring him there, one of her "prized" possessions? She fought and killed an Elder chieftain for him, and now she's throwing him away to the scum of the southwest?

And what about the instructions? Send someone good and sharp with a blade? A blade - any cared blade - would be sharp, but what did Liassus mean? Precise? Elegant? Swift? It was likely written in a rush, but the way she was with words was shameful at best. And where would she find one? She was a Seneschal, an orderly of a fortress town which had lost all its teeth. Mira was sick and delirious with this strange fever, and Leanne was nursing a headache, but even if she was healthy, she needed to be here as eyes and ears.

But then, it clicked. It was not all for nothing. She knew one person, and Liassus didn’t ask for trustworthiness.

Leanne got dressed and went to Mira’s bedroom. Keys jangling in the empty hall, she entered and met a sweating Nara, up and early doing her push-ups. She stopped and bowed, got up with her head down, eyes avoiding Leanne’s.

“Miss Nara, look at me,” Leanne ordered. Nara’s eye had healed, though all that was left was a pale fog. Her eye grew a milky film which swirled like a vessel of elven magic gone asunder. “I have a task, and though it pains me to bring up old memories, what family do you have in Siral?”

“What’s the task?” Nara asked.

Leanne sighed. “I need you to meet a friend of mine, a man by the name of Eli, at the Bowl’s Bottom in Loweight. Have you ever been? It’s quite far on foot, much further than -”

“I’ve been, my Lady Seneschal. But why me? Would you trust me?"

Leanne shook her head. "I trust you as far as I can afford you. It seems Salah cannot get sick with this disease, but I believe you may be more simple than I first believed."

"I would have still gone. What must I do?” She walked over to Mira’s emptied dresser, which had now become a wrack of knickknacks and papers. Keeping it all down was Nara's longsword, a plain black and silver rod with barely the sight of blood on its fuller.

She sheathed it immediately whereupon the sheets slid off and fell onto the floor.

Leanne closed her eyes and sighed as Nara fell to her knees. “Guide them to Northrow and seek an audience with a Cardinal Knight known as Ithul. After that, you may consider your task finished and yourself paid.” Leanne loosened a coin purse at her waist and tossed it to Nara. The jingling of a few heavy talents lit up her eyes. “An advance and payment for whatever you need, and you’ll get the rest of it in full when finished. Return alive and well, if you are well enough to travel.”

“My Lady, if my eye concerns you, I can cover it -“

Leanne had already turned around and was prepared to leave by now, though she stopped to interrupt Nara’s misunderstanding. “It has been too short a time to grieve the loss of your husband and partner. I wish for your wellness. If you are still a widow first, I will find someone else, and you can keep the advance. I’ve already given it to you,” Leanne fell silent and still, "But I have orders and a plan. I need to see that someone can get it done."

“I appreciate this, my lady, but how will I know what they look like? Will they know what I look like?”

Leanne frowned. Liassus didn’t mention anything about what Eli looked like. He could have been inhuman for all she knew.

Suddenly, she remembered the other name. She remembered what Mara looked like. “Look for a scowling cow, white-haired with bright amber eyes.” She then realized the other traits. “Or, look or ask for the two who refuse to eat.” She placed her hand on Nara’s shoulder, and with a pitiful look, tried to encourage her, “good luck in your search.”

Nara wasted no time. “I am well, ready, and will not fail you, my lady Seneschal.” Her fist struck her chest, and with that sound, Leanne left.

As she closed the door behind her, Leanne knew there was yet someone else to see. Going down the stairs, she entered a room with two sitting guards, both tired. One of them was carving a doll with a dull rondel. He hacked away at a wooden block held in his three-fingered hand. It was Tadar, a soft-spoken woodworker of little means and skill, whose fingers could tell war stories which, unfortunately, were all against inanimate objects.

The other nodded, the fully-fingered hands of one Eam proudly brushing a moustache as average as any other. Both acknowledged Leanne with a smile and a grunt, and as she passed, Leanne responded with a half-hearted nod.

She entered a plain room with an open window, a curtainless place with a sheetless bed. Worn books of paper - thick paper! - were strewn all over the floor. An unruly pile of vellum flailed in the harsh cold wind, but an untouched chamberpot held it down. Mira, shaking, gave her a simple, “Hullo.”

“I am sending Nara, the elf girl, on a job. Last of the Swift Suns. Do you object?” Leanne asked.

“I know who Nara is, Leanne. This sweating sickness has not dulled my memory." She turned her eyes to face Leanne. "I trust you. Do what is right."

"I appreciate your confidence, but are you not concerned with where your money goes? Or your authority?"

"In my absence, you’ve done a good job. And besides,” her teeth were chattering a bit. “I think, with my illness, Northrow is finding it prudent to distance themselves from me. This sickness has taken so many lives. It is only a matter of time before Aura’s commander is among them.” Mira looked at Leanne, eying her from top to bottom. “Would you like to ensure that never happens?"

"If by cure or murder you ask of me, I cannot - "

"My God, Leanne, you are strangely stupid! I'm asking if you would be interested in the office should this-this disease take me?” Mira summoned a smile.

Leanne nodded immediately. No thinking required, no concerns. Just a simple, “of course."

Mira breathed a sigh of relief. “I was hoping to avoid having to give it to Armes, bless his heart, but he does not have courage or wit enough to manage Aura, wouldn’t you agree?”

“...It’s not my place to judge your nephew’s aptitude for command.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. You’ve worked with me for years now. You know what’s needed to-to-to make this work.” She lifted a blanket, but even with the gust of hot wind and the blankets up to her neck, she kept shivering. “Every day, this headache beats me down, and every cough gets stronger and stronger. What foul magic has hit us?”

“I don’t think it’s foul magic.” Leanne was trying hard - so hard - not to divulge Liassus’ comments. Little things, crawling in the waters, the blood, the air. A peculiar, skittering, small world, writhing and multiplying against them, a war on another front for them to fight and lose. “It may yet be some sort of message from Heaven.”

Mira snorted. “Heaven. What a cruel fate to be subject to Heaven if that is so. What happens if it was Heaven? Have I lost favour? Or was there, perhaps, someone more worthy? Was it bringing in that elf woman?” She looked up at the ceiling, trying to look in Nara’s direction. “Was it bringing in this elf woman?” Her gaze turned to Leanne. “Or did I not bring enough?”

“You speak as if we are being punished,” Leanne asked, fingers sliding on a small bauble in her pocket. "Heaven does not punish. There are still sinners and monsters in the world, blind from its justice."

“Isn’t that what’s going on? We lost the farmlands, we lost the Medicalers, and now we’re losing soldiers and all the young men and women. The very old and the very young are what’s left, but what can we do, or what sorts of places can we defend? We would cease to be a fort, and I cease to be a commander.” Mira’s voice cracked and was becoming quieter.

Despite being Leanne’s direct superior, there was something odd about this woman who, once able and capable of staring down any foe, refused to stare at her own orderly. She’d always drift to the window, and rarely did their eyes meet.

It wasn’t for Leanne’s lack of trying. The whole time, unrelenting, Leanne tried to lock gazes with the commander. And while she couldn't lock eyes, she could always try to appease her, “They will always need someone trustworthy to protect the border, and you know this place better than any other. None of the pig mongrels from Northrow would come close to the border to be among the farmers. Only you and you alone know this place.”

They both stopped and listened to Aura, but for all of Leanne's assurances, they could not figure out what made the place so clear and different that it would warrant her words.

What did Mira know about Aura for her to know it 'best'? Sounds of the morning? Hot winds, swirling steam, embers, pyre, and phlegm? The rustle of blankets on fetid beds, the popping skins of long, gaunt legs? The cracking of vellum? The dull cutting of Tadar’s rondel from the other side of the cheap, thin door? The cries of women and men? The sound of wagons on sloshing mud and wooden boxes being nailed shut for dead children and dead soldiers alike? These were the sounds that surrounded Mira, and while she didn’t slip into a furious pain like many others, she was trapped.

This was the Aura she knew? That only she knew?

Anyone with eyes and ears could hear this; it did not come from Aura, and it wouldn't end in Aura. “I don’t know this place as much as I should want,” She lamented, “I read the letters, and I was stupid enough to do nothing.”

“You had no way of knowing that this miasma would spread this far and fast. You must see the reason to this: nobody would have the foresight to do any of this, to save as many people as you did.”

Mira shook her head. Tears were streaming down her face. "Don't do this, Leanne. Don't butter me up like this. This is not the time or place; I know what's going on. I don't need a doormat. I need a friend. I didn't have this foresight."

"You did! You acted with what you could. You sent them to investigate, and you took in who you could before it spread." Before it spread. Took them in. It was her, wasn't it?

“But I didn’t do it, Leanne. You did. I didn’t fight for the Medicalers to stay, or for the garrisons around the s-s-sick, or cordon off the districts. I didn’t do any of that. All…all I did was wait.” She bit her lip. “Oh, how stupid I was to wait for the laboured words of the council in Northrow to tell me something I should have done before.” She shook her head, but a sting made it worse. “I should have just given you the city’s command, and now, it looks like…by Heaven, I’m doing it.”

“What?”

“Before those bastards strip me of my title, fetch me ink and my seal. I will do it, let my blood flow onto these documents and my order be known. If Heaven disapproves of my rule, then let it approve of yours.” She tried to get out of bed, but her withering muscles and her poor energy made it difficult for her to stand. Bow-legged and stumbling, she fell back onto the bed. She heard a soft pop, but it was normal; for the past few days, that noise was a guest throughout the castle.

“Mira, you need to recover, and then you can - ”

“I die; my nephew gets it. I get removed; it goes to some useless noble from the Row. Either is intolerable and before I go, by box or wagon, I will do something worthy of sensible rule, so bring me my ink! Let me write with something fine for once!” Her headache was getting worse. “I should have done this the moment I came down with fever. What a fool I was to think this was not the Burrowreek.”

“It still may not be,” Leanne tried to comfort her, though it was becoming clear that it might not be a comfort to hear that something other than Burrowreek was ravaging her body, “you have time.” She said that softly and weakly, like the fingers dangling at her side.

Mira would have none of it. She forced them to fetch her ink and seal, and with her mark, she handed over the contract, giving Leanne control over Aura’s forces, as meagre as they were. “You have already been managing this place with grace, and there’s nothing wrong with giving the command to someone who has proven their mettle.” Mira wrapped herself up in her blankets.

“I have proven myself to be quite incompetent in the face of this disease.” Leanne made one last-ditch effort to convince her otherwise. It was comforting to know that even as she managed and controlled the finances and structures of Aura, she never had to go anywhere or beg for anything or be anyone. She never had to go to Northrow and stand before the downcast eyes of the Archbishops or fight against the demands for levies from an impetuous noble pup. She was Leanne, Seneschal Leanne, but only Leanne. Now she was a weak-gripped commander with no line of her own, beholden to a secret master who was now infecting the poor across the Righteous Gulf.

Still, she had to understand her role. The plan was clear.

Liassus and Pernus would rally and expand the brood in East Siral. The tomb princes were less amenable to the thuggish demands of the Ardalians. This can work, she thought. Hold down Aura, teach the alien, get him acquainted, and then wait. In the future, they’d meet up with the pretty boy and Emeron and Ormoc and then go from there.

Simple, effective.

----------------------------------------

Leanne and Adath (I)

It wasn’t long after being handed Aura that a rider came through its gates, waving a banner she had never seen before. With a proud shout, it asked for her attention, “Lady Aura, Adath of Wreanschener! I ride for Haron, the highest and true of the Haronvsil. I seek an audience and good tidings with Lady Aura!”

The news of Leanne’s succession was hardly mentioned, if only because she tried so hard not to draw attention to herself. Whatever to do to keep her in Aura, she thought. But this black rider from the north, this rat-squire of a foreign banner neither Ardalian nor Siralian, was something she hadn’t expected.

Still, she met him all the same, for any diplomatic muscle against the uncaring dogmas out of Northrow would help.

“I am Commander Leanne, protector of Aura,” She never bothered to change the name, “What brings you to my hall?” She met him as well as she could, flanked by what few knights she could muster, sitting at an unassuming yet long table with wine, as was the custom. “I admit, I am ignorant of Haronvsil. I have had dealings with Ardalvsil, but Haronvsil…that is a different thing altogether.”

The rider bowed and his long, gnarled snout kissed the floor. He was much smaller and shorter than any man, a tail-less Vermite with beady black eyes and a three-digit claw. He lowered his pack and brought out a quite beautiful gemstone of green and purple, which cast a vivid glow around the room even with the tiniest slivers of sunlight.

Nightstone. A rare rock rumoured to amplify a single flame with such strength it could shine with the glow of a thousand torches. “I give this to Lady Aura, who fancies jewels we hear.”

“You are still undergoing the Bapamat?” Leanne asked him. “It is strange for anyone to send a Vermite envoy who has not completed his Appamabat. What is your master planning, and do they seek to insult me?”

Without delay, he bowed. “No, Lady Aura. Sir Haron only wishes for your good health and generosity.”

“Then why does he send a child not even old enough to speak of the name ‘Vermite’?” Impetuous Ser Vaughn spoke for her. She sent him a nasty glare, leading him to straighten up.

Vaughn was one of those knights, a loyal man-at-arms who believed he knew his lord so well that he could speak on their behalf. He did it for Mira, much to her indifference, and he was doing it to Leanne, much to her annoyance. She hoped that one day this big wheat-haired dullard would stop, or at least choose a better time to bark.

But as out of order as it was, he wasn't wrong. Why did Haron, a former Marshall of Ardal, send a boy who couldn't even pronounce the word Vermite? It must've been something nefarious. "I admit, I am confused. Why did he send you?"

"Haron wishes good tidings...with Lady Aura. Free folk working with free folk."

She didn't understand it. This boy couldn't have been clever enough to be a trap, and he wasn't strong enough to develop that vicious tail that all Vermites soon have. And Vermites were rare in Aura. No army can be whipped up from one bumbling boy, not even a man.

Then, her blood chilled at a thought. The boy was dispensable. Haron couldn't risk his envoy - an envoy he trusted - being captured and sent back to Ardal as goodwill. He needed to send someone naive and young to gauge her actions.

Hands clenched, Leanne took a deep sigh. The rat-general of the south - or Commandant as he fancied himself now - would not best her. She knew how Ardalian thugs played their games.

She handed a key to Ser Vaughn along with coin, "Get him set up in the citadel. We will have Haron's envoy." A bewildered Vaughn bowed and, with his arms on the envoy's head, guided him out of the hall.

Hopefully, there'd be a room finished in the citadel. She was getting sick and tired of listening to Tadar hack his fingers to bits.

----------------------------------------

The Arch of the Lane

Prissy returned the same way he came, taking the roads around Magisalam back to Wentlane at full gallop. A small group of his men chose to return with him this time, and the others stayed at his father's home in Ardalsalam.

"Stay here, stay safe," He told Rhea. "And if any of them touch you, know that I will ride back without delay!"

How he planned to hold to that promise, nobody knew, as the moment he returned home to the Arch, he saw his father's banners in the wind. His heart was panicking at the sight. Oh, how he hated seeing that three-eyed ox, how inelegant and crude it was! But he hated it even more because he knew that his father would have heard of his indecision and, perhaps, his treachery.

Before he left, he tried to patch things up with Arathas, and he, too, had gone home with a small group of his men. "I'll send you a letter," he told Prissy, "I can't be seen communicating with one who has expressed sympathy for the defector. You must understand." So much for the years of friendship.

They passed the massive, dwarfing walls of the Arch. And by ill luck or fate, Prissy saw his father and brother standing at the bailey. Like Prissy, Prassus was a wild man, a handsome darling of unvarnished features with charisma to challenge even Liarus of Ardal. Though, unlike the soft-spoken Liarus, Prassus shared Prissy's proclivities. While the crow stared at the tavern girls of Wentlane, the hound was rumoured to be a monster at the camps. The Wolf of Wentlane, they'd call him, and his prey were the squiresses on the eastern front.

"Prissy." He held out his hand to his mounted brother, of which the latter batted it away.

"Hurry, my fool boy. We have much to discuss." Parasson spoke, his voice more of a growl than anything to come from a man.

They skipped past the outer ballium and swept past the inner portcullis, met with the tall towers of the keep of the Arch. The entire time, no matter how Prissy tried to keep pace, Prassus and Parasson would speed up, even in their war-beaten cloaks and armour. He could never keep pace.

At the unused strategy room, Parasson untied and laid down his sword, though Prassus kept his. Standing around the table, the three lords of Wentlane maintained an awkward distance.

It was a thrusting distance.

"How was the campaign, father? Older brother?" Prissy tried to break the stifling silence. "Have we made headway against the Salah?"

"How is the Arch?" Parasson asked. "Is it safe and thriving?"

"The Lane is as normal as ever. There's been no change."

"There has, Paroussi. There has been."

"There has been no change."

"Good. I want to bring my sons into the rumours. Because you were there as my proxy, what happened, Paroussi? I hear Radan is dead, that you can hear the bells ring all the way from Sentinel."

"King Radan is indeed dead, and he's appointed Marshall Haron as his Regent -"

"He has."

Prissy nodded. "He has...appointed Marshall Haron as his Regent. However, the Medicalers are seeking an alternative, maintaining control over Ardalsalam."

"No matter, it is a city of hot gates and whores," Prassus interjected. "But it's no surprise that the College would push against the rat-general."

"Rat-general no longer, he is rat-regent," Parasson said to Prassus' chuckle, "but that is of no concern to us." He unfolded a small piece of parchment, written in smooth and fine ink. "Your friend, Arathas, sent me a crow, and I wonder if it is true? You defied the Medicalers and sympathized with the Vermite?"

"I did what I thought you'd do." Prissy said. He closed his eyes. He expected another correction. Always with the corrections. His teeth were clenched in anticipation. Fool boy! He thought to himself.

A smile emerged behind Parasson's bushy beard. "You are my son."

Shocked expressions came from both Prissy and Prassus. He brought them over to the war table, and with a loud slam of his hand, ran his finger across the Wentlane. "Our hold supplies the entire north. That fool Arathas will want our help. And the Salah...they will take years to reclaim their territories, and even still any land they take will inch closer to Sentinel."

"The Salah can take back the east, but they must wait until the saplings are planted, true," Prassus said, occasionally looking at Prissy. He was just as confused. "but what does our hold have to do with anything?"

"We've been Marshalls of Wentlane for a long time. But what word is so miserable."

"Yes, father, but for the tracts of farm, we are an essential source for the rest of the empire - " Prissy tried to explain.

"Do you know why it's called 'the Lane'?" Parasson grimaced at the word. "It connects Vendirsalam and Ardalsalam together, the real lands of Ardal. And as we feed both cities, we are nothing more than Lane. Even my keep, taller and more majestic than anything from the city of a thousand minarets, is worth no more beautiful a name than merely "Arch". Arch! A gateway!" He slammed his hand onto the table. "My sons, I am so very sick of watching our family die as Lanes, and wish for us to triumph as Salams of our own!"

"Father, what are you suggesting? Are you thinking -"

"Ardalsalam has no one on the throne. That rat-regent is in the south, and the pox is running rampant through his men. Haron is fearsome but has no army." Parasson tapped Magisalam. "And Gassaria, it seems, will not suffer the College to rule the empire. The Medicalers will be in short supply of palepowder. Which leaves..."

"Vendirsalam," Prassus whispered. "The Northern Jewel. We break the lock, and we'll have no foes."

"No foes for what?" Prissy knew what was coming, but he wanted to hear it. The beating of his heart was getting faster and faster. Come, father, say it, he thought. Say it.

"Are you not tired of bleeding for cinder-children in Ardalsalam? With the loss of palepowder, they would become no more impressive than any pitiful fire mage from anywhere else in the world." There it was. The words he knew but feared would come. He was glad it only took his father to reveal his ambition so clearly. "This empire needs us and our granaries, and it is time we show them that the Wentlaners will suffer not a second more of indignities."