MARBLE 6.4: FIRST LADY

“So the decision of this Council is as follows: the orcish delegation shall leave Mund under pain of prosecution. They shall not return, nor shall they send further embassy hence. The barbarians can wail about their deprivations until Kaile shuts both his eyes; it is their depravations that concern the elves, and we will not judge in their place how best to protect their border-lands. We are not in the habit of betraying our friends, and the Drathdanii have been friends to Mund since the Peace of Nimmenvyl. If they insist on bringing the matter before us again, the orcish tribes will attain official subhumanoid classification. Let’s see how they enjoy being exterminated like grell.”

– the Lord Malice Deynos, in session before the Malice Council, Taura 980 NE

We arrived early to the Arrealbord Palace, which I thought beforehand might’ve given me a little time to become acclimatised to my surroundings. In hindsight we should’ve arrived on the dot of one o’ clock, because the longer we lingered the worse the nausea became, like my guts were foaming inside my belly. We barely spoke, instead staring around at the gardens outside the window, and at the magnificent murals which (in this room) all depicted Wyre Eldervane, the Builder, the Master of Elements.

At least I wasn’t alone. Killstop and Stormsword seemed at least as disturbed as me; none of us wanted to sit down. There must’ve been too much divination going on around the place for Tanra to experience all the various possibilities of this appointment in advance, and I knew for a fact that Em had never been here before. The Palace was located high in Hightown, on the north-eastern slopes near the walls of Mund, and the Palace’s own walls made proper inspection impossible unless from the air. I’d never had the occasion to fly near it, not in the day at least. Which had made this appointment all the more enticing, intimidating. It wasn’t far off being invited to the Maginox after getting involved in champion-on-champion combat.

We’d met at the end of the street and walked up together. Garbed as we were in our champions’ attire, we had no issue with the guards at the gate – some magisters gave us the magical once-over with the rod and the three tests, and then we were admitted into the dome of force protecting the Palace, the ancient seat of House Sentelemeth. The terracotta pavement led in an almost-straight path towards the actual building – or buildings, given that the Palace seemed to basically be twenty manor-houses all linked together by corridors. The path we followed was flanked on either side by gardens of hedges, plants cultivated by druids into creatures of a thousand varieties in a thousand poses. Unmoving lions prowled the trimmed verges. Elk with fur made from shoots and stalks seemed to shiver in the wintry winds as they stooped eternally beside well-stocked ponds. Even the evergreen trees had been touched by the druidry, their great bulbs of leaves hanging like griffons above the horses and buffalo sheltering in the eaves.

The guard who accompanied us, walking at the front of the group with a spring in his step, was a well-spoken chap. He had a hilariously-tiny moustache curled above his upper lip and what seemed to be an eyebrow’s-worth of hair connecting his chin to the middle of his lower lip. Someone without my eyes could’ve been forgiven for thinking he’d just failed to give his face a wash, if they saw him from a distance, were it not for the fine silver-and-blue livery he wore, clearly marking him out as someone who took a regular bath.

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It was from him that we received our education as to how to ‘comport’ ourselves.

“When we enter the building, the man-at-arms shall request any weapons about your person.” (He seemed to know without glancing back over his shoulder that the three of us looked at each other in incredulity.) “Before you ask, yes, we are of course aware that this formality means little in the presence of dangerous individuals.” (He said it without missing a beat, as though that were the only way, the best way, to describe archmages – champions – even to their faces.) “Nonetheless you shall surrender any overt weaponry you possess, even should it be concealed, and we will abide by the formality as we have always done. Then you shall be escorted into an antechamber to await those others attending, and from which your envoy will collect you when the hour of your audience arrives.”

And so it had been done – at least I’d drawn some surprised looks from the prim-and-proper Palace servants with the sheer quantity of explosive daggers I managed to produce from my sleeve and demiskin. Now I looked out through the tall windows at a wind-whipped green expanse ringed by walls, and in their reflection I could see the face of the Founder-wizard, Wyre Eldervane, that was painted upon the wall behind me. His face was only suggested by the smears of purple and brown upon the gold-coloured background: the great brows were lowered in focus, with the eyes closed above the wide, almost Westerman-looking nose. His lips were pressed tightly together.

Behind him – composed in white-on-gold and barely-discernible until one stood back and took in the whole thing – the walls of Mund were rising.

“Doesn’t look any more believable when it’s painted, does it?” Killstop observed. She was in the corner, wearing her frowning mask and multicoloured robe, and out of nowhere she’d suddenly decided to sit down – I didn’t notice when it happened, but she was now slouching down in a high-backed chair, seemingly doing her best to tip it over backwards.

I just grunted in response, trying to ignore the seething in my stomach. The last thing I needed was an argument.

“What do you mean, ‘believable’?” Stormsword sounded surprised, as I’d expected, and turned around to better-regard the mural. (I instinctively thought of her as Stormsword now, when she was in costume and trying so hard to make her accent disappear into the generic upper-class accent she’d adopted.)

Killstop stared at her. “Because the idea of five ancient guys getting together and just ending the Age of Nightmares and then having a chin-wag before creating Mund is, like, soooo believable…”

“But you can’t use your powers to go back and check, can you?” Stormsword said smugly. “Does this not mean a powerful diviner is blocking you?”

Killstop shrugged. “I’m sure there were powerful diviners – but a single man, whose foresight guided the city down all the centuries? Puh-lease.”

“Give it up, Killstop,” I muttered. My gut massively-preferred the silence to the bickering. “We took the tour at Breyton Hill a couple of days ago.”

“The Master Clock?”

I nodded. “There’s nothing that’ll convince her Arreath didn’t make the damn thing himself, now.” I looked across to the wizard. “And against my better judgement I’m tempted to agree with her.”

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