Vesper, Eighth Day Before Kalends of May

Floyd’s Private Chambers, Fowther Castle (Floyd Family Residence), Wilton, Cyrill

While such schemes were being played out in Drum, Floyd, the Councillor of Cyrill, was in his private chambers, composing the final stanzas of his History of Kaps. Despite the title it was less a historical text and more religious propaganda. The people of Kaps, a nation composed of the three states of Cyrill, Drum, and Maple, had one god, Heion. In his History of Kaps, Councillor Floyd was describing in verse the story of Heion.

The story went as follows. In the beginning there was a lifeless World. The first Mind was Life. She Connected with the World and gave birth to Death, another Mind. Death consumed Life as he was being born. The crumbs that Death left were swallowed up by the World. The larger crumbs became humans and the smaller crumbs became animals. Once Death had finished consuming Life, he had a stomachache and vomited out Heion. Heion feared that Death would consume him also, so he shared his Mind with three humans, allowing them to use Connexion. These were the First Philosophers. Together, Heion and the First Philosophers defeated Death, splitting him into three Articles: the cloak, the scythe, and the lantern.

And now Councillor Floyd was documenting the death of Heion. Succumbing to his wounds, Heion died. As he died his blood carried part of his Mind and imbued them into the stones that were scattered around his dying Body. These, of course, became the Stones.

This text was written to give authority to everything that Young Kardas were challenging. Helia were the descendants of the first Philosophers and so only they were able to use Connexion. In extension the Stones, which carried the blood of Heion, was rightfully the property of helia.

But before Councillor Floyd was able to finish his final couplet, there was a knock on his door.

“Enter,” said Floyd.

The large, ornate doors swung open and in entered Virgil, the most hideously deformed man in all of Kaps. The story was that Virgil’s mother had dropped a pot of boiling water on Virgil’s head in shock when he spoke his first word at the precocious age of three and a half months. The left side of head was caved in and the right side was covered in grotesque bumps, some as large as a walnut. He was missing his left eye and his right eye was small and watery. His lips protruded, cracked and bloody. He was the height of a small child and was always swaddled in many layers of black cloth.

“Councillor,” he said. His voice resembled the croak of a toad. “There is a matter which requires your counsel.”

“The Ansolfini family,” said Floyd, without looking up.

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“Yes, Councillor,” said Virgil. “They are claiming that this is a so-called exceptional case of the twenty-seventh Common Law.”

“Give them impunity.”

“Councillor?”

“The Ansolfini family is integral to our trade with Maple. Give them impunity.”

“Councillor,” said Virgil. “It will be very difficult to argue that this is an exceptional case.”

Only now did Floyd look up. He had finished writing. “And tell me, dear Virgil, does ease of argument dictate our ethics?”

“I apologise, Councillor.”

“I did not ask for an apology. I asked you a question.”

“No, Councillor,” said Virgil. “It does not.”

“You are quite incorrect,” said Floyd, smiling. “Ease of argument does dictate our ethics. Consider the case of the Fanen family. And just recently that of the Giandi boy in Maple.”

Virgil bowed his head and remained silent.

“You must recall the text published in Maple regarding the normative theory of law. It was upheld as a sound justification of the Common Law. This is why weak thinkers publish in Maple, where readers are still drunk off the wine of Ronan and cannot tell cause from effect. Common Law? The only Common Law is the fear of death. Death is the sole authority. From death should come all actions, all right and wrong, all good and evil.”

“Yes, Councillor,” said Virgil.

Floyd dismissed Virgil with a wave of his hand and Virgil hastily made way. Floyd himself withdrew to bed.

That night Floyd was struck by a sequence of dreams that had periodically plagued him for the last twenty-five years of his life.

In the first dream he was once again a young man, a promising heir of the Floyd family and soon-to-be the next Councillor of Cyrill. One day, after he had finished sparring with Cynthia Ferrons, a fellow noble, he had challenged her to a race down to the small town of Winders. They set off running, splattering mud on their ankles, laughing freely. Floyd was in the lead. When he reached the large oak tree that marked the beginning of the town of Winders he let out a large guffaw. He turned around to see Cynthia still quite a distance away. He turned back around to look at the oak tree then saw between its great branches a woman looking at him through a window. Floyd expected her to look away, but she continued to steadily gaze at him.

Then the next dream was her by a fireplace. She was smiling bitterly. Her father had died. Floyd reached out and touched her shoulder. She bristled.

Then the next, they were making love. She was beautiful.

Then the next, she was laughing at a joke that he had made. He could not remember the joke, only her laugh.

Then the next, she was holding in her arms a small infant. She was weeping from happiness. Her hair was greying.

Then the next, her house was in flames. Floyd watched as the rafters gave way and collapsed. He did not dare turn around. He knew that she was there, behind him, on the pike. He closed his eyes. He could not show his tears, not now. He was to be appointed Councillor the following spring. He could not be seen weeping for a woman who had broken the seventh Common Law.

Floyd awoke, gasping for breath. Maria, he cried.

But she was not there. He was alone.

Floyd returned to his desk. He swept aside his History of Kaps. He produced a fresh page and began writing an aubade.

You tread on fallow soil, O sinless child,

On which the fruit of life will never grow,

And though by love begot, your mother’s smile,

That love, now gone, revealed, will nothing show.

For change there must always be a sacrifice, thought Floyd. The boy is key. He will be the rot for a fertile land, where the people will be healthy and sing songs of gladness.