Orneiades slouched in his chair with a cup of wine in hand, gulping it to its last drop. He looked about the tent, studying the embroidery which decorated it. An oasis—trees under which nude bodies lounged; a great forest, deer, squirrels…
Light flooded the room as the tent door was pushed away, returning again to the golden hue of the candle glow as the man who entered let the flap close behind him. Orneiades rose to attention and greeted him with a bow, the man reciprocating the gesture. “The Cenrisanct will come shortly,” he said, probing the room. “Have the other partakers arrived?”
“Only the imerth, I’ve been told.”
The reply provoked a roar of laughter from the man, who pivoted away from Orneiades and strode to the room’s center table, filling a pewter wineglass to the brim. “So they came.”
“Er, sir, what are my responsibilities here? They only said I’m to carry out Ceion’s duties.”
The man half-turned and stared at him blankly, wiping away the spillage dripping down his beard with the back of his hand. Blinking as if to clear his eyes, he tilted his head and squinted. “That’s what they relayed?”
Orneiades nodded, shifting uneasily where he stood.
The man clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Typical,” he sighed, resuming his attention on his drink. “Ceion’s duties have been reassigned. Your only task now is to relate the details of the battle when urged to do so.”
“And when shall I be urged?”
“After the denouncement. As custom dictates, the host shall speak first. The Patrisanct will use that advantage to make the grievances of both parties known. First, the imerth then the Plyreans. You need only wait for my signal.”
Orneiades nodded.
“Do you remember how Ceion died?” the man asked.
“I do.”
“You must emphasize the manner above all else.”
At length, the Cenrisanct entered the tent the same way with the Patrisanct at its head. Orneiades couldn’t help but sneer at the passé attire in which he dressed. He was adorned with a knee-length white robe with gold and red threads woven into elaborate forms throughout, worn beneath a coat of gold scales wherein each individual plate was framed by purple lining. Finally, a purple cloak hung from his right shoulder. After they exchanged pleasantries they processed out onto the Field of Ocitae were two long tables sat parallel each other, with a short one several feet on the left side. On the opposite sat four Plyreans and their entourages, numbering nearly three dozen, with eleven imerth notables crowded about on the left with their followers seated upon the field behind them, numbering in the hundreds.
Orneiades shrank back, burying his nose into his upper arm. The gods’ mercy, he thought.
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His companion snickered. “They smell like they look, don’t they?” he whispered.
Orneiades shook his head. Pitiful things.
Once the Cenrisanct were accommodated, a secretary from the Plyreans stepped forward into the space between them. “First we would like to express our gratitude to you for inviting us here. Present here today is the governor of Var’Leyon, Marcranus, and his selected officials.” With that, he retreated to his position, and Orneiades’s companion stepped forward.
“Greetings, your eminence, and to the good health of you and your people. Present here today is the Patrisanct, whose name is holy, and his congregation, the Cenrisanct.” With that, he took his place on Orneiades’s right side.
“It is custom,” said the Patrisanct, raising himself from his seat, “for the host to speak first. Yet, as I mediated within the holiness of Aela’s Dome, I pondered upon the implications of this meeting. Like the Elsic people, your own have suffered under your oppression. It is to them I yield the opening speech.”
Silence. Orneiades turned to look at his companion in the ear of the nearest Cenrisanoi, speaking in scarcely a whisper and with accentuated movements of his hands until he was motioned away.
I reckon that means no story, Orneiades thought, chuckling.
The imerth notables looked about and murmured to one another, then turned their gaze to the Patrisanct as if in anticipation of an end to this trickery. When none came, one at last arose. “My name is Valum. None of us come from noble birth, which is why we are so thankful for the chance to deliver our grievances here today, and with the first word no less. Allow me to first apologize to my hosts for the actions of those who tried to intrude upon your land. May Ocitae open his field and swallow their corpses. They deserve no rest. To our overseers, I bring forth these complaints on behalf of this cities frail and timid. I was elected to come here today because from the beginning I witnessed the collapse of this place. But I wasn’t alone. We were chosen, bloodied, and rejected from a war that still rages on. In that time our farms and properties declined and wasted away. Again we were rejected and forced here, where the inflow of slaves from foreign lands robbed us of our work. When I arrived, we were but a band of landless veterans. As you see now, our ranks have swelled with all manner of castaways. I ask you now, as your dependents, to grant us land within that new territory, so that our lives may again be fruitful.” Neither applause nor cries of support came from his followers as he took his seat, many bowing their heads or nodding to themselves. At last, Marcranus stood upright, erect as a statue and blazing eyes falling upon one imerth after another.
“Although you may think it,” he said, “I’m not completely ignorant of the situation myself. I’ve received many reports from my street patrols of the growing influence of the Els. These people come to you, and you give them alms. You say it’s your god that dictates charity, yet you promise them more. We have found many alters. Not of our gods, but of yours. You’ve violated the Covenant by turning these people to practices that are unlawful outside the Enclave, then using it to stir them against us.”
“Blasphemy!” cried one of Cenrisanoi.
“Be still, Rom,” the Patrisanct replied, “We—”
“None who are unclean have ever set foot within the Enclave!” Rom continued.
“My lord,” said Valum, “none of us have ever engaged in the practices that you speak of. We went to them for survival, and they fed us. But as the subjects of your city, it’s not their duty to care for us.”
“Bite your tongue,” Marcranus growled. “You are the waste of our city. See what has come about, Els? You’ve invited filth into your temples.”
Rom leapt over the table with a roar as he pulled out a knife from within his robes, racing towards Marcranus with his weapon raised above his head. In a moment both parties rushed forward in an attempt to save their own, colliding into a mass brawl. Orneiades pushed through to Rom, catching one last glance of the motions of his bloodstained knife before the crowd enveloped him.