Speaker Vas sipped his ale, and tried to wrap his head around what had just happened. The Three Chambers had gathered, as was their tradition, and he had been doing the headcount while waiting for Metropolitan Vitellius to arrive.
Only Vitellius never arrived. Only the Prince’s serjeant, with his horrible news. And then Prince Amfortas had risen and spoken…
Vas stared at the mug before him. He’d been to Senate meetings for many, many years, and been the Speaker for the last ten of those. And he’d never heard a speech like that one there. Not ever. Not even when old King Erich had been alive, and apt to reminding the Senate of the Royal Prerogative.
Not that it was a bad speech. Just… odd. Odd in a way that was hard to put your finger on. Amfortas had been… respectful throughout. On the surface of things, anyway. But… there were rules for a ruler speaking at the Senate--even a Royal Consort. Actually, especially a Royal Consort. Rules that Amfortas had barreled right though. Oh, politely enough. But still…
Vas took another swallow of ale, and realized that his mug was empty. He signaled for it to be refilled. That speech. That speech. It had been inspiring stuff at the time, stuff about the Hand of Night striking where it would, of the need of those who served the Light to stand strong and firm. Of course, thinking about it now, it occurred to Vas it didn’t actually say that much, or go into any particular details on how they were going to stand strong and firm. Honestly, the more Vas thought about he and his fellow Senators doing such a thing, the more he had to suppress an urge to laugh. Most of them were men of his age, or at best, slightly less. The spirit was willing, but the flesh…
Vas chuckled to himself as the barmaid handed him a fresh mug, and regarded her for a moment. Yes, the flesh was most certainly weak. He shook his head. No, Amfortas’ speech didn’t really stick in one’s mind--just a general impression. What you remembered was a vague feeling, and that last bit where he drew…
The sword. The Sword of Light. That bit you remembered all right. The sword glittering there, its perfect light filling the Senate Hall. That light made a man feel… small. Unimportant. Impure. That light… deserved to be served. Needed to be served. And when the Prince asked for them to grant him the use of the Royal Prerogative in a time of war… well, they’d all said yes. How could they not? How could you say ‘no’ to that light?
Vas stared at his mug, which was, to his surprise, empty again. Odd. He didn’t recall doing that. Still, an empty mug called for one course of action. He signaled for another one. As he did so, he tried to recall why it was Queen Yolande hadn’t been there. Something to do with her health, he believed. Which he could believe--he’d seen the Queen grow up, and she’d always struck him as so… frail… Still--there was an odd determination in the girl. He couldn’t help but suspect that even bad health wouldn’t have kept her from the Senate by itself. Most likely it was backed by a loving command by her new husband. And that was good. Yolande needed someone to look after her.
The barmaid set another mug before him. Vas nodded to himself. Odd day. Very odd.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
The Queen on the Holly Throne--Part 19
Metropolitan Vitellus adjusted his garb. As Primate of the Faith in Tintagel, he held a very high place on the Senate’s Chamber of the Faith--indeed, tradition mandated he open the Session with an Invocation. And that being the case, Vitellus did not wish to cut a poor figure.
“The surplice is such a hassle,” came a voice from behind him. “One never knows when one is getting on right.” Vitellus turned to see Lanval Equitan, the Prince’s Serjeant standing in the doorway.
“Ahh, yes,” muttered Vitellus nervously. “You were a Canon, I believe, before your… retirement…”
“The proper word would be ‘expulsion’,” answered Lanval. “The Faith does not smile on priests who operate as bandits. At least--not as openly as I did.”
Vitellus nodded. “I was aware of this, Serjeant. I was simply trying to be polite.”
“Yes, you are all very polite here, in Tintagel,” said Equitan. “It’s a very polite society. Quite different from Almace in Leonais, where I grew up.” He shrugged. “We’re right on the border of the Easter King’s domains, and that when he isn’t sending troops over to conquer us, we’re dealing with raiders and pirates that he can’t be bothered to stop. Makes a people hard. Austere. My father was a count, you know, with counts in his family tree for twenty-three generations. And we lived in one large manor-house with a few rooms, with dogs in them. Not that we minded. Kept the place warm in the winter.”
Vitellus wondered what he should say to that. “You have my sympathies.”
Lanval’s eyes went wide. “What, for sleeping with dogs as a boy? Naaah! Like I said, I never minded that. In fact, it was grand.” He sighed. “I did mind having to go into the Church, but--well, as my father explained it, I had to. I was a third son, and what’s more, the diocese had been in the family for some time, and we couldn’t afford to lose it. Still--I thought that would be it. No more brave fights against those bastards from the East, and everyone else who wronged us--just sermons and collecting rents.”
The serjeant stepped before the metropolitan, his face oddly grim. “And then Gaston died of the Bleeding Cough. And Father and Guillaume were killed by the Ferraus.” Lanval was frowning now. “Well, someone had to lead the family, and Guillaume’s sons couldn’t--they were just babies. And so, I stepped up. And I did what my family needed of me. That’s how we do things in Almace. You look after your kin, and you do what you have to. It may not always be the sort of life the Seven laid out as proper, but we see no shame in it. Perhaps we’re wrong. Perhaps not. It’s how we are.” He took a deep breath. “Shall I help you with your surplice? I wasn’t joking about the damn things being nuisances.”
Vitellus smiled and nodded. “Of course, sir. I would appreciate your help.”
Lanval quickly got to work. “There you go,” he said after a few moment’s work. “Neat as can be.” He adjusted his hands slightly. “Now just one last thing….” And he plunged the dagger into the old man’s chest. Vitellus fell to the ground swiftly, gasping desperately for air, his eyes looking pleadingly at the serjeant for answers.
Lanval gave a deep sigh. “Now--I bet your wondering why I did that. Well, orders, really. And I felt a fellow member of the cloth deserved a proper send-off. Which is why I’m here, and not one of my men.” He shrugged once again. “What can I say? I’m an odd man in my fashion.” He knelt to look Vitellus in the face, smiling. “Now, I’m going to go out there, and tell your men that I found you like this. And they’re going to believe me, because despite what I was, I’m the Prince’s Man, and that means I can be trusted.” He chuckled. “See, I really did mean what I said about how polite you all are. So polite that impolite things--dirty, awful things, don’t even occur to you.” He rose to his feet. “It’s really quite lovely. Like a glittering soap bubble in the sun.” He turned to head out of the room. “And the most lovely thing about bubbles--the thing that makes them not just pretty but beautiful is--they’re bound to pop. Sooner or later.”
“The surplice is such a hassle,” came a voice from behind him. “One never knows when one is getting on right.” Vitellus turned to see Lanval Equitan, the Prince’s Serjeant standing in the doorway.
“Ahh, yes,” muttered Vitellus nervously. “You were a Canon, I believe, before your… retirement…”
“The proper word would be ‘expulsion’,” answered Lanval. “The Faith does not smile on priests who operate as bandits. At least--not as openly as I did.”
Vitellus nodded. “I was aware of this, Serjeant. I was simply trying to be polite.”
“Yes, you are all very polite here, in Tintagel,” said Equitan. “It’s a very polite society. Quite different from Almace in Leonais, where I grew up.” He shrugged. “We’re right on the border of the Easter King’s domains, and that when he isn’t sending troops over to conquer us, we’re dealing with raiders and pirates that he can’t be bothered to stop. Makes a people hard. Austere. My father was a count, you know, with counts in his family tree for twenty-three generations. And we lived in one large manor-house with a few rooms, with dogs in them. Not that we minded. Kept the place warm in the winter.”
Vitellus wondered what he should say to that. “You have my sympathies.”
Lanval’s eyes went wide. “What, for sleeping with dogs as a boy? Naaah! Like I said, I never minded that. In fact, it was grand.” He sighed. “I did mind having to go into the Church, but--well, as my father explained it, I had to. I was a third son, and what’s more, the diocese had been in the family for some time, and we couldn’t afford to lose it. Still--I thought that would be it. No more brave fights against those bastards from the East, and everyone else who wronged us--just sermons and collecting rents.”
The serjeant stepped before the metropolitan, his face oddly grim. “And then Gaston died of the Bleeding Cough. And Father and Guillaume were killed by the Ferraus.” Lanval was frowning now. “Well, someone had to lead the family, and Guillaume’s sons couldn’t--they were just babies. And so, I stepped up. And I did what my family needed of me. That’s how we do things in Almace. You look after your kin, and you do what you have to. It may not always be the sort of life the Seven laid out as proper, but we see no shame in it. Perhaps we’re wrong. Perhaps not. It’s how we are.” He took a deep breath. “Shall I help you with your surplice? I wasn’t joking about the damn things being nuisances.”
Vitellus smiled and nodded. “Of course, sir. I would appreciate your help.”
Lanval quickly got to work. “There you go,” he said after a few moment’s work. “Neat as can be.” He adjusted his hands slightly. “Now just one last thing….” And he plunged the dagger into the old man’s chest. Vitellus fell to the ground swiftly, gasping desperately for air, his eyes looking pleadingly at the serjeant for answers.
Lanval gave a deep sigh. “Now--I bet your wondering why I did that. Well, orders, really. And I felt a fellow member of the cloth deserved a proper send-off. Which is why I’m here, and not one of my men.” He shrugged once again. “What can I say? I’m an odd man in my fashion.” He knelt to look Vitellus in the face, smiling. “Now, I’m going to go out there, and tell your men that I found you like this. And they’re going to believe me, because despite what I was, I’m the Prince’s Man, and that means I can be trusted.” He chuckled. “See, I really did mean what I said about how polite you all are. So polite that impolite things--dirty, awful things, don’t even occur to you.” He rose to his feet. “It’s really quite lovely. Like a glittering soap bubble in the sun.” He turned to head out of the room. “And the most lovely thing about bubbles--the thing that makes them not just pretty but beautiful is--they’re bound to pop. Sooner or later.”
Saturday, May 18, 2013
The Queen on the Holly Throne--Part 18
The Great Palanquin wended its way down the Granite Path towards the Scarlet Palace. Hereward had heard of the place, but never seen it. Not that it was a difficult journey from his home--obviously it was quite easy. It was simply that there was no need to go there, and so he hadn’t. It was, after all, exceptionally ill-considered for a bearer to go where he was not wanted.
The palace lived up to what he’d heard. Gleaming domes of copper and gold, freshly polished, shone dimly in the moonlight. Walls of pink marble interlaid with carnelian and sard loomed high, covered with statues and images. Hereward’s breath caught in his throat. There it was--the work of centuries of Kings and Queens of the Holly Throne to create something of beauty.
The gates swung open as they approached, seemingly by magic. In truth, staff had been dispatched to the Palace yesterday to get in working order, and indeed, had been cleaning it for the last year. But that was what they did--make everything in Tintagel function so quietly and surely, it seemed to happen by itself.
The path to the Bronze Gate, the Palace’s primary entrance, was long and prone to digressions, built more to allow those traveling to it time to enjoy the Palace’s elaborate grounds. Hereward felt his arms begin to strain as they passed the twelfth ornamental hedge. Impressive as it all was, a part of him was wishing that the royal family had had a bit more restraint in their decorations.
At last, they came to the Bronze Gate. The palanquin was brought to the stairs before it, and laid down. Hereward heard the curtains flutter. “And here we are,” said Queen Yolande. “I’ve seen pictures, but the actual palace is so more magnificent.” She stepped out of the palanquin and onto the stair.
“Why, dearest, don’t you require your bearers’ assistance for that?” asked Amfortas cheerfully.
“Oh, no,” replied the Queen. “These stairs are pure-made of marble, covered with gold, and cleaned this very day with rosewater.”
“Ahh,” said Amfortas, as he joined the Queen. “How wondrous.” He turned to regard Hereward. “Now, then, I shall need you early tomorrow. My serjeant is planning a meeting with the Senate for me, and I have no plans to leave those fine gentlemen waiting. Further, I always rise early.” The Prince gave a casual shrug. “I have very little need of sleep.”
Hereward nodded. “I will not delay, Your Highness.”
Amfortas smiled. “Excellent. It will be a pleasure to see you.” He stepped to Yolande and took her hand. “Now, then my lady, would you be so kind as to show me these exquisite chambers of yours?” Yolande shyly looked away as they walked up the stairs to the Bronze Gate.
It occurred dimly, to Hereward, that this was the second time he was watching the Queen and her husband vanish from his sight.
The palace lived up to what he’d heard. Gleaming domes of copper and gold, freshly polished, shone dimly in the moonlight. Walls of pink marble interlaid with carnelian and sard loomed high, covered with statues and images. Hereward’s breath caught in his throat. There it was--the work of centuries of Kings and Queens of the Holly Throne to create something of beauty.
The gates swung open as they approached, seemingly by magic. In truth, staff had been dispatched to the Palace yesterday to get in working order, and indeed, had been cleaning it for the last year. But that was what they did--make everything in Tintagel function so quietly and surely, it seemed to happen by itself.
The path to the Bronze Gate, the Palace’s primary entrance, was long and prone to digressions, built more to allow those traveling to it time to enjoy the Palace’s elaborate grounds. Hereward felt his arms begin to strain as they passed the twelfth ornamental hedge. Impressive as it all was, a part of him was wishing that the royal family had had a bit more restraint in their decorations.
At last, they came to the Bronze Gate. The palanquin was brought to the stairs before it, and laid down. Hereward heard the curtains flutter. “And here we are,” said Queen Yolande. “I’ve seen pictures, but the actual palace is so more magnificent.” She stepped out of the palanquin and onto the stair.
“Why, dearest, don’t you require your bearers’ assistance for that?” asked Amfortas cheerfully.
“Oh, no,” replied the Queen. “These stairs are pure-made of marble, covered with gold, and cleaned this very day with rosewater.”
“Ahh,” said Amfortas, as he joined the Queen. “How wondrous.” He turned to regard Hereward. “Now, then, I shall need you early tomorrow. My serjeant is planning a meeting with the Senate for me, and I have no plans to leave those fine gentlemen waiting. Further, I always rise early.” The Prince gave a casual shrug. “I have very little need of sleep.”
Hereward nodded. “I will not delay, Your Highness.”
Amfortas smiled. “Excellent. It will be a pleasure to see you.” He stepped to Yolande and took her hand. “Now, then my lady, would you be so kind as to show me these exquisite chambers of yours?” Yolande shyly looked away as they walked up the stairs to the Bronze Gate.
It occurred dimly, to Hereward, that this was the second time he was watching the Queen and her husband vanish from his sight.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
The Queen on the Holly Throne--Part 17
Sepulchre stared at the Prince’s sword. “And he will be wanting it for the Senate meeting tomorrow?” he asked Gravedust.
“Indeed,” answered his fellow.
Sepulchre let out a sudden hiss. “Does he understand the difficulties involved in his… play-acting? Those little displays of his are not easy to achieve!”
Gravedust remained immobile. “But our duty is to allow him to achieve them,” he stated simply.
“Amongst other things,” noted Sepulchre. “We are being wasted on these little follies.”
“Does the hammer choose its task, brother?” recited Gravedust. “Does the knife protest that it is cutting bread when it could be engaged in weightier matters?”
“It is not these matters weight that I am concerned about,” replied Sepulchre. “It is their necessity.”
Gravedust merely regarded his fellow. “That is for Grandmaster Radiance to consider. Not you.”
Sepulchre nodded. “I understand. Nonetheless, my misgivings remain.” He peered at Gravedust closely. “Do not tell me you do not feel it as well.”
The other Stylite stood there, quiet and still for a long moment. “I shall get the prima material.” Gravedust turned and left the room.
Sepulchre busied himself with his preparations, writing the runes and completing the circle. Work of this sort was good in difficult moments; Sepulchre could lose himself--or what little of himself remained, anyway--in the delicate curve of sigils, the intricate web of meaning that lay in every circle, the subtleties of the Forbidden Art…
It was a sin on his part of course, to find any enjoyment from the curse that Douma Dalkiel had afflicted upon him. But he was Damned, and thus some sins were inevitable.
Gravedust entered with the prima material, nestled in his arms. Sepulchre regarded the boy for a moment. “He sleeps?”
“I gave milk, laced with poppy extract,” replied the Stylite.
Sepulchre regarded his fellow for a moment. “And what else?” he asked.
Gravedust was silent for a moment. “A lemon cake,” he declared at last. “And an apple.” He shifted nervously under Sepulchre’s gaze. “The boy was hungry. I found him in an alleyway, sifting through trash.”
Sepulchre nodded. “Lay him in the circle.” As Gravedust placed the boy there, Sepulchre turned and readied his paints. “They have alleys here?”
“Yes, and also trash,” said Gravedust. “But they do their best to hide it.”
Sepulchre grumbled as he began to paint the symbols onto the boy’s skin. “I should have expected that. Really, these are such a foolish people.” He stared at the child for a moment. “What is the boy’s name?”
“He called himself Corrin,” replied Gravedust. “But I do not know if that was his given name. Neither did he.”
Sepulchre picked up his knife. “Begin the chanting.” As Gravedust recited the words, he raised the knife expertly to the boy’s throat, then, at the right moment, slit it. The blood flowed into the circle which began to glow with a ruddy light.
“Bring the sword,” said Sepulchre, nodding slightly. They were born damned, the Stylite reminded himself. That damnation had to be used, or the Darkness would win. And if unseemly acts were performed…
Well, they were born damned.
“Indeed,” answered his fellow.
Sepulchre let out a sudden hiss. “Does he understand the difficulties involved in his… play-acting? Those little displays of his are not easy to achieve!”
Gravedust remained immobile. “But our duty is to allow him to achieve them,” he stated simply.
“Amongst other things,” noted Sepulchre. “We are being wasted on these little follies.”
“Does the hammer choose its task, brother?” recited Gravedust. “Does the knife protest that it is cutting bread when it could be engaged in weightier matters?”
“It is not these matters weight that I am concerned about,” replied Sepulchre. “It is their necessity.”
Gravedust merely regarded his fellow. “That is for Grandmaster Radiance to consider. Not you.”
Sepulchre nodded. “I understand. Nonetheless, my misgivings remain.” He peered at Gravedust closely. “Do not tell me you do not feel it as well.”
The other Stylite stood there, quiet and still for a long moment. “I shall get the prima material.” Gravedust turned and left the room.
Sepulchre busied himself with his preparations, writing the runes and completing the circle. Work of this sort was good in difficult moments; Sepulchre could lose himself--or what little of himself remained, anyway--in the delicate curve of sigils, the intricate web of meaning that lay in every circle, the subtleties of the Forbidden Art…
It was a sin on his part of course, to find any enjoyment from the curse that Douma Dalkiel had afflicted upon him. But he was Damned, and thus some sins were inevitable.
Gravedust entered with the prima material, nestled in his arms. Sepulchre regarded the boy for a moment. “He sleeps?”
“I gave milk, laced with poppy extract,” replied the Stylite.
Sepulchre regarded his fellow for a moment. “And what else?” he asked.
Gravedust was silent for a moment. “A lemon cake,” he declared at last. “And an apple.” He shifted nervously under Sepulchre’s gaze. “The boy was hungry. I found him in an alleyway, sifting through trash.”
Sepulchre nodded. “Lay him in the circle.” As Gravedust placed the boy there, Sepulchre turned and readied his paints. “They have alleys here?”
“Yes, and also trash,” said Gravedust. “But they do their best to hide it.”
Sepulchre grumbled as he began to paint the symbols onto the boy’s skin. “I should have expected that. Really, these are such a foolish people.” He stared at the child for a moment. “What is the boy’s name?”
“He called himself Corrin,” replied Gravedust. “But I do not know if that was his given name. Neither did he.”
Sepulchre picked up his knife. “Begin the chanting.” As Gravedust recited the words, he raised the knife expertly to the boy’s throat, then, at the right moment, slit it. The blood flowed into the circle which began to glow with a ruddy light.
“Bring the sword,” said Sepulchre, nodding slightly. They were born damned, the Stylite reminded himself. That damnation had to be used, or the Darkness would win. And if unseemly acts were performed…
Well, they were born damned.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The Queen on the Holly Throne--Part 16
Princess Isabel poked at her food awkwardly, glanced at Prince Amfortas again, then glanced away before he noticed and turned to look at her. That had happened the first time, and she did not wish to repeat the experience.
He was, she had to admit, a handsome man, very well-dressed--really, everything a prince should be.
Except for his eyes. Amfortas’ eyes were… Isabel took a deep breath. Earlier in the evening, she’d looked into them, and it had been… unpleasant. There was something cold in Amfortas’ gaze, something that made her think of the time she’d lifted a rock, and found a large number of centipedes underneath it. Her stomach had… turned, it was so awful.
Of course, Mote had told her afterwards that she shouldn’t hate creatures like centipedes who were merely as the Seven had made them, and she had to admit he had a point, but Amfortas was a man, and she expected to see… human feelings when she looked into his eyes. Not that… strange blankness.
Isabel took a deep breath. She told herself she was being silly. That Amfortas was a perfectly fine Prince, a good--no, an exceptional husband for her sister. But the image of his eyes… staring, cold and… hungry came to her, and she shuddered despite herself.
She looked around the dining hall. The Peers and their families were all cheerful and happy, and Isabel suddenly felt an urge to stand up and shout “Can’t you people see that he’s staring at you?” She didn’t of course, even as she realized it was true. Amfortas’ eyes were calmly regarding the entire room in that awful cold way he’d looked at her, appraising the people for… something. Isabel didn’t know what it was--only that you didn’t look at people that way if you wished to do something pleasant to them.
“Are you all right, my dear?” whispered Mote in her ear. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
“I… I feel a bit… queasy, Mote,” replied Isabel. “I… wish to return to the Maiden Palace.”
Mote regarded her for a moment, then looked over the dining hall. The eunuch gave a swift nod. “Yes, perhaps it is best. The din here can be upsetting.” He turned to Edith. “I believe both of you should leave.”
“But I’m not feeling ill at all!” snapped Edith. She pouted. “They haven’t even served the cake yet.”
“I will have Mustardseed bring you some,” replied Mote. “But it is best for you to leave together. Come now.”
The pair rose from the table, while Mote sent one of his fellows to explain the matter to the Queen. As the sisters walked down the hall, Edith glared at Isabel. “You are being dreadful. I wanted to stay, and ask the Prince if he’d ever killed Nightfolk!”
Isabel gulped, and thought about Amfortas’ eyes. “I’m pretty sure he has, Edith. In fact, I’m positive.”
He was, she had to admit, a handsome man, very well-dressed--really, everything a prince should be.
Except for his eyes. Amfortas’ eyes were… Isabel took a deep breath. Earlier in the evening, she’d looked into them, and it had been… unpleasant. There was something cold in Amfortas’ gaze, something that made her think of the time she’d lifted a rock, and found a large number of centipedes underneath it. Her stomach had… turned, it was so awful.
Of course, Mote had told her afterwards that she shouldn’t hate creatures like centipedes who were merely as the Seven had made them, and she had to admit he had a point, but Amfortas was a man, and she expected to see… human feelings when she looked into his eyes. Not that… strange blankness.
Isabel took a deep breath. She told herself she was being silly. That Amfortas was a perfectly fine Prince, a good--no, an exceptional husband for her sister. But the image of his eyes… staring, cold and… hungry came to her, and she shuddered despite herself.
She looked around the dining hall. The Peers and their families were all cheerful and happy, and Isabel suddenly felt an urge to stand up and shout “Can’t you people see that he’s staring at you?” She didn’t of course, even as she realized it was true. Amfortas’ eyes were calmly regarding the entire room in that awful cold way he’d looked at her, appraising the people for… something. Isabel didn’t know what it was--only that you didn’t look at people that way if you wished to do something pleasant to them.
“Are you all right, my dear?” whispered Mote in her ear. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
“I… I feel a bit… queasy, Mote,” replied Isabel. “I… wish to return to the Maiden Palace.”
Mote regarded her for a moment, then looked over the dining hall. The eunuch gave a swift nod. “Yes, perhaps it is best. The din here can be upsetting.” He turned to Edith. “I believe both of you should leave.”
“But I’m not feeling ill at all!” snapped Edith. She pouted. “They haven’t even served the cake yet.”
“I will have Mustardseed bring you some,” replied Mote. “But it is best for you to leave together. Come now.”
The pair rose from the table, while Mote sent one of his fellows to explain the matter to the Queen. As the sisters walked down the hall, Edith glared at Isabel. “You are being dreadful. I wanted to stay, and ask the Prince if he’d ever killed Nightfolk!”
Isabel gulped, and thought about Amfortas’ eyes. “I’m pretty sure he has, Edith. In fact, I’m positive.”
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Queen on the Holly Throne--Part 15
As Queen Yolande and Prince Amfortas entered the dining hall of the Moonlit Palace, the assembled Peers burst into applause. Yolande smiled. She’d been worried for so long that this marriage would fail--that the Courts of Left and Right would protest--but they seemed happy. Taking a deep breath, she began her speech.
“Greetings to you all! Peers of the Left! Peers of the Right! Your good wishes and kind feelings are treasured by your Queen, in the depth of my heart. Allow me to join you in hoping that this marriage be joyous and fruitful, that it bring prosperity and glory to the Holly Throne!”
Another burst of applause. Amfortas smiled, and leaned towards her. “May I have a few words?” he whispered in her ear. Yolande nodded. Amfortas turned towards the assembled Peers.
“Lords and Ladies of Tintagel, you do me great honor, and I honor you for it. I have heard of the fineness of your manners, the age of your traditions, the beauty of your land, and am pleased to discover that these stories are not exaggerations, but understatements.” His smile broadened. “I cannot tell you the joy it gives me to have such a friendly land clasp me to its bosom, to gain the service of your good people, to… simply be here.”
There was some more scattered applause. Amfortas raised his hand.
“Good Peers, we live in dark times. The Dark Lords of the Lands of Night are preparing for the one last strike to obliterate all that is good and holy. If they succeed, the Light shall be blotted out forever. But I know they will fail. I know that we will defeat them, by setting aside our petty differences, and working, as with one mind to defeat them. It will not be the Light that fails, but the Dark! And we will usher in a new era--a new Holy Empire that shall endure for a thousand years!” The applause began again, rather more spirited now. “It will not easy. The fight will be difficult. Sacrifices will have to be made. But I assure you--the glorious future ahead of us, will make it all worth while.”
Yolande smiled at her husband as they walked to their seats in the hall. What Amfortas said filled her with hope. And it was true, she knew it was! A new era was starting, and she for one could not wait for it to begin.
“Greetings to you all! Peers of the Left! Peers of the Right! Your good wishes and kind feelings are treasured by your Queen, in the depth of my heart. Allow me to join you in hoping that this marriage be joyous and fruitful, that it bring prosperity and glory to the Holly Throne!”
Another burst of applause. Amfortas smiled, and leaned towards her. “May I have a few words?” he whispered in her ear. Yolande nodded. Amfortas turned towards the assembled Peers.
“Lords and Ladies of Tintagel, you do me great honor, and I honor you for it. I have heard of the fineness of your manners, the age of your traditions, the beauty of your land, and am pleased to discover that these stories are not exaggerations, but understatements.” His smile broadened. “I cannot tell you the joy it gives me to have such a friendly land clasp me to its bosom, to gain the service of your good people, to… simply be here.”
There was some more scattered applause. Amfortas raised his hand.
“Good Peers, we live in dark times. The Dark Lords of the Lands of Night are preparing for the one last strike to obliterate all that is good and holy. If they succeed, the Light shall be blotted out forever. But I know they will fail. I know that we will defeat them, by setting aside our petty differences, and working, as with one mind to defeat them. It will not be the Light that fails, but the Dark! And we will usher in a new era--a new Holy Empire that shall endure for a thousand years!” The applause began again, rather more spirited now. “It will not easy. The fight will be difficult. Sacrifices will have to be made. But I assure you--the glorious future ahead of us, will make it all worth while.”
Yolande smiled at her husband as they walked to their seats in the hall. What Amfortas said filled her with hope. And it was true, she knew it was! A new era was starting, and she for one could not wait for it to begin.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
The Queen on the Holly Throne--Part 14
Lanval Equitan glanced at the hall. “So… this is the Senate, eh?”
“The Senate Hall,” replied the Envoy of the Left.
“The Senate is the body of august gentleman who meet here,” explained the Envoy of the Right.
“Yes, yes,” agreed the Envoy of the Left. “Quite distinct from the Senate Hall. Why, if they were to meet somewhere else, they’d still be the Senate.”
“Whereas this would merely be a hall, if that were to occur,” noted the Envoy of the Right. The pair shared a familiar laugh that caused Equitan to realize that they’d made this joke before.
Many times before.
Lanval allowed himself a deep, calming breath. “But then, this is where they meet?” The pair nodded. “And they govern Tintagel…?”
“Oh, no!” replied the Envoy of the Right. “Seven forbid! The Queen governs--through the agency of the Courts--and the Senate advises!”
The Envoy of the Left nodded, his masked face bobbing eagerly. “Yes, it would be the height of impropriety for the Senate to govern the land. They simply offer their honest opinion on the matter.”
“And the Queen--through the Courts--may act on this as she sees fit?” muttered Lanval, rubbing his temples.
“Exactly,” said the Envoy of the Left.
“Though it is always advisable to do what the Senate wishes,” said the Envoy of the Right. “And indeed, should Her Highness choose to do otherwise, she is required to notify them and provide her reason, for the Senate to muse on.”
Lanval stared at the pair for a moment. “And… what if the Senate does not approve of her reasons?”
“Why, then they may censure her,” said the Envoy of the Right.
“And that does what?” asked Lanval, a note of harshness in his voice.
“Why it’s a tremendous embarrassment!” declared the Envoy of the Left. “A black mark on one’s reign. Only five monarchs have ever been censured.”
The Envoy of the Right nodded. “It’s a great, great shame.”
“And of course, no monarch of Tintagel could deal with such… shame,” muttered Lanval.
“Indeed,” said the Envoy of the Right eagerly. “All five who were censured died shortly thereafter--four by suicide, and one by sheer shock of being improper.”
“We are a very honorable people,” said the Envoy of the Left.
Equitan suppressed a groan. “May I suppose that the Senate has certain… unofficial duties, as well? Serving as a place where the Courts may iron out their differences, for example.”
The two Envoys looked at him as if he had proposed they marry their sisters. “I should say not!” declared the Envoy of the Left. “The Senate is completely distinct from the Courts of the Left and Right! The forms of the government of Tintagel demand it!”
The Envoy of the Right crossed his arms. “Higher members of the Court may not even set foot inside this Hall. And even lowly members such as ourselves may not do so when the Senate is in session!”
Lanval shut his eyes and nodded along. “Of course not. That would be… improper…”
“Exactly,” the pair said as one.
Equitan sighed to himself.
“The Senate Hall,” replied the Envoy of the Left.
“The Senate is the body of august gentleman who meet here,” explained the Envoy of the Right.
“Yes, yes,” agreed the Envoy of the Left. “Quite distinct from the Senate Hall. Why, if they were to meet somewhere else, they’d still be the Senate.”
“Whereas this would merely be a hall, if that were to occur,” noted the Envoy of the Right. The pair shared a familiar laugh that caused Equitan to realize that they’d made this joke before.
Many times before.
Lanval allowed himself a deep, calming breath. “But then, this is where they meet?” The pair nodded. “And they govern Tintagel…?”
“Oh, no!” replied the Envoy of the Right. “Seven forbid! The Queen governs--through the agency of the Courts--and the Senate advises!”
The Envoy of the Left nodded, his masked face bobbing eagerly. “Yes, it would be the height of impropriety for the Senate to govern the land. They simply offer their honest opinion on the matter.”
“And the Queen--through the Courts--may act on this as she sees fit?” muttered Lanval, rubbing his temples.
“Exactly,” said the Envoy of the Left.
“Though it is always advisable to do what the Senate wishes,” said the Envoy of the Right. “And indeed, should Her Highness choose to do otherwise, she is required to notify them and provide her reason, for the Senate to muse on.”
Lanval stared at the pair for a moment. “And… what if the Senate does not approve of her reasons?”
“Why, then they may censure her,” said the Envoy of the Right.
“And that does what?” asked Lanval, a note of harshness in his voice.
“Why it’s a tremendous embarrassment!” declared the Envoy of the Left. “A black mark on one’s reign. Only five monarchs have ever been censured.”
The Envoy of the Right nodded. “It’s a great, great shame.”
“And of course, no monarch of Tintagel could deal with such… shame,” muttered Lanval.
“Indeed,” said the Envoy of the Right eagerly. “All five who were censured died shortly thereafter--four by suicide, and one by sheer shock of being improper.”
“We are a very honorable people,” said the Envoy of the Left.
Equitan suppressed a groan. “May I suppose that the Senate has certain… unofficial duties, as well? Serving as a place where the Courts may iron out their differences, for example.”
The two Envoys looked at him as if he had proposed they marry their sisters. “I should say not!” declared the Envoy of the Left. “The Senate is completely distinct from the Courts of the Left and Right! The forms of the government of Tintagel demand it!”
The Envoy of the Right crossed his arms. “Higher members of the Court may not even set foot inside this Hall. And even lowly members such as ourselves may not do so when the Senate is in session!”
Lanval shut his eyes and nodded along. “Of course not. That would be… improper…”
“Exactly,” the pair said as one.
Equitan sighed to himself.
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