3 bar menu

Vol.5, Ch.2, P.8

Redelberne, royal capital of Londosius. Embowered by the wings of the pearl-white palace, the regal gardens were as ever a cascade of colour and calm. Numberless blossoms bobbed in the breeze; clear waters babbled from brimming fountains—all under the watch of one young woman: Her Royal Highness, the Princess Serafina Demeter Londosius.

Like a living doll she seemed, perfect of countenance and complexion, silver of hair and vestment, and sad and grey of her starry eyes. And there was she sat, under the shade of a pillared pavilion at the gardens’ navel. Afore her was a white, round table appointed with hot black tea. Three were served: one for the princess; the second for Hugo Rudels, semicentenarian and Lord Chancellor; and the last for one other gentleman. Stately and tall of stature he was, and though numbering forty and more in his years, his finger-length hair yet burnt full in their autumn red. And setting down her teacup, it was to this man that the princess now turned.

“Thou seemest hale, Marquis,” she said to him. “Or might ‘Bishop’ be meeter for this occasion?”

“Please, my Princess. Marquis or bishop, ever am I a staunch son of Londosius,” he answered, displaying not a hint of humbleness despite himself. Balbreau Isfält was his name, grand nobleman and marquis—and a bishop besides to the Yonaistic spirituality.

As could be guessed, Isfält was his namesake fiefdom, home to the holy mountain of Déu Tsellin. Eluding further guess, however, was that the term “mountain” somewhat belied the landmark’s true form: standing scarce a scratch above a single mille-passus in height, Déu Tsellin was rather middling as far as mountains went, but boasted a broad and undulative girth that more “lifted” from the earth than thrust out of it. Indeed, formed more out of foothills than sheer faces, the mountain was as gentle as it was holy. Only, it was bare of all bush and bough. Where there ought be grass, there was gravel; where one imagines a forest, there spanned stretches strewn with pebbles and boulders. It is beyond question, therefore, that Déu Tsellin was very much a grey and desolate place. Yet the crown it wore easily cast away any doubt as to its purpose or prestige, for sat atop its central summit was a great, white temple: the Dēlūbrum, as belonging to the Deivic Quire.

Drawing droves of pilgrims every year on Houseltide for worship and communion, the Dēlūbrum was regarded a cornerstone of Yonaism, its home mountain an earthly emblem of faith itself—and the land whereupon these both laid: a place of incomprehensible import to the Quire.

He who presides over this most princely of provinces must necessarily deal much with the religious order. The Quiremen of four kingly reigns past had realised much the same, and thus had conferred unto the coeval lord of House Isfält the title of bishop, a gesture which swiftly transformed into tradition from that day on. And thus was it so that the lordly line of Isfält served both Crown and Deiva in the most official of capacities.

The king of Londosius at that time, too, had seen some need to embellish House Isfält, that theirs should be a peerage more befitting their twofold post. Hence, by his Sceptre was the erstwhile count-house of Isfält promoted to that of a marquis. The move caused quite the stir. Many had hailed it with glad hearts, to be sure. Albeit there stood one who had gone against the grain: a contemporaneous scholar and proponent of the separation of state and spirituality, this most audacious soul openly protested against the entire affair. To this day, however, such dissent was held to be the howlings of a lunatic.

“Very good. Now, onto matters pressing,” said the princess, sternly now. “Marquis, the amassing and mustering go to plan, I trust?”

“Indeed, Your Royal Highness,” answered Balbreau. “The Champions Salvator assemble as we speak. I expect nigh on our full number to be brought to bear.”

The swords and shields of the Quire: the Champions Salvator. Or more officially, the Patrōnī Sacrī Ēvangeliī—the Sacred Patronhood of the Gospel. To their number was Balbreau a military commander; a “bishop of battle”, as one might say. Perpetually posted upon the slopes of Déu Tsellin, theirs was a fighting force fierce and efficient, and as well, most excellent in their mastery of magicks—in especial Balbreau’s very own son: Alfred. Next in line to the Isfält name, myriad minds far and wide measured the young man a peerless and prodigious weaver of spells, fighting with skill and calculation equal to that of a mareschal of the Order. And with the holy mountain set to receive a many-sided assault, it baffled none that both Alfred and his Salvator brothers should be set to the answering.

“Yet, if I may add, Your Highness, the enemy, too, moves with great momentum,” Balbreau said on. “‘Blessed’ by the mountain though we be, I scarce foresee our force stemming so teeming a tide alone.”

The marquis then sipped his tea. He had every confidence in the mountain’s veritable vault of advantages. There were those of the supernatural, of course, as witnessed time and again upon that sacred space. Yet the very shape of the grey heights itself should avail much, as from its peak did splay, like many-tendrilled vines, a web of ridges and vales—a sound snare against any attacking army.

Still, the lay of the land could only help so much. Soldiers, bodies were needed. Droves and droves and droves more; such was the scale of the bloodshed to come. Mulling the impasse, the marquis set down his cup without a sound.

“My Princess,” he began again, his voice grave and flat. “The devils must be destroyed ere they spoil the sanctity of Déu Tsellin. May I therefore presume this matter to be remedied by your royal might?”

Tallien to the north and Artean to the east—two of Isfält’s neighbours: fallen, one after the other. The marquis could be forgiven for his fears. As things stood, his fiefdom seemed now an island stranded at a crossing of two great storms, the defiance against which was doubtful, if even manned by his mighty Champions Salvator.

“Thou presumest true,” answered Serafina. “A woesome wound, as well, would it proveth upon Londosius, were ever the mountain to fall. And so shall Londosian knights join the fore—with forces fit and full.”

“My utmost and enduring gratitude, Your Royal Highness,” thanked the marquis, bowing whence he was sat. “And, if I may also enquire: which of the Orders is to aid us, precisely?”

“Why, which but the very most valiant, Marquis,” the lord chancellor answered in the princess’ place. “Already has the Mareschal Tiselius received her orders, if it gladdens you.”

To that, the marquis nodded. Such was music to his ears; the long ride to Redelberne was now proven fruitful. Indeed, he had long thought the 1st most fitting to come to Isfält’s defence. Only, what he heard next from Serafina’s lips was well beyond his expectations.

“Admittedly, the 1st Order alone may prove lacking,” she said. “Marquis. Thou shalt have withal the 2nd to sally in succour.”

Wonderment took the two men. And for a moment, they pondered the princess’ words in heavy silence.

“The 1st… and the 2nd?” Hugo echoed at length. “But, Your Highness, I fear the other fronts will fail were so great and mighty a number to be pulled from their posts.”

A point most fair. The Orders were each assigned their own fronts to fight, their own duties to fulfil. Not capriciously nor so asudden should they be made to move hither and thither—not least were they the two most eminent Orders in all the realm. Much was at stake in the battle to come, that none here doubted. But it seemed to the two men here that the princess’ proposal was too much a flight of fancy.

“Thy fears be unfounded,” Serafina assured Hugo. “The Fiefguards shall show soon their worth—by defending for the 2nd the eastern fronts.” There was not a hint of haste nor apprehension in the princess’ reply. She had designs, and ones long-hatched, it well-seemed. “Moreover, many provinces west stand steady enough to elude any need for garrisons therein. Indeed, the more vulnerable of the fronts may yet be availed, Lord Hugo; we have but to bolster them with such soldiers as can be found sitting idle upon the realm’s ramparts.”

And there, the princess gestured, directing the two men’s gazes to the other item upon the table: a square bundle bound in silken black. With her permission, they carefully took it, and found within it a manuscript, which they began perusing at length. And ever as they did, once more did wonder fill their faces, for therein was a complete plan, and one writ by Serafina’s own hand, no less.

This was passing peculiar. The princess’ erstwhile position was one of approving plans, not penning them. Yet what did the men behold but a product of many days and nights of her royal meditation.

That the plan was a surprise to Hugo ought not be taken for incompetence. Nay, he was, in fact, a man marked for his mountainous capability; to pen a ream of plans here or there was a regular affair to him. But on this day and at this table, he could not help but bend his brows in humiliation, and for good reason.

“Pray fret not,” Serafina said, smiling vanishingly at Hugo’s troubled face. “My king father yet bedeth in infirmity; his throne standeth cold. In such dire times must we strive in each our given charges. Thine, my gentle Chancellor, lie’eth in governance and administration; and mine… in what is allowed me.”

“Your Highness…” Hugo said heavily, “…you leave me without words.”

Long had Londosius’ king laid sick in his bed. The queen herself was deceased now for several years, having succumbed to a malady of her own. Pained by both the loss of her mother and the sight of her sick and suffering father, little Serafina had resolved to bear the burden of Crown and Kingdom upon her too-young shoulders—a resolve and burden lasting years to this day.

Only, so long as her king father yet drew breath, unhale and haggard though he may be, the keys to the kingdom remained ultimately his and his alone. Hence was the princess’ Sceptre doomed to be halved from the haft up. She could not reign as the realm required; she could not avail where all help was begged for. Princess Seraphina was a sovereign set in chains beyond her power to break. And so it was that even as Londosius listed and languished afore her very eyes, never was she suffered to steer it back to course. And for it, Hugo, who was privy to her pains and struggles, pitied the princess deeply—more so than could be thought capable of so callous a heart as his.

“The 3rd,” he said after a moment of morose meditation, “very recent was their reestablishment. Plans, too, for their garrisonings were presented just days ago. Yes… My Princess, to their speeding will I see with all energy, and pending their completion, send the knights to shore your designs.”

“My thanks, Lord Hugo. Much banketh upon thy labours,” answered Serafina. Genuine gladness glimmered in her sad and grey eyes. But they soon hardened to a graveness, and facing the two men anew, the princess said, “As touching the two-fold deployment of the 1st and 2nd, there be’eth reason enough, my doubtful Lords, for I foresee the Artean insurgence set to gather against us.”

“Isfälter eyes, too, have been wary of the same, Your Highness,” remarked the marquis. “But by my humble measure, no fruit shall be born from it. After all, what Men would deign to march in league with the devils, much less mingle with them?”

Such was Balbreau’s doubt, commonly held and commonly heeded. The princess, however, was not in agreement.

“Nay. It be’eth not a league betwixt them that deserveth suspicion, but rather a ‘contract’,” answered Serafina. “Mutual convenience—such be’eth the hand they play, I previse. And in their next will they beset us altogether in tandem.” Troubling words. Still, the lords remained not entirely convinced, despite their princess’ acumen. But as though having predicted, too, their doubts, Serafina continued on. “I presume the hearsay hath not escaped your ears, Lords. Of parliaments of Men full-allowed to legislate in spite of their Nafílim overlords. Of the Roland Concern quitting Londosian markets for those more ‘foreign’.”

And there, Hugo and Balbreau both frowned, as though a truthful barb in the back of their minds had been prodded. Cooperation between rival races—such sin was not to be fancied, yet a reality it remained nonetheless. And so must it be accepted and the enemy duly scried, lest Londosius deal unto itself a defeat by its own folly. This the princess pondered as she then began her next stern words.

“Yes, indeed, my Lords. Men and Nafílim mingle to this moment,” she stated, clear and regal. “An unprecedented development, none should doubt, but one more certain still to bring them boons beyond our imagining. We must therefore answer with designs no less deviant, with moves no less unimaginable. For such be’eth now the temperament of the times. Pray, Lords, heed this, and heed it well.”

─────────────────────

Chapter 2 ─ End

♰