Vol.6, Ch.2, P.1
Balls of cotton bobbed in the breeze. Buds like little clouds, abrim in a swaying sea.
We were come to the fiefdom of Rahm, Former Artean’s eastern neighbour. In this land was the parley for reconciliation to convene. Standing atop a hill under the eaves of a lone oak, I looked all about. White and blue spanned flat and far into the horizon.
A “sareland” did the magistrates of Central term this territory, amongst other names, and now I knew why: drab and dry it was, but not for want of rain or irrigation. No; it was simply that Rahm was a sleepy and insipid patch of Londosian soil—and unimportant withal in too many ways. Whether in commerce or military, resource or leisure, there was little to write home about here. Not even its farming fared any better, if these unpunctuated sprawls of cotton were any sign.
“And then, there’s the jutting nail…” I mused aloud as my eyes inevitably settled upon what seemed like giant sails faring along the horizon: the Acadēmī̆a of Merkulov. A scholastic institution as old as it was vast, the university easily boasted of being the sole point of interest in Rahm, and withal the very most historic academy in all of Londosius. Day by day therein, droves of students and scholars hailing from all corners of the realm would fill its many halls and further their myriad disciplines.
Curiously enough, in recent years had the place been granted some degree of independence. That is, its obligation to share with Central the fruits of its research had been eased. A distinction passing outstanding for the establishment, if nothing else; and under as far-reaching and hard-clutching a reign as Londosius’, an exceedingly seldom one, at that. And in further distinguishment, Merkulov had also rid itself entirely of its Quire chaplaincy, a feature otherwise completely ubiquitous amongst its sister institutions. Truly a lot with a taste for autonomy, these Merkulovers.
Nevertheless, this was Londosius, and at the end of the day, “some degree of independence” was just that. What topics its magisters could teach was no less restricted than usual; meaning, of course, that theology was yet an indelible aspect of the pupils’ studies. Theology here was equal parts a show of Deivic adoration, after all. With education but another plank in the yoke of “Yonaism”, therefore, squeezing its way out of it was never in the cards for Merkulov, no matter its historicality or its prestige.
But well now, how came this “academic independence” at all, then? “Jutting nail” is right; never would the hammer of Londosius leave such a thing undriven, one would think. The answer to that riddle lay in the hand that’d stayed the hammer: that of the Princess Serafina’s herself. Indeed, that her policies had effected such a change is something to be noted. But it mustn’t have been easy for her. What in the world was she thinking, wading against white waters like she did? And all just to buoy a dusty, old school here in the middle of nowhere, at that?
To guess was beyond me. My hope, however, was that this princess was separate from the pack; that her defiance was not some delusion nor deception. Accounting as well the whispers of her rather wayward ways, to say nothing of her apparent penning of this very proposal for “reconciliation”, Her Highness’s mind struck me altogether as one much sundered from that of Central’s.
And very soon were she and I to meet. A princess-regent, inviting a rebel by name… indeed, what’d she seen in me? What would she see? And I, her?
“Rolf,” called Lise as she waded hither through the carpet of cotton. “The second scouring’s turned up nothing. ’Twould seem they behave themselves, these realmers—as bargained.”
“They had better,” I sighed and nodded.
Honouring their promise, the Londosians had suffered us to send a vaward party into these parts, that we might search them for aught… “amiss”. Thankfully enough, the place had proved spick-and-span. That was a few mornings ago, however. This being the very day of, with all the attendees soon to gather and sit, we had thought it wise to sniff out everything once more. But this time, too, yielded naught out of the ordinary.
“Find aught more than lint and tuft,” I said, “and we’d have a scandal on our hands.”
“A scandal and more,” agreed Lise, as she then stood beside me and intently eyed Merkulov in the distance.
Most immense was that place, enough to inspire a university town or three to sprout right outside its walls, each replete with shops, eating halls, and whatnot. Only, Merkulov possessed nothing of the sort. Verily, neighbouring it was nary a building; not one shed nor byre nearby wherein to hide a troupe of troublemakers. Maybe behind a blind hill or down in a hole, we’d all thought, but nay, it was all white tufts and green tussocks. The Acadēmī̆a proper, as well, had our searchers scoured as much as they could. But as Lise said, they again had come back with nothing to report.
That was the way of it, then: no ne’er-do-wells here to waylay us or molest our meeting. Londosius had deigned keep its maw muzzled, it would well appear.
“Still, we’d best beware,” I cautioned Lise. “One can never know with these things.”
“Of course.”
With that, I gave one last look up the oaken tree. A damp breeze blew through, and there I saw its leaves, hanging limp, all twist in the wind—a sign of rain soon due. And turning, I left with Lise; and before long, we made for Merkulov in earnest.
Soon was it upon us: the meeting most momentous, most historic.
“…”
And ever as I walked, I found myself wordless. The weight of the occasion much whelmed, sure. But it was another thought that had me in sudden thrall; a thought with little to do at all with the meeting’s intent. Thoughts of azure eyes, round and bright; of flaxen hair, sun-kissed and coursing; of a fair and unforgettable figure frolicking through fields yet unfaded.
Yes; she, too, was here, I’d been told. And step after step, my feet took me whither she waited.
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“Immense” was certainly the word for Merkulov. No amount of preparatory pouring over its maps nor surveys from a distance could ever’ve prepared me for this in-person visit. Truly could no other academy compare. Just one side of its encircling walls spanned a mīlle and a half, as a crow flies. And strewing its vast estate were buildings both big and small, cottages and colleges various and vainly to be counted.
We’d been inspected and allowed through the main gates, but not before being assigned a guide, in whose following we’d then passed through the expansive front gardens. Now were we being led through the central sprawl to the largest of its building complexes. Albeit “largest” does not fully describe the scale of it. Dense and maze-like this complex was, as well, and exceedingly so. Little wonder why we were given a guide.
According to our preliminary intelligence, this confusion of a construction had a name: the “studitōrium”, wherein much of Merkulov’s foresaid research was assayed. Passing bold of Londosius to lead us through halls so massive and sensitive, one would rightly think—bold, or ostentatious, perhaps. But as we soon saw upon entering this so-called studitōrium, it was not solely its size that astounded.
“Oh…? Fair things may Man-hands make.”
Muttering that was Alban, who also was to participate the parley. And precisely as he appraised, the studitōrium’s interior make, too, was marvellous to behold. Intricate tilings ran level and even; timber vaults overlooked in silent solemnity; and neither was any section of wall warped, nor any corridor squandered of purpose. Indeed, all the architecture had been perfectly planned and pieced together; no doubt the stonemasons and woodworkers had each retired rich and well-regarded.
Albeit—though one might expect such from a place of research and study—the studitōrium exuded none of the extravagance of, say, the royal capital of Redelberne. Put in a way, stern and sincere it was instead, employing full the fastness and quality of the materials that composed it.
“Oaks… and granites besides,” Alban mused on, surveying the architecture in wonder whilst he walked. “In days long past this place was built. Yet herein lies not a seam to be seen. Remarkable, I admit, the crafts of this kingdom.”
“That,” next said Lise, “what’s behind it?” She then pointed aside, whence loomed a set of double-doors, large and tall.
“The pantry,” said our guide. Curious; though a Londosian, this woman was rather willing to quench our curiosities. Not comprehensively to any degree, mind, but neither with any of the usual scorn to be seen. All thanks to a stern word from the princess, I wagered.
“Pantry?” Lise echoed with lifted brows.
“Indeed,” answered the guide. “The dining hall sits hard-by.”
A dining hall to house hundreds of hungry stomachs, I imagined. But if so, then the pantry, too, must be massive in turn.
“…”
And there was Alban, walking grave and silent. The Nafílim never did have for themselves much in the way of such places of study. Yet here was Londosius, erecting one after the other since its founding; and not only to such scale, but as to bedight them each with stores of food enormous and well-supplied, that no stomach of student nor scholar may growl for long.
I then recalled a story of a certain general, who, during a parley in a rival kingdom, is horrified at the sight of an emissary plopping lump after lump of sugar into his tea. For by that simple indulgence, the general realises straightway that his enemy wields more power and prosperity than he once guessed. Point being, that it is not just masses of men and storms of swords that may inspire fear. That Alban should be so perturbed, with bent brows and pursed lips, was therefore nothing to wonder about.
“Well, then…” I next murmured, “…even room for greenery they’ve got here.”
There, opposite the pantry and enclosed by the cloisters whence we now walked, was a garth long, wide, and without roof. Like a patch of paradise it appeared, gushing with grasses and grown with trees each stretching high to the open skies above; yet another ensampling of this kingdom’s advancements. Alas, Londosius, Realm of Silver, Land of Knights—needless to say, the country of my breeding was yet of power and weal to humble us upstarts.
With step and pace tensed all the more, we followed our guide further, and at length, we exited the studitōrium proper and out into the open. More colleges, lanes, and manicured grounds unfurled far afore us. We then headed to the east end of Merkulov, whence stood our last stop: the lectitōrium.
I mentioned before of us having scoured the Acadēmī̆a for foes in hiding, but reality was, so twisting and winding and numerously roomed was the studitōrium alone that even afforded all the hours of daylight, it was simply impossible to inspect its every nook and cranny. And so was the studitōrium despite its grandeur unfit to host our parley. Nay, what we required was a sanctuary of sorts, bereft of blind spots, that no ambush may beset it. Therefore had it been decided that we should meet yonder at the lectitōrium instead—or more specifically, atop the steeple tower that adjoined it.
Its brass spire sparkling in the sun, very tall and stately the steeple seemed as we beheld it from afar; more so than many others of its sort. In fact, being so tremendous, the tower’s base had been built with more than one entryway, that in case of fire or failure, any and all within may flee with little fear of entrapment. What’s more, the tower itself stood the most loftily of all within Merkulov, and by a good margin, at that, making its top nigh-untouchable by any untoward spell or shaft from below. Altogether, it was as ideal a place for parley as might be arranged for us.
“Impressive,” Lise uttered beside me as she peered upwards at the tower. “Its tip tickles the clouds.”
Interesting; that she should admire the marvels of an enemy realm—a peculiarity perhaps passed down from her jarl father. Albeit knowing her, Lise’s praise might’ve simply been for the splendour on display, undiluted by any thought of war and affiliation.
She had a point, however. More so again than the studitōrium was the steeple of a port wizened and weighty. Like a tree of ancientry, straight and true it sprang from the east postern of the lectitōrium. And though old and worn by wind, the beauty of its masonry amazed no less. Hence again did the eminence of Londosius leave us in wonder.
Such were my thoughts when Lise turned to me and said, “Arbel I know to be large and laid all with stone. But this whole place, ’tis more… laden, I feel.”
“‘Laden’? I expected ‘leaden’ there,” I replied. “Hm. Laden. Well-put.”
Leave it to Lise, I’d been finding myself thinking of late. Present her with history and prestige to astound, and she’d distill it all down to an unexpected word. Indeed, ever as I beheld her undaunted demeanour, I felt myself smiling.
“Well-put?” she said. “A jest, that.”
I chuckled. “Nay, I mean it.”
So went our chatter till we reached and entered the lectitōrium. Such places bearing the name are purposed originally to the gathering and preaching of monks amongst themselves. But put one in a university, and it gains new utility as a spot for any ordered assembly. Still, ever as we entered and absorbed the place, pious inspiration was yet apparent in its every detail. Long and spacious it was, enough to be mistaken for a former cathedral, especially with the columned aisles at its sides. And worthy of note was a ponderous pane of stained glass. Situated far opposite the steeple’s stairwell and adorning the wall directly above the entrance, the square of coloured crystal was colossal for its kind, spanning more than three passūs in length and width both. And brilliantly depicted upon it was the figure of Yoná.
“…”
Intently, I looked up at Her. How mild and motherly She seemed; a divine haven for all of Man. But before my thoughts could form any further, a voice echoed through the cavernous lectitōrium.
“There you are,” it said. “A long walk, we know.”
Standing further within was the rest of our Himmel delegation. And opposite them were personnel from the other party: the Londosians. Albeit their princess was not present. I gathered that she waited above in the steeple. With the meeting chamber to suffer only five members from each side, all the rest had been left to linger here in the lectitōrium.
Giving the Deiva one last glance, I turned to the gathering. Included therein was the princess’s Praetorian Guards, along with a smattering of Orderly knights; and withal one young lass, by whose livery I guessed to be Her Highness’s lady-in-waiting. But how very strange: that the princess-regent of all the realm should be attended by not half a host of handservants, but rather a single soul.
At that moment, my eyes halted upon one other figure. With an Orderly mareschal, too, to be present at the parley, I’d well-suspected that an Owlcrane or three would be roosting hard-by. And nary to my surprise, this Owlcrane returned my look with a much-acquainted hoot.
“’Ey up, muscle-pate,” she said. “Been a while.”
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