Vol.6, Ch.2, P.2
“…Raakel Nyholm,” I noted flatly. “Out of all the eggs in the basket.”
The unflattered dame snorted. “Well, there’s one more from that bunch,” she returned. “Ye don’t see him, but Bailon, he’s come, as well. Aye—the adjutant what’s sat in the seat ye left so cold.”
“Warming it would’ve been a waste, I assure you.”
…Edgar Bailon, the 5th’s new chief adjutant. I’d heard of the name. Doubtless did his précis astound, to have met Emilie’s standards.
I scanned about, looking for more familiar faces. “This all for the 5th, then?” I then asked Raakel.
“Just ’bout,” she answered. “Gerd’s stuck house-keepin’. An’ Sheila, well…”
At that moment, Raakel narrowed her eyes hard upon me. And therein I glimpsed an anger growling and glowering, as a fire stoked and tended in bitter secret; the red-maned Owlcrane had not taken lightly my dislimbing of her dear comrade.
“Ah right. Sheila,” I passingly responded. “Send her my regards, will you? And tell her to stretch that wing of hers every now and again. Can’t be hale, cooping herself up like—”
“Ye bloody…!” snarled Raakel.
It was some moons ago when word of Sheila’s fate had come our way: that she’d survived that night at the Tallien estate and managed to worm her way back to 5th headquarters. But that was the extent of the intelligence; Sheila was never to be seen outside the Orderly walls again, as far as we could tell. I could imagine why: for along with that arm of hers, Sheila had lost her pride. Defeat at the hands of an ungraced would do that to the lamb of Yoná, I suppose. With heart and body both so scarred, who would want to face the world again? Indeed, for all intents and purposes, the dame surgien Sheila Larsen was no longer a threat to be marked—a truth just now teased out from Raakel. Verily; to confirm that bit of intelligence, I’d dropped the bait, and this Owlcrane’d bitten it.
Conduct ill-becoming an occasion for “reconciliation”, I know. I ought be shaking hands rather than measuring them. But I suppose war does that to a warrior. And in rebuke of my browbeating, there was Raakel, astood now with fists clenched and quaking at her sides. But knowing her, the firebrand was leashing herself back rather well. Some good sense yet lingered in her, it seemed; else, she’d be snapping at my neck right at this moment.
But soon to break the barbs betwixt us was a brave. “P-pardon, Herr,” he carefully called. “It is time. Already the realmers are seated upstairs.”
“Very good,” I said, and with not another word for Raakel, I passed by her unbroken glare and made for the far end of the lectitōrium with Lise and the rest. There, the Praetorian Guards inspected and allowed us through a great doorway, past which awaited us stairs winding up and up the steeple tower.
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“An old face, that one?” echoed Alban’s question. It was dark in the spiral stairwell as a Praetorian Guard guided us up the climb, with only the occasional lancet to pierce the gloom.
“Aye, she is,” I answered. “Apologies. Rather juvenile of me, stirring her up like that.”
“‘Juvenile’ is just what she deserved,” said Lise.
“Aright my daughter speaks,” Alban added. “We are no hounds to be leash’d. This we must needs make clear.”
The two other Hensenite officials climbing along with us nodded in agreement. Such was our five-membered party for the parley: them and Alban forming the civil side of things, with Lise and myself the military.
To be sure, it was I whom the Londosians had called for reconciliation. But with their princess making her appearance, it was only fitting that Alban, too, leader of the new alliance that he was, should show himself in kind. Albeit that neither his name nor his title had been writ aught upon the invitation was taken by some as so discourteous as to stoke their dissent against his going. But in the end, Alban remained resolute that he should, saying that “one discourtesy deserves not another”. He had my agreement there. This was an historic chance; we could ill-afford to let it pass by all because of a faux pas.
Nevertheless, “we are no hounds to be leashed” held just as true. We had not brooded through long nights nor journeyed from afar just to bend the knee now.
“All told, this much feels a leap into the lion’s den,” whispered one of our officials, careful not to catch the ears of the Praetorian ahead of us.
“For true,” said the other. “One more warrior with us might have much abated this foreboding.”
An apologetic tinge yellowed both of their tones. But with things as they were, it was naught to be helped. For a time, we’d thought that, excepting Alban, a delegation wholly of martial leaders ought’ve served to dissuade any “rashness” from the Londosians. One name offered forth had been Alf’s, though the sorcerer himself refused it in the end.
‘…A marquis’ son turned deserter would certainly make waves in such a meeting… But I must decline, being myself too-new a newcomer…’ he’d reasoned. ‘…Besides, I should imagine that any more Men but diminishes the meaning of the mission…’
A big bother it was, to must now match our responses with race and numbers in mind. But Alf’s was too fair a point. For the first time ever, Londosius had allowed the Nafílim a seat at the treaty table. Though I, a Man, would represent them, this was a gesture not to be understated. Hence, to make the most of it, we’d decided at the last to fill out the delegation with Nafílim. What’s more, a treaty signing ought include the hands of civilian leaders, I’d like to think. For that was precisely one of our aims: a governance by the people, for the people. Too many bloodied hands in a treaty, and the red would blot out the black.
‘…All right, then… Drag me ’long… I’ll show ’em who they’re dealin’ with…!’
And of course, Sig, too, had offered his company. Going by that untamed tongue of his, however, he seemed not to have understood the subtleties of the situation at hand, much less cared for them. It goes without saying, then, that I had to turn him down. Hence were we five as we were: more idealistic than defensible as we wound our way up the tower interior, atop whereof our Londosian counterparts sat in wait.
Shuffling footfalls echoed markedly off the ascending steps of stone. And after what seemed an endless climb, we gained the top of the stairs and emerged at last into an intimate foyer of sorts, at the end whereof loomed another doorway. This was it: the highest storey of the steeple. We nodded to one another and then to our Praetorian guide, who, before leaving us, proceeded to announce our arrival and swing open the doors.
Sunlight gushed to greet us. Inside was a chamber of stone, stately and circular, and bedight besides with lancet windows repeating along the wall. And therein, the Londosian delegation rose solemnly to their feet. A gesture simple and most expectable, to be sure, but doubtless one offered never once before to an enemy race. And she who’d likely commanded such courtesy into being broke then the silence.
“Welcome, one and all,” she spoke to us, clarion as a crystal bell struck at dawn. “We are Serafina Demeter Londosius, Princess Regent to this realm. Ye are most gracious to have come to Our call. For that, ye have Our great gratitude.”
There, centre amongst them, she stood: Her Royal Highness, fair and refined as all the whispers made her out to be—and withal very young. Frightfully so, even. Not that I’m one to talk, being rather green at the stem myself; yet more young than I was this princess, saddled upon whose shoulders was all the weight of Crown and Kingdom. Perhaps such was why her star-grey eyes seemed to me so sad and so very quiet.
But damming that thought for the meanwhile, I stood afore the long table whence the other party had been seated, and declared, “I am Rolf. War-Chief to Clan Víly.”
Then, glancing to the princess’s side, I saw her.
“…”
Nay. I had seen her. I had thought of her. Or more fair to say, since the moment I’d set foot in this chamber, she was all that filled my mind.
“Rolf…”
And there, from her lips: a voice not heard since what now seemed terribly long ago. How very strange. It ought sound like the trickle of a favourite stream, or the crackle of an old, trusty hearth. For that was who this young woman had ever been to me: the sun in my sky, the moon in my nights, constant and inseparable since my littlest years. Why, I could count with one hand the childhood days spent in her absence. How very strange, indeed. But that’s a reunion for you, I suppose; a reunion a year and a half in the making.
It has been too long, Mareschal Valenius.
Courtesy ought’ve compelled me to answer like so. But knowing this woman, such empty words would’ve been most unsought. This I understood all too well. All too well… only, I’d prepared nothing else to answer with. Nothing… at all. And so did I do as she had, and simply spoke her name.
“…Emilie.”
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