Vol.6, Ch.2, P.4
‘…Rolf… Pray speak the truth… I beg of you…’
‘…’
I could not answer. I could not. But being desperate, Emilie pressed me on.
‘…We shan’t thrust you unto the streets… and allow your return only once you’ve retrieved the horse… that’s not our intent… We but dearly wish to know the truth of it all… and to hear from your own lips a proper testimony… That’s all we want from you, Rolf… Truly…’
‘…’
‘…Rolf… Is this really too much to ask of you…?’
‘…’
‘…Brother…’
There, my sister Felicia, too, was looking hard upon me. But not even for her had I an answer to give.
‘…You’ll become a knight one day, won’t you Rolf…? No knight can keep himself so unspotted along the long toils of his path… certainly, he may err somewhere along the way… But when he does, he makes certain to accept his faults… that he may reflect upon and hone himself further… This is what a true knight is… isn’t it…? At least… I should like to think so…’
‘…‘Tis as the good Mareschal says…!’
‘…You might do yourself a great favour to heed her words, ungraced…!’
‘…How about you show a smidgen of decency for once…!? Set a good example for all your fellow good-for-naughts out there, eh…!?’
On and on, the Orderly leaders barked after their mareschal, as all of the conclave descended unto clamour. But then came silence—and a command.
‘…Rolf… You shall apologise at once…’
Frigid and dignified was that voice; the voice of a mareschal in full panoply of knightly prestige. For such was her station: a hero-dame, high-named and a leader of lions. And withal: my sole friend amongst this sea of foes. Yes, very much so; Emilie in earnest was pressing me for an open apology only out of a pure desire to pull me out of this hellish hole.
However, I was set; set to say as I must—to display in full my own resolve.
“I will not.”
∵
“But… why?” asked Emilie. Her eyes, once dauntless, now dithered.
“Because I made a promise,” I answered.
Quietude came between us; a silence to lambast a decision made, to cast all in doubt my spurning of an extended hand. But still I held fast.
“…A promise,” uttered Emilie. “Yes. I suppose a promise must’ve sprouted by now between you and your new comrades. But… but so had it between us, hadn’t it, Rolf?”
A promise of Matrimony. Of Happiness; of Hearth and House shared; of two Hearts to beat as one. Certainly had I made with Emilie such a promise once upon a time.
“Yet you let it wither and die.”
That voice, those words—from beside me it came. There I found Lise with eyes locked tight upon Emilie. Never had I known the jarl-daughter to hide her heart; yet to instill such spite into her every syllable as she did was a true rarity. Emilie, however, was of mien unaltered as she returned Lise’s stare in kind. And there, like fencing blades, their gazes clashed, and a hair-raising hush was ushered in anew. Uncounted seconds passed; their stares contended in utter stillness. And unlike prior with the spineless legate, neither of these maidens dared yield in the least.
But upon the end of that span of pins and needles, Emilie moved her lips at last. “…’Tis you, then?” she uttered. “You to whom he has promised?”
“For true,” answered Lise. “To me, and to all of my folk and kind besides. ’Tis our tomorrow he has sworn to protect, to fight for. Albeit most fiercely for that of a certain little girl’s, I suspect.”
“…What are you driving at?”
“That we are Rolf’s future. And you: his past.”
“…”
“…”
More sternly still they stared upon one another. And ever as they did, the curtains over their countenances were drawn back, that no longer was any of their mutual enmity concealed.
“Lady… ‘Lise’, was it?” Emilie began again. “In case you’ve forgotten, we convene today to discuss terms of reconciliation; terms we are amidst proffering. So if you would—”
“What terms?” snapped Lise. “The ones turned down just now, or?”
Emilie sighed hotly, and then squinted as though in cold recollection. “…That face, those eyes,” she rasped at Lise. “Yes. I remember you now: years ago, the child charging in to slay Rolf whence he stood.”
“A child now bloomed to a buxom frau, as you well-see,” gloated Lise, “unlike some other bud still stunted of husk—and heart.”
To that, Emilie redoubled the bitterness in her gaze. True enough, these two had met once before. To wit, upon the battle for the Erbelde four years past, when Lise had sprung upon our ranks under cover of dusk and forced battle unto me of all people. And Emilie being close by my side, they must’ve exchanged a glance for but the briefest moment, though one vivid enough to have been seared into their memories, it would seem. Such is oft the case in war: where better to remember a face than amidst a battlefield?
Emilie exhaled and, as if to pacify her passions, spoke on deliberately. “Lady Lise. You and yours neither desire so disastrous an end, do you now? Of fighting till falls your utter last? If the path to a peace shared so opens afore you, you would take to it at the soonest, would you not? In faith, that is precisely what we mean to pave for you: the path. Can you not see this?” Then, for the first time in a some while, Emilie’s gaze broke off from Lise’s own and turned to mine. “Rolf here, he has proved clear his worth,” she continued, “between defeating Cronheim the hero-mareschal, turning the tides of a too-wizened war, and even gathering rival races under one banner. Indeed, bedight with such merits, he may make his homecoming as a man vaunted, avouched—and with his dear Emilie to stand staunch by his side. Nay, I dare not doubt that long and arduous days would lie ahead of him, but nor do I doubt that in time, he would be requited with lent ears and alliants—just as he had with you.”
“Oh, hogwash,” scoffed Lise. “To his counsels and cries were ears Londosian long deaf—yours not least of all.”
“Nay. Not anymore they are.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“…”
“…”
Sparks flew again betwixt them. Left as is, the day’s dealings would soon descend into a tussle of sentiments. Then, as though having foreseen this, a cough echoed through the tower chamber—that of Alban’s. All eyes turned to him, and after returning each with courtesy, the jarl spoke.
“Whichever the way, a fool’s plan must I mark this. Rolf returns to a realm implacable in creed and policy; what ripples may he make in seas so iced?”
I’d fancied the possibility once: that Londosius might be rolling out the red carpet of “repatriation” so as to lure me away from the Himmel and thereby open between us a rift. Still, even were they hiding up their sleeve such a card, I’d deemed it unlikely ever to be drawn. Yet here it was, laid brazen upon the table, albeit sporting an unexpected suit. Come and change us, it now said instead. Change Londosius. Come! Reach deep. Uproot the rot; upend the order—from within! Reading the dubious looks in the male half of our Londosian counterparts, however, it well-appeared that it was Emilie who’d put forth this idea, and with an insistence most dogged, I wouldn’t doubt.
Change Londosius from within… a daring idea, indeed. Too daring, sadly, to my ears. Alban was right. The proposal was much too fraught.
“Well then, we are all ears, Jarl,” said the chancellor, “if you have as peaceful but not so ‘foolish’ a plan to proffer yourself.”
A twig of a Man, matched against a great tree of a Nafíl who in his time had affrighted many a battlefield; such was the chancellor and the jarl. Still, despite that, the former kept his gaze as sharp as ever. And Alban, bearing its cold and cautious brunt, gave his answer.
“Then proffer this I,” he said. “Envoys from the Himmel we send, to reside in Redelberne and to sit and speak at the decidings of Central.”
The chancellor knitted his brows and shook his head. “A ‘fool’s plan’,” he scoffed. “Never has there been made more plain a pretense for foreign interference.”
“It is the regal that reign in Londosius, last I remember,” Alban rebutted. “To but ‘meddle’ in the mullings of mere magistrates ill-becomes your so-feared ‘interference’.”
“My dear Jarl,” returned the chancellor. “I should hope you are neither so deaf to the bold delusion on your lips.”
“Humph, ‘bold’!” cried Alban. “Only boldness may bridge the abyss betwixt us, yes. But as for ‘delusion’, Chancellor, less so it is, deem I, than deliv’ring to Londosius a war-chief as hostage.”
They were the both of them calm and eloquent, these greybeards. Only, it was from the chancellor that an ill-tempered tone could be told. One might pin it on some disappointment for a dispute going nary his way, though I sooner took it as simple impatience, to suffer to sit and parley with a Nafíl. Indeed, though marked for his cool quality, the day’s duresses were apparently proving too much for the chancellor.
“…There is no hostage to be taken here,” he denied outright. “We repatriate him. That is the business of it.”
“‘Repatriate’? Or make him submit, mean you?” said Alban. “Some child contrite you mark our star-commander; a thing of pity sulking at the porch to be let back in. Humph—clear as ever, for true, your scorn of him.”
“That ‘child’, we charge, has defected against his fatherland and sluiced the foe upon its fringes. What is accepting his submission but a mercy more mild than he deserves!?” chided the chancellor. At last was his voice grown hot and hoarse. But opposite him was Alban, cool and constant as stone.
“And which fatherland was it that flung him first to that fringe, hm?” the jarl put forth. “Your realm rues his expulsion. Or? Has your sovereign Princess misspoken, mayhaps?”
“Expulsion, apology; those are a separate matter,” the chancellor quickly countered. “That he has committed treachery remains unchanged!”
“Ach, soothe yourself,” said Alban. “Sore-stung you, true, this ‘treacher’ has, but that is little reason to erupt about it so late.”
“I beg your pardon…!” growled the chancellor. He seemed cornered now; pressed down by the dour weight of Alban’s speech and portance both. And so did he glower back, whilst nigh-audibly grinding down at his own teeth.
“…Pray do understand. ‘Repatriation’, ‘submission’—no matter the term, this was as best a course as could be contrived,” Her Highness spoke at last, giving the chancellor a moment’s look. “For though this entire affair mireth in anomalies, defection be’eth yet a deed intolerable, lest Law and Order be cast in doubt.”
To that, the chancellor loosed a long, laboured sigh, and then straightened his shoulders, as though ashamed at having lost his composure afore his princess. For my part, I could but be intrigued by Her Highness’s handling of him. Or more specifically: by her expression as she did so. In a word, it was… anguished, or even dolorous. Not to the extent of miserable acceptance and surrender, mind, but something quite close to them. Since the first sight of her in this meeting, indeed, had I got my doubts, but now the question grew loud in me: was Her Highness the Princess Serafina oblivious to the manipulations of the Roun? To the cloud of control of “Yonaism” hanging so darkly over her realm?
Even as I pondered this, Alban’s deep voice then rumbled through the chamber. “How mean you, then,” he said, “to dight this ‘defector’ with powers of reformation when all this kingdom curses his name?”
“…”
The princess gave no answer, but sank into thought instead. Emilie, however, offered one swift.
“As foresaid,” she began, “I will appoint Rolf with all the auspices as both a Mareschal and eminence of Central may muster. Indeed, under my wing, he shall have voice and sway enough, I am certain.”
“Your wing…?” vented Lise. “Again with that hogwash…”
No sooner had the jarl-daughter shrugged her shoulders than did Emilie shoot unto her a stabbing stare. Now did it seem the mareschal’s turn to lose her restraint. “Is that what Harmony is to you?” she scolded Lise. “To accommodate a rival commander; to protect his person, that his speech and counsel might be paid their heed—all but hogwash?”
“Protect?” Lise echoed with a cocked head. “You can’t protect him. You never could.”
“I can. I will,” Emilie swiftly snapped. “I failed before, yes. But ’twill not be gainsaid that I’d tried.”
Lise bent a doubtful brow. “Tried?” she scoffed. “You? Rolf?”
“Yes! ‘Tried’!” Emilie erupted. “For the longest, longest time!”
That outburst reverberated terribly through the chamber. And seemingly rubbed the wrong way by it, even Lise now appeared plainly put-out. Hitherto had the jarl-daughter’s speech been provocative, sure. But both as a rule and to begin with, she was never wont to become so prickly without much prodding. Even Alban himself, met with the seldom sight of his incensed daughter, could but betray a bit of surprise.
“A ‘long time’,” sneered Lise, “spent fleering at him from ahigh your perch, powerless and dearly in his debt though you were. And even the gall you had, to grind him at your stone, so that later might you hammer him into the facets of your perfect, faerie tale ending. Is that what you realmers term ‘protection’? Hmph! Hogwash, for true.”
At once, Emilie’s face flashed afire. “That foul tongue!!” she thundered, and at the same moment sprang to her feet asudden, sending her seat tottering aback. And then the princess beside her gasped and gave a look aghast—
—as she beheld Emilie reaching for the sword girt at her side.
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