Vol.6, Ch.2, P.5
This was dire. With but a sweep of her silversword could Emilie unleash such a flood of levin as to swallow an entire platoon. Of this, of the sheer and native mightiness of her, did all here in the chamber know—not least our two civil officials, who, stricken with terror, stood now unsteadily over their seats. Alban, however, remained in his, yet not without a tense bight to his back, poising himself to protect Lise should any silver or levin come lashing. Albeit not so easily could she be assailed, he well-knew; but at the end of the day, he was yet a father.
For her part, Lise but stayed sat as she ever had, her eyes trained mildly but unamusedly ahead. Square in their view was Emilie standing utterly stiff. The young mareschal, though stanced at any second to sluice war unto the chamber, had not yet touched the hilt at her hip. Indeed, there her hand was, hovering just above the grip, trembling terribly.
“Hhgh…! Hhghh…!”
Thus laboured her breaths, breaking like waves from between her gnashing teeth. Commencing hostilities amidst a meeting for peace—such was an impropriety of the steepest degree, it need not be said. Emilie understood this, of course, and fortunately for us all, had remembered it just before her dread blade could be drawn. Only, things nary ended there; for to her right was the other legate, standing and absolutely bristling.
Early in his fifties this man was, sporting an old-fashioned moustache of sharp, up-tapering ends. But his build and bearing were clearly that of a warrior’s: helmed he was and plated—and in his hand was fully held the hilt of a sword.
“Snake-tongued savages, the lot of you…!” the legate hissed at us, glowering as hot iron pulled fresh from a forge. His weapon was unproduced yet, though unlike Emilie’s, it seemed the slightest incitement might well send it shooting from its sheath.
Fearing such, the princess started. “Björn!” she cried. “Stay thyself, pray!”
“But, Highness…!” the legate seethed. “These… creatures! They are not to be treated with!”
“That’s nary for thee to decide!” returned the princess.
Yet the legate relented little. “’Tis vaulting folly, I know!” he exclaimed. “But Yoná save me, I cannot abide anymore these mouths that’ve demeaned your royal presence time and again, Princess! I cannot!”
“Such fealty bringeth me no joy, Björn,” stated the princess. “Come now! Unhand thy hilt.”
Now at last was her voice grim and regal; and beset by it, “Björn”, as he was called, scowled at us with cracking tenacity. A staunch captain of the Praetorians he’d been introduced to be, earning his seat here as the princess’s sworn bodyguard. Yet even by his charge’s words, he now seemed more a malcontent than a captain as this knife-edge moment dragged on. There, like a lion livid, Björn kept his eyes locked upon us—as did the princess upon him.
“Björn,” she repeated sternly, to which the Praetorian captain groaned under his breath; and after another stifling silence, he at last released his hilt and loosened his posture.
“…I have done here an evil service,” he confessed, recalling his conscience. “If any tongue has slighted this solemn occasion, ’tis mine indeed and none worse. My Princess, pray dispose your Björn as you would.”
Her Highness looked hard and sadly upon him. Loyal he was to her, but luckily enough, not deliriously so. At length, the princess sighed. “Get thee hence in peace,” she said to him, “and do thine office at the door. This I bid thee.”
“…At once, Your Highness,” answered Björn. Deeply he bowed to his royal charge, and unholstering his sword, laid it flat upon the table, scabbard and all—likely in resignation from the Praetorian Guard altogether. With eyes dark and dour, he then left the room. The door shut. The chamber resounded. Emilie, appearing pale, settled back into her seat in peace and silence. And at length, Alban spoke.
“I admit: I and mine, too, might have over-loosen’d our lips,” he said, and then became grave. “But, O! Princess—that was an ill turn, for true.”
As with a riled bear, Alban’s rumbling timbre told as much: that this matter was not in the least to be overlooked. If Emilie had toed the proverbial line, then Björn had trampled all over it, that not with his mere removal from this room could the offence be forgiven.
“My sincerest apologies,” said the princess. “On account of Our discourtesy, We shall mind more amenably what terms ye have to tender.”
And as before, Her Highness bowed demurely, palm-to-breast, to which the harsh expressions upon both the chancellor and the remaining legate intensified; to must witness the Crown couching in apology once more was beyond them to abide.
But Alban remained blunt. “Your bow’d head be very heavy, mayhaps, on the scales of Londosius,” he said to the princess, “but not on ours. No; the weight is little-worth, we measure.” Hearing this, the two Londosian Men at last dithered with indignation. Yet just now had they seen what befalls a fury unfettered; that to run along the same wrathful rut as Björn’s would but pull down their princess’s head once more, and doubtless to its lowest yet. Nay, not again could that be allowed. And espying the pained prudence in their eyes, Alban then looked grimly all along the gathered Londosians and said, “For your ‘amenability’ have we hopes high. But, mind! One more ‘discourtesy’, and these talks are kill’d.”
And so was the offence forgiven—and a debt exacted from our counterparts. The jarl glanced in sign to our two officials, and collecting themselves, they nodded back. One of them then turned to the Londosians.
“As for terms,” this official declared, “we the Himmel name this our foremost: the immediate emancipation of all our kind so enslaved.”
A mountain of a demand. Yet, though met with it, the Londosians betrayed not a hint of surprise. Likely did this fall well within their expectations. Still, the displeasure upon the faces of the chancellor and legate lessened not in the least.
“That is not acceptable,” the chancellor swiftly said.
But our officials shrank not. “You refuse our prime stipulation?” one said. “Prime” was right: with speed and unanimity had we named it thus; for what is peace when a people are yet oppressed?
“Slavery bedrocks society,” the chancellor argued. “Absent such resources, such precious labour, why, all the world would crumble to dust, dare I say.”
“Crumble—as does your logic,” I lowly let loose. Like thunder those words felt in my throat, from clouds dark and heavy with ire. But it wasn’t to be helped; this chancellor here was making light of a lamentation long shouldered. Even as we spoke were there numberless Nafílim all shackled and made to toil in shame. And in pondering them, the chancellor’s words sounded to me but a sneer as insidious as it was nonsensical. “We do not sit here to debate how Londosius ought order its society,” I said sternly. “Let me put it plain: set free and return our enslaved.”
Bondage, extensive and systemic—not by a mite could such be brooked, to be sure, and nor did we mean to. Yet this was nary the occasion to count its vices and virtues. Nay, we but wished to see folk returned to their families, to those from whom they’d been torn so asudden.
“Ah, you propose an exchange, then? Of prisoners of war?” asked the chancellor. “That may be arranged. For your person, Rolf Buckmann, a score and perhaps a half more, I reckon, might be a deal to consider.”
Blast him; that he should entangle our demanded emancipation with my “repatriation”. This could not pass.
“…Chancellor,” I uttered. “Lord Chancellor Hugo Rudels.” Wrath was now within me, coldening all the blood in my head and icening my very voice. “These folk you took—caring neither for whether they be soldier or civilian, nor young or elderly—you must not dare for shame call them ‘prisoners of war’.”
“I would, as I must,” returned the chancellor. “You mark them ‘innocents’, that is plain to see; persons abducted in their powerlessness. But duly do we deem them—indeed!—prisoners of war. For as in war were they gained, so of war ought they be.”
Down my brows both bent. “You would name kidnapping civilians a natural course of your ‘war’?” I pressed the chancellor.
“Holy war, Rolf Buckmann,” he emphasised. “For the Sword of Yoná is just—howsoever it be wielded, against whomsoever.”
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