Skyclad - Chapter 40: Coronas Judicas

Millie Thatcher sat on a horse for once, instead of riding on the back of Hett’s wagon. Nearly a month since the battle the soldiers now referred to as the Day of Thunder and Mud, and they were finally approaching the City of Prophets. There had been no more encounters since the day the Battlemaster moved a river to defeat the Deskren, but The General had not allowed the convoy to slow their pace. Millie, once stuck at her tenth level for weeks, had more than made up that delay under the training and discipline demanded by Jacob Ward. Her skills had improved as well, and she had gained several new cadence skills which the Worldwalker had put to use.

[Double Time] was the standing order  each morning after the breakfast meal when the column first started moving, with Millie tapping the beats and relentlessly driving everyone onwards. At first she could only sustain the skill for a half of a bell, but within a fortnight her stamina had improved. Now she kept the fast march going almost until noon before exhaustion and strain laid her low in Hett’s wagon. After meal rations and water, though, the Battlemaster had her march on the ground without her drum to build her own strength. Good training, she ruefully thought to herself in the same brusque tone Jacob had used when giving her the order. With only one arm she could not do the same drills and exercises as the other Soldiers, but that was no excuse in his eyes to allow her to be lazy.

The civilians complained about the pace, of course. It had only taken a handful of days without pursuit before they began voicing their displeasure, but the Battlemaster and his troops had simply continued to march. The stragglers always caught up by dusk, fearful of being left behind. They had lagged behind the banners for the first half of every day, until finally they reached a massive bridge across a glimmering river. Mister Hett had told her it was the famed River Swift, and that there was a Guild that used magically powered ships to travel between the Sea of Possibility and the Western Sea. That was why High Bridge was so named, arching tall above the waters on pretty stone columns to allow ships to pass underneath. Once the gleaming white stone of the top of the structure began to peek visibly above the horizon, the refugees had needed far less prodding to keep up with the march. Knowing they were close to their destination had renewed their vigor.

The recruits from the surviving Gendarmes had no trouble keeping up with the Battlemaster’s pace, unlike the civilians of the caravan. Tensions had been high enough that even Millie could feel it, the soft nobles and more fearful refugees understandably nervous about travelling with the very same terrifying enemy that had once hunted them so relentlessly. That fear had been eased somewhat when Jacob had divided the Luparan beastkin into smaller pack units to augment his own scouts. Most of them now ran as advance pickets alongside their lighter horse, and having less of them loping alongside the column made the rest of the caravan much less nervous. 

The Beastfolk themselves had only a few discipline issues, falling into snarling fights for dominance within the first few days of being free from the collars. Millie had been afraid some of them would kill each other, but Hett and Jacob both reassured her that they were simply a different kind of people and had to sort out things in their own way. The Battlemaster let them sort out their own ranks, as long as they followed his orders. And follow they did, although several that Hett had called alphas within her hearing did seem more aggressive than the others even towards their new human leader. Millie dreaded the eventual confrontation from that. She had seen Jacob Ward angry only the once, and certainly did not relish seeing it again.

Normally Millie rode on Hett’s wagon when she was not marching on foot. Now that they had neared the bridge, however, Jacob had requested she ride in the vanguard along with himself and Miss Erin and several others. Mister Hett had protested leaving his wagon to the terrified drover who had to dodge his mules to take the seat on the wagon to drive. Grumbled quite loudly, but a stern glance had quieted the man to infrequent mumblings about saddles and jewels. What saddles had to do with jewels or why he would be angry about that, she did not know and as she had no voice to ask Miss Erin or Lady Jenna to explain she resolved to write it down the next time the two women were overseeing her handwriting practice. She had been born left-handed, and learning to write with her remaining hand was as frustrating as the fact that The General insisted she do it in the first place. I’m a Soldier! Not a scribe! But Soldiers followed orders, and the order had been given. So she swallowed her indignation and copied her letters after every evening meal, while Lady Jenna or Miss Erin oversaw one of the camp children in cleaning her gauntlet and chain mail. That particular task had simply proven impossible with one arm, although the [Hand of Solace] assured her that the General would see to getting her a new one at the first opportunity. She longed for that day, albeit less for the prospects of cleaning armor and more for keeping up with her fellow Soldiers without feeling more like a mascot than a military professional.

Her musings were brought to a halt as they crested the highest point of the bridge, bringing the City of Prophets into view. She had travelled once with her father and brothers to South Hollows to sell grain and potatoes, and had thought it was a large and wonderful city. The vista before her was a harsh readjustment of her understanding of cities, with brightly decorated buildings stretching from the edge of the glimmering sea to the east, up the sloped hills and wrapping around her vision to the west. To the north, above the city, the Temple stood on the bluffs overlooking both the waters and the section of the city with the largest buildings and paved streets. Millie’s attention was quickly drawn to the other end of the bridge, where the path was flanked by two stone towers. A man on a horse awaited them, and waved a strip of white cloth as they descended. Jacob raised his fist to call a halt over a dozen strides away from where the man sat, his own charger clopping forward a few more steps.

“Well met, Battlemaster,” he called loud enough for all to hear but not quite shouting. “I am Jargo, and the [Oracle] has witnessed your journey. She bids you welcome, and asks that you join her at the Gathering of Kings.”

“It would have been nice of her to send reinforcements while we were running.” Jacob Ward spoke in flat tones empty of anger or approval both.

Jargo shook his head. “She does not rule, or command. Her burden is to stand witness, save for the circumstances given in the Bargain of Kings. The price of knowledge is to be powerless to use it.”

The General sat silently on his horse for a long moment. “I have Soldiers sworn to my command. Will they be welcomed as well?”

Hett answered before Jargo could speak up, spitting off to the side of his own horse. “The Gathering of Kings is peacebound. No one will attack unprovoked, lest the [Oracle] yank the crowns from their heads and give their lands to their enemies.”

Millie could almost hear Jacob’s eyebrow raise, even with his back partly turned to her as he looked at Hett. “So not entirely powerless, is she?” he said.

“Not when people break the rules,” replied the grey-bearded old warrior. “Long as everyone plays nice, she can’t do a thing. We just have to make sure we all play nice.”

“I make no promises,” said Jacob, flicking the reigns of his horse. “Lead on, Mister Jargo. The [Oracle] awaits, it seems.”

“As you say, Battlemaster,” replied Jargo, turning his horse.

Thus did the Banner of the Black Lance march into the City of Prophets.

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Rella stood next to Wyatt Reinholt, the Worldwalker who was not yet her Champion. It was not a thing she could demand, or even ask of him yet. Such a role could not be forced upon someone even if she were willing to try, and she would never have tolerated an unwilling protector in any case. Every future she had seen where she tried had been disastrous, turning him against her personally, and by extension causing the Twins to dislike her severely. The possibilities seemed split between him either becoming her Champion and not, and she had determined to settle herself with those odds regardless of how that particular fate played out.

He was determined to protect his sisters, Sophie and Sonya, and had followed when they joined the [Oracle] for training with their own divination talents. While younger even than Rella, they were perceptive and wise beyond their years and had seen right through the fact that she barely knew any more than they did. In truth all three young women were learning more together than by her teaching the other two.

Today was not a day for teaching. Rella, the Twins, and their ever-watchful protector stood on the dais of a grand palisade outside the Temple of Remembrance. They were surrounded by more pageantry and pompous frivolity than had graced the City of Prophets in Rella’s entire lifetime, and it nearly made her sick. As perceptive as ever, Sonya spoke up when Rella’s own composure slipped.

“A sour stomach?” the girl asked. “This looks like one of those renaissance faires our mom liked to go to.”

“Yeah but those didn’t smell like so much horse poop, and people actually took showers. This place smells like portapotties.” Sophie had proven of sharper tongue than her twin, although both could be acerbic to an alarming degree. “I get why rich people use so much incense in this world, now.”

“I would have thought you’d be used to it by now,” said Rella, grateful for the distraction so that she could turn away from the assembled nobility milling in the courtyard in order to rub at her right eye. She still wasn’t used to the itchy covering, but the translucent replacement where her natural eye had once been was extremely unsettling for anyone to see, in addition to being extremely sensitive to light, giving her headaches without the patch.  “And I take a bath at least twice a week!”

“It’s nearly noon,” said Sophie. “And it’s getting hotter. What is everyone waiting for?”

“Don’t you remember all the stuff from the faires mom took us to?” Sonya answered the question with a question. “There’s all sorts of tradition and etiquette to any meeting of nobility.”

“Yes,” said Rella. “The last Gathering happened over fifty years ago, and they’ll use this as an opportunity for the crowns to meet under enforced peace. War or not, while they are here Kings and Queens can talk without the detriment of messengers or anyone else getting in the way and causing problems. Most of them have never met the other heads of state.”

“One of them keeps looking at us, the woman with the shiny armor that matches her crown.” Sophie stared back with the defiance only a teenager could muster.

“That would be Mette Weldt, the Warrior Queen of Weldtir,” Rella answered. “She’s angry, and has every right to be. The southern half of her home has been overrun and now parts of it flooded, and she resents the obligation of the Gathering. Her duty demanded she come here instead of defending her own lands.”

“I thought The General was coming here. Are they going to fight since he broke the levee you told us about?” Sonya was almost eager to see confrontation.

“They might,” shrugged Rella. “But I don’t think either of them want to, and it did break the Deskren incursion into the south. She understands pragmatism, even if she doesn’t like it. A bigger problem is King Aomhar Valence of Forvale. He’s upset The General crossed his border with what amounts to his own private army.”

“And he couldn’t do anything about it because he had to come here?” Sophie was as curious as her sister was enamored of fighting.

“None of them could. The Bargain of Kings means they all had to come here, by today, or I would be freed from neutrality. None of them want me telling the future to the others. No ruler misses a Gathering and keeps their crown for very long.”

As if the thought of The General pulled on her mind, she could suddenly sense the people approaching the city. Jargo was now escorting the General and a small group through the city down the main avenue. The bulk of the troops following the banner had halted neatly outside the city, and she had already dispatched requests for aid and supplies to be provided to the weary refugees. While the broader strokes of the futures of the refugees were simple enough for her to interpret thanks to her new eye, the man himself remained infuriatingly difficult to predict. 

He was not indecisive or blurry, like the insane or people plagued by self-doubt. He simply considered so many possible decisions at the same time that only the most vague clusterings of possible outcomes were visible around him. When the Battlemaster gave an order or committed to a plan, things happened quickly, but until he weighed all his options and actually made a choice he stayed opaque to her sight. Most of the time.

In this moment he stood out to her mind’s eye, a stark presence of grim potential. He had paused on the main boulevard, near the center of the city. Rella felt the futures shift as the man dismounted, halting the entire procession of horses in the middle of the street to approach a figure in a black coat with a white collar. The Preacher had spent most of his time on Anfealt tending to the poorer neighborhoods and helping to feed the impoverished. The entire docks district had been put to flame by the Deskren on Purple Night, so there had been no shortage of homeless and hungry and children to feed.

The odds of two Worldwalkers that did not arrive together actually knowing each other previously were infinitesimally small, but Rella could not think of any other reason for the shock of recognition that had crossed Jacob Ward’s face. Father Albert, as Albert Magnus had insisted she call him upon their one meeting, was an unassuming and kindly man who had been more interested in helping the needy than most people she could point to in the entirety of her Sight. No dire fates or crisis had appeared even in her deepest meditations that involved the man, so she had left him to his own devices out of respect for his age and the shock he had endured upon finding himself in a world other than his own.

Her Sight seemed to shake, a steady hum rising in the back of her mind as millions of possible futures tumbled past like glittering flashes. Yet she saw the Battlemaster in perfect clarity while everyone around him save The Preacher faded to grey and blurred from view. Their words came muffled as if through rushing water, yet she understood every word like they had spoken right next to her ears.

“Last thing I thought I’d see here, that collar, Father.”

“You are one of the flock, then? From Earth?”

“Yes, Father. I grew up in the Church, although this is a long way from St. Peter's in Nebraska..”

The words made no sense to Rella, and she could spare no thought to musing on them as the possibilities were cut short. A scything abruptness that stilled her breath and hastened her heartbeat as the priest spoke once more.

“Have you come to spread the word, my son?” A dreadful spark lit the eyes of The Preacher with that question, and Rella gasped.

Blood washed over the future, all of the futures she could see. The Deskren, and then the rest of the nations, vanished in a tide of crimson she could taste, before realizing she had bitten her tongue. She choked as she saw The General raise an entirely different banner, his lance motiff crossed by a spar of red. Fates tumbled away, threads burned from possibility and lives ended in numbers beyond counting before massive ships set sail under that banner for distant lands beyond her Sight. Temples razed and gods ripped from their slumbering realms, centuries of chaos under a new lash. The pressure threatened to crush her mind, and she could feel the others within the mantle weeping helplessly as the weight of it bore down. Dimly, she realized even the others around her at the palisade could feel it. The Twins gripped their heads in their hands, The Fortress raising his shield as if to ward off an unseen and unseeable foe. Servants fell to their knees and even Kings and Queens found the pressure difficult to bear. Many wobbled, save Mette who leaned on her sheathed sword for balance.

Rella felt a True Vision rising, fearsome and implacable. Unbidden her body drew breath to Speak.

“No.” 

The General spoke only that one word, and the terrible pressures vanished. He continued to speak to The Preacher with a casual dismissal of the question, unknowing of the grim fate that single syllable had spared the world. Their words faded as her attention was dragged back to her current embodied location.

No, Rella thought with sudden realization. Jacob Ward knew better than anyone just what sort of weight sat behind such a question, and that weight had fell upon his shoulders for the span of a single moment and found those shoulders indifferent. That any man could so casually consider and then utterly dismiss such terrible glory without even reacting left her utterly stunned. 

“My Lady,” spoke a rough but feminine voice. The Queen of Weldtir was more accustomed to shouting field orders than courteous etiquette. “I can’t help but feel something dire just almost happened, and you are bleeding.”

Rella dismissed the question with a wave of her hand and a conciliatory nod, focusing back on Jacob in her mind as she wiped the blood from her mouth with a cloth offered by one of the Twins. Something had most definitely almost happened, and she would make appropriate reconciliation with the Queen of Weldtir later in the day to counter her current rudeness. She looked once more upon Jacob, trying to make out his words as he spoke with Father Albert.

“Perhaps that is best,” said the priest with a gentle smile. “There’s been enough blood shed back home over such things to sate a hundred worlds.”

“Truer words,” said Jacob, clasping the other man’s arm with one hand with a nod. “I do have one thing I hope to discuss with you, though.”

“Really? I thought the [Oracle] would be waiting for you with all the other pompous fools calling themselves noble, although the girl is pleasant enough to deal with.”

“Aye, the [Oracle] can wait. I’d like to take confession, if you have a moment” Jacob’s expression was more serious, and the Preacher nodded as he stepped away from the children to which he had been handing out bread. He passed the basket to an older street urchin before turning and gesturing for Jacob to continue. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been…”

The priest chuckled. “We’ve been here in this world for nearly ten months by my best reckoning,” he said softly.

“It has been some time before that since I last…”

Their words faded, the priest making the same gesture Rella had seen him perform quite often as he touched his forehead and his chest then each shoulder. She pushed with her Sight, feeling whatever was being spoken was of great import, and then-

The Preacher seemed to step out of himself as the world stilled, his imperious gaze freezing her in the moment. Through the Sight he looked her directly in the eye, his own irises lit with golden flame as he Spoke.

“The sanctity of the confession is absolute.” 

No one but Rella heard those words; they were meant for her and her alone. Her Sight was batted away with a contemptuous slap as if scolding a child. She gasped, thrown back into her own present body with shocked bewilderment that rippled through every soul residing in the Mantle. Places like the Wildlands or the Elemental Desert could obscure or confuse her Sight, but nothing could simply deny the gaze of the [Oracle]. Until now.

The thud of boots brought her back to her senses, Wyatt had stepped around her with his shield as Queen Mette had stepped towards her. The queen raised a placating hand before speaking. “Peace, protector. I’m no threat to your Lady, I merely offer assistance. Is everything alright?”

“I honestly don’t know…” Rella’s voice trailed off as she considered the consequences of what had just happened, although she smiled with the realization that the Queen’s word had struck a chord in the mind of Wyatt Reinholt. The possible futures where he didn’t become her champion had just dwindled to a narrow few when she called him her protector. It was a balm to counter the nervousness she felt at someone being able to so completely block her Sight.

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Millie didn’t understand what was so important about the strange man in the black coat with his white collar. Taller than Miss Erin, and thin but with a kind face, he had been handing out food to children even younger than herself. Millie certainly approved of anyone who fed hungry brats, after all she had been one of said hungry brats until she became a Soldier. He was still not as tall as the Battlemaster, barely coming up to the commander’s armored shoulder plates, yet Jacob held obvious respect for the stranger. He had removed his helmet and greeted the man like a friend, and Miss Erin had even bowed slightly! The General’s Wife didn’t even bow for Lord Davin from South Hollows, the highest ranked noble in the caravan.

She didn’t need to understand whatever had just happened. Both Jacob and Erin Ward had spoken quietly with the funny looking priest, and both Worldwalkers seemed much calmer and more relaxed the rest of the trip to the large pavillion where the [Oracle] waited with the Kings and Queens of Anfealt. Much of the weariness and exhaustion seemed to had been lifted from their shoulders, and they both smiled more. At least until they passed a large field where many fancily dressed people were drinking and shouting and playing games. Jacob’s smile melted back to the familiar scowl that usually meant people were about to die. Millie hoped not; she didn’t like not having her drum when fighting happened.

The man leading them, --Jargo, she remembered-- led them the rest of the way through the sprawling city. There were many piles of rubble and burned out buildings, though those blocks were outnumbered by the new construction. The City of Prophets had not sat idle since the Deskren attack, and Millie was reminded that more than just the caravan had suffered. Her belly growled at the scents of sweet breads and pastries. The food stores on the march had dwindled to plain dried meat and biscuits washed down with water over a week past, and the pleasant aromas were a pleasing distraction.

They halted before a series of broad stone steps that lead up the bluffs overlooking the city. She could see flags at the top, most of them bright and colorful. None were as grim as the Black Lance, the flag carried by Mister Davin, Miss Jenna’s husband. Jacob sat still as everyone else dismounted, looking up at the flamboyant display. A cool breeze from the sea made the flags and banners dance, but the Battlemaster’s banner hung weighted by the black collars sewn into the bottom like tassels made of chains. Hett sighed loudly with relieve at being back on the ground, shrugging his shoulders to settle the axe on his back.

“A lot of pompous jack-assery up there, for a bunch of kingdoms facing invasion,” said Jacob, before finally dismounting from his massive charger. The horse stamped one foot and simply looked at the stable-boy who tried to take the reins to lead it to a stable. “He won’t move until I tell him,” said the General to the boy. “Leave him be, I doubt we’ll be here long. At least if I have any say.”

“Easy, lad,” Jargo told the boy, flipping him a copper coin. “The lady up top told me this would probably happen, just have some water and feed brought up here for the horses.”

Erin helped Millie dismount, the horse being slightly too tall for the girl to easily manage on her own with one arm. Hett and Davin likewise helped the last of their party to the ground. Calvin Descroix had been pulled from the mud, caught in the top of a tree by the floodwaters before his shield had collapsed. Bound, but not mistreated, Jacob had ordered the prisoner brought along. He kept his head up, however, captured but not cowed or cowardly, and Millie could respect that even though she didn’t really like him. Jacob pulled a small brown satchel out of a saddlebag, tucking it into his sword belt, and with that they began to ascend the steps without fanfare or announcement.

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Mette Weldt, Queen of Weldtir, eyed her royal counterparts warily as the sun neared it’s zenith while they waited for the [Oracle] to officially convene the Gathering. She had little respect for most of them, Aomhar of Forvale least of all. Tensions had been growing between their nations ever since the odious man had claimed his father’s throne, two centuries of peaceful trade and history thrown out when the new King repeatedly raised transport fees at several river crossings. Her own spies could not prove it, but a drastic increase in river piracy and banditry had the scent of privateering. 

As angry as she was at this Worldwalker General for destroying the northernmost levee and flooding several towns and a vast tract of farmland, she had to admit that the new position of the river would be a future boon to Weldtir and her family’s ancient holdings. Eventually being an indeterminable time before the waters receded and the river became traversable once more. As much as she hated riding north for her duty while the southern half of her homeland was under attack, the Gathering had not been entirely useless. She had in her belt pouch a sealed agreement from King Lamon Dale of Meadowspire. Grain from the Golden Meadows would mean her people would not starve before the land recovered, and with the river now bordered on both sides by Weldt lands repayment would be possible far more quickly than under the previous situation with Forvale. Aomhar was incensed at the loss of crossing tariffs and shipping fees, and that loss was Weldtir’s gain.

Nine small shaded pavillions encircled the ancient courtyard,  eight for the Crowns, and the [Oracle] stood near a table in the center a small distance away from her own traditional seat. A small village could have been built upon the faded stones within the area encompassed by the massive pillars, if anyone would have dared to entertain the thought. Not all of the nations were represented, now, their pavillions placed for sake of tradition more than anything else. Arctern had had no ruler for centuries, and Glenhollow had collapsed into a squabbling mess of lesser lordlings and aspirants during the first of the Deskren Wars. It had never recovered or been conquered for long enough to cement the land under one head of state, which Mette found tragically sad. The forests and hills of the Glens had once provided rich and profitable trade, but South Hollows had been it’s last true city. There wouldn’t be much left once the Empire was driven out.

Desena Kos was an enigma, the Queen of the far eastern Kosala. Extremely reclusive, the Kosalans traded mostly with the Dwarves of Thun’Kadrass. Dwarven Cannon and military support in exchange for the bounty of the eastern seas brought in by Eastharbor’s massive fishing fleets and mercantile reach. They had barely a token ground force of their own beyond the various city guards, but they rarely suffered Deskren raids simply by dint of geography and the Empire’s utter lack of any sort of effective navy. The Gathering was probably the first time the diminutive and quiet Queen had ever left her own capitol, and would probably be the only time she did so.

One ruler she did respect nodded back at her from across the pavillion when his eyes met hers. Hanz Geremas of Drakenth was by far the oldest and most grizzled of the Kings and Queens. The Drakengard Sky-Knights had once been known across every corner of the lands before the bulk of their order had been wiped out in the disaster that had been the Battle of Oasa. It had taken three centuries for their numbers to recover after losing so many breeding pairs of Drakes, only to be brought to the brink of extinction once again during the Steel Crusade. What few they had left now never left the high reaches of Drakenth’s mountain ranges save for risky patrols a few times a year across the Wildwall, to make observations near the Silent City. More to keep people away from the place than anything else; the golems of the Ruined Kingdom stayed in their city unless disturbed, and no one sane would risk provoking them ever again.

Mette thought the new [Oracle] certainly had promise. She was certainly striking of looks, with her tawny hair cut short and her eyepatch. The Queen of Weldtir was certainly curious about that, but to pry would have been unseemly. The young woman certainly didn’t lack for boldness, claiming a Worldwalker for a bodyguard and two more as personal attendants. Or apprentices in the art of divination; Mette’s own eyes and ears had found precious little information in that regard. As always, the [Oracle] was impossible to track when she chose to be, and this Rella with no family name had vanished from the temple during the Purple Night only to reappear in Brackholt over a month later. She had promptly snatched up the Fortress and the Twins and vanished with several more of the town’s guardsmen, and no one knew for sure where they had travelled before showing back up at the Temple of Possibility just in time for the Gathering of Kings.

The Fortress and his sisters were a bit easier to understand in some ways, Worldwalkers or not. Teenage girls were teenage girls regardless of origins, and they seemed to be making the best of being in a new world. Lucky, as well, that the [Oracle] had found them first. Much could be gleaned of new magics and technologies just from what such people knew of their homelands, and not all peoples of Anfealt would have been kind in the asking. The boy himself was certainly impressive though. Tall yet not done growing, he stood steady in his armor as if he were born to it. More interesting than his obvious physical potential in Mette’s opinion was the scarred face and oft-broken nose, and above all his wary eyes that never rested in their search for threats. He would never be pretty, but the Queen had noticed the way Rella glanced at him when she thought no one was paying attention. The girl would have been hard pressed to find a more suitable protector, abilities with the Sight notwithstanding.

Her thoughts had been confirmed when the [Oracle] had suddenly gasped and rose up on the balls of her feet as if entranced. The young man had stepped between Rella and the crowd to interpose his shield between them, and the movement had been as natural and fluid as it had been preternaturally quick. He had the makings of a natural defender the likes of which Mette had rarely seen, and though young he already had a solidity of presence to rival veterans of a shield wall. You’ll need that strength, she thought, especially with another Deskren War on the horizon.

A clamor by the steps leading down to the city distracted her, Aomhar and his guards protesting as one of the [Oracle]’s guardsmen led a group of newcomers onto the pavillion. Mette feared blades being bared, as a man in black armor nearly as tall as an Ursaran strode between the columns at the entrance despite the protests of the Forvalen King. He was followed by a brown haired woman, much shorter of stature, and a grizzled old man with an axe strapped to his back. The figure tugged at her memory, but Mette had no time to linger on the thought. On the warrior’s other side walked a girl with one arm, little more than a child. Black hair cut almost as short as a boy’s, her single arm encased in a gauntlet of exquisite workmanship matching the chain mail over her plain brown breeches and polished boots. A red chevron decorated the shoulder plate where her gauntlet was secured to the rings of the mail. As disturbing as the tall warrior, the girl’s red eyes bespoke violence under total discipline. I know a Soldier when I see one.

Behind the man who could be no other than The General, --and she had to suppress a twinge of outrage at the sight of the one who had caused so much chaos in the southern half of her homeland, even if she could not honorably blame him for his actions-- walked another couple. Of middle age they seemed, both weary from the road and wary of their surroundings. Equally wary of the man they led between them, hands bound in front with rope. This man she knew at least by description and sketches from her agents, and Mette reached for her own blade as she sucked in air between her teeth. Calvin Descroix was an especially unwelcome guest to the Gathering, under guard or not. Is the General insane!? Bringing one of the heirs to the enemy throne was almost certain to end with bared steel before the day was done.

Before actual violence could break out, the sun reached its highest point overhead to cast perfectly aligned shadows from the pillars around the circle. Then the [Oracle] spoke.

“By the ancient bargain, this Gathering is convened.”