Wild Card 18

Proof that I haven't been derelict in my responsibilities to keep writing, just in my responsibilities to keep posting where you can all read it. Which I apologize for also.

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Unsurprisingly, when you spend the better part of a week being smuggled in someone's pocket while they're riding a horse, it's a lonely and boring journey. If I had to make a comparison, I imagine it's a lot like being a stowaway in a sailing ship, never daring come out where it's visible during the day, and only getting truly fresh air under cover of darkness very, very carefully.

I subsist on bits of Goodberry I have squirreled away in my dimensional pocket, and a transmuted thimble serves as my privy bucket for a necessity that Vanion obviously didn't take into account. The contents get transmuted away immediately and I take a certain petty satisfaction that some of the lint in his pockets, while perfectly safe and hygienic, is permanently transmuted mouse shit.

And yes, I recognize it IS petty of me. The whole point of all this was to direct attention away from me being at the Pandion chapterhouse. Why was any of this even necessary?

Unless, I suddenly consider, Vanion suspects one of his order as being a spy? The idea isn't outlandish, and if that was the case, the less he discusses it out loud, the less likely the spy or spies twig to Vanion's suspicions. If that's the case, it makes me feel slightly less amused by the lint thing, although only slightly. I think there must be something in the air here that makes everyone an asshole, even me.

And there I go judging a more or less medieval society by information age standards. I need to relax.

Our ride comes to a more or less abrupt halt; above me, through Vanion's surcoat, I hear someone announce, "Who art thou who entreateth entry into the House of the Soldiers of God?" The challenge draws my attention, and I stop my spellwork practice and listen closely.

Vanion rumbles heavily, "I am Vanion, a Soldier of God and a Member of this Order, as art mine companions one and all." A formulaic challenge? It's amazing, I can literally hear the capitalizations in each word.

Another voice distinct from the first clears his throat and replies, "And how may we know thee and thy companions?"

"By our tokens may thou know us," Vanion answers, making a motion to pull something out from beneath his tunic. I desperately wish I could see this because this is sounding like an absolutely fascinating ritual.

After a few moments, the first challenging voice responds, "This is indeed Vanion, our Brother, and art his companions Members of our Order, every one."

"And then, ah..." the second strange voice falters, then stammers briefly. I can immediately feel the awkwardness.

Vanion sighs. "Alren..."

"I'm so sorry, Lord Vanion, I just can't get this part to stick in my mind," the second voice admits abashedly.

"'And then shall we grant them...'" Vanion prompts.

"Right! And then shall we grant them admission into the house of the soldiers of God?" the other says in a rush. Vanion huffs a silent chuckle that he definitely is trying to conceal.

"It is their right freely to enter this house, for they are our Brothers," says the first voice, sounding both amused and exasperated. "Hail and well met, Sir Vanion, and your Companions with you. Prithee one and all come within the walls of this House, and may peace abide with thee and thine beneath its roof."

"And with thee and thy Comrade, wherever thou may fare," Vanion announces with a note of finality.

Is that it, then? I'm itching to know more. How old the ritual is that I just heard, how it started, maybe how it's changed, if Vanion knows this.

"Welcome home, Lord Vanion," the first voice says. "Did you accomplish everything you needed to?" There's a brief pause, before he adds, "I notice that ah, he is no longer with you."

"I left him with the Patriarch of Demos," Vanion replies. "It seemed more fitting to leave him in their hands for safe keeping, with the tensions already present between the Church Soldiers and the Order here in Chyrellos. Too much chance of misadventure, and for all that he's a relatively sedate and studious man, a militant cloister ill suits him." I'm not sure if I've been insulted or not. "He will do better among a more conventional monastary, wherever Patriarch Dolmant sends him to stay."

"No more mangoes, then?"

I snort almost in sync with Vanion's supposed chuckles. "No," Vanion says with a smile I can hear in his voice. "No more mangoes."

"Ah. I really liked those."

"The service of God is fraught with sacrifice, my son." Vanion rumbles. "Let's get inside. I need to tend to my armor."

It's at least a half hour before Vanion finishes his mundane tasks, before he reaches into the pocket of his surcoat and pulls me out, looking me over. We're in the armory, his full armor nearby looking well polished. He hangs up the surcoat and perches me on his shoulder.

"I know this is frustrating for you," Vanion says quietly, as he retrieves a stiff bristled brush and begins the process of scrubbing out debris from between the links of his armored mail surcoat. "Stranded in a strange world, in the thrall of people who you do not understand and caught up in the politics and battles of a people not your own."

I debate how to respond to this, even though he doesn't seem much to expect any comprehensible reply. After a second, I settle on Prestidigitation, writing my words in faint letters in the air in front of him, startling him. 'appreciate your compassion' I write, then after a few seconds, changing it to 'am happy to help'.

I'm not fond of Prestidigitation, primarily because I'm not especially good at it, but for my purposes right now, it's my best tool for communicating with Vanion clandestinely as a mouse. And Vanion's expression clearly displays his fleeting amusement at seeing a mouse waving its paws while spellcasting.

Well, I suppose it IS a little absurd a notion. Must be rather funny to watch.

'So what now' I prompt.

"Now, I ready myself to deliver a sermon at the chapel tomorrow morning - something of an obligation, given I'm the Preceptor of the Order and this IS the Motherhouse - before we set out overmorrow for Cimmura again." He pauses, then adds mirthfully, "Perhaps you might want to attend; as Dolmant would say, God welcomes all with open arms."

My mousy snort is completely lost on him; I doubt he even hears it. 'I believe I will pass'

"More's the pity. Perhaps you'd like to know a bit of what's been going on?" Vanion asks as he finishes one sleeve of the mail surcoat and moves on to the other. He goes on without waiting for a response from me. "Archprelate Cluvonus is dying."

'You mentioned this already' I write, followed by, 'when we spoke to Dolmant'

He pauses briefly in his brushing, then nods. "I did, yes, among numerous other things. The Archprelate serves as the Word of God in the world, and speaks to and for the Church. It's no exaggeration to say the position is possibly the most powerful throne in the world. In his prime, he was among the greatest to have ever sat the golden throne. Time has not been kind to him, however, and his mind is falling him. Under ordinary circumstances, the Archprelate would decide from the clergy who would take his place, usually from the patriarchs or primates of the Church, although not always - once, some centuries ago, a simple monk from an out of the way monastery was selected; it caused quite a stir at the time. Cluvonus has declined badly, however, especially in the last year, and is in no condition to name a successor. As such the new Archprelate would be selected by a vote of the assembly of the Hierocracy. Because of this, a few individuals are gathering support to make a play for the Archprelacy." He grunts, then says, "The tale is a long, somewhat meandering one. And much of it centers around Sparhawk himself, and his family's ties to the royal family."

'Start with Sparhawk' I spell out. 'Considering' I add, then fail to find something suitable to add.

"Considering you're currently beholden to him," Vanion finishes for me.

I nod mousily.

Vanion grunts, turning the armor stand and giving the back of the surcoat his attention. "Some hundreds of years ago, Sparhawk's great... something grandfather - not sure how many generations back for reasons I'll get into momentarily - was a fresh knight in the Pandion order, a raw acolyte of humble background who showed great promise in all aspects of his training. He took to the secrets of Styricum as easily as sword work, theology, and philosophy. He quickly outshone both his fellow acolytes and even a few of the veteran knights of the Order. By the time he received his spurs and was officially knighted himself, he was regarded as one of the finest members of the Pandions.

"Now about this time, King Antor was ascending the Elenian throne, and was inheriting a great many of the troubles that were in large resultant of the war with Zemoch. This was the twenty seventh century, so a bit over three centuries ago? And Elenia was less a nation in fact than in theory. The Northern barons especially paid little more than lip service to the notion of fealty to the crown, and many of them were almost openly bandits, rapaciously harrying their neighbors who were closer to Cimmura and therefore the Elenian throne. Antor was brash and overconfident, and took an expeditionary force north from the capital to bring these barons to heel. The force he brought with him was decidedly inadequate for the task at hand. And of course, the Preceptor of the Order back then, when he got word of Antor's recklessness, he immediately dispatched a relief column of Pandion Knights, among which was the newly knighted Sparhawk."

I squeak at him. 'Sparhawk?'

"The name has become a hereditary one," Vanion says ruefully. "A symbol of the bloodline's oath and promise. The eldest son inherits the name Sparhawk and the responsibilities of the lineage, but we'll get to that, I promise you." Vanion pauses. "Where was I?"

'Relief column'

"Yes, the relief column." He clears his throat, scrubbing at an especially stubborn section of the mail surcoat where it clearly picked up moisture and tanned leather from the saddle. "The reinforcements were desperately needed. Antor was well out of his depth; he was courageous enough but tactically and strategically inept. He would attack with little regard for the alliances between the bandit barons and without regard for the inevitability that they would come to one another's aid. His reserves were decimated, his supply train savaged, and his fighting strength whittled away by the day as the barons' forces outflanked him repeatedly.

"At the point that the Pandion Knights reached Antor's beleaguered army, the situation was dire enough that many of the Barons had withdrawn their trained and disciplined forces, and were beginning to maneuver among themselves for the opportunity to seize the crown once Antor was dead. The forces remaining in opposition to Antor at this point were mostly rabble, untrained bandits with overwhelming numbers and little else in their favor. They weren't much use against the Pandion knights, but every loss was dear to Antor and the Pandions. The combined forces used these auxiliaries in an attempt to buy time to rest their men and bleed Antor's forces while they prepared a few tentative, probing attacks. Reassured by the defensive posture they were met with, they attacked in earnest the following dawn."

His brushing finished, Vanion takes the mail layer off his surcoat and lays it out in a small basin, before uncapping a small metal bucket full of a mixture of grease and sand. He scoops a double handful of the gunk over the mail, using it to scrub the links of any corrosion. "I am proud to say our Order is well renowned for our fighting skill and unyielding ferocity. When the Barons' forces pressed the attack and engaged fully, they were met with steel and fury, not cowed survivors awaiting the end, but it was no easy battle. The battle stretched onward for much of the day. Late in the afternoon, Antor had been separated from his honor guards, unhorsed, and surrounded. Sir Sparhawk cut his way to the king's side, and the two of them fought back to back, keeping their foes at bay until Sparhawk's sword broke. On seeing this, the baron who had been leading the attack urged his men to rush the pair, but Sparhawk took up a common spear from one of the fallen and struck down any that came in reach, eventually killing the baron himself and sending his men into flight."

'Aldreas's spear?' I write, thinking back to the spear that Sparhawk had held in my face when we first met.

"It would become so, yes. After the baron's forces had fled, the two of them were alone and sorely wounded and rested where they'd made their stand. At some point, King Antor made a pledge to Sparhawk for saving his life, sealing it by the exchange of their weapons, bequeathing on Sparhawk and his line the royal sword of Elenia in exchange for that humble spear to be borne by the royal lineage of Elenia. A symbol of their pact, that Sparhawk's blood and kin would ever be employed first and foremost as protectors and champions of the royal line." Vanion pulls the mail out of the grit and oil, examining it critically, before returning it to the tub and focusing again on that spot where leather had worked into the links. "Generations of kings and queens - mostly kings - have since been served and guarded by Sparhawks, to the point that the name is almost as much a title exclusive to his family as it is a proper name. Over the last few generations, however, there has been a degree of strain on the relationship, especially in the case of Aldreas. Aldreas had always been something of a weak king, and easily influenced both by his sister Arissa and the Primate of Cimmura, Annias. Rather than exercise Sparhawk's position as champion, Aldreas assigned Sparhawk to serve as caretaker for his daughter Ehlana, eschewing Sparhawk's presence and advice in both the intrigues of court and duties of the crown."

'The queen in crystal' I write out.

Vanion nods. "I'll get to that, although I believe you know at least part of that already." He pulls the mail out again, examines it, and nods to himself. He takes a cloth and begins wiping away the grit and oil, thoroughly, then begins rinsing away any vestiges of it with something that smells like turpentine, almost overwhelming to my mouse nose when he opens the jug. "Sparhawk, of course, decided that if this was to be his duty, then as befitting a Sparhawk he would execute it to the best of his ability. He spent several years and considerable effort educating her and preparing her for the duties and politics of the throne."

My mind goes back to my first night here. 'And that is a threat' I wait a few seconds, then continue, 'to kinging Lycheas'

"Exactly so. Which is why when Annias understood that Sparhawk wasn't going to subdue his duty for his pride, Annias colluded with Arissa to convince Aldreas to exile Sparhawk to Rendor." Vanion wipes off the chain mail and begins reattaching it to his surcoat leathers. "Of course, by then the damage was done. Primate Annias found Ehlana, even as heir apparent, to be difficult to influence and adamant in her morals and responsibility. Where Aldreas was easily persuaded by honeyed words or by his sister's... affections... Ehlana was like iron. Early attempts to subtly coerce her into yielding her primogeniture to her cousin Lycheas were met with derision and quickly abandoned; Ehlana intimated readily that Annias was protected from charges of attempted usurpation solely by his ability to hide behind his advisory role as a member of the clergy."

'Thus the poisoning' I write out.

"So we suspect, yes. Although proof will be required, as well as the attention of enough uncorrupted and unbribed members of the council of lords to issue grievance to the church for us to actually do anything about it directly to Annias. Things are a little less difficult regarding Arissa and noticeably easier with Lycheas, but only relatively so." Vanion finishes securing the chain layer to the leather, then takes his lantern from the hook. "In more plain words, without Queen Ehlana's authority, we can do nothing about any of them."

'An ugly situation' I comment.

"Very much so. Especially with Aldreas' warning that Bhelliom is ready to reemerge in the world." Carefully, Vanion scoops me up in his hand and tucks me into his coin purse carefully. It strikes me as somehow appropriate to his character that there doesn't seem to be much money in here. "I need to speak to my second here at the Motherhouse before I retire to my chambers to write tomorrow's sermon. It's best if you remain hidden."

'Tell me plainly' I write out, then add, 'is there a spy'

Vanion grunts, and we begin moving. "As much as I don't want to believe it, I have my concerns."

More or less confirms my own guess, then. 'then I guess' I write, 'I will be isolated' 'for a long time'

Vanion doesn't reply. And why would he? We both already know that Sparhawk's expedition is a pipe dream, but one that he's likely to be at until the very last possible moment in hopes of hitting that jackpot.

And I can't even say Sparhawk's wrong. I really have no idea if the healing magic at my disposal is actually strong enough to deal with this incurable, unsurvivable poison the Queen has been dosed with. If it succeeds, one could argue their whole quest was wasted. If they attempted it early and my spells failed, they could argue those who'd died already did so for a wasted effort and foolish hope. Anyone can second guess the past, but all decisions are made in the present without benefit of what we learn in the future. It sucks. And there's not a damned thing I can do about any of it, except to keep practicing in all ways that I can, so that when I am needed I'm hopefully enough. I appreciate Vanion's continuing education on the political and historical events that led them here, in hopes of at least providing me reason that their cause is just... but I'm already invested. I was already sold on being a lone and unique mage in service to a quest to rescue a Princess - or a Queen, in this case - from the sorts of folks who resort to acts like poison and deceit.

When one gets right down to it... what more could any man actually want except the power to affect change and a noble Cause that has need of it?