The Haelorin Saga I: Mother's Mercy [R]
Once again, the wheel of the year turns and the seasons change. The nights have grown longer since the summer equinox, and the winds from beyond the Crown have grown furious and bitter. Currents from the Iron Fens swathe Haelorin’s seas and rivers in icy currents that wash from the glacial flows. Peasants make their final harvests, marchants unfurl the sails of their winter ships, and the highborn prepare for their feasts and balls. Much to Kaiser Valkenschild’s chagrin, the latter was something the Falcon Throne could no longer avoid.
It was always the First Winds that were the most disturbing. Spring and summer was always so peaceful, so quiet. Whenever the first leaves changed their shade, the winds from the Crown followed. Sonnengrad’s brooding spires howled hauntingly in those transitory nights. Leowyn, firstborn son of the Falcon, was startled awake by that infernal howling and the faint rattling of his windows. Sitting up in his bed, Leowyn was unsure if it was the wind of the dreams that tore him from the sanctuary of his dreams. He dabbed his brow with silk sheets, panting fervently with eyes rolling like a frightened horse. The prince scanned his room, then closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, like the Lord-Captain had taught him. Leowyn’s limbs stopped shaking so terribly, but his heart still pounded. Swinging his legs out of bed, Leowyn snatched his robe from the brass hook at his bed’s head post, shrugging into the familiar warmth and weight, caressed by velvet lined with rabbit fur. Gooseflesh made the prince’s skin crawl from his ankles to his scalp as the soles of his feet kissed the cold ivory tile of his room. Leowyn had to set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. No snows had come yet, and they would not for some time, but frost spread in crystalline blossoms
Silently as the young prince could manage, he opened his chamber door and furtively swept the hallway outside. The doors to his siblings’ respective rooms remained shut tight, though a faint, warm light shone underneath Thommen’s. Up late reading again, no doubt. Leowyn smiled to himself and padded softly by, walking on the balls of his feet to keep from slapping the polished tile. No lamps burned at this hour, leaving Leowyn to adapt to the sullen blue-black cavernous hallways and galleries of his Lord Father’s palace. Marble busts of his ancestors and predecessors leered sullenly at Leowyn from their pedestals, eyes shadowed in judgment of the untested boy. Leowyn could not help averting his gaze from them, tugging his robe tighter around himself. A shiver crawled under his skin, and Leowyn was not sure if it was from the cold, the howling winds, or the loathsome glare of bygone kings. Down a circling set of stairs wide as any highborn carriage, Leowyn found himself in a great semi-circular hall, the stained glass painting the pale granite with prismatic splendor and silvery moonlight. Approaching one of those windows, Leowyn looked out to one of the gardens. He could see the Lions prowling there, their black cloaks and uniforms devouring the cold light, making them like shadows. The wind tugged at them, rustling the bowing oaks and willows, jingling the multi-colored blossoms of so many trimmed hedges. Bronze sculptures stood over the gurgling fountain; a heroic man with the face of Leowyn’s father, sword raised in triumph and a falcon perched on his left shoulder. Two larger-than-life lions circled him, water trickling from roaring mouths.
Turning from the garden with a faint smile, Leowyn left only faint smudge on the stained glass, and that too faded. Leowyn continued his walk through the palace, visiting all of his favored childhood wings, his feet numb. Leowyn found it odd that no serfs moved about, even at such an early hour. No maids or butlers in livery, scuttling in their padded slippers, not even the smell of the kitchen night-staff. Through Leowyn’s wanderings, he found only one door ajar with the lamps lit, but nobody home. It was arguably the favored wing among the Valkenschild children, the royal library.
From floor to ceiling, shelving of polished white ash was packed with tomes, scrolls, and novels spanning every possible subject. History, fable, folklore, arcane theory, cartography, military handbooks; everything a burgeoning emperor would need to learn. Leowyn paused, biting his own tongue at his thoughts. Empress. The Falcon Throne was not his place, if the Mother was kind. Clearing his throat, Leowyn looked about the library. Burkhardt, the librarian, was nowhere to be seen, which was an oddity in itself. Leowyn stepped up to the librarian’s mighty desk, peering over the edge to see if Burkhardt had fallen asleep over some musty tome, but found only a snuffed pipe and a half-finished glass of what smelled like brandy. Curious, the prince raised the glass to his nose and sniffed. It burned his lungs, strong and bitter-sweet. Definitely brandy. People never really change, Leowyn thought, taking a sip from the hand-blown goblet. A true rebel.
* * * *
“Preparations have been made for tomorrow?” Uther asked without looking up from his book. He sat in a tall-backed chair, Amun’sari in design. Heathens and savages they might be, but the coffee-skinned folk beyond the Winterbreach made sinfully comfortable furniture.
“Yes, my Kaiser. Palace security is tight and patrols have taken to the city,” said the aged commander who stood in the doorway to the Kaiser’s chamber. While the sovereign of Sonnengard lounged in padded robes and sipped glüwhein from an amethyst goblet, the Lord-Captain of the Isenlöwen was crisp and picture-perfect in his uniform, hands folded at the small of his back. The snow had not yet melted from the shoulders of his coat.
“Our staff is being properly selected?”
“Yes, my Kaiser. My apprentice is seeing to it personally,” Lord-Captain Yarick said, his gaze never faltering from the window. It was not his place to look directly upon the Kaiser is such an informal state.
“Can the cub be trusted with such a task?” The Kaiserin tutted from behind her changing screen. Yarick rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat,
“Yes, Kaiserin,” said Yarick, “Einjalöwen Alastyr is one of the most promising members of the Lions I have seen is some time.”
“Subjectively?” The Kaiserin rounded the screen, sipping a glass of schnapps in her silken nightgown. Her eyes glittered like emeralds, her expression dangerous and catlike. Yarick felt the weight of both his leaders – his owners – upon him.
“Yes, Kaiserin. Ask any of the officers, even the masters in that bloody tower of yours. If you want a bloodhound, Alastyr is the man for it.” Yarick sounded resolute and sure as any man could be. Kaiserin Moirianne shrugged those slender, pale shoulder of hers and slinked to bed with a grace belying her age. Kaiser Uther cleared his throat, closing his book,
“I trust the Lord-Commander’s judgment. It has yet to lead us astray,” Uther said in a subdued tone, then emptied his cup of mulled wine. “But, if for nothing more than my wife’s ease of mind, I would like you to verify your apprentice did the job right.” Yarick saluted, his right fist to his chest, then raised to eye level, boot heels clicking sharply.
“As my Kaiser commands,” Yarick dipped his head after his salute, then departed, closing the door behind him. Uther waited a few moments, then shot a leer to his wife.
“You do not get to demand I play host to every mewling shit with a title, then command the captain of my special forces,” Uther spoke curtly, slamming his book shut with a loud snap. Moirianne didn’t even flinch, smirking over her glass at her husband, emptying its contents in a single gulp.
“A mother cannot fear for the safety of her children? What manner of beast stands in place of my beloved husband?” The Kaiserin smirked, and her husband’s nose wrinkled.
“You know that is not what I mean,” Uther muttered, crossing to the massive bed, shrugging out of his robe and climbing under the covers beside Moirianne. His hand rested on her abdomen, a thick thumb brushing over the thin silks of his wife’s nightgown, “There is a darkness to what I do, Moirianne, and I would not want it to stain you.” Uther stared blankly as he spoke, until Moirianne tugged at his pale mane to grab his attention. Her eyes met his, and the Kaiserin’s face was an impassive mask.
“I am not some country lady who has only seen the world through the pages of books, and I am not some child to be coddled. I know the game we play better than you ever will, my love.” Moirianne’s voice was cold and firm as the stones of the palace, but there was a passion to them; conviction. “Without me, you would fight and conquer until there were no more wars to wage in this world. More than vassals, we need allies. Together, we will make the world safe and worthy of our children when their time comes.” Her hand, soft and slender, intertwinded with Uthur’s. They shared a silent moment, just enjoying the warmth of the other.
“When should we tell them?” Uther finally asked, his hand squeezing his wife’s belly possessively, protectively. Moirianne chuckled, raking her nails through her husband’s gold-and-silver hair.
“One play at a time, darling. Love your wife, then awake tomorrow with a smile,” she purred into Uther’s ear, her hand seizing him by the manhood, “And take tomorrow as surely as I have ever taken you.” Moirianne rolled atop her Kaiser, sighing as he filled her.
* * * *
Perhaps Leowyn had sipped a bit too deeply of the librarian’s brandy. His fingers tingled and a pleasant, buzzing warmth seemed to wash from his head to his toes. Regardless of effort, the prince could not manage to walk in a straight line. Stumbling his way through a series of stairs, Leowyn rounded a corner to the grand foyer that overlooked the royal courtyard. He walked into something solid and cold, a soft ache blossoming from his nose,
“Pardon, Imperial Highness,” a voice in the darkness said. Something about it reminded Leowyn of the noise a sword makes when drawn from a scabbard. Blinking his vision clear, Leowyn looked at what he had hit, seeing the ashen grey garb of an Einjalöwen. Craning his neck back, he was met with the intense gaze of the Lord-Captain’s apprentice, Alastyr. Leowyn could find no words, and the warmth of the brandy seemed to be drained from his face.
“Forgive the informality, your Imperial Highness, but you should be in bed. The Kaiser was explicit that you all be at your best come the morrow’s festivities,” Alastyr smiled a wolf’s smile, more predatory than polite. Leowyn set his jaw again to prevent his teeth from chattering, and not from the cold.
“Yes, Einjalöwen, I am aware. The winds just woke me, and I needed a walk to clear my head,” Leowyn sniffed, making every effort to stand straight and dignified before the Lion. Alastyr’s smile widened, cutting dark lines in his moon-pale skin. Leowyn knew Alastyr could smell the brandy on his breath. People were always abuzz over how perfect the Lord-Captain’s prodige was. “Have you seen Burkhardt?”
“The librarian?” Alastyr quirked his scarred eyebrow. Leowyn nodded, though his head felt far too heavy. He spied a belted stack of books under the Lion’s arm, who turned to keep them from view.
“Yes, your Imperial Majesty. The Lord-Captain called him to his study. With so many colorful people visiting us tomorrow, the Lord-Captain wanted to ensure we all knew precisely how to behave. I am sure they will be indisposed until dawn.” Alastyr’s grin did not grow any softer or more genuine, and Leowyn noticed the sulfurous stink of drake powder on the man. Surely of the Lions had been running drills, everyone from the kitchens to Bastion Square would have heard. Or if there had been an intruder, surely there would be more alarm. Leowyn’s mind stumbled over such prospects, hobbled by the stolen spirit. He tightened his robe about himself, feeling colder now than when he first woke.
“Would your Imperial Majesty like an escort back to his chambers?” Alastyr asked, though it did not sound like a question. Leowyn shook his head,
“You have my thanks, Einjalöwen Alastyr, but I am sure I can manage,” Leowyn said with as warm a smile he could imagine.
“I am afraid I must insist,” Alastyr said firmly, halting Leowyn as surely as if he clenched the prince by the throat. “If your Imperial Majesty fell down a flight of stairs in his… condition, I could never forgive myself.” Leowyn blinked at that, eyes suddenly feeling too large and too heavy for his skull.
“In that case, be my guest, Einjalöwen...” Leowyn said, making an effort to keep his voice from cracking. Backtracking his steps, the prince still stalked on the balls of his feet while jackboots clicked sharply behind him. Leowyn kept his eyes forward, not having the heart to look over his shoulder. The moon had moved since Leowyn had started his wandering of the palace, and the judging busts now looked truly disappointed in him.
Back in his room, Leowyn found that there was no more howling. Only the fluttering, pounding rhythm of his heart in his ears. His room felt darker now, and colder despite the winds no longer moaning. Leowyn could still feel Alastyr’s gaze upon him like a dagger pressed against his back. At least, that was how Leowyn imagined a dagger felt.
“If that will be all, Einjalöwen,” Leowyn coughed, and was answered with a clicking of boot heels.
“Rest well, your Imperial Highness. I will see you come morn.” Alastyr’s voice was that same rasping hiss, sending ice down Leowyn’s spine before the door clicked shut. Dropping his robe to the ground, Leowyn curled up under his covers and dreamed of the howling winds.
The sun, climbing towards midmorning, pierced through the sword-shaped windows of the royal apartments. Long shadows stretched from wall to wall as the sun speared his Imperial Highness in the eyes. From his door, key turned lock and the iron hinges squeaked. An aged woman with iron-grey hair sprung through the open door, far too spry for her age. Her hair was done in a braid, thick as Leowyn’s wrist, and was dressed in the livery of the palace. She tsked at Leowyn as he tried to bury his head under his pillow.
“None of that, little lord. Your sister and brother are already dressed, and your Lord-Father has already noted your tardiness!” Nan Brunhilde reminded Leowyn of a rooster in that moment. Whole strings of curses ran through Leowyn’s head, but he could not bring himself to utter a sound.
“Good for them,” he groaned from beneath his pillow. Leowyn’s mouth felt like cotton. Slowly, he sat up, favoring the pounding in his head. “Anissa is the next Kaiserin, and Thommen is as darling as he is clever,” Leowyn said, sullen. Nan clucked her tongue, and seemed to mull over her own set of scalding words.
“Does his Imperial Majesty believe he is the first to drink late and wake feeling sorry for himself?” Nan’s tone had become whip-sharp, and it made Leowyn reel. “You are the firstborn son of Kaiser Uther. Do not think that because you were not first to leave your mother, you are worth no less, or that because you were not the last from her, you have any lesser measure of her love.” Clothes were thrown at Leowyn, blouse and coat catching the High Prince in the head. “Now, get dressed. I will see to it that the kitchens have something particularly greasy prepared for you.
Left dumbfounded and reeling in the wake of Nan’s flurry, Leowyn gawked at his clothes for the day. He wanted to retort, but Nan had already left, her voice booming from the hall. Stripping from his nightgown, Leowyn lowered himself into the copper tub in his room. He hadn’t noticed when Nan had filled it or stoked the coals beneath the tub, but it was a perfect temperature. He soaked there, staring blankly out the tall, arched windows of his room. The skies overhead was a pale blue-grey, broken by the bleak gothic towers of Hightown and smoke belched from the factories in Eisenberg. Even from his room, Leowyn could hear the the static din of festivity. There was life in the palace again, and the unease of the previous night suddenly felt so distant.
Revisiting the clothes Nan had selected, Leowyn found his bed made and the garments properly folded. That old woman had to be a sorceress of some sort, Leowyn thought. These were new clothes, as well. Rich trousers of ivory velvet, a blouse of creamy silk with a laced collar and cuffs. It was all perfectly tailored, and the boots were fresh Eresian leather with polished silver buckles, inlaid with mother of pearl. Leowyn’s wasitcoat was the inverse his overcoat; gold on red, then red on gold, woven of silk befitting a boy of his station. Nan appeared again, entering uninvited to wrap Leowyn’s middle in a scarlet sash.
“Just how long am I expected to look like this?” Leowyn muttered as Nan cinched him tight.
“As long as is expected of you, so do not make a slob of yourself and do not torment your siblings. These robes are worth more than what I make in a year. Make a mess of them, and I will box your ears.” Nan fussed with Leowyn’s buttons, making sure they were all straight and polished.
“Are you threatening the High Prince?” Leowyn smirked playfully, and Nan matched his smile with a tug on his ear.
“I pulled you into this world, your Imperial Highness. You and your siblings. I have seen you all pink and screaming and naked. I cleaned your shits and tended your colds. You hold no surprises for me.” Nan Brunhilde gave Leowyn a soft pat on the cheek.
“Perhaps I will surprise you today,” Leowyn said through grit teeth, and Nan smiled. It was not condescending nor snide, but genuine and grandmotherly.
“Nothing would make me happier, dear child.” Nan swept passed Leowyn, then. “Everyone is expecting you in the great hall to break fast and greet guests.”
* * * *
A great river cuts its way through Sonnengard, bringing fresh water from the mountains through the heart of the land. Named the River Eisen for it’s iron-grey color, the great river spans nearly a mile from shore to shore. Between the Anvil Mountains and the Sonnen-Æternian border, the River Eisen parts and reforms, creating a stately island upon which the Empire’s capital was built. Sonnengrad, whose great spires and towers could be seen for leagues in every direction.
By boat and carriage, the colorful menagerie of the world’s political theatre was drawn to the stern gem of the north. On either side of the island, three bridges connect the east and west banks to the towering, buttressed walls with their towering iron gates. For the first time in remembered history, all six gates were opened wide and welcome. Entire neighborhoods were built upon and within the six bridges, and each bridge was tall enough for whole ships to sail beneath, unimpeded. Soot trickled down like snowflakes from the Eisenberg refineries, turning the morning light a sullen shade of scarlet, the fishermen and tradesmen already on the slate-colored waters.
From the grim Eisenburg with its warfs and mills, across the bridges to the walled island, all the way to Hightown and the Imperial Palace, the city made ready for the Fading Festival. Colorful banners were inscribed and hung from ropes between buildings, strung from railings, and tethered to fences. Green banners for thanks to the Mother and her bounties, orange banners for prayers of an easy winter. Offerings of wheat, wool, and beeswax candles were left at the foot of the Mother, wherever her visage may be found; from the humblest village effigy to the great statue within the Imperial Cathedral. Canals within the city were lit with lanterns and taverns, winesprings, and inns burned sandalwood and sage. Outside brothels, candles burned within lanterns of red-stained glass.
Through the streets, parks, and courtyards, citizens and visitors milled about feast-day tables laden with fresh-baked bread and great casts of strong drink. In the heart of neighborhood greens, men and women draped in the robes and stoles of the Æternian faith sang the High Chant as they erected great poles of white oak. These poles each bore scores of colored ribbon, tied to iron rings in the soil until it was time for the Dance at midday. Sonnenmensch soldiers and city watch manned their posts dutifully, autumn colored sashes crossing their chests from shoulder to hip in honor of the season. From the great towers of the Imperial Cathedral, her many brass bells tolling brightly.
While much of the city remained open, the gilded gates of Hightown remained shut to all but those with documentation proving the nobility of their blood. Deeper still within the city, dwarfing all else and casting cold, long shadows in the midmorning, the Imperial Palace had become a place of revelry and respite from the sternness that was so commonly the norm. Not unlike the commoners below, those in the raised and walled tiers of Hightown and the Palace followed much of the same traditions, but with the exquisite flair permitted by opulence. Great casks of mulled wine were emptied into great vessels of quartz and amethyst. From crackling braziers, glowing iron rods were dropped into the wine, flooding the air with an festive aroma of citrus and cinnamon. The glühwein was poured into silver goblets once properly heated, served with seasonal fruits, cheeses, and sweetmeats.
Nobles and well-born from the world around milled around the feast tables and walked the various gardens and groves, throwing cuts of pork to the beasts on display, especially the braided-mane dire cats in their enchanted cages. High Prince Leowyn was there, with the rest of his family, in the festival grounds between Hightown and the Palace. He felt pity for those charcoal-pelted beasts, but he knew what they presented. Leowyn’s eyes darted to the Lord-Captain Yarick, who was speaking closely to his apprentice. There was still no sign of the librarian when Leowyn checked in the morning, and the High Prince could not shake the sense of foreboding he felt.
* * * *
Alastyr hated his station. Not ranked nor important enough to be anywhere befitting his skills or talents, he was bid to simply look pretty. Like the rest of the Lion-Aspirants, Alastyr was clad in ashen grey, his armor thin and ceremonial, nickel-plated engraved with Sonnen knotwork. Hands folded at the small of his back and eyes staring endlessly, he felt like some sideshow. Little better than the biestvolk Eresian high ladies had in jeweled collars and silver leashes or his caged namesake that some Free Marcher lordling provoked with a branch. Alastyr stopped keeping count of the molesting hands that had squeezed bicep and buttock, or cupped his groin.
When the Lord-Captain shooed away a particularly forward Ryujin lady who had fiddled with Alastyr’s belt, the young Lion breathed a sigh of relief.
“I am sorry, lad. Believe me, I would have you in the black and be of use somewhere… other than this,” Yarick sounded truly remorseful, and Alastyr knew that Yarick did what he could. Alastyr also knew that while Yarick had rank, there were those above him, especially those who were not so fond of Yarick prodéjé.
“Things could be worse, mein herr. I could be one of them,” Alastyr said lowly, nodding to a portly gaggle of well-fed nobles with their painted faces and powdered wigs, laughing as they toyed with a young biestvolk girl. Her coloration reminded Alastyr of the cheetahs in the Palace zoo, complete with the mohawk of cub-down. Black coloration around her eyes made her seem like she was crying, but the vacancy in her eyes was what caught Alastyr’s throat.
“Javol, that may very well be true. Still, you are a chosen son of Sonnengard. I will see if I can circumvent the Brigadier to get you a proper assignment.” Yarick clasped his apprentice on the shoulder, a smile bristling his whiskers.
“Is that wise, herr Captain?” Alastyr’s eyes met Yarick’s, whose were crinkled at the corners by a smile.
“Bah! If I was wise, I would be rich and fat, with a bitch wife and too many children. Be strong, cub. I will see what I can do for you.” Yarick threw a wink Alastyr’s way and trod towards the elevated secondary courtyard, overlooking the gardens and kennels. Isenlöwen in their black-and-silver coats stood watch, letting their Lord-Captain pass without so much as a glance. Their position was to keep the lesser nobles and meager well-born apart from the crowned and high-born. In the raised courtyard, the Imperial family treated with visiting dignitaries while their attachés and retainers departed to Hightown’s festival grounds or the common dregs of the city.
Kaiser and Kaiserin Valkenschild sat in cushioned chairs and nursed their own amethyst goblets of mulled wine, though Moirianne favored her tray of fruits and cheeses over the drink. Both sovereigns were dressed in their feast-day best; rich red silks and velvets embroidered in gold, lined with chinchilla for Moirianne and wolf for Uther. Joining them was Moirianne’s mother and brother, visiting from Eresia on such an auspicious occasion. Joining them as well were a handful of Archdiocese from Æternia, high lords of the Gleaming Tower, Free Marcher Guildmasters and Merchant Princes, even a few Ussarian barons pledged to their Imperial Majesty. Their talk was mostly posturing and gossip interceded with respect and praise for their host. Uther seemed he would have a brighter expression if he was getting a tooth pulled, something the occasional pinch on the arse from his wife would mend.
“My lords and ladies, Highnesses, Graces, and Majesties,” Yarick said politely, clicking his heels and bowing. He only rose when the Kaiser commanded him. “Fair Fading”
“Fair Fading, Lord-Captain. What brings you here?” Uther did not sound rude, but his patience was evidently thinned by present company.
“I pray herr Kaiser will forgive me, but I believe Einjalöwen Alastyr could be of greater service in a different post,” Yarick’s eyes were downcast, boring intently into a platter of roast. Uther narrowed his eyes, crows feet pinching and shadowing darkly around winter-cold pools of blue.
“Lord-Captain, your apprentice is yet to be granted the Black of your korps, correct?” The Kaiser was calm, his tone factual and punctual. Yarick’s mouth felt suddenly dry under the Kaiser’s full attention. Those at the table watched with hitched breath.
“That is correct, herr Kaiser.”
“His peers are tasked to the dregs of this great city, Lord-Captain. They have been working tirelessly to keep Sonnengrad safe for our most honored guests. Your apprentice is entrusted beyond his rank and station, protecting those of a station he could never hope to meet,” Uther’s thin mouth tugged at the corners in a smirk.
“Where your honored guests will eat him up like all the other delights you have put on display… herr Kaiser.” Yarick bowed again, if only to conceal the redness of anger in his face. Davian tutted to Yarick’s right, picking his teeth with a gilded fork,
“And a strapping lad of the Kaiser’s special corps cannot defend himself against a few harmless well-born? Does he not have a cock between those legs? Or is it just some socks?” Davian ignored the glares cast his way by his mother and sister. Yarick’s stiff knuckles cracked as they clenched. Yarick turned his head to Davian, eyes stern as ever,
“He will not, for that has been his command. Alastyr will not raise a hand to those he does not perceive as a threat. One hundred of your courtiers could be clawing at his skin and he wouldn’t budge…”
“You forget your place, Captain,” Uther snapped. One might expect a man of the Kaiser’s station to slam his fists on the table in a fit of rage, but there was no need. The Kaiser’s voice was a whip that brought his hounds to heel. “Though, you do make a point.” Uther emptied his cup of glühwein and waved over a serf in livery for a refill. He waited for the cup to fill, then turned to his children, the High Princess and Princes. “Children, Alastyr will be your man more than he will be mine. What would you have done with him?” Uther smiled a tiger’s smile, resting his chin on his fist.
Originally Posted by Minkasha to Clyde
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