Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 14
10 minutes
The Council of Twenty-Four
The Council of Twenty-Four sat about the Emerald Table in Wyverheld Keep. It was customary to begin the Council with a meal, but the lords and ladies present picked at their lavish dishes with small enthusiasm. The steward sat among them, and not where the oval table narrowed to a head. Though he outranked them all, he seemed placed at random between the baron and baroness of Marsnordur, and those of Viduraustur. Alone among these august persons, Lord Ketch was without a spouse.
The steward wore the simple jerkin and hose of a Knight of Ketch. According to an ancient agreement, forged when the High Ones first came to Vireah, bringing their light to the West, the House of Ketch was second in authority behind the imperial house. Yet Ketch was far south of Wyverheld, at the borders of Talahm-lár, near the Middle Sea, and it had always behooved the lords of Ketch to appear humble and self-effacing in the presence of the more cosmopolitan houses. That image served the Lord of Ketch still, though for other reasons. The other lords, and even the common folk, reminded him of his status by calling him the Steward of Ketch, though he was Lord of Ketch, and acting steward of all Talahm-lár. The emperor’s hand—and now his heir—did not take these things as slights. He was not interested in the glow of power, only the thing itself.
“Steward,” said Lady Vangreant from across the table, “you’ve hardly touched your soup.”
He looked up at her, and smiled politely.
“The lady must forgive me. My mind is on many things.”
“Naturally,” she replied, with some sadness.
Now that serious matters had been alluded to, the Council proper would begin. It did not take long. Lord Vangreant cleared his throat.
“So are the rumors true?” he said. “Did the empress and her son flee? They were not killed in the attack, as we had…supposed?”
Vangreant was a fat, bombastic man, and always spoke at the top of his lungs, but today some of the wind was out of him. The steward waited, as if reluctant to admit the evil aloud. In truth, he merely confirmed to himself, once more, that these rumors worked in his favor. He nodded. A ripple of disquiet spread through the gathered nobles. Not much food would be eaten now. Lord Vangreant shook his head.
“I cannot believe it,” he announced. “I cannot!”
The empress had been greatly loved; more so, if possible, than her brave and noble husband. Yet when Bolghim’s night attack came, it was found that both the walls and the gates of Wyverheld had been opened from within by Knights of the Royal Blue who were posted at the gates. Those traitorous knights must had fled during the attack, save for the one man caught, and brought to the dungeons for questioning. Hearing of the attack, and, by chance, nearby, Lord Ketch had rushed to Wyverheld to interrogate the man, even as Wyverheld’s subjects were still just learning of their emperor’s passing.
Under torture, the blue knight had made a shocking confession: the empress herself had given the secret order to open the gates. Only with great difficulty had the steward restrained himself from killing the man on the spot. The traitor was locked naked in a cell, and kept under guard lest he slay himself before trial. Despite these measures, the man was found dead before morning light. Yet rumor of the traitor’s charge had already passed beyond the dungeon walls, and, by then, the empress and her son were nowhere in Wyverheld.
For some time, hope remained that the rumor was false. Perhaps the woman and boy had also died, or else been captured by Bolghim. Even when the steward sent his red knights searching for them, and cast the Royal Blue from the city, many still protested that Lord Ketch was mistaken to think that the empress had fled. And some in the Royal Blue who had seen the prisoner even claimed that the man was an impostor, and that no knight had laid eyes on him before that day. Now matters looked differently.
Rumor had come down from northern lands. The empress and prince had been spotted in Lich, and again in Uz. And where else could she have been heading but to the Knife Lands, to the Tyranny of Bolghim by way of the Northern Kingdoms. Surely, if she were innocent, she’d not have fled.
“It is very hard to believe,” said the steward, finally. “Hard to accept. But then, she would not be the first daughter of the Enthellian to have been corrupted by these bent lands.”
Beside him, Lord Marsnodur shifted uncomfortably. The steward did not know if this was because it was Lord Marsnodur’s task to guard against incursions from the North, or because the steward had spoken aloud the name of the High Ones. Possibly both. The ice lords were thralls of Hardstjork-is, whose queen was said to be a fallen Enthellian, corrupted by the lands she’d been sent to sanctify. Meanwhile, the steward was accustomed to being considered a gauche outlander, rough-spoken and over-practical in his manner. It was to his advantage to be so regarded.
The table went silent. Vangreant cleared his throat again. Since he’d spoken up before, the other nobles were content to let him ask all the unpleasant questions.
“Suppose you catch them, and bring them back,” said Vangreant. “If she is tried, and found guilty … if even the boy is found guilty…”
Silence around the table again. No one wanted to consider the consequences, for who could bring himself to lay a hand on that fairest of ladies? Beanghlan Rusu-mháthair, daughter of the Enthellian, and fairest child of the world; who would dare separate so fair a head from so regal a neck? It was unthinkable.
The steward sighed. “I must do my duty, however ugly.”
“But the High Ones!” insisted Lord Vengreant. “Would they even permit it?”
Lord Ketch looked at Vengreant. The man’s obvious fear of the Enthellian could be useful, or else, a future liability. But he’d raised a valid point. How would They react, if it came to that?
“The lady came to us,” said the steward, softly. “But, beyond sending us their noble daughters, the High Ones do not interfere. Truly, I pray it does not come to that. To judgment. Almost I could hope that my men would fail, and that the lady would escape to her dark allies in the Knife Lands. But what else can I do, sir knight, besides my duty?”
They all looked away from him. Not one of them envied him his position. Good. All to the good. Suddenly, the steward felt an uncomfortable sensation, like a pricking on his shoulder, and he looked over. Vessian stood in the shadows, staring at him. The fool! What was he doing showing himself here? The steward ignored his servant, and turned his attention to the table. When he did, he saw that the Lord and Lady of Middalur were eyeing him closely. There was something in their shared look that made him wary. The steward met Lord Middalur’s gaze, and calmly held it.
“May the steward pardon my naivete,” said Middalur, “but I am not without hope for my queen’s innocence.”
“Oh?” said Ketch. “Perhaps there’s something I hadn’t considered. Please, brother knight, give us all hope.”
Lord Middalur nodded, and continued. “My Lord Steward, I have always found one detail strange.”
“Yes,” said the steward, “what is that?”
“Only, Lord, that the traitorous knight—the one who, seemingly, swallowed some potion while under guard of your men—should afterward have been dragged about the city.”
The steward nodded sagely. ”Aye, a crime on the books, and one for which they were soundly punished. But is it so hard to understand, Lord Middalur? Having slain himself, he left my men with no one to question. No path to justice. I could not, and would not accuse the entire Royal Blue of treachery. But neither could I trust them, under the circumstances, though doubtless most were ignorant of the plot. We had only this one to question, and, by taking his life, he robbed us of any resolution. My men were furious. I even caught wind of their intentions, and forbade the act, but several of the younger men, thinking I couldn’t mean it, ignored my command and dragged the traitor behind a chariot.”
“Face down,” added Middalur.
The steward stoked his beard, puzzled.
“As the wretch surely merited,” said the steward with a shrug. “He died without honor.”
“Yes,” agreed Middalur. “But also, without a face.”
The steward wore a patient expression. He appeared to be tired, worn out from old conspiracies. In truth, he watched Middalur; daring him to go further.
“My lord!”
The voice was Vessian’s. He’d emerged from the shadows, and now leaned over his master’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. The steward turned upon him in apparent wrath. “In the name of…what do you mean by disturbing me at council!”
Lord Ketch struck the table, almost spilling Lady Marsnordur’s ale, yet he was pleased. Middalur’s questions cut too close to the truth, and he welcomed the escape. Moreover, he’d told Vessian never to disturb him here save for one reason.
“You must excuse me, Lord Middalur,” said the steward with a bow. “This must be urgent. I shall return.”
Vessian also bowed apologetically toward Middalur, and ushered his steward away. Once outside the hall, Lord Ketch turned to the man in a confidential way.
“Word from afar?”
“Yes,” said Vessian. “In your rooms.”
The steward marched swiftly down the corridor toward the winding stairs.
***
A huge bird perched on the windowsill. It was crow-like, but much larger than a crow, and it had a long, cruel beak. Lazily, it surveyed the room, not reacting when the steward entered and crossed over to it, save to pivot one clawed leg in his direction. A small glass tube was bound to the leg. The steward reached past its vicious-looking beak, and carefully removed the tube.
He opened it, removed the scroll it contained, and spread it on the table. Under candlelight, he read the message encoded there, hidden within words and numbers that seemed to convey no meaning at all. Upon finishing, he walked over to the hearth, and set the scroll ablaze. The firelight that played on the steward’s face revealed the barest of smiles, but the smile quickly disappeared as Lord Ketch considered the matter further.
“My lord?”
The steward looked up a Vessian. “Yes, they have her. One difficulty, our greatest, perhaps, is behind us. How foolish and desperate to have gone that way? Surely, if she sought to go south, the Empire Road, even the wild lands, would have been a better risk. And now her arrogance will cost her dearly. What will they do to her, I wonder?”
Vessian smiled within his cowl. In the dim light, the steward could see only his pale skin, and the grin that stretched from ear to ear.
“Does my lord wish to know?”
The steward eyed him, concealing his contempt.
“No, thank you. But now we have another problem.”
Vessian looked at him inquiringly. The steward continued, “She could not have passed the Wall of Fortresses without help. She came in the company of the boy, and of a large man. No doubt the same barbarian Usk encountered. They were dressed as leeches. One of those…creatures…observed them entering through a worm tunnel, already wearing the slave garb. Their coming was looked for, of course, and they were allowed to enter. But they could not have found the tunnel on their own. Someone on the wall must have aided them.”
“One of the blue knights, no doubt,” said Vessian.
“Yes, but think about it. By my order, the Royal Blue is under close watch. None are free to wander about. Every company, every patrol is embedded with Knights of Ketch. So how could this have occurred without at least some cooperation from my own knights?”
Vessian shrugged. He walked over to the windowsill, and began to stroke the bird’s black plumage. Though the crow at first seemed to enjoy Vessian’s touches, it also turned and snapped at him, as if it did not know what to do with affection.
“I wouldn’t trouble myself,” said Vessian. “The blue knights are scattered and confused, and, as you said, under close watch. Most have doubts about the empress, and about their own ranks. Your men are also loyal fools, more enthralled to you by their honor them are my own people to their masters…albeit, by other means. Suppose a red knight did meet the empress, and aided her? Do you imagine he would then return to service on the wall?”
The steward considered. No. A man like that, not knowing what else to do, would likely exile himself for shame.
“No,” said Lord Ketch.
“Then,” said Vessian, “do not borrow trouble.”
“But now the empress has told her story!” said the steward.
“And why does that concern you?” said Vessian, smiling, and still stroking the bird. “Is it that you fear an organized reprisal from these shamed blue knights? From your own men?”
The steward considered, then shook his head no. The empress herself did not know how the thing had been pulled off. And men so divided and demoralized could hardly present a united front. At least, he hoped not.
“Perhaps, then, it is the thought that the truth of the matter has come out. That it is known by somebody,” said Vessian.
“I do not like the thought,” began the steward, “that anyone should regard me as a usurper.”
“But you are a usurper, Lord Ketch.”
The steward glared dangerously at Vessian, but the pale man only continued stroking the bird’s plumage, dodging each of its attempts to bite off his long, tapered fingers.
“I have done what was necessary for Talahm-lár,” he said.
Vessian smiled. “Of course.”
The bird snapped at him again. Without looking at it, the pale man grabbed the crow behind its head, and broke its neck.
“And now,” Vessian continued, “you must decide what to tell the others. The empress won’t be going anywhere. She is now in the care of the Worm—”
“—Do not speak of such things in my presence!” shouted the steward.
“Nevertheless, she will not trouble you further. All of the West lies before you. It is for you to determine how to proceed. But if it were me, then I should kill their hope now, before it becomes trouble that can only be met by force of arms.”
The steward watched as Vessian continued to stroke the dead bird. He swallowed the disgust that he felt for the man, and got to his feet.
“I must return to the Council,” he said.
Vessian nodded.
“I am the Steward of Talahm-lár,” continued Lord Ketch, “and all that I have done, I have done for the people’s sake.”
Vessian nodded again, and smiled. “No doubt, my Lord.”
Lord Ketch spun on his heal, and left Vessian to himself.
***
When the Steward of Talahm-lár again approached the Emerald Table, the muttered conversation that had been taking place suddenly died down.
“Please forgive my absence,” he said.
“No doubt it was a pressing matter,” reassured Lord Vangreant.
His nose and cheeks had gone red, and his ale had been drained.
“Indeed,” said the steward. He paused, considering. “I have terrible news to convey.”
Now it was truly quiet. Those who looked on seemed already to have guessed what the steward was going to say. He grimaced.
“It is as we have feared,” he said. “The empress has left us for evil lands. May the God of Light, whom she worshiped, take pity on her soul.”
“If pity is even possible for such a betrayal!” said the Lady Vangreant. “How could she?”
The steward shook his head. “I will never understand,” he said, “the evils of which some are capable.”
Everyone looked down at the table. To his right, Lady Vidaraustur wiped away a tear.
“Will they send us another?” one of the noblewomen asked.
The High Ones, the Enthellian, she’d meant. The steward shrugged.
“May it please them to do it. But, if so, I hope that she is truer than the last. I do not think my heart could bear another such betrayal.”
The sentiment was shared all around. Ages ago, before the coming of the High Ones, the ancestors of all those present had been kings and queens in their own right. By legal terms, they still were. If this sense of loss and uncertainty was the price of betrayal by a high queen, then perhaps it was better to have no empress, and no emperor. Yet one looked on from the shadows who do not share these sentiments. His eyes were jade, and they did not know that he watched them.
The steward looked up suddenly, and stared at the opposite side of the oval table. Two seats were empty. He frowned.
“What has happened to Lord and Lady Middalur?” he asked.
Everyone glanced at the empty seats.
“Oh, yes,” said Lord Vangreant, “they left soon after you did. Some pressing matter in Middalur, no doubt.”
The steward nodded. The gears in his mind began to turn, and he did not like the position at which they finally settled.
“Yes,” he said. “No doubt.”
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