Year of the Empire 649. 16th of June. Council chambers, Melior, Kingdom of Crimea.
The High Council of Crimea could all go hang.
That was what Elincia was thinking while Lord Maridge droned on. Wasn't all of this supposed to be easier now? The war was over. They were at peace with every neighbour they had. It was time for Crimea to rest and rebuild. Hadn't the previous crisis shown everyone the dangers of war, and everything that they could achieve if they would only cooperate?
Instead, the endless train of protests and concerns only seemed to have gotten longer. Maridge was actually one of the lesser headaches. He was still going on. At least his concerns were only for taxation and the budget, which Elincia had to admit were important. She had no head for figures herself, but she understood that a kingdom needed gold to operate, and loath as she was to place more financial burdens on her people after everything they'd been through, if higher taxes were needed, she could institute them. When the High Council reached a consensus on such matters, it was often right, though she had learned the habit of running their decisions past Renning before doing anything.
Far more irritating, not to mention offensive, was the constantly resurgent hydra of vengeance. It had only been four years since the Mad King's War, and people still remembered. More recently, they remembered the Goddess' War too. The death of Senator Valtome in the war had blunted calls for revanchism against Begnion, in retribution for his violation of Crimean sovereignty – and worse, insults to Crimea's honour – during the war, but Daein remained an active issue. She had hoped that Pelleas' abdication would help. With Ashnard's son no longer on the throne, fears of Ashnard's legacy would hopefully quiet. If anything, though, Micaiah was worse.
Not as a person. Elincia had a great deal of sympathy for the poor girl. (As far she knew, Micaiah was younger than her, though it was difficult to tell with the Branded. Micaiah's nature as a Branded was something that she tactfully didn't mention. Most of the nobility didn't know yet. Elincia shuddered to think at how the calls for war would change if it was known that a Branded abomination was on Daein's throne.) That didn't mean Micaiah didn't make things difficult. Lady Arragon had made the pointed observation that Daein's ruler was a known war criminal.
Elincia did not need to be reminded of that. Arragon had not been with the army, but Elincia remembered firsthand the sight of pegasus and rider alike thrashing and falling from the sky, covered in burning tar. They'd fallen upon the allied ground troops like feathered meteors, killing and maiming even more in their descent; and every cauldron that missed the pegasi landed directly upon the infantry. Elincia had seen butchery during the Mad King's War. She'd seen Bertram – that monster was always Bertram to her, never Renning – turn the ground wet with blood. She'd walked through the healers' tents after battle and listened to the cries of wounded soldiers; soldiers who had bled and died for the sake of her claim. All she had been able to do was cling to the belief that she would be better for Crimea than the Mad King. She had even seen the burned-out husks that used to be villages, and spoken to the peasants: ordinary people, often beaten, raped, or exploited as slaves by the Daein army. No, Elincia was no stranger to the horrors of war. Seeing those men and women burn alive, though, coated with a fire that would not come off no matter how desperately they clawed at it… sometimes it still gave her nightmares.
She would be lying if she said that she had no sympathy for Arragon's point. As much as Elincia understood why Micaiah had done it, and as much sympathy and care as Micaiah had shown to the victims of war since, it was not easy to stomach peace with the woman who had released that fire on them. And if it was hard to stomach peace with her, how much harder to accept friendship? Elincia doubted she would ever be friends with Micaiah. She sympathised with the younger woman as best she could, tried to understand her, and relentlessly pushed for their nations to be friends, but on a personal level, Elincia just couldn't get the fire out of her head. Perhaps she should be able to move past it, but Elincia was not perfect. (As the High Council was so keen to remind her.)
Even so: the attempt at friendship mattered. It was because she had seen war that Elincia swallowed her bile and tried to make Crimea and Daein allies. The herons had taught her, as far back as the Mad King's War, that violence begat further violence; and hatred begat further hatred. Going to war in order to heal the scars of war: could any notion be more ridiculous? Violence to end violence was one thing, but she could not start a conflict that would bring suffering to so many simply because of how she – or anyone else – felt about the ruler of another kingdom. The Daeins themselves loved Micaiah, and by all accounts she treated her subjects well. Elincia prayed that Crimea and Daein would never again go to war.
Yes, she still prayed. Some people thought that was pointless now. They had defeated the Goddess, hadn't they?
The priests had theories. Elincia had actually discussed some of them on the journey home from the Tower of Guidance, with the herons, with Sanaki, and with Micaiah. The woman they had met in the Tower was only an avatar, some proposed. At the beginning of time, the divine had taken on a mortal form – Ashunera – in order to be among the living and dying beings she loved so much. Thus the divine took on a mortal form and admitted to mortal weakness, in sympathy with beorc and laguz. The history of Ashera and Yune spoke of the Goddess' mortal journey, each part separate and flawed, yet each part potentially great and noble. When they met Ashera and defeated her mortal form, the Goddess did not die. She simply took another step on her journey. The true form of the divine, of which the visible Goddess was simply a representation and intermediary, remained whole, and indeed became greater. There was more than a little of the mysticism of the herons in that approach. The heron tribe had always been able to see meaning and beauty amidst darkness, despair, and strife.
It was a theory, at least. Elincia did not know if she believed it. Prayer gave her comfort, though, so she still did it. It gave her a sense of her place in the world. It let her take a little time each night to wish blessings on all of her friends and everyone she cared for, and ask for the strength to serve them as well as they deserved. Without it, she might have gone crazy.
…Maridge was still going. Elincia didn't want to think about what the budget concerns must be like in Daein or Begnion. Most of the Goddess' War had not occurred on Crimean soil. By any measure they had escaped relatively lightly. Only what the peasants were now calling Ludveck's Revolt had taken a toll, and it had been over quickly, with a minimum of collateral damage. Ludveck had not wanted to damage the country he wished to rule. Crimea's present problems were to do with the scars from the Daein occupation, which had still not entirely healed. In the aftermath of the Mad King's War, Elincia had tried to keep taxation as low as reasonably possible (still not very low, unfortunately) and make the most of Gallian aid, if only to put as few additional burdens on Crimea's people as possible. Sadly, many of the funds earmarked for reconstruction had to be used instead to equip and supply the Crimean contribution to the allied army in the Goddess' War, delaying that reconstruction even further. Realistically, it might be a decade or more until Crimea would truly have healed from Ashnard's war.
So Maridge was standing in the High Council, reciting the dreadful state of the treasury, and implying to everyone present that something, something had to be done. That something would be taxes, or else begging Gallia for more aid; and the nobility would surely rather place the burden on the peasants' backs than consider approaching the laguz as supplicants. The only other possibility, that the nobles might contribute a percentage of their private fortunes to the good of the realm, was so obviously laughable that no one brought it up.
The High Council of Crimea could all go hang, and Elincia really meant it this time.
She wished Renning were here, but her uncle was not a financial man and typically avoided the High Council. He much preferred the military angle, organising the Royal Knights or training Crimea's militia. It occurred to Elincia that he technically had an excellent claim to the throne as well. If this were Begnion, he would be king; male relatives took precedence over daughters there. Even here, the people – and certainly the nobility – would understand if he pressed his claim over his naïve, sheltered niece.
No, not naïve. Not any more. Nor could any queen who had led armies from the front in two separate wars claim to be sheltered. It surprised her to realise that she had as much claim to being a military leader – certainly a military veteran – as Renning did. She reflected that perhaps he didn't press his claim precisely because he hated these meetings too. Far better to leave them to Ramon, his brother, who had the patience and eloquence to manage the nobles of the ream. Far better to leave them to his brother's daughter.
That was unfair. She was grateful to Renning. But anyone with a difficult, tedious job might be forgiven the occasional sour thought.
At least Bastian or Lucia could be here. She felt naked without them near her.
"Yes, thank you, Count Maridge," she said at last.
An idea was starting to form in her mind. There was something Geoffrey had told her in the wars. Her soldiers had followed her for many reasons, but most of all for the simple reason that she led them. 'The princess herself leads the charge', in his exact words: she had only been a princess back then. It was a simple truth that if you stood and led the charge, others would follow. That was true every time Geoffrey led the Royal Knights into battle, it had been true for her in the war, and it was surely true in politics as well.
"My lords," Elincia began, politely inclining her head. "The treasury is in desperate need, but I am loath to place further burdens on our people. I have no doubt that you share my deep distress at the situation of the peasantry, and would seek for alternative solutions."
Ha. Queens had to lie sometimes, Elincia had learned. She was fairly confident that at least a few members of the High Council shared her view, though, so perhaps it was not a total lie. Maridge saw only numbers and gold coins. Arragon was obsessed with honour. Lord Quilan, perhaps, or Lord Faresse. Many nobles did share her conscience – she had to believe that – but would not stand against the crowd. Not unless she did first.
"I do not see justice in asking you, my lords, to donate your own wealth. It is justly acquired and I am confident that every one of you shepherds your possessions as best you can to protect the people of your fiefs. And I cannot countenance the thought of begging for scraps from Gallia or from Begnion. We are a free people, and we will stand upon our own feet."
No surprised reactions just yet, though Elincia fancied some of the cannier nobles were already speculating as to what she intended.
"I will not be the queen who lived in luxury while her people needed her," Elincia said. Nice and firm, now. A year ago, she would have struggled to keep a quaver out of her voice as she said that. A year ago, she had been a very different person. "The coffers of House Ridell are not as large as they once were, but I shall put every copper coin within them at the service of the realm, if it will ease the suffering of my people. I do not need wealth to be queen. If need be, I will sell my lands, my weapons, every sheet of silk and every last jewel, to stave off the crisis. My life should be spent in Crimea's service. So too with my possessions."
Ultimatum delivered, Elincia dared to look around the table. Her voice had been steady and confident throughout her speech, even verging on imperious. She had learned that over the last year as well. No matter what you intended to do or how dangerous it was, you should say it with strength and conviction. It convinced people. It convinced herself as well, sometimes.
Faresse – an idealistic one, he was, only recently come into his inheritance after his father died in the Mad King's War – was the first to speak up. "Your majesty – no! That can't be an option. The dignity of House Ridell is the dignity of Crimea – "
"I have no dignity while my people shiver in half-built homes and fight over day-old bread," Elincia cut him off. That too was important; not to let the High Council be seen to undermine her resolve. Otherwise her challenge would lose all force.
"While I am sure all my fellows will join me in showing our respect for her majesty's tender heart and strength of conviction, perhaps her emotions are overriding her good judgement in this issue." That was Lady Eldridge. An old woman now, but still powerful. She did not seem to have grown out of her view of Elincia as a naïve child; nor of the annoying habit of talking about Elincia as though she were not in the room. "Surely she knows that the king or queen has always been the wealthiest landholder in Crimea. So it has always been. She would be giving away her own legitimacy."
"I respect your opinion," Elincia responded, emphasising that last word, "but legally speaking, you are simply wrong. My legitimacy comes from my blood, not the number of fields I happen to own. No poverty can make me cease to be my father's trueborn daughter and heir. I remind you that four years ago I owned no fields and no wealth, with no servants or allies save a rag-tag group of mercenaries. I do not need land or gold."
She paused, letting the force of her words sink in.
"I do not need land or gold, but Crimea does, and if no one else can provide those things for her, I will offer them."
"All right," Lady Arragon offered, raising her hands placatingly. "You have made your point, your majesty. We are all deeply moved by your compassion. Shall we consider real options now?"
"I am entirely serious," Elincia reiterated. "I will sell my lands and mortgage the castle, if need be."
...that was it, then. Elincia readied the trump card.
"I will do these things, my council, because I see no other way to help our people. I do not wish to do them, but I have no better option."
They could try to call her bluff, but Elincia doubted it. She was wise enough to know that if she actually did sell all her property, her reign would end much sooner than she hoped. She also knew that no one on the High Council wanted that to happen. There was no alternative candidate for the monarchy, save Renning, and he was loyal to her. No other noble had the support to take her place. Nor could they move against her, because she was beloved by the militias and the knights, thanks to her leadership in the war. After Ludveck's abortive attempt for the throne, she doubted anyone would be willing to risk the Royal Knights and their young general. She knew she would have the support of the people as well. If the young queen went barefoot and poor for love of her people while a selfish and grasping High Council refused to support her, the peasants would side with the queen. Elincia genuinely did care for her people – and that, perhaps, was why they loved her – but she was not above using the fact that they loved her to push through political moves that would benefit them.
No; the council could not afford to let Elincia self-destruct. She knew it, and they knew it.
Maridge was the first to speak: "Ah, um, perhaps your majesty's suggestion could be moderated, somewhat?"
Elincia resisted the urge to smile. Bastian would be proud.
Maridge went on to outline an alternative proposal: while Elincia would make a significant contribution from her own personal fortune, the High Council and the other major nobles of Crimea would make their own contributions to support her. The combined generosity of the nobility, he calculated, could resolve the treasury issues if they –
And off he went. The meeting would go for several more hours while the Council debated exactly how much contribution would be required, how to divide it, how to put the case to the major landholders who were not immediately present, and a thousand other issues of implementation, but as far as Elincia was concerned, she had already won.
Year of the Empire 649. 24th of March. Seliora region, Empire of Begnion.
"Lo!" said Bastian, sweeping his right arm out before him, as if to capture the entire stretch of the Ribahn in his grasp. The river wound like a pale ribbon through the fingers of his riding gloves, in the early spring light.
"Tread lightly, my friends, for we approach sacred ground. Titans of old faced each other upon these shores. On the northern bank, Sir Ike, son of Gawain the Rider, brandished his golden blade as if to ignite the dawn itself; ah, but on the southern side stood an enemy in pitch-black armour with a sword as cold and pure as the moon, General Zelgius, the Black Knight! Alas, that two such great and noble individuals be turned to blows, but such are the cruelties of history; even such veritable demi-gods may be trapped within history's twining webs, fated – destined, even, I dare the term – to clash, and between them decide the fate of empires."
"Actually," Lucia remarked drily, "Ike never fought Zelgius on the Ribahn. He was dropped behind Begnion lines in a spoiling attack. He didn't carry Ragnell at the time either, and Zelgius certainly didn't use Alondite or wear his black armour."
"My dear, you misunderstand me!" the count of Fayre protested. "I am no mere historian, to idly record the dull facts of the matter. I speak the lines of poetry and the arc of mythology; I tell you how the deeds will be remembered. Myth is ever more vibrant than history, and already Ike and Zelgius have passed into its hallowed halls. Heed my words. Song will remember the giants with the blades of the sun and moon, not your tawdry military maneuvers."
Lucia shook her head helplessly. She raised her right hand to her mouth. Geoffrey, on her left, could see that she did so to hide her smile.
He felt no such compulsion. He did allow himself to smile, openly. There was much for him to smile about. That terrible battle in the tower was over, and at last they were returning home; and not alone, either. Lord Renning rode ahead of them, occasionally leaning over to speak to Elincia. It was hard to say who had been most overjoyed at his return. Both Geoffrey and Bastian had been mentored by Ramon's brother, and for Elincia, he was the sole survivor of her immediate family. With him on their side – and at the side of the magnificent queen Elincia had grown into – Geoffrey felt there was nothing they could accomplish. The world had been saved, they were young, and the future looked bright and peaceful.
"Count Fayre," Lucia asked, mock-formally, "I believe that I wielded the sword Alondite against the Goldoans in the Tower of Guidance. I do hope you aren't planning to exaggerate my deeds as well."
"You wound me," he cried in response. "How could I ever exaggerate the grace, beauty, and skill of the Lady Lucia? Why, the mere words of your humble bard could never capture but the slightest impression of the mythic deeds within that tower. Were I to say that Altina herself would be humbled by the sight, I should still fail to communicate the depth to which my soul was moved. But to exaggerate it?"
"Come now, you go too far." Lucia was indeed smiling again. Geoffrey envied Bastian the ability to make his sister smile. "If your arts aren't even up to that task, how will you be able to describe the true heroes there?"
And Bastian went spinning off into another speech, full of the most exorbitant praise for Ike, Micaiah, Elincia, Sigrun, and everyone else who went into the Tower of Guidance that day.
It was spring, as they rode back to Crimea. That seemed fitting to Geoffrey. Begnion was not – in his humble opinion – so beautiful a land as Crimea, but it was not bereft of fine sunsets, sparkling skies, or magnificent forests. While Bastian had been pontificating about the historical significance of the Ribahn, Geoffrey simply looked at it. The river was wide and clear. Downstream it would grow marshy, and make it possible for individuals or even armies to ford it. Both sides in the Goddess' War had attempted wartime crossings in the marshes. Further down there were bridges as well. Their party was headed for the Telgam Bridge, a broad stone arch built to link Begnion's foremost agricultural region with the heartlands of the empire. There would have been other, closer bridges, but during the war retreating Begnion soldiers had burned the wooden bridges, to stymie the Laguz Alliance's advance.
Geoffrey smiled wryly to himself. There he went, thinking about strategy again. There was no need to do anything but simply appreciate the beauty of the river. He would need time to adjust to the idea that the war was over. He hoped a more lasting peace would come this time. In retrospect, the resolution of the Mad King's War had made it obvious that another war would come. Geoffrey hadn't seen it, but perhaps Bastian had. He made a mental note to ask Bastian about the chances of peace this time.
After the fracas in Sienne, the allied had split into several groups. Most of the Begnion allies had remained in Sienne. The surprise and wonder the populace felt at returning to life would soon fade into confusion or even outrage, and they were needed to keep order. There would be panic in Crimea as well: Geoffrey had sent Marcia flying ahead, with a message in the queen's hand, reassuring the government in Melior that all was well and they would soon return. The Daeins returned to their country, and the bird laguz to theirs. For now, the Crimean and Gallian parties were moving together, though they would surely split up once they crossed the Crimean border and approached Gallia. The wolves were with them as well, as was Rafiel of the heron tribe. The other two herons had chosen to travel with the hawks and ravens.
Something was nagging Geoffrey, so he shifted the reins and his horse trotted forward, to the laguz party. He inclined his head respectfully to the Gallian warriors as he passed. More than one of them had a new appreciation for the strength of beorc warriors, he suspected; and he knew for a fact that more than one of his knights had a new appreciation for the skill of the laguz. Geoffrey noted with satisfaction that Skrimir, the firebrand heir to Gallia's throne, no longer regarded him with suspicion and distaste. The war had forged new bonds of trust. That trust was why no one stopped him approaching the heron, even though the laguz had ample reason to be suspicious of any beorc addressing a heron.
"Sir Geoffrey." Nailah was the first one to address him. The wolf queen was never far from the eldest heron. Perhaps that was also a reason why the Gallians did not fear for Rafiel's safety. "Is this an official visit, or something else?" There was a light jibe in her tone. Geoffrey chose to ignore it.
"I was wondering if I might ask Rafiel a question." Geoffrey answered politely, but he had to deliberately override the instinct to use a title. Nailah was not a beorc queen. She did not need to be referred to as 'your majesty'.
Nailah glanced at Rafiel, and he nodded once. "Should we give you two privacy?" she asked.
The heron considered Geoffrey for a moment, while he heroically resisted the urge to squirm. "I think that would be best," Rafiel said. Geoffrey hadn't needed to explain the question. The heron tribe were heart-readers. Rafiel would know.
The wolves dispersed slightly – not enough to leave their heron prince entirely unguarded, but at least enough to let he and Geoffrey speak without being overheard – and Rafiel gave Geoffrey an expectant look.
Now that he had him alone, Geoffrey fumbled for what to say.
"I suppose you'll hear this question a lot," he admitted awkwardly. "After what happened, in the Tower of Guidance, I would like to ask about the Goddess."
Rafiel smiled gently. It was a talent of the heron tribe, Geoffrey reflected, to put others at ease. It was only natural that people so sensitive to the feelings and emotions of others would be so practiced in communication. "The Goddess is a very broad topic, my friend," he said, and Geoffrey did not doubt that Rafiel genuinely did perceive him as a friend, despite their limited contact. He understood why the wolves were so protective of him.
Geoffrey considered where to begin. At length he settled for, "Did we kill her?"
"Yes, and no," Rafiel answered. "What is death? We destroyed her physical shell. If we did the same to any laguz or beorc, we would say that we had killed them. However, just as our own souls are immortal, so is the Goddess. Her body was only an artefact. The Goddess still exists, upon the field of eternity. She is not vanished from our world."
There was still a spirit of peace over the world, Geoffrey felt. After Ashera's judgement, there had been an energy or spirit in the world. He was not particularly sensitive to spiritual energies by any measure, but even he had been able to feel it. The nearness of the Goddess had made a tangible change to the world. When Yune was close – though her spirit had not manifested physically like Ashera's – there had been another divine energy, animating those around her with confidence and vigour. That, just as much as the dark, oily taint in the air that everyone had been able to sense in that last battle in Daein, had surely been the chaotic energy the herons had spoken of during the previous conflicts. Now, despite Ashera's defeat atop the Tower, Geoffrey fancied he could still feel traces of each power. Not all the time, no, and not as strongly as he had during that unearthly time when everyone had been stone, but every now and then.
"You have felt it, haven't you?" Rafiel murmured. "Almost everyone senses them, from time to time. Whenever you feel at peace for no discernible reason, or when you feel buoyed up by an internal force you cannot explain, you have likely encountered the presence of the Goddess. She might have died upon the Tower of Guidance, but she is still real and she is still here."
"When I became a knight," Geoffrey explained, "I swore an oath in the name of the Goddess, to serve House Ridell was if it were my own house, to guard its blood as if it were my own blood, and to champion its cause as if it were my own cause. If we killed the Goddess – "
Rafiel shook his head slowly. "You wonder if your oath still applies. I cannot tell you that. I can tell you only that the being by whom you swore still exists. Perhaps her death – if that is what truly happened to her – voids your oath. Only you can decide whether it does. Do you still wish to serve, guard, and champion House Ridell?"
Geoffrey hesitated a moment before answering, "Yes. Yes, I do."
"Then you may follow your oath," Rafiel smiled, as if he had just accomplished some great coup.
He nodded, slowly. Geoffrey did not usually consider himself a man of faith, but he would have always said – at least before the war – that he believed in the Goddess. After the shocking – miraculous? – events in Sienne, many questions sprang to mind, but he could resolve them. To Geoffrey, the Goddess had always seemed a warm, encouraging figure, a woman with dark hair and gentle eyes who spoke primarily through the conscience. He gave his loyalty to his friends, to the knights, to his country, to his queen; but not to any church. Certainly not the Begnion church, with its proud and dominating Goddess. The glass-eyed, imperious woman in the Tower of Guidance had not fit Geoffrey's image of the Goddess. Neither had the dangerously playful, child-like voice that spoke from out of Daein's silver-haired general.
"They are not how I pictured the Goddess, either," Rafiel admitted quietly.
Geoffrey started. His horse whinnied, sensing his surprise.
He shouldn't have been surprised. Around a heron, thinking might as well be speaking out loud. He rubbed his horse's neck soothingly for a moment, and then he looked back to Rafiel. "How did you picture her?"
"As a heron, of course."
Geoffrey would not have expected a heron to be able to grin mischievously, but Rafiel gave a fairly good impression of it.
"As a bird?" he asked, after a moment's amused pause.
"In both forms," Rafiel admitted. "But yes, sometimes as a bird."
"I never once thought of the Goddess as a bird! Er. I mean no offense – "
"None taken at all." The heron fluffed his white wings in a gesture that Geoffrey could only guess at the meaning of. Was that the heron equivalent of a shrug? Stretching your arms? Was it a gesture of happiness, or of resignation?
"We all see the divine in our own ways," Rafiel continued. "These different ways are not therefore wrong. The wolves even believe in a male god. What we saw in the Tower of Guidance was not the true form of the Goddess. It was simply a true form of hers. It was, I believe, the form in which she appeared to Lehran and the Three Heroes. If she appeared again, I do not think she would look the same. The way you see her reflects who you are and shows you what you love most."
"The way you describe it," Geoffrey mused, "it's as if it doesn't matter at all that we defeated the Goddess."
Rafiel spread his wings. "We didn't."
Geoffrey opened his mouth.
Then he closed it again.
"I beg your pardon?"
"There was only one Goddess in the Tower of Guidance, and she won a great victory. Her name was Ashunera. She was terribly at war with herself."
Rafiel smiled faintly. "You didn't think we fought only for peace in the world, did you? We have helped to calm the soul of a Goddess. We of all people are truly blessed."
"Do not trouble yourself, Geoffrey of Delbray. Your oath is true and your Goddess is real. You have no reason to doubt yourself."
Geoffrey thought about that for a moment. He decided it made sense "Thank you, Prince Rafiel," he said formally. "You have put me at ease."
The heron simply inclined his head.
Perhaps, Geoffrey reflected, the priests of the beorc churches could learn much from the herons. As far as he knew, none of the laguz tribes had clergy of any sort. Perhaps that was because they had always been able to ask the heron tribe. For a moment he felt sorry for Rafiel. He would surely have to repeat his explanation a thousand times.
The spectre of religious strife loomed large in Geoffrey thoughts, and for that instant, a cold fear struck him. Would everyone understand? Once it became clear what had happened, would Begnion rise up against the godslayers? He was sure Sanaki had spoken to the herons and to Micaiah about everything that had happened. He took deep breaths, willing himself to calm. Begnion's Apostle, despite her age, was a wise woman, and she would be able to meet the crisis. Most of the people never saw the Tower of Guidance regardless. Perhaps they would be glad to enter a new world where the Goddess did not physically reside in a tower, but lived in… what was Rafiel's phrase? The field of eternity? Perhaps they would be glad at the idea that the Goddess now lived with them, not in a tower.
He fell back through the group, while the wolves closed in around their precious heron again. He heard Lucia's and Bastian's voices rise again behind him.
Bastian was still spinning mythology out of thin air. Geoffrey expected he would write an account of what had happened in the Tower of Guidance as well, and somehow he doubted that it would harmonise very well with Rafiel's. Perhaps, like the vision of the Goddess, the significance of the battle at the tower would also be in the eye of the beholder.
He looked forward to reading Bastian's version.
Year of the Empire 649. 18th of June. The Lists, Melior, Kingdom of Crimea.
Calill had to admit, she still had a bit of feeling for Geoffrey. Not love, no; certainly nothing romantic. She reserved that for Largo, who deserved it and then some. But when she watched him run a gloved hand through his hair after a day's training, ignoring the sweat on his face while directing the other knights to their tasks, she did feel a certain she-didn't-know-quite-what. Something hit her in the solar plexus, making her feel just that little bit breathless.
Ha. It was of no importance to their friendship, but who said that a friend couldn't be allowed to think her friend was - *ahem* - a rather fine specimen of masculinity?
She leaned back and stretched her legs. This was a regular walk for her, once the sun started to dip in the sky and Largo readied to open the pub. Soon several score of muddied, tired, and above all hungry knights would converge on the inns and taverns of Melior, and it paid to be ready. She habitually stepped out at the time, to give him space to work. Largo, to her great surprise, got very shirty about people being in the way while he ran his kitchen. He needed everything to be perfect. Calill had not expected to get a world-class cook when she married a world-class berserker, but she'd got one, and truthfully he seemed to enjoy cooking more than he ever did fighting. It was all for the best; so she left just in time to stop by the lists and watch the knights finish their training, maybe (if it had been a bad day) fry a few practice dummies to let off steam, and catch up with her good friend Geoffrey of Delbray. If – in a completely innocent and coincidental way – he happened to be rather easy on the eyes, she could certainly not be blamed.
Geoffrey raised a hand in greeting. The other knights began to file away, under the watchful eye of a red-armoured knight who frequently managed to make Calill laugh, even if he didn't inspire that breathless feeling.
"Back in Melior already, Miss Calill?" he asked her, as he dismounted.
She had long given up on teaching him to stop calling her that. She rested her hands on a railing – there was a low fence around the lists, for the occasional noble visitors who wanted to watch the knights train, or when they held a joust or tournament – and shrugged delicately.
"It was only a short trip, down to Ohma and back. A few things couldn't wait for the monthly delivery."
Most of the inns and publican houses in Melior bought raw food from the city's markets, which were filled by a constant two-way stream of farmers. Calill and Largo preferred not to risk the markets, though. The rushes could be extremely unpleasant; there still wasn't quite enough for the city, so some people were inevitably left in the cold, or with squashed or spoiling vegetables. All part of rebuilding, Calill supposed, but it also meant that farmers were able to mark their prices up and charge far more than she considered reasonable.
Instead, she'd worked out a deal with a country town not far from Melior. The people of Ohma made regular private deliveries to their inn, and Calill – for she was in charge of their finances, not Largo; the poor man had no head for figures at all – paid them directly, and she brought them whatever they needed from the craftsmen and smiths of Melior. Sometimes she took spices as well, which they bought from Begnion traders but rarely reached the country markets. A mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone concerned. The Ohman farmers had guaranteed customers, and Calill got the food supplies at a reasonable price. She really was quite grateful to Brom for helping work out the compromise.
"Actually," she remarked, "I took down a package as well. Remember that gown I was telling you about last week?"
"Sky-blue, of Persis silk, with emerald floral trimmings?" Geoffrey asked. He had a good memory for all sorts of things. Calill would make a fashionista out of him yet.
Calill beckoned him closer, and dropped her voice to a whisper. "Nephenee. Loved. It," she confided, in as dramatic a tone as she could manage.
Geoffrey laughed good-naturedly. "I'm sure she appreciated it."
"Oh, yes. If I don't bring a touch of class to the countryside, who will?"
"I have no doubt that without you," he answered, in a tone that spoke of complete seriousness, "our farmers would still be clad in rags. I'm not sure they would even remember to bathe if not for your good example."
"Don't I know it." Then they both laughed.
"So," she said, a moment later, "Tell me, what's the situation at the palace? Elincia still wrangling with the stuffed-shirts over the budget?"
When they'd only been starting their chats, Geoffrey had pointed out that he was technically a high-ranking noble as well. He was entitled, along with his sister, to sit on the High Council. (He in his capacity as Commander of the Royal Knights; Lucia in her capacity as Duchess of Delbray. Geoffrey was the elder and in theory could have taken the title, but Lucia was a better local lord than he was.) Did that make him one of the stuffed-shirts?
Certainly not! One's stuffed-shirt-status depended mostly on one's behaviour. If Geoffrey wanted to be one, she had suggested, he ought to stop associating with his lesser, like so many of the knights or even with her and Largo. People of lesser birth were servants only, not really people. Or so an aristocrat might think.
But Geoffrey and Lucia didn't think like that. Neither did Elincia. She didn't think Bastian did, but it was so difficult to figure out what Bastian thought about anything. Geoffrey treated everyone with instinctive courtesy, and that made him different to so many of the dukes and counts of Crimea. In this as in so many things, chivalry made the difference.
"There are still more discussions needed," Geoffrey admitted, "but I believe her majesty has already worked out a compromise solution."
Calill arched an eyebrow. "Really? I thought she might have to wait for Bastian to get back to sort out this mess."
"Don't underestimate the queen. She's learned a great deal from Bastian and Renning."
"Oh yes," Calill reflected. "Speaking of the queen and Lord Renning, you have to tell me all about them."
"Soon," Geoffrey assured her. "Let me change first. The Rose again?"
The Rose was another tavern in Melior, closer to the castle, which Geoffrey favoured. Calill sometimes shared dinner with him there. She could have been miffed that they didn't go to her own pub with Largo, but the Rose was admittedly a slightly higher-class establishment, and it was easier for them to find privacy there. Geoffrey had also explained, in one of their many conversations, that it helped to keep some distance between the commander and the rest of the Royal Knights. Largo's pub could become a raucous place – lively, Calill preferred to think – and the presence of the commander put the other knights on edge. It was better to let them relax without looking over their shoulder, worrying about being judged by their leader. Calill also suspected that Geoffrey simply wasn't comfortable with crowds in such an informal setting. He never said it, but she could tell.
So Calill walked to the Rose and found a table, while Geoffrey put away his armour and made a brief effort to wash off the grime of the day's training. The sun was not that much lower in the evening when he arrived and sat down to join her.
"So," Calill said, after a sip of wine, "Renning not causing you any trouble, I hope?"
"Lord Renning is a pillar of strength. We are all privileged that he is willing to serve Crimea again."
"Uh huh," Calill nodded. "That's not what I asked."
Geoffrey paused, and he picked at his food idly. Calill knew that look. That was the look of a man faced with having to admit an uncomfortable, inconvenient fact.
"...there are those who believe that Lord Renning should be in command," he said at length.
"No surprise there," she pointed out. "What does Renning think?"
"Lord Renning accepts my position with grace," Geoffrey said stiffly. That was not completely sincere, Calill thought. She tilted her head slyly.
"Because you won the duel? I thought that it was very close."
"Bastian called the duel in my favour," he said, equally stiffly.
Calill raised here eyebrows, but said nothing. She'd been there, and it had looked close to her, at least. She was not tutored in knightly combat, but she had privately asked Lucia about it afterwards. Geoffrey had indeed been doing well to begin with, but from energy and determination as much as skill. He'd been unable to score any truly decisive blows against Renning, who was a patient, canny fighter. As the fight wore on, it swung more and more in Renning's favour, as he familiarised himself with the younger knight's fighting style. Had the match continued, Renning would have triumphed. Geoffrey had to have realised it himself, and made a final burst of effort to try and overcome Renning – and before the spectators could see whether he would have been successful, Bastian had called the match to a halt. Bastian had said a great deal about the valour of both combatants and the need for cooperation tomorrow and how both needed to be ready and well-rested for the battle against the Disciples of Order, and then he had given Geoffrey the victory.
A lesser man than Lord Renning might have felt cheated, both of victory and of the right to lead the Royal Knights.
"You dodged my question again. I thought Bastian was meant to be the deceiver in your company," Calill pointed out. "I didn't ask you whether Renning accepted his position. I asked you what he thinks about the leadership of the knights. Does he think he could do a better job?"
"He has not indicated such to me." Geoffrey's voice was firm.
"Mm." Calill gestured with a fork. "It sounds to me like Renning's presence undermines your authority. As long as he's there, in the Royal Knights, other people are going to ask why he isn't in charge. You could just dismiss him." She shrugged. "I mean, it's the same reason Renning doesn't go to the High Council. His presence would undermine Elincia's authority."
Geoffrey considered the proposal for a second, and shook his head. "No. Renning is one of the most powerful and most loyal knights in the realm. I will not dismiss him for being too good. If my authority is undermined by comparison, then the responsibility is mine. I need to be better."
"There you go again," she sighed. "Do you ever relax?"
"When it comes to defending the queen? No."
"Your effort isn't the issue," Calill tried to argue. "It's not about how good Renning is, objectively. It's about how people perceive him compared to you. Perceptions don't have to match reality."
"Lord Renning has a place in the Royal Knights until he wishes to leave. That is my final word on the matter."
Calill raised her hands defensively. "All right, all right. You've made your point. I should know better than to try and argue with you."
Looking distinctly relieved to change the topic, Geoffrey managed a small smile. "Yes, you should."
Their conversation turned in other directions after that. Geoffrey inquired about Amy, and about how their friends in the countryside were getting on. Calill asked him for more details on palace politics, and on how reconstruction went in Delbray. She made sure to stay away from any further dangerous topics, and did not mention Renning again. She had to make a conscious effort not to bring up the duchess of Delbray. Lucia's absence, if anything, was an even more treacherous topic than Renning's position, and she had no wish to jeopardise their friendship.
Year of the Empire 649. 20th of April. Greil's Fall, Kingdom of Gallia.
"Mia?"
The blue-haired swordsman turned her head away from the sword she was sharpening. "Yes, Rhys?"
"I was thinking about something." He half-closed the book in his lap, keeping his place with one finger within the pages. "Remember that prophecy about your arch-rival?"
Of course she did. That prophecy had been her quest for years! Well, months, at least. It felt like years. Her rival in white, the enemy destined to test her skills and bring her to the peak of martial skill: how could she forget?
"That's you, remember?" she teased him.
Rhys pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe. I'm not so sure. Do you remember Lucia of Delbray?"
"Blue hair, longsword, always followed Elincia around, kind of quiet?"
"It occurs to me that she was a master swordswoman, and she wore white robes. I wonder if she could have been your archrival?"
Mia snorted. "Can't be. I already fought her. It's not her."
The cleric on the other side of the room blinked. For a moment, nothing could be heard except the rasp of Mia's whetstone on her wo dao.
"…why not?" he asked.
"Because she's not the greatest swordswoman I ever fought?" Mia made an exaggerated shrug. "Ike and Stefan are both better than her. And I beat her anyway. She's good, all right, but her spirit wasn't in it."
Seeing Rhys' questioning glance, she continued, "Oh, this was just recently. After the ruckus in the Tower of Guidance. You remember, you were on hand for most of the duels I fought then. You were away in the infirmary when I took on Lucia. Elincia agreed to provide healing. Anyway, she fought okay."
"The way I figure it," Mia explained, "my archrival isn't automatically the best swordsman in the world. That's Ike, anyway, and I already know him. My arch-rival is the person who helps me become the best. You know, inspiring and stuff."
She put down her dao and slid over to Rhys. He shifted and put his book away, but he was unable to dodge her, and her poke connected squarely with his chest.
"And that is you, you silly person!"
She rolled off him and darted back to her seat, pretending not to see his blush.
"…that's… not what the word 'arch-rival' means," he objected, after he'd had time to straighten out his robe and sit up again.
"My arch-rival, my rules," Mia countered. "Besides, I told you that I was giving up on fortune-telling."
"Is it so much to ask that you be consistent?" Rhys rubbed the side of his head in confusion.
"Yes," she answered, without a moment's pause.
Rhys, on the other hand, did allow a moment's pause before continuing.
"I still think you should duel Lucia again."
"Oh?"
"You just said yourself that her spirit wasn't in it. You can't judge a rival after one duel. Perhaps she was tired after the Tower of Guidance. You ought to at least give her a chance to improve and face you again."
"Hm…" Mia frowned to herself. "Maaaybe."
"Besides," he continued. "You're not improving just sitting around here. You've challenged Ike enough that I think a change would do you good. You don't want to become too accustomed to just one opponent's fighting style. You could get thrown off the next time you fight someone different. A journey into Crimea would do you good."
A thought struck Mia.
"Hey… you're just saying this because you want to go to Crimea, are you?"
Rhys gave an embarrassed cough and shook his head. "Um, certainly not! I – I like Gallia as much as anyone!"
Mia laughed at that. The Greil Mercenaries owned and operated two forts now: one in Crimea, where most of the active mercenaries were, and one in Gallia, near the site of Greil's death, where they would go to recover and train. Most of their work was in Crimea. The laguz seemed to have less need for mercenaries, perhaps because they just had fewer bandits and perhaps because in their culture of strength, few laguz would admit to being unable to solve their problems by hiring mercenaries. Especially not beorc mercenaries.
However, maintaining a fort in Gallia had some advantages. It helped show that the mercenaries were impartial when it came to racial or national conflict. They were not a Crimean company. Soren had pointed that out – the sullen little tactician, Mia had noticed, has gradually warmed up to cooperation with laguz over the years – and it made sense. A secondary fort gave them somewhere to fall back to if calamity should befall the other one, and it gave them a training ground. For now, most of the Greil Mercenaries were at the Gallian fort, recovering from the Goddess' War and living off the immense fortune won therein.
Mia put down her sword and poked her chin, thinking. It was true that there weren't many swordsmen in Gallia. Training against laguz was fine and all, but you could only go so far. Challenging Lucia again couldn't hurt. She toyed with the idea of marching into the Royal Knight barracks, throwing down a gauntlet, and challenging the entire regiment, one at a time. Ooh! Or she could find a bridge somewhere, stand on it, and declare "None shall pass!" She could challenge everyone who came to cross like one of those knights in the fairy-tales. That would be guaranteed to bring lots of challengers!
"Aw, all right," she said to Rhys. "Can't let poor little Rhys suffer in Gallia. We'll go to Melior like you want."
Year of the Empire 649. 23rd of May. Persis Estate, Sienne, Empire of Begnion.
Contrary to appearances, Count Fayre did not enjoy lying.
Bastian had the soul of a poet, and the art of poetry was the art of revealing the truth; not the petty truth of facts and events and places, not the dry labour of the historians, but the deeper truth that lay in sentiment and feeling. The elegant flow of words across the page, through the heart of the reader and into the air, the precise balance of meter and rhyme, the oppositions and contradistinctions and sudden harmonies that revealed the apex of the poet's art, they were as the life-blood of sentiment. For Bastian, poetry was the art of hinting at the grand, inexpressible truths of experience.
He fancied himself a master of words, and therein lay the ability to lie. The distinction between spinning fantasies and spinning lies could be a fine one. If you could create an imagination, you could create a falsehood; if you could declaim, you could also deceive.
Even so, deception was this dull, tawdry thing, and Bastian did not enjoy it.
He did not think that Sephiran enjoyed it either, and yet the man – heron? – had deceived a continent for years on end. Sephiran too possessed a poet's soul, Bastian suspected. How could he, the creator of the blessed galdrar songs, possess anything else? So Bastian felt a kinship with Sephiran, as one artist to another.
And, perhaps, as one deceiver to another.
"As guileful as ever," Bastian remarked, scanning the board. It seemed poetically appropriate that Sephiran's bishops threatened to slash through his defensive lines and cut down his poor king. His knights – Crimea's traditional answer to the Begnion theocrats – were useless, one out of position, the other already fallen in battle. The bishop versus the knight. Begnion versus Crimea.
He slid the white queen four paces across the board. The queen had been Crimea's key to victory in the last wars. Perhaps she would also be the key to victory in this much smaller war.
Sephiran's bishops retreated, and Bastian pushed the attack aggressively. He had already plotted out a victory two moves away when Sephiran's queen checkmated his king.
"Ah," he mused, "so Begnion's Apostle takes away Crimea's beloved ruler. Have you imperialist designs, my lord?"
It was debatable whether or not he ought to be referring to Sephiran with a title. Contrary to the Apostle's declaration, and no doubt to Sephiran's great relief, he had not been thrown into a vat of rancid butter to drown, but there was clearly no way that a man who betrayed the empire and the world could retain his place in the Senate, or even among the Sainted at all. Sephiran had been formally stripped of all rank and title within the Begnion Empire.
Yet no further punishment had come to him. While Persis was currently in the hands of a steward, no doubt to be doled out as reward to some other loyal noble in the future, Sephiran was still allowed to live in his former estate in Sienne. No one had objected yet, at least. No doubt Sephiran could not stay in Begnion forever, even if the Apostle was inclined to forgive him. That in itself was far from clear. Sanaki's obvious affection for the man she regarded as a second father had to be balanced against his responsibility for the wars; and then that balanced against his last minute change of heart.
Sephiran smiled faintly. "I think it is time for me to give up on designs for a time."
Bastian toyed with one of his slain pawns. "Are you wearied of the world's strife after so long? There is still much good you can do. Some might suggest that you are needed now more than ever."
"Some," he conceded. "Some might be surprised at how well they can stand on their own."
"You mean the young Apostle," Bastian suggested.
"Not only her. Crimea and Daein have much to be proud of in their young monarchs as well." Sephiran allowed himself a smile. "But I admit, I was thinking especially of Sanaki."
"Ought we still refer to her as the Apostle? Sooner or later your – ah, forgive me, I mean her – nation will have to face the prospect of a world without the Goddess. I find it curious that you continue to name her Apostle, and that she has not made any attempt to clarify for her people."
Sephiran stood up. "Come over to the window with me," he asked, and the count obligingly followed him.
"The Tower of Guidance still stands," Sephiran remarked, indicating its place in Sienne's skyline. Not that there was much need. The tower overshadowed every other building in the city, even the small crowd of cathedrals surrounding it, their spires raised as if to imitate the tower itself. Bastian was struck by the image of the Tower of Guidance as a regal mother, with competitive, desperate for approval children reaching up to yank at her apron-strings or tug on her dress. He filed away the metaphor for later use.
"It stands, but there is no Goddess in it," Bastian pointed out.
"It does not need a Goddess in it. The truth is that it did not matter to the men and women of this city whether or not Ashera really slept atop the tower. As long as they had the symbol, they were happy."
"Faith's arrow shattereth not on experience's bronze, nor doth reason's gale alter its flight; nay, it flieth ever-true, and admitteth no coercion," Bastian quoted.
Sephiran raised an eyebrow. "One of yours?"
Bastian laughed. "Would that I could claim the verse for my own! That was Caitan of Nevarra."
The archsage nodded and continued, "The Apostle is to her people as the Tower of Guidance is to the city. They have faith in her. It does not matter whether she truly is Altina's firstborn. It is the faith they put in her that makes her the Apostle."
Bastian's gaze wandered down from the Tower of Guidance to the Senate house: a far shorter structure in height, but imposing nonetheless for its massive breadth.
"The Senate, or what remains of it, might not agree with your judgement."
There was very little left of the Senate after the Goddess' War, of course. Of the original seven, Senators Lekain, Numida, Hetzel, and Valtome had all perished in the war; and Sephiran had been stripped of his title. Five out of seven, gone. The two remaining were wild cards. The first, Duke Seliora, was a staunchly religious, ascetic man who had made no major appearances since the war's end. It was possible that the man had sunk into depression: possibly because of the death (maybe) of his Goddess, and possibly because he had not been chosen to be among the Disciples of Order at the end. He had endured the war as a statue. The final senator had been frozen as well: Duke Teodor of House Damiell. Bastian believed he was the father of one of the Royal Knights. Teodor might have tried to use his influence, but with the rest of the Senate empty, there was very little he could say against Sanaki, even if he wanted to.
The ranks of the Senate were beginning to fill back up. There were always more nobles eager for a chance to hold the reins of power. Duke Delric of Semper had claimed a seat. Duke Kausel of Asmin held another one, doing his best to pretend to grieve for the death of Hetzel, his father. Duke Tormod of Grann held a third: oh, the Sainted had been furious over that. Grann was a wasteland, but Sanaki had arbitrarily declared it a duchy, and then declared Tormod, the young resistance fighter, to be its duke. She was doing her best to make sure the new Senate contained a few political allies for her, and Bastian remembered her speech at Tormod's appointment. Sanaki had passionately argued that the laguz of Begnion had been too long without a representative at the highest level of power, and that Tormod would help fill the gap. The towering tiger laguz who seemed to always be at the boy's back only emphasised the point.
For all that the Sainted protested, there was very little they could do, especially as Tormod had immediately set about making himself popular with the common people. The Boy Senator, they called him, and he seemed to have independently decided to expand his mission to advocating for the poor among Begnion's beorc as well.
That left only two seats in the Senate still open, and the war for them still continued. The current balance of the Senate still very much left Begnion at Sanaki's mercy, all things considered. In time, they would become more confident and start to push back against her reforms.
Sephiran clearly knew all this. "The old Senate is gone," he said lightly. "As for the new Senate… we shall see what it decides."
"The old Senate revolted when it discovered that Sanaki was not Altina's firstborn," Bastian said sharply. "Mayhap the truth would serve the empress-" he emphasised that title "- better than apathy."
Sephiran did not rise to the bait. "Were I still a member of the Apostle's government," he remarked calmly, "I would ask if you – and by extension Crimea – were threatening us."
"No threat is intended, lord sage. I merely find it unseemly for Empress Sanaki to act according to an authority that she does not in truth possess. If I were speaking for Crimea in this matter, I would suggest that Begnion's suzerainty over us derives from the exalted status of the Apostle: the Voice of the Goddess. In the light of recent events, it would seem inappropriate to continue to claim suzerainty."
Then Bastian turned away, and his gaze returned to the chessboard. "But I am not speaking for Crimea, and politics too oft hardens the heart. Shall we play again?"
Sephiran did play again, and they said no more of the Apostle.
But he remembered that there was a lie to the Apostle's status, and he told that lie anew every time he referred to Sanaki as 'the Apostle'.
And Count Fayre did not enjoy lying.