The Legend: Book Two: Chapter Twenty-Three: "Transformation"
Victor Alexander Carrenworth's head of fiery hair rested against the shoulder of Capt. Bordon. The Golden Dragoon and his now constant companion sat in silence. Victor had soon discovered, as Bordon had always known, that his newest dragoon was the sort of man who could live his life uttering as little as a single word once or twice a month. Victor, like Bordon, was a man of instinct.
It was a tradition that the Council of Elder Dragoons always convened within the walls of a church. It was said that this tradition had begun with William the Green, but many, particularly those who opposed the Green's, claimed that it went much further back. The great Anglican Church of Calcutta was of the old style. Unlike the innumerable whitewashed homes and offices that filled the ever-expanding city, the church looked as though it had been plucked from English soil and deposited in India by nothing short of the Hand of God.
Bordon shifted uncomfortably. The Council was gathered in a backroom of the church complex, unknown to many but the priests and others who had reason to be intimately familiar with the structure. A pew had been moved from the sanctuary to accommodate those who awaited an audience. It was far from comfortable and Bordon felt it in his battle-weary bones. Victor took no notice. He continued to stare heavenward, his formerly-piercing eyes veiled by heavy blue eyelids studded with long red eyelashes.
"His last night on earth," Bordon thought.
"And to think I am spending it waiting for an audience with The Council," the Grand High Golden Dragoon replied silently.
One of the heavy double doors that lead to The Council's chamber creaked open. The lined face of the great church's old pastor peered out.
"The Council will see you now," the whispered, dispensing with the titles and formalities that were due someone of the Duke's status.
Bordon stood and helped his commanding officer to his feet.
"How changed he his," Bordon mused. "In only six months, from the mighty golden dragon to this."
The captain felt one of the gloved hands go limp.
"Sir!" Bordon exclaimed, aloud, but only out of surprise.
Carrenworth managed a few labored, yet deep breaths. He blinked, some glimmer returning to his icy eyes. The Golden Dragoon assumed his disturbingly graceful posture and twisted his blue lips into something resembling one of his old sarcastic smirks.
"Good luck, Victor," Bordon said without speaking.
As the Duke swept past the pries into The Council chamber, Bordon noticed that, for the first time in his professional career, Carrenworth was unarmed. Was he really so weak now? His right-hand man already knew the answer.
Being the scions of an ancient association steeped in tradition, The Council would not meet unless they were seated around the council table. It was a great round table, every inch carved, molded, or otherwise ornamented in some ethereally detailed fashion. Victor did his best not to look at it. He had always felt a sense of revulsion toward this sacred piece of furniture. The top of the table was done in a meticulously designed inlay of six panels, one depicting ever sacred order of dragoons, every sacred order that is except for Golden. Having originated as a faction of the Green Dragoons, the Order of the Golden Dragoons was not held so highly as the original nine, and the Council had deemed it unnecessary to make any modification to the sacred council table. They deemed it far simpler to deny the Golden Dragoons a representative.
There had been rumors, Victor knew, of making modification. to accommodate a proposed order of American Dragoons. However, there was still great debate among the council members as to whether an American Order would even qualify as sacred dragoons, after all, they had no monarchy to protect.
Try as he might to focus upon the men sitting around it, Victor found his eyes drawn to the ever-disgusting panel depicting William the Green standing over a great green dragoon, the beast impaled upon a shining lance. There were five men seated, each before the panel depicting his respective order, the Red Dragoons of Russia, the Silver Dragoons of France, the Blue Dragoons of Prussia, the Purple Dragoons of Italy, the Orange (or Flaming Horse) Dragoons of Spain. There was a sixth chair, Mooreville's seat, which remained empty.
At one time, the features of these five men had reflected their respective nationalities. Now, all well into their sixties, some over seventy, the only real distinguisher was the color of their extravagantly decorated uniforms. The jackets were in varying shades of red, blue, and green, all trimmed in gold, pinned with (collectively) well over one hundred medals and decorations. The representative of the Purple Dragoons wore a crown of golden leaves atop his wispy white hair, reminding all assembled that the Purple Dragoons where the oldest of the orders, tracing their founding to Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and his praetorians. It was in honor of this heritage that all meetings of The Council were conducted in Latin.
"The Great One comes before us at last," the representative of the Silver Dragoons, a serpentine old Frenchman, said with a sneer. His Latin was good, but thick with the accent of his country. It was forbidden for the names of the representatives to be known to anyone beyond member of their respective orders. As a result, Victor knew none of them. "A graduate of Oxford at sixteen, a trained lawyer, a brilliant tactician, fluent in six languages, and an undefeated sword master." again, the sneer, "I see now that the British exaggerate." He turned to his fellow council members, "I doubt this effeminate little weakling could even lift a sword!"
The words had barely escaped the Frenchman's mouth when he felt the cold touch of a blade against his throat.
"Stand down, Carrenworth!" the representative of the Red Dragoons bellowed, rising to his feet and his full, impressive Russian height. "Though the remarks of the Silver Dragoon were uncalled for, you are well aware that no weapons are permitted in a meeting of The Council." The Russian motioned for the priest, who was standing by the door nearly paralyzed with fear, to come forward. "Hand him the knife."
Slowly, Victor lowered the gilded knife and handed it to the waiting clergyman.
"You will apologize to the duke," the leave-crowned Purple Dragoon ordered, fixing the Frenchman with a menacing look of displeasure. "You ought to know that it is unwise to cause any further trouble. It is the activities of your order that have made this meeting necessary."
The Silver Dragoon opened his mouth to apologize, but Victor was suddenly seized with an awful fit of coughing that racked his now-skeletal frame. Desperate to hide the extent of his infirmity, the Golden Dragoon held a scarlet handkerchief to his face to muffle coughs and desperate gasps for breath. There could be no weakness.
"You are unwell," the Prussian Blue Dragoon stated. "Mooreville had told us something to that effect."
"I am not unwell!" Victor snapped, regaining composure. "You should know that Mooreville is a Green Dragoon, and therefore determined to undermine me in any way possible, risking his own honor if necessary."
The council members said nothing. It was overly obvious that Mooreville had spoken the truth concerning the Grand High Golden Dragoon's state of physical health.
"Sit," the Purple Dragoon commanded, indicating a chair halfway between two panels.
"I prefer standing."
"Sit!" the dragoon repeated, with stronger emphasis.
Victor did so.
Despite the natural heat of the climate, there was a fire roaring away in a fireplace that had been built more for form than function, therefore it had never worked properly. This had filled the room with a smoke that softened shapes, and leant the whole place an ethereal quality. The Italian turned to the Frenchman.
"It is your order that has caused such concern. You will explain the situation. You see, your grace, what plagues us is the new Grand High Silver Dragoon."
"Talleyrand," Victor said quickly, remembering the hierarchy of French nobility. "What has he done?"
"He has sided with the opposition to the Bourbon monarchy," the Frenchman explained. "We believe he impressed the King with a display of well-acted loyalty so that, for some reason, he would be sent to India. His real reasons for coming here are, as of know, unknown to us. It is the way of Talleyrand, he refuses to be only any side but that which is presently ahead. Or the side he has divined will come out on top."
"Surely he knows that even if the Bourbons are removed from the throne it will be but for a brief period of time. The sacred order will abandon those who appose what they stand for, the will endure, and the monarchy will rise again," Victor snapped, unable to fathom that anyone would claimed to possess noble blood would support a revolution that threatened that very nobility.
"That is where your nobility and your youth limit your vision," the Frenchman replied. "These revolutionaries are intellectuals, inspired by the triumph of the Americans. What they intend is a republican revolution, to make France something like America, the permanent destruction of the monarchy, the death of the House of Bourbon."
Victor's eyes sparkled with blue fire.
"That is madness! The experiment of the Americans will fail! Government by the common people is doomed to dissolve into chaos. It is the duty of the aristocracy, by virtue of their birth," he paused to catch his breath, "to protect the common people from themselves."
"No one is more in agreement with you than the members of this council," the Purple dragoon replied calmly.
A threat, or even an ideal, that attacked the authority of his precious nobility had struck a nerve somewhere deep within the young man. It was the Carrenworth legacy, the councilmen concluded. What was more precious than nobility secured through inborn superiority?
"However, regardless of what course we would wish history to take, even our influence has limitations. Thus far, the Americans have done remarkably well for themselves. Now, imagine such a revolution with the backing of the Silver Dragoons, with the mind of Talleyrand!"
The roomed was blanked by a silence that weighed heavily upon those gathered within.
"You don't know Talleyrand. He was born a vile manipulative bastard, a snake in the trappings of a Frenchman. The serpent in the vestments of a clergyman! And trained by that witch Chalais! If he has decided to back the revolutionaries, then they will win."
Like his distant cousin, discovering for the first time the internal dragoon divisions, Victor Alexander Carrenworth was burdened by the sudden lifting of his protective veil of ignorance. Indeed, it had been bliss.
"The situation grows even more desperate," the elder Silver Dragoon continued. "Talleyrand has entered into some form of deal with Tavington."
"Tavington!" Victor choked.
"Yes, Tavington! We believe that he has proposed an alliance."
"I would sooner see Tavington dead than anyone," Victor sneered, "but he is loyal."
"Any man who lacks a title and financial security is prone to republican sympathies," the Russian Red Dragoon said bluntly.
"As you are well aware, throughout the centuries, the Green Dragoons have caused us nothing save trouble," the Italian said. "William the Green's desire to command the council, coupled with his mania, nearly destroyed us. As the years go by one Tavington replaces another, each more bloodthirsty than the last. This current one and that sniveling, spying Mooreville cannot be trusted. I smell the foul odor of this coming French Revolution about them. The Green's have abandoned the old ideals of the order in favor of personal glory and the accumulation of wealth. The name of Tavington no longer ranks among the nobility. Men will never fight to defend those they envy, they will fight for equality."
The five councilmen leaned in closer, the air so thick with smoke and silence that it could shatter a blade. They examined the young man seated before them. There was a great chance he would die before their plan was carried out, but there was something in those crystal-blue eyes that said protested that conclusion. There were options. The die was cast.
"It is time this council made a decision it should have made in the days of Cromwell," they said collectively. "It is time that green became gold."
Victor Alexander Carrenworth's head of fiery hair rested against the shoulder of Capt. Bordon. The Golden Dragoon and his now constant companion sat in silence. Victor had soon discovered, as Bordon had always known, that his newest dragoon was the sort of man who could live his life uttering as little as a single word once or twice a month. Victor, like Bordon, was a man of instinct.
It was a tradition that the Council of Elder Dragoons always convened within the walls of a church. It was said that this tradition had begun with William the Green, but many, particularly those who opposed the Green's, claimed that it went much further back. The great Anglican Church of Calcutta was of the old style. Unlike the innumerable whitewashed homes and offices that filled the ever-expanding city, the church looked as though it had been plucked from English soil and deposited in India by nothing short of the Hand of God.
Bordon shifted uncomfortably. The Council was gathered in a backroom of the church complex, unknown to many but the priests and others who had reason to be intimately familiar with the structure. A pew had been moved from the sanctuary to accommodate those who awaited an audience. It was far from comfortable and Bordon felt it in his battle-weary bones. Victor took no notice. He continued to stare heavenward, his formerly-piercing eyes veiled by heavy blue eyelids studded with long red eyelashes.
"His last night on earth," Bordon thought.
"And to think I am spending it waiting for an audience with The Council," the Grand High Golden Dragoon replied silently.
One of the heavy double doors that lead to The Council's chamber creaked open. The lined face of the great church's old pastor peered out.
"The Council will see you now," the whispered, dispensing with the titles and formalities that were due someone of the Duke's status.
Bordon stood and helped his commanding officer to his feet.
"How changed he his," Bordon mused. "In only six months, from the mighty golden dragon to this."
The captain felt one of the gloved hands go limp.
"Sir!" Bordon exclaimed, aloud, but only out of surprise.
Carrenworth managed a few labored, yet deep breaths. He blinked, some glimmer returning to his icy eyes. The Golden Dragoon assumed his disturbingly graceful posture and twisted his blue lips into something resembling one of his old sarcastic smirks.
"Good luck, Victor," Bordon said without speaking.
As the Duke swept past the pries into The Council chamber, Bordon noticed that, for the first time in his professional career, Carrenworth was unarmed. Was he really so weak now? His right-hand man already knew the answer.
Being the scions of an ancient association steeped in tradition, The Council would not meet unless they were seated around the council table. It was a great round table, every inch carved, molded, or otherwise ornamented in some ethereally detailed fashion. Victor did his best not to look at it. He had always felt a sense of revulsion toward this sacred piece of furniture. The top of the table was done in a meticulously designed inlay of six panels, one depicting ever sacred order of dragoons, every sacred order that is except for Golden. Having originated as a faction of the Green Dragoons, the Order of the Golden Dragoons was not held so highly as the original nine, and the Council had deemed it unnecessary to make any modification to the sacred council table. They deemed it far simpler to deny the Golden Dragoons a representative.
There had been rumors, Victor knew, of making modification. to accommodate a proposed order of American Dragoons. However, there was still great debate among the council members as to whether an American Order would even qualify as sacred dragoons, after all, they had no monarchy to protect.
Try as he might to focus upon the men sitting around it, Victor found his eyes drawn to the ever-disgusting panel depicting William the Green standing over a great green dragoon, the beast impaled upon a shining lance. There were five men seated, each before the panel depicting his respective order, the Red Dragoons of Russia, the Silver Dragoons of France, the Blue Dragoons of Prussia, the Purple Dragoons of Italy, the Orange (or Flaming Horse) Dragoons of Spain. There was a sixth chair, Mooreville's seat, which remained empty.
At one time, the features of these five men had reflected their respective nationalities. Now, all well into their sixties, some over seventy, the only real distinguisher was the color of their extravagantly decorated uniforms. The jackets were in varying shades of red, blue, and green, all trimmed in gold, pinned with (collectively) well over one hundred medals and decorations. The representative of the Purple Dragoons wore a crown of golden leaves atop his wispy white hair, reminding all assembled that the Purple Dragoons where the oldest of the orders, tracing their founding to Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and his praetorians. It was in honor of this heritage that all meetings of The Council were conducted in Latin.
"The Great One comes before us at last," the representative of the Silver Dragoons, a serpentine old Frenchman, said with a sneer. His Latin was good, but thick with the accent of his country. It was forbidden for the names of the representatives to be known to anyone beyond member of their respective orders. As a result, Victor knew none of them. "A graduate of Oxford at sixteen, a trained lawyer, a brilliant tactician, fluent in six languages, and an undefeated sword master." again, the sneer, "I see now that the British exaggerate." He turned to his fellow council members, "I doubt this effeminate little weakling could even lift a sword!"
The words had barely escaped the Frenchman's mouth when he felt the cold touch of a blade against his throat.
"Stand down, Carrenworth!" the representative of the Red Dragoons bellowed, rising to his feet and his full, impressive Russian height. "Though the remarks of the Silver Dragoon were uncalled for, you are well aware that no weapons are permitted in a meeting of The Council." The Russian motioned for the priest, who was standing by the door nearly paralyzed with fear, to come forward. "Hand him the knife."
Slowly, Victor lowered the gilded knife and handed it to the waiting clergyman.
"You will apologize to the duke," the leave-crowned Purple Dragoon ordered, fixing the Frenchman with a menacing look of displeasure. "You ought to know that it is unwise to cause any further trouble. It is the activities of your order that have made this meeting necessary."
The Silver Dragoon opened his mouth to apologize, but Victor was suddenly seized with an awful fit of coughing that racked his now-skeletal frame. Desperate to hide the extent of his infirmity, the Golden Dragoon held a scarlet handkerchief to his face to muffle coughs and desperate gasps for breath. There could be no weakness.
"You are unwell," the Prussian Blue Dragoon stated. "Mooreville had told us something to that effect."
"I am not unwell!" Victor snapped, regaining composure. "You should know that Mooreville is a Green Dragoon, and therefore determined to undermine me in any way possible, risking his own honor if necessary."
The council members said nothing. It was overly obvious that Mooreville had spoken the truth concerning the Grand High Golden Dragoon's state of physical health.
"Sit," the Purple Dragoon commanded, indicating a chair halfway between two panels.
"I prefer standing."
"Sit!" the dragoon repeated, with stronger emphasis.
Victor did so.
Despite the natural heat of the climate, there was a fire roaring away in a fireplace that had been built more for form than function, therefore it had never worked properly. This had filled the room with a smoke that softened shapes, and leant the whole place an ethereal quality. The Italian turned to the Frenchman.
"It is your order that has caused such concern. You will explain the situation. You see, your grace, what plagues us is the new Grand High Silver Dragoon."
"Talleyrand," Victor said quickly, remembering the hierarchy of French nobility. "What has he done?"
"He has sided with the opposition to the Bourbon monarchy," the Frenchman explained. "We believe he impressed the King with a display of well-acted loyalty so that, for some reason, he would be sent to India. His real reasons for coming here are, as of know, unknown to us. It is the way of Talleyrand, he refuses to be only any side but that which is presently ahead. Or the side he has divined will come out on top."
"Surely he knows that even if the Bourbons are removed from the throne it will be but for a brief period of time. The sacred order will abandon those who appose what they stand for, the will endure, and the monarchy will rise again," Victor snapped, unable to fathom that anyone would claimed to possess noble blood would support a revolution that threatened that very nobility.
"That is where your nobility and your youth limit your vision," the Frenchman replied. "These revolutionaries are intellectuals, inspired by the triumph of the Americans. What they intend is a republican revolution, to make France something like America, the permanent destruction of the monarchy, the death of the House of Bourbon."
Victor's eyes sparkled with blue fire.
"That is madness! The experiment of the Americans will fail! Government by the common people is doomed to dissolve into chaos. It is the duty of the aristocracy, by virtue of their birth," he paused to catch his breath, "to protect the common people from themselves."
"No one is more in agreement with you than the members of this council," the Purple dragoon replied calmly.
A threat, or even an ideal, that attacked the authority of his precious nobility had struck a nerve somewhere deep within the young man. It was the Carrenworth legacy, the councilmen concluded. What was more precious than nobility secured through inborn superiority?
"However, regardless of what course we would wish history to take, even our influence has limitations. Thus far, the Americans have done remarkably well for themselves. Now, imagine such a revolution with the backing of the Silver Dragoons, with the mind of Talleyrand!"
The roomed was blanked by a silence that weighed heavily upon those gathered within.
"You don't know Talleyrand. He was born a vile manipulative bastard, a snake in the trappings of a Frenchman. The serpent in the vestments of a clergyman! And trained by that witch Chalais! If he has decided to back the revolutionaries, then they will win."
Like his distant cousin, discovering for the first time the internal dragoon divisions, Victor Alexander Carrenworth was burdened by the sudden lifting of his protective veil of ignorance. Indeed, it had been bliss.
"The situation grows even more desperate," the elder Silver Dragoon continued. "Talleyrand has entered into some form of deal with Tavington."
"Tavington!" Victor choked.
"Yes, Tavington! We believe that he has proposed an alliance."
"I would sooner see Tavington dead than anyone," Victor sneered, "but he is loyal."
"Any man who lacks a title and financial security is prone to republican sympathies," the Russian Red Dragoon said bluntly.
"As you are well aware, throughout the centuries, the Green Dragoons have caused us nothing save trouble," the Italian said. "William the Green's desire to command the council, coupled with his mania, nearly destroyed us. As the years go by one Tavington replaces another, each more bloodthirsty than the last. This current one and that sniveling, spying Mooreville cannot be trusted. I smell the foul odor of this coming French Revolution about them. The Green's have abandoned the old ideals of the order in favor of personal glory and the accumulation of wealth. The name of Tavington no longer ranks among the nobility. Men will never fight to defend those they envy, they will fight for equality."
The five councilmen leaned in closer, the air so thick with smoke and silence that it could shatter a blade. They examined the young man seated before them. There was a great chance he would die before their plan was carried out, but there was something in those crystal-blue eyes that said protested that conclusion. There were options. The die was cast.
"It is time this council made a decision it should have made in the days of Cromwell," they said collectively. "It is time that green became gold."