The Consuls of the Vicariate (4 page)

A Day of Remembrance

T
he morning light drove away his nightmares, and Laedron opened his eyes to sunlight dimmed by the foggy stained glass in the narrow window of his room. The hazy yellow image suggested the figure of a holy man of some kind, probably a Heraldan saint whom he neither recognized, nor deemed important.
To think, an entire world littered with such icons
.
Well, I suppose there are worse ways to waste glass. At least it’s pretty to look at.
He snatched the scepter from the table, then headed to the common room.

Caleb was busy stirring a cauldron suspended from an iron hook in the fireplace. The scent of a fine stew drifted into Laedron’s nostrils, exciting his empty belly. He wouldn’t have thought of eating anything the day before; his near miss upon the executioner’s table and his sympathy for Valyrie’s situation had been enough to ward off any hunger pangs. Sitting at the table, he eyed the clean bowl in front of his chair and waited as patiently as he could.

“Morning,” Jurgen said.

Laedron noticed Jurgen wore his ceremonial robes. “Morning. Do you think you’re a bit overdressed?”

“The dead deserve utmost respect, regardless of their station.” Jurgen poured some wine into his cup. “Sleep well?”

“Everything was fine until I woke up.”

“I know the feeling.” Jurgen watched Caleb ladle some stew into his bowl. “Thank you.”

“Do you have any preparations to make for the ceremony?”

“A few, but it’s well in hand.” Jurgen carefully sipped from his spoon. “We’ll make it to the seaside before noon, I would imagine.”

“Is it so far?” Laedron started on his stew as soon as it landed in the bowl.

“A few miles from the city. Not to worry, though. I know a private place.”

Laedron heard a door close down the hall, then Valyrie joined them and took a seat. No sooner than she had picked a chair, Brice wiped his mouth and followed Caleb out of the room.

“Where’s he going?” Marac asked.

Jurgen shrugged. “They mentioned something about practicing, but they went quiet when they noticed me.”

“Ah, well, I hope the little fool doesn’t get himself in any trouble.” Marac crossed his arms. “I suppose we’ll end up having to rescue him.”

“I seem to remember rescuing
you
, Marac Reven.” Laedron paused as Marac’s head drooped with guilt. “And I’d do it again. Without reservation.”

Marac returned Laedron’s smile. “Point taken. Sorry.”

Having eaten the large bits with the spoon, Laedron lifted the bowl and drank the broth, then wiped his mouth with a scrap of linen. He glanced at Valyrie and felt some guilt for eating so freely while she had barely touched her meal. “Are you feeling well?”

Of course she’s not, fool
.
She just lost her father.
Unable to withdraw the question, he waited for her to respond.

“As well as I can, I suppose.” Her eyes remained locked on the chunks of meat floating along in the bowl.

“Jurgen said we can have the ceremony around noon. Would that be acceptable?”

She dipped her head. “When do we leave?”

“Not long now.” Jurgen brushed breadcrumbs from his otherwise pristine robes. “In fact, let us be on our way. You’d better cowl yourself, Sorcerer.”

“I’ll get my things,” Valyrie said, standing.

“All right.” Laedron stood. “I’ll get the urn, too.”

“No need.” Jurgen pointed at a dimly lit corner of the room, and Laedron saw the urn sitting on a table. “I’ve already done that.”

Jurgen opened the door. Laedron followed, but turned to Marac before leaving. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No,” Marac said, leaning forward. “I leave it to you, friend.”

Laedron nodded. “We’ll be back soon.”

Valyrie wore a black shawl, and Laedron complimented its quality before closing the door behind them. Pulling the hood over his head, he looked at the building which, up to that point, he had never seen from the outside. The structure had every feature of an aged, abandoned church he could imagine. The otherwise plain and dilapidated exterior set off the dirty stained glass windows running the length of each wall and the base of the dome.
Gray and tan stones to match the silver and gold themes? Perhaps.

Following Jurgen, he caught himself before stumbling on the platform holding a fountain resembling a dull golden cup.
Looks like I’ve found the golden chalice, Meklan
.
Almost bathed in it, too.

Jurgen led them through the shady parts of town, apparently unconcerned with or unafraid of the sordid persons walking the lanes.
They would never interfere with a priest, right?
Laedron thought, eying them.
Perhaps clergymen are off limits in this place.
For once, he was thankful to be in the company of a holy man.

Laedron saw—and in some cases, smelled—people from all walks of life and nations of origin, but most were clearly Heraldan or of some Midlander descent. He reckoned that the xenophobia and religious intolerance of the population caused the lack of foreigners.
It’s a good thing I’m a Midlander
.
Easier to fit in if I look similar to the locals
.

The priest seemed to find his way to the eastern road with ease, as if he’d walked the route a hundred times before, and Laedron followed him along the dusty road and into the hilly landscape beyond. Only an odd tree graced the roadside, each obviously planted by the inhabitants of that country; the trees towered above the highway in a straight line into the distance, and each stood a precise increment away from the cobblestones. With the sun peaking in the sky, Jurgen stepped off the roadway, through the first meadow of tall grass Laedron had seen, and down an embankment. Laedron helped Valyrie descend the steep hill to the waterside.

On the sandy banks of the Sea of Pillars, a lacquered bench carved entirely from a single piece of wood sat beneath a drooping willow tree, its long branches swaying with the breeze. That breeze, thick with saltwater, gave Laedron some relief from the heat of the day, and he removed his hood, deciding that no one would see his face in that secluded nook of the shore. They stood isolated from the rest of the world with only the sound of the waves washing onto the banks and the occasional chirping of the indigenous birds to remind him of the larger world outside the alcove.

Jurgen stared across the sea into the distance, then turned toward Valyrie. He raised the urn above his head. “This gift we return to Azura and the Creator in the heavens. This man, Arthur Pembry, we commit to your sea.”

Arthur
. The mere mention of her father’s name drove the true feeling of loss through his heart. The emotion was not unlike the one he felt the times anyone had said
Wardrick
in his presence. With his head still tilted downward, he shifted his eyes to Valyrie. A sparkling tear found its way down her face.

Jurgen spoke some words in Heraldict, then paused and smiled benevolently. “To live in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die. To live in the grace of Azura is to truly live forever.” He opened the lid of the bronze vessel, then from his robes, produced an engraved silver scattering spade. Standing with his feet and robes in the surf, he tossed the scoops of ashes into the sea.

“Thank you, Jurgen,” Valyrie said. “My father would have liked that.”

“An honor.” He patted her on the shoulder, then turned to Laedron. “I’ll wait for you by the road.”

Watching Jurgen climb the embankment, Laedron rubbed his hands together, trying to find the right words to say.

She gazed sorrowfully at him. “You don’t believe in any of this, do you?”

He sighed. “Some of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sorcerers, for the most part, believe in the Creator. We believe in the heavens and the hells, but not Azura—at least not in the same way the Heraldans do.” He walked to her side.

“For the most part?”

“Some don’t believe in any of it, and there are others who accept Syril as their master.”

“Syril?”

Laedron could feel her hate of the dark god seething through her words. “Yes. Those hungry for power and the ultimate knowledge of magic tend to, but I’ve never heard of anyone having their prayers answered by him. Except Vrolosh, perhaps.”

“And what are your desires, Mage?” She turned to face him. “You speak of that supreme power as if you wouldn’t mind its taste.”

He grinned. “Many paths lead to the heights of spectacular magic. Devoting oneself to Syril is but one, and to worship him is quite an undesirable activity to me.”

“Then how?”

“When my teacher was killed, I took possession of her spell books. Everything I need to complete my learning is in those books.” He drew the scepter from his boot, and her eyes immediately locked onto the large ruby. “I find magic easier by use of her rod, too.”

“I’ve never seen a ruby that big before, not even on the finger of a Grand Vicar.”

“Or the hand of a king, I’d say.” Laedron hid the scepter again. “Not that I’ve ever encountered a king.”

“You two coming?” Jurgen asked, poking his head through the limbs and bushes. “We wouldn’t want to be on the roads after dark.”