Fionúir’s Mural

By C. A. Ennis

This is the story of a 13 year old boy in exile and out of favor who discovers himself the subject of a 250 year old mural painted by the prophetess Fionúir, depicting two famous historical battles and one that has yet to occur. It is about the boy’s quest across foreign lands to discover who the other figures depicted alongside him in the mural are and what part they play in his life and in Fionúir’s prophecy. It is about the boy discovering who he truly is and what he is capable of and mastering that knowledge to face his world to overcome adversity and defeat the enemies who would see him and his family dead. He is helped by a dream companion who has been with him since his youth, a mentor, who turns out to be the spirit of one of the heroes of the first battle depicted in Fionúir’s Mural. It is about breaking with tradition and doing what works, blazing a trail instead of following the beaten path. It is about perseverance and honor. It is about finding true friends and true love. The time for the final battle of Purification approaches. It about who dares... wins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. A. Ennis
• Release date: Jan 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465792785

C. A. Ennis

Charles is the co-author of Safe Approach, a safety book for field workers like social workers and nurses. Also writes sword and sorcery fantasy fiction and paranormal romance (as Carrie Bryce).Charles retired from the Vancouver Police Department in November 2005 after serving 29 years with them. He was awarded the Governor General’s Exemplary Service Medal. Charles' past job assignments within the VPD include the Emergency Response Team, Hostage Negotiator, Child Abuse Investigator, Gang Crime Unit, and the Mental Health Emergency Services Unit. Charles went on to be a police dispatcher for ECOMM for Southwestern B.C., retiring from ECOMM in 2013.Charles is the founder of an order of Knighthood called the Order of Paladins, British Columbia in October 2007.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sword Season, Year 498, Schola of Balbius, Nahe, Federation of Silvand.

Time and patience are the strongest of all warriors.

Druce de Triens, The Book of Five Companions.

Abbott Iraneus’ voice, strained with anger and urgency, reverberated in the cloister of the Schola of Balbius two turns of the hour glass before Lauds:

I want that insolent wretch brought before me the instant that he is found, do you hear?

Ghert heard the echoes of the Abbott’s shout blend into the echoes of cantors furiously baying zetetic cants as they hunted through the courts and rooms of the Schola, their werelights floating past the windows, weaving patterns of light over the frescoed walls of the Temple of Jova where he hid. Statues of the Saints stared down at him as if in disapproval of his presence here. Hearing footsteps approaching the entrance, he braced himself to spring into action. He could get out the same way that he had got past the guards coming in, slipping between time. As long as he remained in motion in that state, he’d remain effectively invisible. Ghert tensed, waiting and listening.

Have you seen the novice, Ghert?

Here? a guard’s voice rumbled in amusement, Seen naught since our watch started. Would he come here, think you? Be the last place you’d expect to find him I’d think, Holiness.

Ghert heard the cantor mutter something about piety and obedience before ordering the guards to assist him in searching the stables. Footsteps receded and Ghert heaved a sigh of relief. He’d bought himself some time.

Rushing to accomplish what he’d come for, Ghert suppressed his anger, making himself relax and drift into the light trance that would take him into his mother’s thoughts and allow them to speak mind to mind as he’d done countless times before. However, try as he might, nothing but an ominous empty silence filled his mind. Alarmed and disheartened, Ghert sank back against the chill stone of the wall. A sense of anxiety had been growing within him over the past few days. Now it seemed that his mother might be the source.

Ghert heaved a great sigh. Who had discovered his absence from the dormitory? He’d chosen the hour when most were likely to be asleep and a day when both moons were new. Had that damned Father Achatius conducted a spot bed check? That was his style. Had someone finally discovered what they’d been up to? Had the king and his hired Jovaian cantors and priests done something to his mother? Was that the cause of the uproar? Abbott Iraneus would wax furious if he knew that Ghert regularly communicated with his mother the queen mind to mind. The king would too: King Clevis had forbidden any contact between Ghert and his mother.

But how could anyone have known? Ghert had yet to encounter cantors or wicce who could communicate telepathically without casting a circle and sending a simulacrum to appear before the recipient to pass a psychic message. Ghert had communicated secretly and directly with his mother in their minds since he was a toddler without having to resort to such methods. No visible sign indicated that they spoke. Anyone discovering him would only see him sitting in a trance state. His regular contact with his mother Bathild was one of the things which allowed him to endure his imprisonment. He took comfort reminding himself, as his mother had many times, that these hardships and the isolation had taught him patience and endurance. He needed to be steadfast now.

He heard a pair of cantors pass under the adjacent Temple windows, cursing Ghert’s lack of magickal trace, as they usually did when they searched for him. He clenched his fists in frustration. As he couldn’t vent his frustrations to his mother, he found himself thinking of what he’d have told her if he could.

They constantly berate me for not having any magickal trace. When they can’t track me down, they curse the lack. I’ll warrant some of them are jealous of my ability. They’re wishing they could hide like me, I doubt not. They’re all so proud of their magickal trace, the bruise their magick leaves on the world. The wicce of my mother’s Fanes are no different in this; Easy to find them. Their trace is like a flag they’ve planted to be seen by wicce and cantor alike. What have I done to deserve this? I don’t know why I don’t have a magickal trace. They tell me those who don’t exhibit a magickal trace can’t do magick, but I haven’t a trace and I’m able to perform every miracle they require. No matter how hard I try, I cannot please them. My efforts mean nothing to these arrogant priests, so proud of their magickal trace. They think me inept, retarded, a mental cripple, call me a ‘difficult student’. Do they think I’m deliberately hiding my magickal trace just to spite them? Brigu wept! If it hadn’t been for me being the king’s son, I would not even have been admitted to this Schola. My lack of magickal trace would have disqualified me.

Ghert closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Of course this official disapproval made motivating himself to continue his studies even harder, leading to a vicious spiral of dejection. The possibility of retaliatory measures against his mother kept him going. The king had sent him to the Schola to break him, and her, to bend them to his will. Thus Ghert swallowed his anger and frustration and pressed on. What would mother say to him?

She’d tell me to study hard and master their magick, their ‘miracles.’ Once I do, I’ll use that power for myself, not for the king. I’ll use this magick to free my mother and me some day. I’ll hold my tongue for her sake and speak to my mother about it when I can.

Hugging his knees, he listened to the commotion of Abbott Iraneus and his cantors furiously turning everything upside down outside. He remembered his mother laughing with delight when he’d first slipped between and out of sight, the day that he discovered that he could communicate with her telepathically. He’d been at her knee then. He remembered her pride showing through her stern admonition never to reveal these abilities to anyone. Even then Ghert and his mother secretly held to the Gnosis of the Fanes and Garráins. He’d heeded her warning, as he realized even at that tender age that the court in Triens was a hostile place. No one else that he knew of had such abilities, save his grandmother Waltrude, though some legends spoke of a great hero named Somhairle the Valorous who’d had such powers long ago.

Ghert winced as the harsh voice of a cantor singing a cant de battue below the window brought him back to the Temple where he sat hugging his knees. They definitely didn't find his abilities amusing. Of a certainty they’d take their frustrations out on him once they found him. They always found him and there were always painful consequences: fasting, solitary confinement and floggings. Not for the first time he considered slipping out of the Schola and risking the swim across the icy Ádiar River to Hovuð in Gauthiuda. Impracticable: His father had made enemies of the Gautar. He'd likely end up a prisoner. Even if he managed to elude capture, such an act would infuriate the King and his mother would likely be blamed. That wouldn’t do.

Not only had he been unable to vent his frustrations to his mother, he’d seemingly added to them. Nothing for it then: Ghert had to leave the chapel and seek for news to try to figure out what had happened. Not an easy task with contact forbidden and his mother twenty five leagues off. There was no way that he could risk asking anyone at the Schola for news. The hunt was on, and he must think of some way to explain how he got past the guards and into the chapel.

Ghert cast his mind out to a companion who was the last of his magickal secrets: His familiar Bidelia, presently sitting on the top of the north gate overlooking the courtyard. Bidelia was another that he could communicate with mind to mind. Through her eyes, Ghert could see the search parties wandering through the grounds of the Schola. They’d pay her no mind: She would be too hard to see at this hour, and even in broad daylight she was simply one of many ravens hanging around the courtyard. Ghert had been extremely careful not to be seen around Bidelia: A familiar was another thing the priests and cantors of the Temples would find heretical. Familiars were uncommon amongst the people of the Fanes these days and unheard of amongst those of the Temples. They hadn’t noticed when Bidelia had shadowed his escort from Triens when Ghert had first been brought to this isolated centennae of Silvand in Nahe a season ago.

Should he slip between again and show up elsewhere on the grounds or back in the dormitory? He’d still have to explain how he’d got there when they’d been searching there all along. He elected to walk boldly out of the chapel instead: Perhaps he could convince them that he had stayed after matins to meditate and pray? Since no one had come into the temple seeking him as yet, and since the guards had left with the cantors a short time earlier, it was worth a try.

Putting his most pious expression on his face, Ghert bowed his head, folded his hands into the sleeves of his plain yellow novice’s cassock as if in prayer, and strode out of the Temple into the cloister. One of the cantors spotted him immediately and shouted to his companions. In an instant they’d grabbed him and dragged him to the Abbott’s study in the south tower.

Miserable malapert! If it weren’t for your father the King summoning you back to Triens this instant you’d already be feeling the lash. What were you doing in the chapel at this hour?

So that was it; My bad fortune that the king’s summons came as I’d slipped away to contact my mother.

I stayed after matins to pray, Saintly Father. I must have nodded off.

Iraneus’ expression indicated that he considered this extremely unlikely.

Have him caned. Take him to his cell. See that a guard is put on the door. I want him packed and ready to leave at dawn.

They took to the road out of Nahe at first light. White caps charged the shore of Lake Verdon like waves of cavalry, lashing the shores, wind ruffling the herons sheltering on the beach and fluttering the early leaves of the willows and alders. Bidelia soared above on the air currents, unnoticed, indistinguishable from the hopeful handful of ravens and gulls that followed scrounging for scraps. Ghert and his escort were the only humans on this lonely stretch of road. He drew his cloak closely around him against the icy gusts as they made their way north along the shore.

Members of the King’s elite personal guard, the Truste, had arrived last night with the summons. The Truste escorted Ghert back, accompanied by some senior cantors from his Schola, including Abbott Iraneus himself. The urgency of the king’s summons meant that they went mounted; unfortunate, since his behind was still raw from the caning. Six pueri of the Truste rode close around him, two archers behind him with bows strung, their attention seemed equally divided between their charge and the surrounding countryside. Expecting bandits, rebels or an escape attempt? Clearly they’d watch him closely, taking no chances on him disappearing again. Ghert pondered his situation, trying to distract himself from the discomfort and scrutiny.

What in the name of Brigu did the King want with him? Just over two and a half ochtú ago he’d sent Ghert to this awful place. Ghert had marked all one hundred and sixteen days on the wall of his comfortless cell in the Schola. Sterile and stillborn, the only living things within the scabrous walls in the sterile Schola its staff and students, stifling inspiration, inspiring sanctimoniousness; the antithesis of the atmosphere of the Fanes and Garráins that he and his mother were accustomed to. Ghert took heart knowing that he’d be away from this foul place and out in nature, despite the chill.

The king had not likely relented to bring him home to the capital of Silvand for good. Ghert had years of training ahead of him in this godsforsaken end of Silvand. The king had plans and Ghert was simply a game piece, sent to a Schola of the Temples of Jovaia to become a cantor of war magick and thus become a foothold of magickal power to be used. What he wanted meant nothing to the king.

The head of the Temples of Jova himself suggested placing him at the Schola in Nahe shortly after his arrival in Triens, no doubt to keep Ghert out of the way of the Archbishop’s machinations. Curse the day that Archbishop Norgonus had showed up in Triens! That a man of Norgonus’ stature had shown up in his country’s capital boded ill for his people. He was sure that evil man wasn’t there out of any intentions of charity or assistance. Exile got Ghert out of the way of the Archbishop’s designs, and prevented him from warning the King. Norgonus’ designs would certainly be to the benefit of the Jovaian Empire, not the Federation of Silvand. Mildly amusing, since the only reason Ghert would ever warn the king would be because Norgonus’ plans threatened his people; he was indifferent to threats to his father. Not that the king would credit anything that Ghert suggested even if he was inclined to warn him. The king sent him to the Schola of Balbius because Ghert always sided with his mother. The king and the Archbishop both wanted to remove him from his mother’s pagan influence.

Was this summons an indication that the Archbishop had left Triens to return to the Jovaian capital, Rovaenna? Ghert could not imagine Archbishop Norgonus agreeing to have him return to Triens for any length of time if he was still in residence there. Nor did he see any way that he could convince the Archbishop to reverse his stand. He had once seen the Archbishop blind one of his young acolytes for a minor error in the service in the Temple of Jova with an amaurosis cant: Impossible light had flashed from his eyes and mouth and the child who had erred fell to his plump knees on the tiles, his face and body half frozen, blood pouring from his ruined eyes. No, he could seek no support from that quarter. The Archbishop was not a person to cross.

He shivered and drew his cloak tighter around him, glancing aside at his escort, wondering if he could expect support from any of them, not seeing any faces that he knew. The few children of the court his age had either been kept from him or had avoided his company, knowing the king's view of Ghert's mother. To compensate, he had found adult friends within the ranks of the Truste before the king sent him away. Members of the Truste had trained and mentored him in the arts of war, and his aptitude and dedication had won him some friendships and close connections. A return to Triens where he could practice his martial arts and see these few friends would be a great relief. At the Schola he’d been denied the ability to practice martial arts. Cantors fought with magick, not swords. Ghert suspected the king intended to isolate him from his supporters within the Truste in order to prevent him using that martial ability to aid his mother. His escort today gave Ghert a clear indication of how the king feared what he would do with his martial ability and connections once he came of age in a few hands. Was the king’s summons an indication that he had reconsidered?

Was this summons somehow connected to his inability to communicate with his mother? At least he’d have a better chance of discovering what happened to his mother back in Triens. While he dreamed of leaving this purgatory, he stayed because of his fears of what trouble leaving might cause for his mother. The King might decide to send Bathild away, or worse. Once the king got the sons he wanted, he had given up trying to convert the queen to the faith of the Temples and had all but discarded her, giving his attentions instead to several mistresses. Ghert had noticed that of late the King’s neglect had turned to hatred. The King wanted his mother out of the way. He did not intend to be used as an excuse for his mother’s dismissal from the court. The king would have to find some other way, a way that didn’t infuriate her father Comite Sigebert.

Low clouds, drizzle, and a steady frigid wind off the lake made a comfortless camp on the shores of lake Verdon for Ghert and his escort that evening. Weary from worry and sore from the saddle, sleep eluded him at first. When he finally fell asleep in the early morning hours, he found himself in an old and familiar dreamscape; an old castle by another lake. He’d often thought that this comforting dreamscape might have been some form of wishful thinking: How his home in Triens ought to have been. The familiarity of this dreamscape was pleasant, where the familiarity of Triens was anything but. And, as always in this pleasing dreamscape, he found ruddy old Ruarí the fénnid, another of his companions in isolation, even if he was only a dream companion. The grizzled fénnid had been in Ghert’s dreams for as long as he could remember: His invisible childhood friend. He thought of him as an ancient warrior of Pictavia, a fénnid of the Ceilteach peoples of the West, because he spoke to him in Gàidhlig with a Pictavian accent. As a toddler his mother had told him that as a prince he should make himself familiar with the languages of the peoples bordering his land: Like his mother, Ghert had always had a gift for languages and had learned Gàidhlig from his mother quickly. Ruarí was the father he’d never had, the father he should have had: Always attentive, full of humour, a bear of a man in a kilt, a mane of red hair like his mother’s.

This time Ghert found himself on the cobblestones of the dream castle’s outer court, flooded with the moonslight of the full mating moons, making the snow capped peaks around the castle glow. He practiced sword play with Ruarí, armed with wasters and bucklers: More than once over the years before he had been sent to the Schola, he had startled his daytime sword instructor Bergr of the Truste with moves he’d learned in sleep from Ruarí.

When yer blade binds wi’ your opponent’s like that, go soft, like this. That allows ye to disengage yer blade frae the bind an’ then ye can stab, like this, or hew to t’other side, like this.

That’s a neat trick.

The Gautar call it ‘draga’, which means pullin’. Ye use weakness against strength.

Weakness against strength?

Think o’ it this way, lad: When they pull, ye push. When they push, ye pull. Ye use their momentum against them. Try that move again an’ I’ll show ye.

Ghert made another lunge with his sword. Ruarí caught his sword in a bind, then went soft, dragging Ghert towards him.

See lad, reach ye out an’ grab the opponent’s hilt or arm, so. Trap their forearms wi’ tother arm, so. Then ye can use a rake, slicin’ yer blade across their forearm, ye see? Or strike wi’ yer pommel or guard, so, an’ then rake the blade against or between their forearms, so.

Is raking with the blade what the Gautar call a sneid?

A ‘slice', aye! Good lad. The Gautar call this ‘wrestlin’ at the sword’. Ruarí stepped back. Take ye a rest an’ let’s ha’e a wee chat lad.

Ruarí led him into the guard room and they set their wooden swords and shields aside. Ruarí put a couple of logs on the fire before seating himself comfortably on a bench beside Ghert. Ruarí turned a serious face towards him.

Ye’re ridin’ into trouble, lad.

I sense that Ruarí, I only wish I knew what is going to happen.

A day long awaited has finally come, a day foreseen by the White Ghost. An old conflict will be renewed, an old rivalry. Ambustus is back.

I don’t take your meaning. Who is the White Ghost? And what has this to do with Ambustus? He died five hundred years ago, did he not?

The White Ghost is Fionúir, Ruarí said, turning to stare into the fire, Ye’re about to awaken to reality, to yerself, like I did so many, many years ago. I was your age when I awakened.

And Ambustus, wasn’t he Somhairle’s enemy?

Aye, that’s right. Ye’re about to meet him, a new incarnation o’ him.

And Fionúir, wasn’t she a prophetess who painted a mural? It’s at Dunscáthach, isn’t it?

Aye, that’s right. Ye must ask Aoife about that when ye see her.

Lady Aoife? She was my mother’s teacher, and my grandmother’s classmate too, wasn’t she?

Aye, that’s right lad. An’ a bonny teacher she is too.

So… You’re saying that the High Priestess of Dunscáthach is going to be in Triens when I arrive?

Nae there lad, but meet her ye will, an’ soon. The cycle is beginnin’ again. I only wish that I could save yer mother. But the thing must take its course.

Save my mother? Ghert leapt to his feet. What do you mean? What’s happened?

Ruarí stood and placed his hands on Ghert’s shoulders, shaking him.

You’re gonna need yer ability to ‘slip between’ when ye get there, an’ some other skills that we’ve practiced, but we’ll speak o’ that later. Wake up Ghert. Wake up!

Ghert sat up abruptly and found himself tangled in his blankets at the side of another lake, no castle in sight, looking into the annoyed eyes of Father Achatius, who cuffed him on the ear.

Get up, imp. We’re leaving in a half a turn of the glass."

****

Chapter 2

Sword Season, Year 498, Triens Castle, Federation of Silvand.

Persistence comes from believing in yourself. It is hard to keep trying if you don’t think that you have it in you to succeed. If you believe that you are able, you will be. Part of pertinacity is discovering who we really are. Part of that discovery is pushing yourself beyond your previous limits to new horizons. Knowing yourself is what provides the keys to try the locks. Persistence is often a process of working through the keys until the correct one is found. It is often the last key in the bunch that opens the lock.

Sigsimund Agnasson, Troth and the Nine Noble Values.

Ghert and his escort rode into the threadbare capital of the Silvandii Federation three days later. Once the bustling center of trade with the Gautar across the Ádiar River to the north, the winding streets of Triens were eerily quiet since that trade had largely dried up; the forced conversion to the faith of the Temples had made the Gautar enemies. Where the cobblestones of Triens had been worn by the passage of countless feet, the faces around him were worn by endless worry. The empty windows of empty houses, their shutters askew, stared down at them as they passed. The few citizens out and about looked hungry and eyed Ghert and his escort fearfully. Neighbour had been set against neighbour, the high street filled with priests and cantors, imported or minted seemingly overnight. He wondered if any of the residents recognized him, and, if they did, if they thought he was in sympathy with the priests with which he rode. His heart sank as he noted that the few Fanes that they passed seemed largely deserted, showing obvious signs of vandalism. He knew that in the countryside that they had fared even worse; many of the groves of the Garráins burned and the temples of the Fanes desecrated.

Hungry and sore, he hoped for a decent meal and, with any luck at all, a good night’s rest in his old room as they rode up to the drawbridge across the moat towards the sunset gilded Land Gate of the castle of Triens. Ghert frowned, seeing evidence of where the taxes had gone of late. Above the renovated fortifications, the golden roof of the new Temple of Jova jutted where the Fane of Brigu had once stood proudly. The Archbishop’s golden banner still fluttering in the evening breeze alongside his father’s standard at the top of the keep did nothing to improve his mood. Clearly Norgonus hadn't left. As a brassy fanfare of clarions from Burgond’s tower signalled their arrival, displeasure turned to alarm; the guards glaring down at them from the battlements over the Land Gate wore the gilded armour of the Legio Solaris, the Emperor’s feared Sun Guards. Why did legions of the Jovaian Empire guard the ramparts of Triens instead of the milites of Silvand? Where were the pueri of the king’s Truste? What in Brigu’s name was going on?

Ghert knew that what was left of the king’s milites had been hard at work enforcing the king’s new religious edicts. When the king had issued his proclamation converting the peoples of Silvand to the faith of the Temples, a considerable number within the ranks of the milites had balked; some had deserted rather than convert. Those who’d been caught had been publicly executed in various gruesome ways to deter others from similar displays of disloyalty. The gaps in the ranks of the milites had gradually filled up with laeti in recent years; mercenaries, mostly former Jovaian legionnaires. The king’s coffers had gradually emptied as the laeti had multiplied. Had things got so bad since he’d left? Had all of the milites been sent out to put down unrest in the countryside, leaving the defence of Triens to the legions of their new Jovaian allies?

Outside the Land Gate, Ghert spotted the sunrise hued scapular of a cantor, with the distinctive violet, elbow length mozzetta cape which indicated he was one of the elite hunting cantors of the Temple of Jova’s Inquisitors. Two sinewy human forms in brown wool tunics squatted beside this hunting cantor, their skin leathered and bronzed by the elements: Stalkers, another horror the priests of the Temples had brought to his land to hunt heretics. Little was known about them, though he knew what they were capable of. The magickal creation of a stalker enhanced the victim’s strength and stamina and speed as well enhancing their sense of smell and sight, thus making them excellent trackers. They said that stalkers were as dangerous to the cantors who created them as to the people that they used them against. Stalkers had appeared in various forms since the Second Purification; rumours held that they were humans possessed by demons their cantor creators invoked. People of the Fanes called them ghouls, the Gautar called them draugr, the Hunnoi called them ogtbish. All cursed them, and avoided them if they could. There would always be stalkers near to Norgonus. The Archbishop had built his reputation partially on his ability to create them.

Two sly leptorrine faces turned towards him, their shifty amber eyes locked on him, nostrils flaring as if seeking to catch his scent, ears tilted forward to sample his voice should he speak. Their hunting cantor looked from Ghert to his charges, murmuring something that he could not make out. A brief barking laugh burst from one of the Stalkers, reminding him of a hyena. One of the ghouls staring unblinking at him suddenly broke into a howl quickly silenced at a word from his cantor. Ghert shuddered. Why were they waiting there, of all places? Who were they intended to hunt?

As his escort entered the castle under the Land Gate’s portcullis and dismounted in front of the stables beside the inner gate, Ghert saw a reception party waiting in the outer court, bracketed by more Sun Guards. Looking more closely, he saw that these legionnaires wore the gold sun insignia of the Scholae: The Archbishop’s personal guard. He spotted the gold zucchetto and sunrise mantelletta of the Archbishop in their midst. The sun’s day lived on his saintliness’ mantelletta: In contrast to his skin, burnt walnut dark by the sun, the robe closest to his face was the golden yellow of the noonday sun, ranging down his body in order of yellows to oranges to reds to rich sunset hues of purple and fuchsia brushing the ground. A leather fascia in sunrise colors and strung with flashing precious stones encircled his waist. Pictograms of stories from the Book of Jova ran down a stola woven from strips of dyed leather draped over his shoulders. The greased braids of Norgonus long hair lay draped down his back.

This was extraordinary in the extreme. The Archbishop didn’t personally involve himself in minor matters, and yet he was dressed to receive royalty. Ghert had most definitely been hoping to be a minor matter; here he was the object of an official reception. Was this to be a welcome home after all? Had the Archbishop reconsidered?

Grooms led their mounts away and the pueri of the Truste left for the guardhouse. Ghert was immediately hemmed in by the senior cantors in his entourage. They escorted him to the waiting reception party in the middle of the outer court, where he was taken before Archbishop Norgonus. As he approached, Ghert could see black bags which perpetually underlined each of Archbishop’s eyes, giving him a tired, worn-out look: A look which he knew frequently caused his foes and underlings to underestimate him, to their eventual regret. Ghert made the sign of the sun and bowed deeply along with all the others in his party and began his formal greeting to the Archbishop.

Your Saintliness—

Norgonus gave no greeting, no hint of welcoming the prince back to the seat of power. He turned his nutmeg eyes to stare into Ghert’s sage eyes and his sonorous voice simply soared into a cant.

Catalepsis cant! A trap!

His muscles already stiffening under the influence of this attack, Ghert quickly started to blurt out a renitency cant in defence, struggling to catch up. Norgonus was already too far ahead of him; he fought to keep his shrinking field of vision on the Archbishop and mumble his cant with lips gone numb. This wasn’t a student or even an instructor at his provincial Schola that Ghert duelled with. This man had fought his way to the head of the Temples of Jovaia, becoming the right hand man to the Emperor, a man who had beaten off far more serious magickal challenges than some Schola student. The last thing he remembered was a sense of falling rigidly to the ground before blackness enveloped him.

****

Chapter 3

Sword Season, Year 498, Triens Castle, Federation of Silvand.

The price of power is responsibility. To seize your power you must assume responsibility for your life.

Aoife ni Ceallaigh, The Gnosis.

King Clevis sat on his throne waiting when his eldest son Chlodio appeared in the doorway of the Throne Hall of Triens: Chlodio squinted through bloodshot eyes at the rising sun shining through the high windows into the gloomy vaulted hall, his face puckered in pain. Chlodio glanced nervously about, and then visibly seemed to relax slightly, noting that his father the king was the sole occupant of the Throne Hall.

If he thinks there is nothing to be concerned about because this is a private audience, he is about to get a rude awakening.

Clevis noted wine and vomit stains on the front of Chlodio’s crumpled tunic. A couple of his son’s drinking companions hovered in the vestibule outside. They’d obviously still been carousing when Chlodio had received his father’s summons and had tagged along to satisfy their curiosity. Celebrating the arrest? Were they even aware? Chlodio took one look at his father’s stormy face and hurriedly waved his companions away, closing the massive studded oak door behind him. Chlodio then slouched unsteadily across the hall tiles and stopped in front of his father.

Give you good day, my Lord.

You look and smell like a midden keeper. Are you a paupere or a Prince of the realm?

My apologies my Lord, Chlodio groaned, managing a weak smile, I had a late night last night.

So we understand. Bishop Vitus has complained to us of you.

Chlodio made a rude noise. He’s not my keeper.

He’s a Bishop of the Temples of Jova and you will show him respect.

Why do we care what he thinks?

Clevis noted Chlodio involuntarily glancing back at the door to the vestibule behind him as he said this. The new Temple of Jova opened off the other side of that vestibule. Concerned that Vitus was eavesdropping? Clevis had already assured that Vitus was detained elsewhere for this meeting.

Need we remind you that the Jovaian faith is our state religion? As Prince you are expected to live an exemplary lifestyle to show the Temples that we’re worthy of their support. Your drunken debauches with your sycophants are not the example that we were hoping for.

My apologies, father. I did not intend to get you in trouble with Bishop Vitus. But why do you care, my Lord? Oh, I know how you put on a show for the priests and the people, but you’re no more devout than I am.

Enough!

Chlodio winced in pain.

We need the support of the Temples.

Whatever for?

Clevis sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

How many hours have we devoted to training Chlodio to become our heir? By the Scipio, he is not the material that we were hoping for. At least his loyalties are not in question.

Tell me, Chlodio, Clevis said slowly, softly and deliberately, Do you recall what the Fisc is?

Don’t take that tone with me father. Of course I do.

What is it then? Tell me!

The lands that form the personal domain of our royal family of course, Chlodio replied, mimicking his father’s deliberate tone.

And the Fisc’s purpose?

The taxes from the Fisc support our dynasty.

Do they?

Well… In years past they did but of course they don’t seem to any more.

That’s correct, my Prince. And why is that?

Chlodio shrugged. The pauperes don’t pay enough taxes.

Think you so? Do you note all the banners and pennons that decorate the rafters of this hall? These are the symbols of your glorious ancestors. The Fisc has been repeatedly divided up over the years amongst the progeny of those glorious ancestors to the point that the Fisc remaining to our family is no longer large enough to support our means. There aren’t enough pauperes living on those lands to pay the taxes we require; a fact that we are sure that you are very well aware of, given that you are constantly pestering our lord of the treasury for funds for your extravagant lifestyle.

You’re the king, father. Raise the taxes.

Faugh! How many hours have we spent trying to make you understand? We are the rulers of a federation of tribes, Chlodio. There are limits to what we can ask our Duces and Comites for. Our powers aren’t absolute in that regard, thanks to the laws established by those same illustrious ancestors. And so why do you suppose that we converted ourselves and our glorious Silvandii nation to the Jovaian faith?

I… I don’t—

You don’t know. Your younger brother does.

Paahh! My baby brother is a mother’s boy. You know this—

—Enough! If Ghert wasn’t so devoted to your mother and her pagan beliefs we’d be grooming him to be the heir this moment, not you. He’s certainly more intelligent.

The priests say he has no magickal ability. Why did you send him to the Schola?

"They said that of your mother too, but she clearly does have some ability or she wouldn’t have been accepted as a student in that nest of pestilence, Dunscáthach. And while the teachers at his Schola are critical of his progress, they do allow that your brother has some ability. Placing Ghert in the Schola removed him from his mother’s influence. The priests will work on him, reform him. It is simply a matter of time. If we can establish your