War of Princes | Chapter Nine | "Eburnean Pageantry"

Connal remains in Gallodel, exploring the riches the Eburnean city has to offer, all the while procrastinating his inevitable return to Cregeirann.

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IT WAS NEARLY a week before Connal regained full consciousness and his raging fever subsided. For weeks more, he lay in bed, a forced guest in Orthen’s hall, tended by a host of surgeons and leeches. They bled and bandaged him, mixing up strange herbal remedies, some of which they dabbed upon his wounds, others poured down his throat.

To all of this, he meekly submitted, powerless to refuse. Even Kierran’s objections were overruled. If Orthen wanted him dead, his blood poisoned or his organs punctured by a surgeon’s knife, there was little he could do to stop him.

But Orthen employed no treachery, and, in time, Connal healed. After six days of battling infection, of fading in and out of consciousness, his fever broke. Weak though he was, he could hold brief conversation and focus his tired mind on a single task. He even allowed the king’s servants to pare back his wild beard and trim his hair, now that he had fulfilled his oath.

He still lacked strength to walk, but, with help from his men or from Orthen’s pages, he would sit in the garden or high upon the wall, overlooking the South Sea. A deep yearning stirred his soul as he watched the waters roil below, the waves rising and lashing the sea wall with foaming rage.

Other times, he sat in Orthen’s hall, watching a minstrel sing, or a troupe of actors play out a drama rooted in Eburnean lore. It was like nothing he had seen before, and he found himself captivated, drawn into their strange pretend world, seeing the costumed and painted players embody great kings and queens of old, falling in heartrending tragedy, triumphing in blood-stained battles of make-believe.

Church afforded a different kind of pageantry. As a follower of Aonel, he knew the doctrine of the Faithful, and had attended Cregeirann’s church with a fair amount of regularity. But for Orthen, nothing less than every day was sufficient. The king met with his priests before the breaking of every dawn—and often again at dusk—to worship. Connal accompanied him on several occasions, marveling at the splendor of the royal chapel, an ancient building abandoned for generations, now reconsecrated to the divine. There or in one of the larger churches in Gallodel, he would sit and stand and kneel, taking in the beauty of the stained glass windows, the sweet harmonies of the singing priests, and the rich aroma of burning incense. And there he listened to Goran the Aonemb preach powerful, fiery sermons, calling the people to repentance, to cast off their false loyalties and join the Purification.

“Have you not heard what the scriptures say?” Goran cried in one such tirade. “That between the darkness and the light there can be no friendship! No half measures! No compromise!” At that last word, he slammed an open palm against the pulpit, against the very holy book itself, eliciting gasps and looks of consternation from the congregation. “Yes, no compromise! My sons and daughters, I exhort you—choose now while the time for choosing remains. We must cleanse our land while it is still in our power to do so. For the hour is fast approaching when Aonel above shall pour out his wrath upon our wayward kingdom. Like a river undammed, he shall rush upon us, washing away our iniquities. Then every sinner shall be cast into the depths of Anturr’s flaming sea—every lusting whore and God-denying heathen who pollutes our land, every wretched soul who sought a ‘middle way’ between good and evil! There they shall weep and writhe and howl without end, held in the bitter, agonizing embrace of the Drakau whom they served in the place of almighty God!”

On and on the Aonemb preached, invoking a litany of frightful images, a host of terrible punishments lying in wait for the unrepentant sinner. Connal found himself unnerved by the holy man’s sermons, by the wrath and terror of which he spoke with such conviction.

Yet he was reminded also of the dramas performed in Orthen’s court. Goran’s thundering voice possessed much of the lilting, exaggerated cadence of an actor. Raging there before the altar, the Aonemb was not unlike the doomed hero of the Tragical History of Horsgar, who, standing upon the stage, railed against unbending fate as his enemies laid waste his kingdom.

Orthen’s court offered other diversions less dire than Goran’s homilies. Often there was jousting, seemingly the Eburneans’ favorite sport. Knights from all over Orthen’s realm would gather for a grueling day of tilting, running their snorting destriers at one another, shattering lances and hurtling opponents to the dirt. He saw Sir Farras, the dark skinned Telian he would have faced before the king’s intervention, fight masterfully with sword and shield, besting many with skill and power.

Among the Eburneans, there was no greater champion than Sir Baldren. To Connal’s surprise, the Knight of Splinters, as he was called, was a terror with the lance, felling every challenger set before him, claiming the champion’s wreath to thunderous applause. Connal had to admit, though only to himself, that his judgement of Eburnean valor might have been hasty.

But of greatest interest was the king’s justice, held in the very hall in which Connal had battled for the Rigsról. Truly, it was as Kierran had told him; from the morning bell to the day’s end they came, an endless procession of subjects. Noble and common, man and woman—they knelt before the throne, presenting their grievances, seeking justice from the young king.

It was madness, really, to turn the workings of justice into a pageant, like one of the dramas acted out by the King’s Players in the evenings. Craedon would deal with such cases at times, but so too would the Elders of the Suid, or one of the many stewards of the isles. Only the most important disputes or petitions would reach the king himself. Orthen, however, seemed to make no such distinction, giving equal attention to a land dispute between knights and an argument between peasants over stolen cows.

“What think you of our justice, Lord Connal?” Orthen asked him as they sat in his chamber at the end of a particularly long day.

Over the preceding days, Orthen had addressed many such questions to him. Despite his former rage, Connal now found himself warming to this strange, pious king. After reclaiming the Rigsról, he felt empty and confused, a ship adrift without bearing or direction. And here was Orthen, brimming with holy purpose, with righteous zeal, his very certainty unnervingly compelling.

“I think you’re mad,” Connal replied.

Orthen smiled, raising a brow. “How so, my lord?”

“You spend all your time listening to these bitter farmers and jealous husbands. You have no time for real kingship.”

“And what is real kingship?”

“Make laws. Train armies. Defeat your enemies.”

Orthen laughed. “You sound like my barons. But this too is important. The people must see that I am not like my father. Nor my brother either. For too long, the commoner has gone unheeded, the figure of justice trampled underfoot. They must see that I am different, that my duty is to the people. And they will see that I was right to take the throne.”

Connal studied him carefully, saw the haunted look in the younger man’s eyes. Orthen’s certainty had weakened Connal’s antipathy; now his self-doubt made him rush instinctively to the king’s defense.

“You don’t need to justify it, lad. The crown is yours.”

Orthen lowered his eyes. “There are many still who deny it.”

“Gaillag damn them and their opinions! You are king. What use is doubting your right to rule?”

“I do not say there is use to it.”

“Then cast it off! What is done is done. Wishing it otherwise will only drive you mad.”

Orthen sighed. “I only wish it were so easy. That I had your singleness of mind. Your confidence.”

Connal shrugged. “It is easy. You told me yourself of your vision. Was it not true?”

Orthen shifted in his seat and stared into the low burning flames of the hearth. “It was. Yet sometimes I wonder, Connal. I wonder if what my enemies say is also true. That it was naked ambition that saw me take the throne. That all the talk of God and the Silence is but a holy cover for unholy greed.”

“Herriah’s bones.” Connal shook his head. “What is there to wonder? People will always talk. But you alone know your own motives. It is no use to entertain such ignorant speculation.”

“Yes,” Orthen said. “Yes, you are right. Sometimes I think it is a curse—this mind, this conscience of mine. I do not think my father ever doubted himself. Nor does Daras. He has always been so sure of his place, of his every action.”

For a while they said nothing, staring into the fire.

“Where is Daras now?” Connal asked at last.

“West,” Orthen said and again his eyes trailed back to the fire. “In Logren.”

“And that does not concern you?”

“Why should it? He is beaten.”

“Beaten but not killed. That makes him dangerous.”

Orthen’s eyes twitched and he shifted again. “Again you sound like my barons. But I will not pursue him. I never wanted war. And perhaps in time he will settle for Logren.”

“And what of your plan to break the Silence? Do you not need to rule Logren too?”

Orthen looked down again and Connal could see the war raging within him. He was torn between a saint’s zeal and a brother’s guilt.

“Perhaps,” Orthen finally said. “But perhaps Eburneum alone would be enough.”

“But you don’t even hold Eburneum.”

“I know, Connal. I know.” He stared at Connal with despair. “But the barons will come round.”

Connal said nothing, but he had his doubts. The longer he had spent in Gallodel, the more he learned of this strange land, of its customs and beliefs, and where its power lay. There were sixteen earldoms in Eburneum and in the marches of Logren, held by Eburnean lords. Only four of these earls had pledged fealty to Orthen, and, after the defeat at Gallodel, only three remained with Daras. That left nine unaccounted for. Some, the king’s men conjectured, were truly neutral and would join Orthen after he gained a more decisive victory. Others, however, were hostile to any monarch’s rule, wishing to be kings in their own right.

The northern earldoms—Norgyle, Cuarrland, and Montfair—collectively governed by the Duke of Norick, Orthen’s uncle, were among these. As soon as word reached the northern clans that Orthen had made himself king, they rose in open revolt against any and all Eburnean authority, slaughtering the garrisons of the major cities and trapping the duke himself within the castle of Slephold. This, Orthen welcomed, at least for now, for it meant that Daras’s greatest ally, their uncle, was unable to help him, unable to march south and wreak havoc on Orthen’s holdings. But it also meant that unifying the country would be extremely difficult.

Even Orthen’s mother, Elienor, the late King Branok’s widow, had turned against her younger son. As Orthen seized the city of Gallodel, she slipped across the South Sea, to the province of Salnou, which she ruled as countess. Even now, reports reached the court of her intrigues, how she treated with the princes of Breviny, using her considerable diplomatic influence to raise support for her eldest son.

Yet for now, Connal chose not to challenge Orthen, not to shatter this hope, for even false confidence was better than the self-doubt which habitually plagued him. Instead he asked a different question.

“When I came to you for justice, why did you deny me? In all the matters I have seen you judge, you are fair to the point of madness. Yet I had better cause than many whose crimes you freely forgive.”

Orthen looked up and seemed to be trying to suppress a smile. “Did you really think I would return the banner without a fight?”

“No. I thought you were a spiteful tyrant. But now that I’ve witnessed your justice firsthand, I wonder.”

“When you first entered my hall, I knew that Aonel had sent you, that you were the warrior from my vision. Yet I needed to see your power for myself. And more than that—your courage. There are few men alive who would dare what you dared. It is such courage that will bind the forces of evil, bring holy order out of chaos. You understand this, do you not?”

Connal nodded. But he was not sure he did. The king flattered him, stroked his warrior’s pride. Yet it troubled him also, the way Orthen had let his knights fight and fall, all for a mere test. It felt like betrayal. Though how it was, he could not say. His thoughts were muddled as he left for bed, dreaming of home.

♚ ♚ ♚

“Good to see you on your feet again,” Kierran said as they strolled together along the impossibly high walls of the citadel. Far below, the ocean roiled, waves lapping against the weed-crusted seawall.

Connal nodded. At last, his wounds had healed and he had grown strong enough for the briefest of walks. Though he was finding even this leisurely stroll along the wall a tiring effort.

“I suppose we are ready to sail home then?” Kierran looked at him expectantly.

“Soon.”

“Why wait? You are returned to good health. And the men grow restive.”

“Oh?” Connal paused, leaning against the battlements as he caught his breath.

“Aye.” Kierran gave a look somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “While you’ve been living the high life as Orthen’s guest, they’ve been taking in the local ‘culture.’”

“How bad is it?”

Kierran let out a deep sigh. “Bad. Every night, they frequent Gallodel’s vilest districts. Whoring and gambling, drinking and brawling. Men flock to this city from every realm, and Gallodel offers them every pleasure. I’ve never seen so many brothels gathered in one place. Imagine Olcheól, but ten times more depraved.”

“The king allows this?” Connal wondered aloud. He had heard the Aonemb Goran railing against the ‘whoredom’ of the people, had assumed the priest exaggerated, that such things could not take place in Orthen’s own city. “I would have thought he’d forbid it.”

Kierran scoffed. “If he has, the whoremongers have taken little notice. And it’s all in the districts furthest from the citadel—the docks, the Auronian quarters. The kings’ justiciars must turn a blind eye.”

Connal said nothing, and Kierran went on. “Regardless, it didn’t take long for our men to find them. And Fionn and Roras, Delar and Roal—they spend their silver like it’s their last night on earth. The men’s discipline is spent. Fionn and the others have started fights with the other patrons—Eburnean men-at-arms, Auronian mercenaries, Telian merchants. We’re one bad tavern brawl away from a bloodbath.”

Connal remained silent for some time, staring out at the waves below. The sea looked cold and grey. It reminded him of home. His mother. Ada. The grieving people of Cregeirann. He should heed Kierran’s advice—he knew he should. Return to lead his people. Yet, he found himself reticent, unable to tear away from the fascination of Orthen and his court.

“This city is diseased.” Kierran interrupted his reverie. “And the men are sick with its excess. It’s gone to their heads like the strongest mead.” He put a hand on Connal’s shoulder. “When do we leave?”

“Soon,” Connal said again. “Can you not forbid them to leave the ship?”

“Blood of Gallos!” Kierran swore. “I’ve tried. But these are free men. There is only so much I can do short of chaining them to their oars. We must go. Once the pleasures of this Eburnean hellhole are behind us, order will return.”

“Aye,” Connal said. “Aye, you’re right.”

“Yet you are loath to leave?” Kierran frowned at him.

Connal shrugged.

“Why?” The grim warrior’s voice strained with exasperation. “You’ve gained the Rigsról. What else is there?”

“Orthen has many interesting things to say,” Connal replied sheepishly.

“What is it you talk about with him?”

“He made me an offer of … of alliance.”

Kierran snorted. “And did you tell him to shove his offer up his pompous asshole?”

“I said I would think on it.”

“What’s there to think on? Would you betray your people, betray your own father’s memory, to help the very men that killed him? The king who seized the Rigsról and displayed it from his walls like a trophy! What happened to your righteous anger?”

“It is no betrayal,” Connal insisted. “The Rigsról is ours once more. Justice has been won.”

Kierran grumbled inaudibly. Then he added, “Don’t let the Suid hear you talk like this.”

The Suid. Again Connal felt a surge of panic. He remembered their censure, their threats of exile. But he remembered too the assurances Tassach had given him. Good old Shrewdtongue would keep the Elders in line, prime them for Connal’s return. And receive his reward when Connal was king.

He clapped Kierran’s shoulder. “We’ll leave soon. I swear it.”

♚ ♚ ♚

In time, Connal began to tour the city, walking amongst its crowded, suffocating lanes, mingling among the citizens and travelers from a hundred realms. He grew accustomed to the noise, the people, even the stench of excrement in the lower districts.

Everywhere, he saw the signs of Orthen’s new regime. Ancient churches that had fallen into disrepair during previous reigns were being restored, their facades polished, their interiors fitted with shining marble tiles and altars of glittering gold. The greatest among these, Orthen’s pride and joy, the Cathedral of Saint Yldegrance, dominated the skyline, its nine turrets soaring far above the city walls.

But with restoration came destruction also. The signs were clearest in the district of Larfeld, where whole streets, formerly bustling and prosperous, now lay desolate. Healers, booksellers, smiths, potion-crafters—all plying the trades of wyrmcraft, were now boarded up, their owners forced to abandon any profession that profited from heresy.

“Not a single shop left,” Kierran said, walking beside him. “He’s ruthless, your king.”

“He’s not my king.”

“You know this was said to be one of the wealthiest streets in the whole city? Look at it now.”

Connal shrugged. “They’ll find a new trade.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is your point then? You think Orthen should let these people carry on poisoning his kingdom? He should tolerate them?”

“Your father did.”

“My father did many things. Some less wise than others.”

“At least he did not drive people from their homes for practicing enchantment.”

“Maybe he should have. A land should not be divided. How can we worship Aonel with one breath, and with another openly defy him? At least Orthen is consistent. He is unifying his people. One faith. One purpose.”

“Is it consistent that he tolerates brothels, but not enchanters?” Kierran shook his head. ”And besides, forced unity doesn’t seem much of a virtue to me. Who can make such a choice for a whole people?”

“A king,” Connal said.

♚ ♚ ♚

In the morning, Connal rode out from the city itself. He was no natural rider, having little use for horses on the islands, but he managed to keep himself in the saddle, holding his mount to a leisurely trot.

Eventually, he came to the site of the great battle, where Orthen’s cunning had brought his brother’s force to ruin. The place where Craedon fell, a pawn in a foreign war. There was little sign of that slaughter. No bones or weapons lay upon the grassy field or the cobbled Telian road. It was as if it had never happened, as if the earth bore no memory of the brave men whose blood had poured out upon its rich soil.

Only a single monument stood, and it was for this that Connal had come. Kierran told him of this place; here his father was buried, together with the rest of the Ellani dead. It was a simple structure, a rough-hewn stone serving as rustic altar. And all around the stone, nine spears stood upright, driven headfirst in the dirt, ringing the tomb with a martial fence.

There were no names engraved upon the stone, for few were the Ellani who could read. But he knew it was the place, knew it as a tomb of island warriors. Deep within the earth his father’s body lay. He tried to picture him lying there, but could not. It still seemed unreal.

Connal remembered the last words they had shared, words of foolish anger. Standing before his father in a private audience, Connal had warned him not to go to Gallodel, urging him instead to strike against their true foe, Ganwae. Word had just come of how Ganwae’s captain, Halgar the Fearless, had raided Cregeirann’s ally, the large, fertile isle of Edòrn, and Connal urged his father to take decisive action against the enemy, to leave Prince Daras to fight his own war.

“I don’t trust the Eburneans,” Connal had said. “Why ensnare ourselves in a war that means nothing to us?”

“It may mean nothing to you,” his father had said. “But Branok was a good king, bringing peace and stability to Eburneum and Logren. Under his reign, trade between our islands and the mainland flourished. If this wild Prince Orthen takes power, he will throw everything into chaos and jeopardize the fragile peace of Moralann.”

“You don’t know that!” Connal shouted. “And we have a chance to shatter Ganwae’s power once and for all. He broke the treaty, just as I said he would. And now we can break him. Not just at Edòrn, but on the very shores of Bròn itself. Would you throw away that chance?”

“I throw nothing away! Ganwae’s vassal Halgar has broken faith and must be chastened. But I will hear no more of your bloody talk of conquest and destruction. Cregeirann and Bròn have been since the days of Wealan, and they shall continue long after we are dead. We must find a way to live in peace with our neighbors.”

“Peace!” Connal had raged. “There can be no peace with the wolves at our door! Age has weakened your resolve, father! You’ve lost your stomach for war!”

“And you!” His father had risen from his throne in equal rage. “You know nothing of real war! You are but a child! When you have stood in the wall of thousands, have heard the shrieks of the dying, and returned to face the grief of widows and orphans, then I will heed your ‘counsel!’”

That had stung Connal, as his father’s rage often did. “I know of duty, father. And honor too. And I say you shrink from both.”

“You dog’s turd!” Craedon seethed. “You are not worthy to be my son. Others will accompany me to war and take their share of honor. But you—you will stay amongst the women, and boast to them of your mighty deeds!”

Connal had stormed off, wallowing in smoldering wrath. Many days had passed before they spoke again, and when they did, it was in the halting awkward manner that always followed their quarrels.

Neither apologized. There could be no admission of wrongdoing. Eventually, Craedon had asked his son if he would sail with him to Gallodel. And Connal, proud and angry, refused, saying he would stay and deal with Halgar’s raiders himself. Craedon agreed at last and Connal left him before anything further could be said.

In the morning, when the Ellani ships departed for war, Connal had remained in his chambers. Swatting aside his father’s last attempt at reconciliation, he had nursed his wounded pride.

And now, kneeling before his father’s grave, the grief welled up within him. All his rage had long since fled, leaving desolation in its wake.

“You never should have gone,” Connal said at last. He wanted to say more, but even in death his father stunted his speech. He felt awkward and foolish, grieving before the tomb.

“Farewell.” He rose to his feet at last. “May your soul find rest.”

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