OoOoO
Mahir was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with him. Not anything simple, like a bellyache or a bad habit, no. The king of Goran worried that he was simply not as fit to rule as his forebears had been.
It wasn't that Mahir disliked his lot in life, far from it in fact. His chest swelled with pride even to think about the long line of conquerors, guardians and guides of the realm from which he descended. To wear the crown of Goran upon his brow was an honor which he would never take lightly, ever.
The fact remained though that never before in the history of his proud nation had a king or queen of Goran been beset by impending civil war. O certainly, there would always be the malcontents of a generation; rabble-rousers with no better purpose in life than to make themselves feel important by decrying those of higher station and ability. The unrest in the south was quickly ballooning into more than the local magistrates could handle however. The visit from Enidu LawKeeper of Danitesk had made that plain, in front of the entire court no less. The unblemished reign which the Amentherian dynasty had held over Goran for centuries was beginning to wear visibly thin around its southern edges...on Mahir's watch.
A long huff of frustration finally escaped Mahir, and he slumped forward at his desk. What would his father, King Maheadron have done? What would Queen Iselde before him have done? His eyes slid once again to the missive newly arrived from Moaan, even though he had already read it twice before.
"...two ships lost to piracy between Beson Inlet and the Bay of Torbos in the past week. No reported loss of life, cargo forfeit in exchange for safe passage upon threat of being scuttled. Goods lost include leather goods, raw metal ores and money. Pirates of southern heritage, captaining various small vessels and flying a black spot rampant on white..."
So it seemed that these so called 'Factionists' had turned to the shipping lanes between Moaan and Derbesh as a means of supply. It was not lost on Mahir that there had been no reports of theft from civilian vessels, only galleys bearing the crest of Amenthis. If the eimirs in the east thought that the crown was stinting them on their trade goods...well, even Ellorae's marriage to Lord Rhadu would do little to keep the unruly clansfolk in the fold.
"Trouble from the south, trouble from the east, and now trouble from within!" Mahir ground out aloud to no one in particular. The only answer was a breath of wind from outside which stirred the cloth-of-gold curtains with a hssssssh. The sundial at the window told him it was nearly mid-afternoon. Hithon would soon be waiting for him.
"Trouble, Your Grace?"
Captain Sabin stood in the doorway, posture rigid as was the northern wont. His black eyes watched the king with veiled unease. Few outside of the Captain of the Knights of Amenthis knew of Mahir's troubled state of mind these days.
"Just thinking aloud, Sabin," said Mahir, pulling himself together and leaning back in his chair. "Thinking that this affair with the Obads could hardly have come at a worse time. Could Tomur have not chosen any other year to prove himself false?"
"The matter has been handled quietly and internally, Your Grace. No one save The Knights, the Magicol and your immediate family know the truth of Tomur's sudden 'retirement'. None need suspect anything but strength and a unified front from within these walls."
"The Knights, the Magicol, and my family," Mahir mused. "None of the three of which I trust in their entirety anymore." When Sabin bristled slightly, Mahir soothed his captain with a wave. "I refer not to you, of course, Captain. Still, I fear I must grow paranoid if I am to weather this unstable time with my son's inheritance intact."
When Sabin said nothing, Mahir reached out to tap a finger on the letter from Moaan, still crusty from the heat of the salty southern sun.
"What progress on the search for the reputed Factionist ringleader, the woman they call BlackPearl?"
"Our ears in the south have heard much, but their eyes seen comparatively little, Your Grace," replied Sabin. Mahir, having never been overly fond of northern wordplay, narrowed his mouth into a dissatisfied line, prompting Sabin to explain. "Rumors fly as thick as flies in the air along the docks. It took some work to parse through the mystique the everyday folk seem to have built up around this woman. Folk in Moaan who claim to have witnessed her speak to her followers say that she has a blade to whet with you, Your Grace."
Mahir snorted. "Well that much is obvious."
"Not just politically, Your Grace, but personally," Sabin continued, undeterred. "From what our sources say, she holds you personally responsible for the demise of her wedded family, as well as for her own past sufferings." Mahir's eyebrows shot up, but the captain was not finished. "She uses her own example to stoke the fires of others' perceived slights from the crown. There is something else though-"
"Something useful, I hope?"
Sabin frowned, his lips twitching as if suppressing a habitual gesture to chew his thin black mustache. "Perhaps. Unless half of our sources are liars, there seems to be a certain degree of impossibility to the BlackPearl's movements. One day she is spotted in Moaan, the next in Danitesk over sixteen leagues away. Even on horseback, the jungle through that area is far too thick to travel in a day. And yet, the reports of rallies being led by a southern woman on an impossible timeline continue to come to us."
Mahir considered this for a minute. A thought came to him then, and he had to bitterly congratulate the BlackPearl on her cleverness before voicing his idea aloud. He could tell by the look on Sabin's face that the other man's mind had come to a similar conclusion already.
"It seems we have a double-act on our hands, Captain," said Mahir.
"Indeed, two separate women acting under the same name and flying the same flag; the simplest and most likely explanation, Your Grace."
"For a two-headed snake, we will need a two-headed spear." Reaching into his desk, Mahir pulled out blank sheet of paper. He smoothed it out with his palms before reaching for a quill, tapping the ink off its point and gathering his words. "On land, I will be upping the bounty for anyone who can bring me either of these BlackPearls; one-hundred Sols and a title of minor nobility. That should be enough to whet the appetite of any determined social climbers in the south." As an afterthought, he added another line. "And fifty Sols and a Medallion of Amenthis for anyone who produces the man known as Wasani, an attempted king slayer."
Quill scratching across the paper, Mahir quickly jotted down the decree, leaving room for his tall, sloping signature and the royal seal at the bottom. Sabin waited patiently on the other side of the desk, hands still tucked tightly to his sides.
"And then from the seas..." Mahir shifted down a line. "...it is time to reinstate the Goran Navy. The swiftest and newest of the shipping galleys are to be outfitted for combat at sea, with proper warships to be set into production at our carpentry yard. Any army recruit with knowledge of the sea is to be reassigned from their current company to the navy. I want ships to patrol the southern coastline, with orders to fire on any vessel flying the black spot."
"Forgive me Your Grace, but is the royal treasury prepared to accommodate such an undertaking?"
Mahir signed his name at the bottom of the proclamation with a determined flourish before rolling it up and handing it to Sabin.
"They will be once Rhadu's bride-price for Ellorae arrives. That is, assuming the Factionists don't pirate that too on its way from Derbesh."
OoOoO
Once Sabin had been dispatched to put his orders into action, Mahir took a moment to tuck the letter concerning the Factionist attacks away in the bottom of his desk. He didn't expect for anyone to be bold enough to snoop in the king's office, but then he wouldn't have expected anyone to try to murder him in his own bed either.
On his way out the door, he paused at a mirror set in a heavy frame embossed with curling golden leaves. The purple seam of his split lip was smoothing, as were the bruises beneath his cheekbone. Mahir closed his eyes and for a moment saw the gleam of candlelight on the blade in the assassin's hand. That wasn't a sight he'd forget any time soon. Neither was Hithon's frightened cry when he'd awoken. For that more than his own pains, Mahir vowed to ensure Wasani died screaming.
Taking a moment to straighten the crown where it sat on his dark curls, Mahir stared up into the reflection of the blood red ruby set front and center. His kingdom had been forged in blood. The blood of beasts, yes, but bloodshed all the same. Perhaps it was not so much that he himself was failing, but that he was being put to the test. Perhaps, like King Amenthis himself, he would have to earn the crown of Goran with violence. The redness of the ruby gleamed dully back at him; a third eye, challenging him to live up to the legacy of his conqueror ancestor.
Knowing that he was likely already late, Mahir used a less-traveled back stairway to descend down through Castle Armathain. Hithon, being the gentle boy that he was, would hardly begrudge him for it though. Still, Mahir chastised himself firmly enough for two. Fate had left Hithon without a mother, far be it from Mahir himself to orphan his son through royal obligations.
He found Hithon with his dancing tutor in one of the palace's many studios. The line of open windows cast long sunbeams across the polished floorboard and highlighted tiny motes of dust gliding in midair. A cellist sat to one side, accompanied by a drummer and a violinist. The three watched Lady Tellanis, the Royal Mistress of Dance, for any sudden cues. Her eyes were only for the pair stepping patterns about the room though.
Hithon's dancing partner was well chosen; a girl small for her age with tiny, nimble feet. The prince struggled with taking an assertive lead, a flaw which Mahir saw persisting even with Tellanis' constant correction over the years. Even from the doorway, Mahir could tell that the little girl had to work hard to keep from overstepping Hithon. Still, Hithon's footwork and posture were excellent. Mahir was glad his son had inherited that much from his late mother.
It was very much for Hithon's sake that Mahir worked so hard now to keep the realm tight in check. Any weakness he showed now could only hurt Hithon when the time came for him to make his throne.
Mahir loved Hithon dearly. Still, it would taste of a lie for the king to say that he did not wish from time to time that his son was made from sterner stuff. The young prince was as kind as a nurse and as accommodating as an innkeeper. Neither of those professions was equal to the demands of kingship though. Unless Mahir settled the rising unrest in the south and in the east, and quickly so that time might smooth it all over as a rebellious phrase, he feared that Hithon might find himself challenged from all sides. Challenged for the crown... The thought nearly made Mahir shudder despite the warmth of the studio.
"Very nicely done, Your Grace...Lady Genevierre." Tellanis was calling an end to the music, drawing the attention of her young pupils. The children quickly broke apart from their awkward hold on each others' shoulders and waists. "Now then, perhaps an eastern beat?"
"It seems hardly likely that we'll have need of clan dances here in the capital, don't you think?" Little Lady Genevierre turned up her button nose with a sniff.
Tellanis clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Now now my lady, you may yet be surprised. With Princess Ellorae wedding the eimir of Clan A'Khet, a diplomatic visit from Derbesh in the future is hardly unthinkable."
Trying to lift his dancing partner's sudden low mood, Hithon smiled encouragingly at her. "Perhaps one day my aunt will bring us with her to visit Derbesh. Then we'll have to know their dances. But we could also see the famous Golden Mirror, or the griffin races!"
Somehow Mahir very much doubted that the gambling, cheating and drinking known to be associated with griffin races would ever be an appropriate venue in which to find the prince of Goran. Still, he chuckled softly at his son's youthful aspirations. The sound drew Hithon's attention to where he stood. A smile of mingled happiness and relief lit up the boy's face, while all the others bowed or curtsied in deference to their king.
"Father! Do you think someday we might go to visit Aunt Ellorae and her new husband?"
"Someday," said Mahir. When the east has been reminded that even their first Wal paid tribute to the king in Amenthere, he added silently to himself.
A sudden thoughtfulness came over Hithon. "Although I'm still to call him 'Lord Rhadu' in public, will he now be 'Uncle' to me in private?"
If only money forged family ties so easily, thought Mahir. What he said was "It is unlikely that you and Lord Rhadu shall ever find yourselves together in private. As prince of Goran though, you may call him what you wish."
That answer seemed to be enough for Hithon, who went back to trying to coax some enthusiasm out of prim Lady Genevierre for the broad, sweeping steps of a clan dance.
Mahir stood to one side, watching for a short while longer. It was not often that he had the time to spare to stay and watch an entire lesson, and so Mahir did not worry that Hithon would miss him when he slipped away less than half of an hour later. He had a meeting with the judges of Amenthere that afternoon regarding the criminalization of Factionist symbolism. And he was expecting an important missive from the mid-east any day now.
A sudden urge to follow that line of thinking put Mahir on a path toward the stairs. Downward and downward he followed the twisting path, past hallways lit with crystal chandeliers and landings adored by artfully carved marble rails. He even descended down past the ground level of Castle Armathain. Here, below the surface, the stairwell took on a darker, older feel to it.
At last, nearly a dozen floors down from where he started, Mahir left the stairs and set off down a long, dim corridor. It was a nearly lost piece of knowledge regarding the castle that the Magicol used to quarter underground beneath the Hall of Thrones. The philosophy behind the architecture was that the monarch's power sprung from the roots of Obads' magic.
Oh, but of course...! A thought nearly brought Mahir up short. Suddenly the placement of Hithon's Tree upon the dias in the Hall of Thrones seemed less aesthetic and more political. Of course Master Tomur would have known about these chambers, the once home of the Magicol. To have grown a literal symbolic representation of the royal bloodline from the spot beneath which once sat the heart of Obad magic in Castle Armathain was to subtly reassert the debt which the heirs of Amenthis would always owe. Even blinded and banished, it seemed Tomur would be forever leering at Mahir whenever he saw that golden tree.
That was twice now today that his enemies had proven their cunning. Was a net being laid around Amenthere, set to snare himself and Hithon in the ambitions of its weavers?
There was no doubt now in Mahir's mind; to set the kingdom back to rights, he would have to counter new-age plots with old-world weapons. It was here, in the original lair of the Magicol where Mahir's father had happened upon the secret which would save the crown.
OoOoO
King Maheadron had had plans for restoring the basements of Castle Armathain, grand plans involving art galleries and a museum for relics of the kingdom. Maheadron and a crew of architects came down here when Mahir himself was only a youth. However, within a day of beginning, they found something which halted plans for reconstruction immediately. The High Obad Lirien had been called down from the Tower of the Elements, and together she and the king disappeared into the forgotten reaches of the palace.
Brimming with unrestrained curiosity, Mahir had followed his father and the High Obad. By following the light of their torch around corners, he stayed just far enough behind to avoid their notice while still listening to every word they said, courtesy of the echoing stone walls. King Maheadron had shown his discovery – or rather rediscovery – to Lirien, and she immediately all but demanded that this part of the castle be left undisturbed. To a young Mahir's surprise, Maheadron agreed, and the next day the underground corridor was sealed.
Over the years, the discovery beneath the castle grew lesser and lesser in Mahir's mind, especially when he met and courted the beautiful Lady Gwynnis Iralar of Vaelona. It hadn't been until five years ago, when by chance a servant had gotten lost down here and found the sealed doorway, that Mahir remembered the lost secret. The very next day, despite Lirien's protests from her deathbed, Mahir had sent a team of strong men down to reopen the chamber. What they found inside seemed disappointingly inconsequential...until Master Tomur saw it too.
The soon-to-be High Obad had gasped aloud when he stepped into the long, cavernous space. Running the length and breadth of the Hall of Thrones above, the space seemed a dark, ghostly echo of the majesty it supported. Half-rotten furniture sat forlornly against the walls, unused for a century or more. The rugs, once no doubt rich and soft, sank heavy with black mould beneath their shoes. The only thing of any beauty remaining in the chamber could never have accompanied the Magicol to its current home in the Tower regardless.
Covering every inch of the shallowly bowled ceiling was an enormous fresco. The paint was faded and dull around the edges, but the scene remained intact. It was a once-magnificent piece of art to be sure, but still Mahir did not understand why Tomur reacted with such startled wonder when he saw it.
"So it is true!" Tomur had cried out, mouth working beneath the black and white whiskers of his beard. "I thought it was just a grandiose myth, something made up by the common folk..."
"What myth, Tomur?" Mahir's bemusement had been hard to keep from coloring the question. "Everyone knows the taming of Goran by King Amenthis and his followers to be fact."
Sure enough, the fresco showed in exquisite detail a scene of conquerors and creatures. At the four corners of the dome, dragons, sea serpents, giants and ghosts quailed before the figures at the center. Their grotesque features and inhuman forms were made even more exaggerated by the highlighting gold, silver and bronze paint used by the artist. By contrast, King Amenthis, Wal Anders and Sei Aryna still looked regal and fair despite the weathering of the ages. The first three stood facing outward, banishing the ancient beasts of Goran with pointed fingers. It was easy to see though that the creatures fled not out of respect for their authority, but out of fear of their companions.
Painted in a ring between the King, Wal and Sei and their bestial enemies stood four Obads. To the north, a Green Obad drove a giant before him with raining spikes of iron. To the east, a dragon roared impotently, its fiery breath snuffed by a Red Obad. In the south the power of a Blue Obad stiffened and froze a sea serpent within a solid block of ice. Finally, a Grey Obad blew apart ghosts like mist in the wind.
It was a grand scene; one which Mahir would very much have liked to see displayed somewhere more public. He wondered aloud at why his father and High Obad Lirien would have halted plans for an art gallery. Tomur had fixed him with a look so incredulous that for a moment Mahir had felt like a fool. Then he had just felt irritated.
"Whatever is the matter with you? You and Lirien both?!" Mahir had demanded.
"Your Grace," said Tomur. "Look at the Obads. Look, and truly see them."
Growing more annoyed by the minute, Mahir had stood staring at the fresco for a long time. Beyond the obviously grand displays of elemental magic, he saw no particular reason for a reaction beyond artistic appreciation.
Tomur had been perceptive enough to realize that whatever it was he was seeing was not translating to mundane eyes. Stepping in, he had pointed out something that seemed entirely natural given the context of the picture.
"They are dressed as a king's champions...and their eyes are open."
Sure enough, it was so. Now Mahir had actually taken note of the historical armor in which the painted Obads stood arrayed. Tomur was right; they did look like champions. Shown like this, the Obads seemed more heroic conquerors in their own right than even Amenthis and his counterparts did. With storms swirling between their fingertips and fire blazing in their eyes, the power of the Obads suddenly both intimidated and impressed Mahir. These were not the closeted scholars he knew; these were mighty and dangerous sorcerers.
"Tomur..." Mahir had said, realization still dawning. "...are you implying that the Obads could use their magic while conscious?"
"Not just conscious, Your Grace, but fully aware and capable of independent action! You see here, how the Obads are in motion, their leading leg extended as though to advance on their foes?"
"And do you believe that, if it were possible once, it might be possible once again?"
At the time, Tomur had not hesitated to ponder the question. It had not yet dawned on him the full implications of such a discovery, although it had for Mahir. Even then, in a time of peace, Mahir had been a man of action.
"It would be difficult...experimental even. There is great risk involved with potentially losing control of a spell, or even worse, having it rebound on the caster."
Mahir had seen the eager gleam of a scientist posed with new horizons in Tomur's eye though. He immediately granted Tomur authorization to proceed with attempts to learn casting without the trance until then assumed to be one-in-the-same as magic.
Tomur had however insisted upon taking one precaution. He and he alone undertook the dangerous research into waking magic. Even when pressed on the hypothetical future where he succeeded, Tomur still stood firm. He would not teach others in the Magicol such a skill until he was certain he understood its every nuance and implication.
Little did Tomur know that his precautions were for naught. An ambitious young Red Ovate had discovered his teacher's experiments, late one night while sneaking about the castle on his way to the kitchens. Thankfully, Frandel's ambition had been such that, despite having to listen and watch through a keyhole, he had managed to glean the secret of waking magic from an unknowing Tomur.
After becoming High Obad, Tomur had eventually discovered Frandel's new ability during an ordinary lesson. He had forbidden the Red Ovate from ever practicing such magic again, upon risk of punishment from the king himself.
It had been an empty threat, of course. Rather than obey, Frandel had bided his time, becoming a full Obad and continuing to practice in secret. When the day at last came that Frandel had taken the risk of going to Mahir and telling all, including his desire to see the Obads resume their full power as champions of the king, Mahir had been quietly elated. For years Tomur had been stalling Mahir with claims that his attempts at waking magic were unsuccessful. Frandel's story not only proved that the current High Obad was willing to lie to his king, but that there were powerful, ambitious individuals in the next generation of Obads who were of a like mind to Mahir himself.
Only half-pretending to be wary and impressed with Frandel's abilities, Mahir had promised the Red Obad his personal protection. The problem had arisen when Mahir began to ask after what knowledge his fellow peers might have. Through his glib, dismissive answers, Frandel revealed himself to be an outsider, a wildcard without influence within the Magicol. No, that would not suit. If Mahir was to have a cadre of elemental warriors serving him, he would need to know that they could be controlled. Frandel was not the right man for the job.
That had left Mahir in a quandary. For a time he had stewed on the knowledge, all the while assuring Frandel that he could continue to expand on his skills so long as he did so in secret. Then the Factionist issue had arisen. That at least had provided the perfect arena for a field test of this new range of Obad magic. He had requested that Tomur dispatch Frandel to eastern Goran on pretext of scouting for new students. It was the perfect bait; everyone knew how much Tomur enjoyed doting on his precious Ovates. Still the question had remained of how to secure the Magicol before unleashing such power within it.
It had been both a surprise and an unexpected opportunity when the Blue Obad Margalee and Master Tomur had been arrested in connection to his attempted assassination. Although Mahir had been loathe to lose a member of the younger generation of Obads, two positive outcomes had come as compensation. Not only was stubborn, unmoving, and untrustworthy Master Tomur at last removed from the seat of High Obad, but the resulting void had produced the answer to his prayers.
Red Obad Arzai was both highly intelligent and deeply traditional, two things which meshed well with Mahir's intentions for the Magicol. Frandel had never spoken highly of her, and so Mahir had never really given her much consideration. It turned out he had been mistaken in that regard. When faced with a threat to the Magicol, Arzai had stepped up on demand, overridden any protests from Tomur's compatriot Bvhoros, and reaffirmed the bond between the Obads and the crown. By all accounts, Arzai was absolutely perfect for Mahir's requirements from a new High Obad. She was authoritative enough to control the Magicol, and yet insecure enough in her new position to find relief in her king's support. So long as she was strong enough to manage Frandel when he returned, then Mahir would do the rest when it came to forcing Frandel to share waking magic with the others. Between himself and Arzai, Mahir could already envision a scene much like the fresco in the abandoned chamber coming to life on the battlefield, this time with the Factionists fleeing before them...
OoOoO
These grand thoughts brought Mahir back to where he stood, here and now, in the shadowy gloom of the Magicol's former home. Until the power of the ancient Obads had taken root and flourished within the Magicol, this place would remain a secret.
Since the days of Amenthis, Goran had enjoyed centuries of peace. That peace had allowed for poet kings and agrarian queens. Mahir hoped that Hithon would be free to join the ranks of generations of peaceful, prosperous monarchs. For himself though, he held different aspirations. In order to secure the future for his son, Mahir would look to a different sort of role model. He raised his lantern toward the ceiling, illuminating King Amenthis where he loomed overhead. Even the cobwebs clinging to the plaster did not hide the golden gleam of Amenthis' sword. The bloody ruby of the crown shone up from Mahir's brow at its painted twin.
"When there is peace, we shall have scholars," Mahir said, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. "And when there is war, we shall have warriors."
OoOoO