The Consuls of the Vicariate (13 page)

Griffinwold waved at the serving maiden. “Bring us a feast to rival that of the palace, and as quick as you can. I starve!”

“So, you dislike the current circumstances?” Jurgen asked once the maiden left to fetch the order. “I’ve been discontent since I heard rumors of priests training in miracles of an offensive nature—battle spells, as mages would call them.”

“What sane man could like them? If we train as mages, are we not mages ourselves, the very thing we hope to avoid? Though I am Lasoronian, I do not follow blindly, a behavior many of my Falacoran allies failed to unlearn after the War of the Eagles.”

“The War of the Eagles, yes, and the Zyvdredi influences. I’ve never truly understood the relationship between Falacore and Zyvdred, Winfred. It seems… complex.” Jurgen grinned at the serving maiden when she brought a round of drinks.

“Zyvdred, yes. It has long been a protectorate of Falacore, a place whose mystery is surpassed only by the strangeness of its inhabitants. In the black mountains, they practice old rituals and even older magic, and they rarely pass their borders for anything other than trade. Little is known about what goes on deep within that country, but the Falacoran monarchy maintains close ties. The only certainty is that strange beasts and men live in those isolated reaches, and few dare to venture there.”

Valyrie toyed with her salad, removing unwanted bits from the pile.
I’ve never understood why rich people like onions on everything
.

“Perhaps I shall never understand it. I would think a nation as strong in the faith as Falacore would impress Azura’s teachings upon the Zyvdredi,” Jurgen said.

Griffinwold gave a dismissive nod. “It seems strange, does it not? I’ve been told that the Zyvdredi maintain their old ways, and the Falacorans can do little to change that, no matter how much they try. Besides, sometimes I think their King Elson keeps up the relationship only to have his hand in everything within his reach.”

“One day, perhaps.” Jurgen sipped from his cup. “But, as you were saying…”

“Yes, the matter at hand,” Griffinwold said, snatching a fresh roll from the basket as soon as it landed on the table. “It would seem you mean to stand between the Grand Vicar and his army. You make dangerous enemies, Aldric.”

“The church was never meant to fight wars of conquest. I feel this entire situation has gone too far.”

“Wars of conquest? You mean of defense, don’t you?” Griffinwold eyed Jurgen for a moment. “Or has Aldric Jurgen come across some new information?”

Valyrie stared at her lap, refusing to look any of the men in the eye. The full reality of the situation gripped her mind; she was seated across from the Lasoronian
vicar primus
and his associates, and Jurgen had let down his guard at a dangerous time.
Please, think of something
, she thought, as if to will the notion into Jurgen’s head.

Jurgen sat for a long while, seeming to ponder his answer at length. “Yes.”

Griffinwold’s eyes brightened. “Yes? That’s it?”

“If I tell you these things that I know, you and your friends shall join me in danger.” Jurgen paused, studying each man’s features. “Your expressions tell me that you are prepared to hear the truth.”

“Tell it, Jurgen,” Griffinwold whispered, evidently aware he was missing a piece of the puzzle. “What have we been denied?”

Here it comes
. Valyrie closed her eyes. She only hoped that the words crossing Jurgen’s lips would be well received, or Jurgen and she would be making a trip to the nearby prison for a prolonged stay.

“I have been in contact with a sorcerer, and he has advised me of some rather grim news—the truth of what happened, how this war started. The Morcaine mage academy was attacked preemptively… by Gustav Drakar.”

“You, Jurgen? Approached by this sorcerer?”

“Yes. I know it may be difficult to believe, but I assure you that this is the truth.”

“I knew it,” the man across from Valyrie said, his accent crisp and posh. “Why would Sorbia declare war upon us out of nowhere? I never bought it for a second.”

“You’ll have to excuse Vicar Carrenhold,” Griffinwold said. “His disdain for Tristan comes from a constant disrespect—”

“Disrespect?” Carrenhold asked. “That’s putting it lightly.”

Griffinwold bowed slightly. “Yes, the Grand Vicar gives him fits about his being from Albiad and their inability to help us in this war. He’s shown disdain for me, being that I am Lasoronian, but he gives Carrenhold hell. Go on, Jurgen.”

“Gustav and his men massacred the Sorbian mages, then fled. His death is the result of his own misdeeds, and I feel that His Holiness knows the truth, but keeps it from us.”

“Then we must do something,” Griffinwold said. “This war is a farce.”

“That is what I’ve been working toward these many days. I want to see this war ended and its true reason known—and those who are responsible punished.” Jurgen took a piece of meat from a serving tray. “We must find a way to remove Tristan from the Vicariate.”

“And who did you have in mind to replace him, Vicar Jurgen?” Vicar Tumolt asked.

“This isn’t about me, if that’s what you are implying.” Jurgen sighed. “I have no great aspirations. I only want what is best for the church, and I can assure you that Andolis Drakar no longer works toward that end.”

“Spoken like a
true
Grand Vicar.” Griffinwold swatted Jurgen on the shoulder. “Said by the kind of man we need leading the church in these harsh and uncertain times.”

“Do what you will once Tristan is gone, but until that day comes, our work lies unfinished. Good day to you, gentlemen. We shall speak more of these things when there is need.” Jurgen stood and exchanged embraces and goodbyes with each of them, then led Valyrie out of the restaurant.

“Will you take the throne if offered?” Valyrie asked once they were on the street.

“Perhaps. If Azura wills it through her consuls, I would serve, but we needn’t concern ourselves with such things at this juncture.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“For now, we continue going to the consulship to make sure Andolis doesn’t do any more damage. We must also send word to the others.”

“How?”

“I shall prepare missives, and you’ll take them around. If I were to go, it would put our friends in even more danger.”

Jurgen opened the door of their assigned house, closing it behind Valyrie. “You shall deliver these letters.” He sat at the writing desk and scribbled notations, then handed them to her. “I wrote them in the form of a journal in case they are read by our enemies. Go quickly. First to the militia for Laedron and Marac, then to the headquarters.”

She turned toward the door.

“Oh, and take this,” Jurgen said, removing his Azura’s Star brooch from his robe. “No one will trouble you while you wear it.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll remain here until you return. Be swift.”

“Alone?” she asked.

Jurgen patted her on the arm. “If they were to come for me, little would stand in their way. Go.”

* * *

She arrived at the militia headquarters and found a guardian standing post outside the front door. “I have correspondences.”

“For Greathis? Third floor—”

“No, these are for two others. They joined recently. One with black hair and dark blue eyes, thin, and the other had brown hair and eyes to match. Bigger fellow.”

“They’d be on the second floor with the other new ones. On the right, miss.”

“You haven’t seen these two before?”

The guard chuckled. “Based upon the details provided, you’ve described half of the regiment. Good evening.”

“Sorry,” she said, her cheeks warming from the embarrassment. “I’ll find them.”

Once on the second floor, she found Laedron and Marac in their sleeping quarters. They were dressed in uniforms of the militia, a stark contrast to the plain clothes they normally wore.

“Jurgen sends news.” She handed Laedron the missive.

“Not as grave as the other news we’ve received, I pray.” Laedron passed her a rolled parchment. “This was left in our room while we were out. Found it this morning.”

She unfurled the parchment.

The meeting with our lady has gone well. Make yourself available around the Ancient Quarter and our holy friend’s new home, and keep a good eye out. The time nears. –Your Confessor.

“Your Confessor?” she asked.

“Piers.” Laedron sighed. “When I thought I was going to die by his hand, I begged that he take my life and spare you and the others. I said… too much, but in hindsight, it’s better that I did.”

“Will you two be close to us?” She tried her best not to plead for their protection. “We’re near the west end of the Ancient Quarter.”

“Of course,” Marac said, sheathing his sword at his hip. “We’re assigned a route that takes us near where you’re staying. Don’t worry.”

If only it were that easy
. “Thank you. I have more to deliver, so I will be off before it gets late. All the best.”

“Are you well?” Laedron asked.

“As well as can be expected in these times.”

“I can’t disagree. I hope we’ll see you again soon, and under different circumstances.”

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The Lost Militia