Stormcallers: Chapter 7
Now, let us look to the other side of the Autumn Wall, to the land known only as the Kingdom of Cast. Called the first kingdom, Cast was an ancient and once mighty land ruled over by monarchs of great wisdom and strength. The castles of Cast have stood proud and tall for many generations, rivaling the mountains in age and fortitude.
A decade ago, the High King Terythein of Cast ruled from the castle of Benhavle, Highest of all Cast. Built in the exact center of the kingdom, Benhavle was a fortress filled with towers and spires and an overabundance of stairs. His favorite castle, it was here that the High King died, passing his throne on to the next ruler of Cast.
But what do we find in the tallest tower of Benhavle, not one ruler but three; for in his foolishness the High King divided the Kingdom of Cast and bestowed a third each to his three children. Each now ruled from their own castles, and it was here at Benhavle they traveled once every year to speak to each other, the rulers of Cast.
Only the three were allowed into this room, what was once their father’s war-room and now was their council chamber. It was the one place in all of Cast where there were allowed to be three monarchs, for it was the way of Cast that there was only one Monarch, the true ruler of the land, and outside this room it was so.
Such a tale the people of Cast wove for each other! Though the Kingdom of Cast was split into three, there was only one Cast. Though the High King had crowned his three children, there was only one Monarch. Each corner of Cast swore allegiance to the one true King or Queen of Cast, and would not hear of any other, or else Cast would fracture, split along the edges like a dry crust.
The first was King Owengallon, eldest brother of the three. Second, and most important to our story, was Queen Ceinneret, The Beldamned Queen, Golden Monarch of Light, Herald of Fortune, and Blessed Mother of Cast, but this was before she acquired these honors and titles, so she was known only as Queen Ceinneret. Third was King Ardenture, youngest brother, and a fool.
In her heart, Queen Ceinneret knew the balance was broken. When her father had ruled, Cast had been a prosperous and mighty kingdom, able to resist the greed of the Herathian Empire, and protect all those who lived behind the Autumn Wall. When her father died, the three siblings had fought to maintain the tentative balance that teetered every day, threatening to topple and ruin the oldest kingdom in the whole of the cloud-sea.
But of the three, only Ceinneret was a queen, and it was rare indeed for a woman to be given power in the Kingdom of Cast. Oh, she wore the crown, the ermine robe, the purple gemstones and the silk slippers, but behind the eyes of her brothers she did not see the respect that was due to any monarch, nor the care that was due to any sibling. Where once the room had been a place of diplomacy and reason, now the room was a place of spite. Old ghosts, grudges, and words that should not have been said caked the walls.
This truth burned sharp in her breast in times such as these, when a threat to the realm was so near and yet her brothers were determined remain blind.
King Ardenture spread his arms wide, like this, and spoke he: “Not a month ago did Wendsha fall to the blood-caked Empire of Herathia. Greater Norrholt is now one, and the greedy eyes of the Red Saqur will once more turn to the Autumn Wall and the verdant lands of Cast that lie beyond it.”
King Owengallon crossed his arms across his chest, like this, and spoke he: “After the Retribution and the building of the Autumn Wall, Cast has enjoyed seven generations of peace and prosperity, while the bloodthirsty Empire turned their swords and cannons on each other. Now that the Red Saqur flies over all the houses of Greater Norrholt, they will be emboldened. The Empire does not eat because it is hungry, it will never be satisfied.”
Now Queen Ceinneret was no fool, but neither did she believe the Herathian Empire was ruled by fools. She opened her hands to her brothers, like this, and spoke she: “Cast deserves rulers who look beyond our past and into the future. The Autumn Wall has stood for as long as any of us have been alive. Even our father was not alive when the last war with Herathia was fought.”
Her brothers laughed and told her, “You are indeed a woman, dear sister. When the Saqur looks about for a new land to conquer, where will its eye fall? Not on the distant island of Aylin, with its golden rivers and untouchable farmland. Not on the icy land of Erosea, with its conniving and crafty merchant-kings. Not on the dusty land of Orghasa full of mad priests and twisting spires. Why else unite the many houses of Norrholt if not to once and for all bring down the mighty Autumn Wall and put all of Cast to the sword?”
But Queen Ceinneret knew that old blood dried cold, and so too did she know the price of keeping the blood hot, so said she: “Easy words from your lips. In our father’s wisdom, he saw that no part of your lands touch the Autumn Wall; A stone wall some twenty men tall that stretches all the way from the impassible Silver Mountains to the lands-edge. A soldier’s sword is a heavy burden, and thrice ten-thousand soldiers rest on my shoulders. It is my stores which feed this army, my land which bends to shore up the unscalable wall. It is my scouts whose eyes bend always towards Herathia, never to the land our father gave to my charge. When the harvest is poor and my people hungry, you demand I increase my burden?”
King Owengallon nodded in sage sympathy: “It is not you alone who suffers thus. The poor harvest and scant rains threaten us all with dwindling stores, and this is all the more reason to defend ourselves. When Herathia learns our people are weak from hunger, will they not strike?”
King Argenture smiled; “My stores are filled to bursting with fresh meat and grain. Perhaps it would be wise to open your ports and markets to the great bounty of Erwind.”
Now King Owengallon was no fool like King Argenture, but the poor harvest had hurt his people sorely, and so he had little option but to consider his brother’s words. But Queen Ceinneret was both proud and cautious, and spoke thus: “Your fields lie fallow, brother Argenture, and your people work to gild the coffers of distant lands. The Erwind Trade Conglomerate may bring you a bounty of food today, and for a pittance of fine cloth and perfume, but what will come tomorrow when they demand more for a crust of bread than your people can afford? Will your people till the land once more, only to starve before the first stalks are harvested? My people will provide for themselves, and never surrender their pride to serve foreign merchants.”
King Argenture spat in return: “Your people’s pride, or your own, dear sister? This unwomanly pride endangers our lands; not only in turning your gaze away from the Empire of Herathia, but too from a far greater threat.”
At those words, Ceinneret began to tap the stone table between them, like this, for this was an argument well worn among the three. Queen Ceinneret sneered at her brother, like this, in bitter recrimination. “Is this a threat that is not shared by you, Argenture? You too are not married, and have no heir.” For it was indeed the state of her progeny that worried her two brothers.
“He is younger,” Owengallon answered, “and doubtless has some bastard child somewhere to whom the crown may fall. You, dear sister, have no such child. If you were to die or yield the crown, there would be no one to take your place. A third of Cast would be without a ruler, or it would fall to our advisers to divide the land between us, only to bicker and squabble over every brook and hill.”
This was the truth, and Ceinneret knew it well. Yet she knew the other side of it and said: “I am not disposed towards creating my own usurper. Have none in your courts mentioned how unfitting it is for a Queen to rule a third of Cast? If I were to birth a prince, would there be no calls for my removal before he could walk? Or would a child king upset the balance less than a woman?”
“It is not your womb that frightens us,” said Argenture, “but your temperament. Of all the enviable parts of our father, you claimed his passion and not the prudence.”
Ceinneret threw her fist down on the table, speaking with the same firm voice and harsh tone she had heard her father use many a time on the nobles and merchants of the court. “If this is true, then you, Owengallon, took our father’s patience without his shrewdness. You, Argenture, took his ruthlessness without his charm. What threatens the balance more than anything is your belief that you are my superiors.”
Her brothers did not react to her tone, smiling as they said: “We will always be your brothers.”
Did they mean it as an expression of love, as brothers to a sister? That is not what Queen Ceinneret heard in her heart. What she felt instead was another loop of chain wrapped around her arms, a cruel attempt to bind her to their will. They could not control her with arms, so they sought to control her with shame; the shame of turning against her own blood.
What about Rukiya? Was she still aboard the Prezon?
Hush, beloved, we cannot rejoin Rukiya just yet, for there is one more we must meet, perhaps the most important of all in Rukiya’s tale.
Her name was Ysalla Aloni, Pure of Heart, She who was Victory, divine of divines, and skin of the light above; but this was before she had any name other than Ysalla Aloni. She was Wendsha born, in the town of Jarhaan, which lay halfway between the Wendsha capital and Norrholt’s edge. Jarhaan was a small town that survived on the largess of foreign traders, diplomats, and outsiders who traveled the route from the edge to the capital and back again, plying their wares and trading news.
The outsiders never stayed long, save for one. His name was Henrik, and he had traveled from the distant land of Orghasa. Son of a pigherd, Henrik had joined the Fellowship of the Light at a young age, and became a Friar in the hopes of spreading the church’s message of hope, peace, and community.
But when he arrived in Jarhaan, he did not find a town of ignorant farmers and backwards heathens who needed spiritual guidance; the people of Jarhaan followed the Creed of Cephes Dal, an ancient seer who praised the virtues of worshiping ones ancestors. Indeed, every cottage in the village had a small shrine outside where the family would pray to their departed, begging for guidance or good fortune. Their rituals were many and complex, and were as much a part of their village as the town wells. So tightly connected were the villagers of Jarhaan, that Friar Henrik could scarcely find a single welcoming ear.
But Friar Henrik did not give up. He built a small pulpit next to his cottage, and held prayers every morning, as he had been taught. He preached to the sky and the birds, the clouds and the trees, and the entire village laughed at his strange ways. He spoke of strange words in books that told him how to behave. He said that the ancestors of Wendsha didn’t concern themselves with the lives of the living, and were at peace in a place apart from the world, which was madness as there is no other place than the world.
He spoke in strange Orghasan words that no one understood, and when asked to explain it was clear he did not understand them either. He recited poems as if they were commands from a king, and told stories of fantastic animals no one had ever heard of. He pressed his forehead to the dirt and thought it a blessing. He carried with him a magic charm tied to his belt, and thought it powerful. He promised miracles and magics like the oldest sorcerers of Wendsha; fortune and comfort for the cost of a few magic words and cabalic dances. He was a mad-man, a story-teller who thought himself a wizard.
But Ysalla Aloni listened to his strange stories and asked him questions when he was finished. Of all the girls of the village, her parents despaired of ever finding her a husband. She thought too hard about things no sensible person should think about, and she asked so many questions her parents had given up answering them. They thought she was foolish because they didn’t know she saw the world from the side.
Then one day, she told her mother that she was going to be Friar Henrik’s apprentice.
Her mother was furious; It was an impossible thing for Ysalla to apprentice herself to a man. Women did women’s work, and men did men’s work. If she had wanted to commune with the spirits and learn deeply of their secrets, she could speak with Mother Basugi and learn at her knee.
But Ysalla didn’t want to become a Seer of Copal Naon, like Mother Basugi. She wanted to think about Friar Henrik’s stories, and sweep his cottage while she did so.
Of all the chores she ever did, Ysalla enjoyed sweeping the most. It suited her talents, which were a focused mind and a desire to see a job well done. The floor provided ample canvas for her broom to cover, and the winds of Wendsha were constantly covering the Friar’s floor in dust, leaves, and dirt.
Friar Henrik taught Ysalla his strange Orghasan language, while Ysalla taught him Wendshan. He read to her from his book, and she in turn told him the stories her mother had taught her, and to her amazement, he listened as she had listened to him. He asked her about Jarhaan and the people who lived in it. He asked her about the ancestors and the shrines.
“You are not my apprentice,” he said one day with a laugh, “you are my teacher!” ‘Teacher’ was a different word for Ysalla to understand. It was like a vinyari, but one who didn’t listen. Then there was ‘student,’ which was a vinyari who never spoke.
“Perhaps someday,” she answered, “I will travel to your island Orghasa to be a Friar to them. I should like to be a Friar some day, so that I could travel to different islands and be with the people there.”
The words hurt Friar Henrik’s heart, for he knew that Ysalla could never be a Friar. To be a woman in the Fellowship of the Light was to be a nun, and the nuns of the Fellowship were bound by ancient law; never to speak, never to preach, only to serve and give service to the Priests and Bishops and Cardinals and Exarchs. Never to the Ecclesiarch; no woman could look upon him and live.
But the blessed Friar Henrik, his heart was strong and his humility even stronger. He saw in Ysalla one who could do what he could not, and so he taught her of the two languages of every people: those of the tongue, and those of the heart.
What is a language of the heart?
Ysalla was as confused as you were, beloved. The language of the heart are the words that are never spoken, but still are felt. Every island, every nation, every town has its own. Friar Henrik, clever as he was, taught Ysalla through a story he had never told her before: the tale of Wise Draka and the frog.
Now Ysalla loved hearing the tales of Wise Draka, but she had never seen a frog, so Friar Henrik had to change the story, thus: “The wise Draka walked through his kingdom, and spied a single fish in a pond. ‘Greetings, most noble fish,’ he said, ‘you are the most beautiful fish I have seen today.’ ‘Not only am I most beautiful,’ the fish replied, ‘but I am most strong, most fast, most brave, most loud…I dare say we are equals, wise Draka.’ ‘Oh, are you as loud as I?’ wise Draka asked. ‘I should like to hear you shout like this.’ and he took a deep breath and shouted so that the forest on the other end of his kingdom quaked at the sound.’ ‘Easy,’ the fish said, and roared as loud as it could. ‘I could not hear you,’ said Draka, for the fish could not roar loudly at all. So the fish took a breath so deep that it burst open and died in its pond.”
“What a horrible tale,” Ysalla said when the tale was done. “You never told me that the Wise Draka could be so cruel.”
“Cruel?” Friar Henrik raised a finger in caution. “Perhaps to a Wendshan it is a story of a cruel man who tricks a poor fish into killing itself. To the Fellowship, however, it is a tale of a boasting prideful frog, who suffers great misfortune for trying to bring down another who is greater than itself.”
Ysalla knew a Wendshan tale that taught such a lesson: “That is our story of the hawk and the wolf.”
“We have the same tale,” Henrik nodded, “only in Orghasa it is the greet and the fox, and the greet does not challenge the fox, but simply lives out of reach of the foxes hungry jaws. In Orghasa, it is not a story about a prideful hawk brought low by its hubris, but a clever fox who overcomes an insurmountable obstacle. This is the language of the heart. It is how we still speak different languages, even when we use the same words.”
Ysalla was delighted at the lesson, and resolved to never forget it. With her help, Friar Henrik was able to turn his preachings into a language that could be heard by the hearts of Jarhaan, and before the end of the season, his sermons became acts of kindness and grace. He gave freely to those in need, and spent more time in the fields of others than his own. He spoke at town festivals, and in the square before dusk.
The people of Jarhaan were amazed and astounded at his transformation. Before long, he was a voice of comfort to the misfortunate, the outcast, and the downtrodden. The village was grateful for his presence, and he could finally call Jarhaan his home.
And so it would have gone for many years, had the Herathian Empire not claimed Wendsha for its own.