Stormcallers: Chapter 18

What of Queen Ceinneret? She now sits on her mighty throne in the Palace of Trethewey, mighty capital of her Kingdom. See her sitting there, tall and proud, among the nobles of her court. Hear them whisper and mutter among themselves as they play their games of intrigue. Scoundrels birthed scandal while ill-planned marriages bred ill-will and poor progeny. Bitter rivalries begat feuds that spilled across the court like tossed wine. Queen Ceinneret sat and watched, her heart aching in sympathy to those hapless nobles who found themselves too far involved in dangerous or uncertain schemes. She delighted in marriages that managed to be both of circumstance and romance entwined, and yearned to challenge the boisterous and pigheaded peacocks who strutted about challenging others with their own ill-thought and poorly framed opinions.

But alas, poor Queen Ceinneret, she was a monarch of the realm, and so she locked her heart away to rule without bias or inclination. Like her father, she saw her heart as an obstacle to be overcome, as she listened impartially to every lord and lady who entered her court.

Now, the petty intrigues of the court bring no comfort, for she sees in her heart the distant terrors of plague and famine. Her kingdom hangs by a thread, for the nobility are dissatisfied with her commands. While they delight at the risen army of Cast, they rile and bristle at their risen taxes. Now, the whispers and glances are tinted with anger, and poor Queen Ceinneret fears both for her rule and for her people.

You must know, dearest beloved, that those who rule have hearts and minds as we all do. When fear strikes their heart, they seek solace and comfort. They can find it in food or wine, fellowship or the divine, and it was indeed this desire that made Ceinneret speak to her Chamberlain, and command him to send a message to the local church of the Fellowship of the Light.

That very evening, the Priest of Trethewey Church, Sexton and Priest of the Fellowship of the Light, made his way through the castle gates to speak with his Queen. His name was Sexton Tarran, and he was not so simple as Friar Henrik, nor as conniving as Exarch Valokakis. His eyes were sharp and his tongue quick. He was neither beloved nor admired, yet neither was he feared. But he was honored, as it was he to whom the Queen of Cast always turned when she sought comfort.

As with all things, there was a special chamber, furnished and prepared, for Ceinneret to host nobles and visitors from other kingdoms in private. It was a marvelous room, more extravagantly and eloquently decorated than even her private bedroom. All was gold and velvet, with marble statues and polished silver mirrors. A fountain covered one wall, filling the room with the comforting babble of water that softened the air, purging the atmosphere of its staleness.

Here she waited until her queensmaid, Melora, knocked softly on the door. She entered with a deep curtsy, like this, for this is the way all maidens of Cast bow to their Lords and Ladies. She stepped aside, and allowed Sexton Tarran to enter, closing the door as she left as soft as a falling feather.

“Your Highest,” he said, bowing as the Priests of the Fellowship do, like this. “I must thank you for granting leave for me to speak with you, even at such a late hour.” He said this because it was it was the way of Cast that no ruler need ever ask anything of their subjects. Thus it is always the summoned who are being granted a boon.

“It is of little consequence,” Ceinneret waved her hand, dismissively. “I care little enough for your prattle to waste the court’s time with it. I trust you wish to speak of the events of the day?”

Sexton Tarran did indeed have much to say, but he would not be ordered so easily. “Forgive me, your Highest, but I am uncertain as to which events you are referring?”

Queen Ceinneret turned away from the Sexton, because she could not bear to see his face as she spoke: “The rains have been light this year, the harvests lighter. Famine threatens the kingdom, and the army demands more steel and blood. An entire legion of soldiers is being levied, and along with them a tax on the merchants and nobles.”

The Sexton frowned. “For what purpose, your Highest?” though he knew the answer.

“The blood of my court runs hot. The Empire of Herathia has lurked behind the Autumn Wall for generations, and now they hear the rumbling of its waking. They fear the Empire will come for us.”

“You know what I have to say to this, your Highest. Peace is a far more noble state than war. I urge your Highest to reign in the bloodthirst of her court.”

Now it is a dangerous thing to plead too strongly before the Monarch of Cast. Nevertheless, Ceinneret did not condemn the Sexton, and instead turned to face his careworn face with her own.

“It is but a short step from an urge to a demand, and to step further is to court death. What spurs on this plea, Sexton, that brings you so close to my displeasure?”

At hearing this, Sexton Terran bowed again, lower, like this. “Forgive my passions, your Highest, but were Cast to attack Herathia, my heart would be cleft in two. As your Highest doubtlessly knows, The Emperor of Herathia has taken vows. At his side is Exarch Valokakis himself. The Empire has embraced the Fellowship of the Light.”

To hear the Sexton speak thus sent a chill down the Queen’s spine, though she dared not show it. “Explain your meaning, Sexton. Are you no longer my subject? Do you reject the mountains of Cast for the mists of Herathia?”

For the third time, the Sexton bowed. “I shall always be a citizen of Cast, and your most loyal subject, your Highest. I only mean to say that though we live under different flags, the people of Herathia and Cast are of a kind. Our hearts beat as one, and our souls yearn for the same peace. The Fellowship cannot and will not turn against itself.”

But Ceinneret was no fool, and did not allow the Sexton to hide behind his solmontix. “The Fellowship is not Cast, Sexton, nor is it Herathia. I hear an edge hidden in your tone. This is not merely a matter of souls. What lies behind your concern?”

Sexton Terran could only smile at his clever Queen. “A more practical reason, then. The Fellowship’s coffers are not bottomless. Our stores are not unending. If we give to those in need, both in Herathia and Cast, eventually our stores will run dry. The poor and hungry will turn from the Fellowship to find other means to fill their stomachs. Smuggling, perhaps, or banditry. While our political concerns are not yours, I well know, I fear they soon may be, if Cast continues to urge violence against its own.”

Ceinneret sneered at her guests attempt to woo her sympathies. “There will be a still wind in the depths when the court of Cast sees Herathia as anything but its dearest enemy.”

Sexton Terran took a step closer. “Does not the Queen have some say over what her Court believes? Can she not command her people?”

Queen Ceinneret laughed at this. “Were I a King, I could deny my Knight Commander his army, and pound ten thousand swords into plows. I could send word to the provinces and order the barons and earls to open their stores to their people. With full stomachs and proud hearts, my people could withstand the harsh winters to come. Were I a King, I could lead as a King. But I am no King, and I cannot command. I must lead as a woman leads, with coercion and guile. I must play diplomat to my own court, and convince them like children.”

The Sexton shook his head in sympathy. “I know the pain of having two choices, neither of which is possible. The sword or the axe is the condemned man’s choice. I cannot council you in this, my Queen. My wisdom lies in the world beyond this one, in the balance between the order above us and the chaos below.”

The Queen of Cast was unaccustomed to such circumspection from the Sexton, so her tone became sharp as she said: “I know Herathia is not our true enemy, but the hungry coffers of Erosea. Every year our markets are filled with foreign luxury, and our stores empty to fill Erosean bellies. The merchant-kings buy what they will and leave the dregs for our nobles. Their ships bleed us dry, and all of Cast will pay the price.”

But Sexton had heard such words before from nobles and monarchs, and so he said: “A pretty speech, your Highest, but will all of Cast pay the price? Or will your subjects stomachs grumble as the scent of roasted lamb and boiled stoat filters down from the Palace’s tallest tower?”

Queen Ceinneret could not bear to hear such an insult, and so with the speed of a scorpion sting, she struck the Sexton hard across the cheek.

Tarran bowed his head once the echo had vanished. “I beg the Highest’s pardon. I spoke as though you were someone I once knew, and not Queen of Cast.” For friends they had once been, many years ago. “I had a dream once, long ago, that we could still be friends, once the crown landed upon your brow. Alas, when I look at you now, I see the shadow of your father behind you.”

Poor Ceinneret, for she could see the Ecclesiarch loom over the Sexton’s shoulder whenever she looked at him. A true King would have thrown him out the battlements. The impudent Sexton would have died quickly for his foolishness, as a warning to any who dared to presume such friendship on their Monarchs. She could see a hint of flush on the cheek she had struck, and too on the other cheek as well. “It is me you should concern yourself with. As your Queen, it is my commands you must follow.”

“And I will gladly follow any command that mirrors the commands of my heart.” Tarran looked up. “Should you command me to turn from the Fellowship, I would disobey.”

Ceinneret stepped closer, her every word dripping threat and venom. “Then you stand opposed to the will of your Monarch. You should be punished for treason against the crown and subversion of the peace. You are nothing but a hypocrite, Sexton, a purveyor of morals that you are unwilling to follow yourself.”

He licked his lips, a meek and submissive voice all that could leave his lips, in spite of his words resistance. “I have been called many things, your Highest, and not all of them complimentary, but I must protest at the label of hypocrite.”

Ceinneret was nearly whispering, her jaw locked tight. “The guilty often protest their charges.”

“As do the innocent,” his gentle tone unchanged.

Ceinneret’s hands clenched. “You are not innocent of the charge. You would have me bend to the winds like a stalk of grass, while you yourself are unwilling to do so. You seek instead to force the winds to turn, like a mountain. Give me a piece of your holy word, sexton. Preach from the Fellowship, and educate me how this is not hypocrisy?”

His skin flushed bright red as he raised his eyes from the floor to the ceiling. He licked his lips carefully, and intoned as though praying to a power even greater than his queen. “It is the privilege of womankind to bend to the strong. So they are protected, and kept strong in times of struggle.” His eyes flickered downward to meet Ceinneret’s in a tantilizingly risky attempt at a connection. “Had your father been willing to bend, he might still be alive today, old and comfortable in the Castle of Benhavle.”

“I am no woman,” Ceinneret whispered. “I am barely mortal. Perhaps you are forgetting your place, as well? You are Sexton Tarras, a minister of the Fellowship, a Church allowed in Cast on my sufferance.”

“Of course, your Highest. I would not dream to presume otherwise.”

“Then be very careful how you use your tongue. I would not like to see it severed.”

“Nor I, your Highest. I have practiced my sermons with it most carefully, and to learn again how to spread the Fellowship among your subjects without it…would be a trial most vexing.”

“To say nothing of food and drink.”

“I find my tongue ill-equipped to handle such delights.”

“Perhaps it needs more practice?”

“At your Highest’s command.”