The Lament

Art by Kim Holm

In the far north of the Wyse, towering above frozen fields and leaning buildings built of dark stone, a castle stood atop a white-dusted steppe. From his balcony, Lord Edgar Martikov could see legions of evergreens, spreading their forces miles in every direction. He looked down to the tiny people in the streets below. The Wystrans had loved their king, who once lived in the castle. The lord shook his head; that was a painful thought.

Taking one last sip of his wine, he set the crystal cup down on a glass side table and reached for his cane. It rested just too far away; his fingers prodded it, sending it clattering to the cold floor. He grimaced as he rose, bending down on his good leg to pick up the wretched thing.

“It’s time to go, father,” said a voice behind him.

Edgar gasped, nearly fell back into his seat. “Dammit, boy. Don’t bloody sneak up on me.” He glared at Edwin, his youngest son, who looked far too much like his mother.

“Apologies,” Edwin said, his gray eyes void, just as Edgar taught him. “Stealth was not my intention.”

Gods, Edgar lamented, I’m withering away… He looked back down to the ants scurrying below. So cold, and still they work.

“I suppose they desire my presence.”

“Very much, father.”

The lord and his son, whose face was his mother’s, walked slowly back into the lord’s quarters, then out into the gray, desolate corridors of the royal wing. When he first arrived in Wystra, a young noble fleeing a dying land, the castle’s foreboding halls daunted him. Often, he retired early to his quarters to avoid braving their winding paths in the dark of night.

Now that he had served in the castle for more than half his life he knew every inch of the it, navigated its twists and turns in his sleep. What is known cannot cause fear—he knew this simple truth, lived by it.

“Look father,” Edwin said, pointing to the most recent portrait in the Hall of Kings. “It’s finally finished.”

“Yes,” Edgar scrutinized the fresh painting of Queen Marysil Varland, first of her name. The oils were still slick on the linen canvas and would remain so for several more days. Edgar had heard a story about a stumbling servant who smudged Queen Collantz’s fresh portrait on his way to the floor. She had had his painted hand severed and displayed in the gallery.

The lord was not a sentimental man, but he hoped the new queen might follow her father’s path—not her great grandmother’s. Marysil’s pale, silver eyes bore holes in his heart, as if somehow the real woman heard his treasonous thoughts. The artist had rendered a near-perfect image of the young queen; her golden hair glistening in the torchlight, shrouding her paper skin with a braided crown.

Stay on the path… for all our sakes.

They walked on, rounding several corners to find a tall, lanky man in a dark suit standing in front of the throne room doors, his hands slung casually behind his back. His knowing, ambivalent gaze settled on the lord as he hobbled through the hall, his cane’s echoing loud enough for the entire kingdom to hear. Edgar swung about, showing his back to the man waiting for him. He laid a shaky hand on Edwin’s shoulder.

“You’re dismissed,”

His son’s face contorted. “But, father—“

“No!” Edgar raised a fist in the air, a basic command taught in early conditioning. His young ones were becoming too comfortable. “Go back to your quarters. You’re no longer needed.” Edwin’s nostrils flared, his eyes contemptuous, but he complied without further dissent. Once Edwin rounded the corner, Edgar sighed, turned back to face his rival.

“What do you need, Archmage Lafey?”

The tall man squinted. “I’ve come to deliver a warning.”

“Have you?” Edgar snorted, amused. “This is a first.”

“No it’s not, old friend. You just don’t see the precautions I take to protect your family—and mine.”

“Tell me, then. What’s so important that I must be late to court? Today, of all days!”

A pall shrouded Archmage Lafey’s face. He whispered: “Regardless of what either of us say today, there will be war.”

“Preposterous!” Edgar heard a choir singing behind the doors, he grasped both the cold handles, finagling his cane with his left pinkie. Gods, I am late! “Three kings, Perriander, three! All of them heeded my council. I shouldn’t think our queen will be any different.”

The Archmage leaned in, laid a pacifying hand on the lord’s shoulder. “Three kings and a prince have died during your service, Lord Martikov. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding their deaths, your reputation is at risk.”

“Shall we enter?” Edgar asked, sick of the Archmage’s constant doubt. The man was incessantly worried, it was a bloody disease. “Or would you prefer letting the children make all the decisions while we argue?”

The Archmage’s countenance betrayed no rebuttal. Edgar flung open the doors, and the two walked down the aisle like bitter newlyweds. Anyone who mattered was in attendance; two-hundred heads turned to watch the queen’s advisers slowly make their way to their proper seats on either side of her. Edgar did not, however, see his eldest daughter at the queen’s side. She was watching from somewhere else, close by.

An old, dark-skinned man sat facing the audience, much too close to the queen; a wayward knight from Skan’basan by the looks. Next to him stood a robed Valentine—a Citadel mage, perhaps? There’s no chance she’d have admitted a Valentine official—and the biggest Idraani warrior Edgar had ever seen. As motley a crew as can be, and yet Edgar had never seen any of them before. That was troubling—it was his bloody job to know everything and everyone in the castle. Just what madness has wormed its way into my haunt?

Edgar ignored the bitter glares from the audience, instead offering his own at the grizzled black man. In the corner of his vision, Edgar saw recognition ignite on Archmage Lafey’s face as he made eye contact with the Valentine. They know each other. A wizard for certain.

“Kind of you both to finally join us,” said Queen Marysil, sitting atop her father’s throne. Her throne. She wore a simple gown; white as snow, decorated with purple lace, her head noticeably unadorned. She was regal, a child blossomed to womanhood, sitting poised in her proper place.

“My apologies, your grace,” the Archmage said, bowing before taking his rightful seat by her left hand.

Edgar continued walking, assaulting the polished stone floor with the foot of his cane. He climbed the few steps onto the pulpit, settled uncomfortably in his seat beside the queen’s right hand. “Forgive us, my queen. My knees are not what they used to be. Archmage Lafey was kind enough to help me across the castle.”

“Looks to me her grace’s loyal spymaster should consider retirement,” said the Skanu, in a strange accent mismatched with his skin color. Born of the blood across the South Sea, but speaks like a Northerner? What tales this man could tell…

“Yes, soon enough,” Edgar said, barely paying the man heed. The strange man was sizing up Edgar; being late to the meeting was a poor start to the duel. Ambivalence must be sword and shield for this engagement. “My brother, Syr Edmund Martikov, will head the Black House once I’ve outlived my usefulness. From there, we have amassed quite the line of successors. Wystra is in good hands.”

“Enough delay!” yelled Varet Torn, chief of the Owl Clan and one of the only striders willing to deal with the Crown. He sat impatiently in the front row of honored guests, noble lords seated adjacent pressing in on his wide shoulders. “We’ve bloody waited long enough.”

“Yes, quite,” Marysil said at length, sending a sidelong glance at Edgar. “Are there any questions before we begin?”

“I have one,” said Archmage Lafey. “Who are these men sitting with us?”

The room was silent. Nobles and clansmen alike sat in apprehension, their nerves infecting the very air the breathed. Edgar scanned the throne room, analyzing the dark corners, gray Ionian pillars, red rugged aisles, searching for shimmers in the light. Today would be one to go down in history, he was sure, but he had yet to determine why.

“Gentlemen,” Queen Marysil said to the strange troupe. “Introduce yourselves.”

The Skanu stood. He was much shorter than his wide stature suggested, his head level with the Valentine’s chest. “I am Ulrich Pedalek, commander of the Great Brothers Company. We won our fame during the Liberation, when we opened the gates for the unified armies. This,” he gestured to the Valentine, “is Richter Benégaz, a Citadel mage and my second. The bigg’in is Balkovian Enslak, my champion.”

Mercenaries… of course. They smelled coin preceding Marysil’s coronation. Vultures. Vermin. Lord Edgar Martikov saw them behind every corner, in every shadow, in every open corridor and courtyard. Those who sought to take his seat or his head or both. Scriveners itching to scour the record: three kings, a prince, and a queen…

The council began without further ceremony. It was her first time conducting it alone, but Marysil soared through the endless formalities like they were second nature. A lifetime of watching her father had prepared her well for the tedious minutiae that came with crowns.

The mercenaries who called themselves the “Great Brothers,” sat in remarkable silence for the first couple hours. Varet Torn’s face twisted like he needed to take a wicked shat; the subsequent stench that followed told Edgar the clansman found a solution to his predicament. The noblemen next to him paled, one of them leaving the council entirely.

Archmage Lafey glared at the other mage with intensity, but the target of his ire seemed not to notice. Who knows how many decades that grudge goes back. A wizard’s ego is fickle thing. The Archmage was a sharp one, and though they rarely saw eye-to-eye, Edgar trusted him more than anyone else in the throne room; more than Edgar’s own children.

His eldest daughter was still nowhere to be seen. He sensed the signatures of several more of his children; some of whom were strictly ordered to keep away. Every now and then he watched a shadow fall out of rhythm with its rightful owner, sitting on the edge of row, and he wondered which of his sons made the blunder. His boys were never able to grasp the Shadow Walk like his girls did, making it all the more frustrating that his concubines seemed to produce three boys for every girl.

Today is the day great change encroaches upon us, whether I like it or not.

Sometimes he felt he had created a monster, waiting to break its chains to ravage everything he worked so hard to achieve. The Black House had spiraled out of his control in the last decade; a decline worsened by his brother’s continued absence, his childish lust for adventure.

Edgar had expected the forthcoming coronation to be a paradigm shift, that was what he had done to win Marysil’s father’s crown from her uncle nearly thirty years ago. Though today, he supposed, was good a day as any to stage a coup d’etat. He was proud, at least, that the boisterous and dissenting faction within his house had enough sense to act upon original thought. Surprises kept Edgar’s dusty existence somewhat entertaining.

“And now, for the primary issue at hand,” decreed a crier, reading off a scroll atop the second-level balcony, his alto filling the room as he lifted his chin to the curved ceiling. “The problem of Valencia, and the newly crowned High King Arnau De’Andrys, and whether we resist his claims to our lands.”

“Does anyone wish to speak?” said the Queen, standing to address every authority figure under her command.

“Yes, I do,” Archmage Lafey rose, turned to look down into her shimmering azure eyes. “We cannot afford another war, your grace. If we hold, the Valentines cannot overcome our defenses. Their hubris will spell their end in time, but if we meet them on their own soil—”

“The Valentine menace mean to put us in chains, wizard!” Varet Torn raged. “You do not see my Owls. We migrate twice a fortnight for fear of Valentine armies chaining us in our sleep. They are already among us!”

“Slavery is a crime recognized by the whole of Kaldea, Warchief Torn. The Valentines drafted the very treaty that still protects us. They wouldn’t violate their own laws,” said the Archmage. “If they are here, they will surely turn around or perish come mid-winter. Their soldiers are not accustomed to the north.”

“My men survived the last winter,” Ulrich Pedalek said grimly. “If one army can forge a path, others will follow.”

“Then let them through!” the Archmage yelled, eyes wide. “This fortress has stood for a millennium. The walls are strong, the climb is steep, and they will melt beneath my sorcery should they be foolish enough to approach!”

“Your point, commander,” Edgar said, not making eye contact with the Skanu, “is most troubling to me—more so than the Valentines on our horizons. How do we know you’re not under Arnau’s employ, sent here to open our gates as you did in Idraan?” Edgar looked over to an arbitrary noble in the audience like they were in cahoots. “Wouldn’t that be just like the self-styled high king?”

“Silence!” the queen commanded, and it was so. Her voice was resolute, ringing with authority. A lesser monarch would have made the mistake of screeching, screaming like a petulant child. Nobles did that all the time, but not the Wystran monarch—never she who is held to much higher standards by the hardy, willful people.

“The Great Brothers bring grim tidings,” the queen went on, “intelligence from the borders. The Valentines are coming, I know this. They travel with fervor, warmed by the esoteric magicks of their sun god. Winter will not stop them; our walls will not hold forever. There is only one way to defeat Valencia—to ensure the safety and sovereignty of our people.”

“Your grace…” the Archmage faltered. “You can’t mean to—”

“It has already been decided.” Marysil stood. Divided, half the room followed her lead, offering their salutes. The remainder sat in captivity, watching helplessly as their worst fears came to pass.

Marysil’s shadow shimmered, a figure materializing behind her. Edgar jumped to his feet with the last his youthful strength. In a practiced, masterful stroke he loosed the smallsword hidden in his cane and found the tip pointed at his eldest daughter.

“Amaryllis…” His mouth fell open.

“Thank you, Lord Martikov. But you need not defend me,” the Queen said, her face carved from ice. Amaryllis stepped between them, delicately moving aside his sword with two fingers. “Your services are no longer needed. As of today, Amaryllis Martikov will command the Black House and serve as my Right Hand. You, Lord Martikov, are to retire, enjoy a life of leisure until the end of your days.”

“No…” he shook his head. None of it made sense. Frantically, he swung his eyes about the room for any sign of his sons. He sensed their signatures, saw them clumsily stirring in Shadow, but they did not intervene. They are all working against me… Every one of them! He thought of Edwin, his mother’s smug smirk transposed onto the boy’s face. Did you know, my youngest? Did you escort me to ruin?

“I will not be refused, Lord Martikov. Now sit down, or I will have you removed.”

For the first time since his home city fell, Lord Edgar Martikov felt powerless. He had no choice but to comply, to watch his kingdom crumble without his steady, seasoned hand guiding the way. To stand idly by while a second home burned away before his eyes.

“Yes,” he swallowed hot ash, “your grace.” Edgar fell into his seat, staring into darkness pooling in the rear corner of the arched ceiling. Five hundred eyes burned into him. Once, he could walk among Shadow, hide from those wretched stares. Now, he was simply too old. For my Art, and to serve…

The queen took Amaryllis’s hand in hers, lifted it into the air. “Together, we will march to Valencia,” the two women each took two steps forward. “United with the Great Brothers, the clans of the tundra, and the full force of Wystra, we will end the Valentine menace!”

The room exploded into a cacophony. Arguments and affirmations, twisted and pulled into one. A swarm of nobles and nomads, soldiers and striders, grasping hands in love and bitter rivalry. But Lord Edgar Martikov simply stared at that dark corner, to the Shadow he had lost long ago, knowing the last of his powers had just been stripped bare from his back—and he had done nothing to stop it.