The Knight Who Sought a Crone

Sarat’s rising walls came into view after several days of our journey. From the south, the castle lifted upon a high steppe formation to the west with various towers and ramparts in staggered disrepair. The walls protecting the city looked like a mangled and battered face, falling apart in disregard like a used wagon. Had our enemy in Seuverat laid to claim here in Sarat’s mainland, the capital would fall in a few short days. The sky above colored in hues of light blues and pinks from the early sunrise as Rysa shifted her moaning sleep upon my back. I didn’t make camp on the final night of our journey into the Rykanian capital knowing we were close.

Sarat meant supplies, a new horse and needed rest in a warm bed. Here, the gangs of the outlying regions would be held back by stationed regulars and we would find some comfort in knowing we could rest easy and gain a good sleep. However, I got the feeling I wouldn’t be able to do so after we arrived.

The hefty armor covering the pair of men at the southern gate reminded me I was encountering imperial regulars. The crest of the red eagle with wings splayed outward on their breastplate gave me notice I was dealing with men loyal to King Rathmana. I knew what they were capable of and despite the sigil on my left forearm, they were more than capable of giving me a good fight and a beating should I provoke anything. It wasn’t my honor to do so, unless no other option were given as a Knight should leave secular battles to the combatants unless otherwise called into service by the Magi. Politics. Wasn’t my game, didn’t want to play it.

“What brings you to Sarat, citizen?” The first man at the guard’s post requested.

I heard Rysa rustle awake as he spoke, lifting herself off of my backside. A tingle surged through my left wrist. I could sense something was amiss.

“A warm bed, supplies, clean clothes, a new horse and a warm beer. Nothing more.”

A blonde man carried towards the horse, patting the saddle and supplies as he noticed the shimmering alloy of my hilt, “Your weapon, you must leave it here during the coronation.”

Coronation? “I’m sorry, I cannot permit you to take this weapon.”

His eyes raised towards me as he steadied a hand against the hilt of his standard issue sword. Weak alloy. Helmet, iron. He’d be dead in two actions.

“Your sword, leave it here,” he barked. The other man lifted his weapon from his side, approaching with care towards the horse. A simple swipe would cleave his head in half above the jawline.

“I assure you, we mean no harm in Sarat,” I offered to calm him down. He didn’t listen. He barked at me once more to leave my weapon with him. Killing them would be unnecessary and lead to unwelcome pain. Then to consider the onslaught of others who were likely on high guard given the importance in his tone of the word, coronation. I suppose I should tell him.

“I am Tedarin Aeri, Temple Knight to Our Goddess, Undonus.” I lifted the sleeve over my left wrist to show him my rune, “I have fought next to your own and seen many die in Seuverat. You will allow me into your city with my sword and leave the lady and myself at peace.”

“A Temple Knight,” he proclaimed to my surprise of his tone, “then you should join your brothers with the Magi. The coronation of the king’s heir will occur at high sun, you are most welcome here.”

Magi? Other Knights? Why would we be here? My rune tingled with vibrations to his words. Wood doors creaked to the pull of a chain system behind the gatehouse like clanking hammers on steel. I waited for the doors to open outward and heeled the horse along the mud and shit trodden path leading into the city. The smell overcame me with the buzzing of flies and the squish crawl of maggots humming into my ears. Cities were unmistakably filthy; rotting carcasses, human and animal waste, mold and mildew and unfathomable amounts of people without baths. I coughed with the reek of watering sting blazing over my eyes. People came to cities looking for hope; hope from poverty, hope from bandits or outlaws, hope from early deaths, hope for better treatments of ailments, but what they found were lies.

Strolling through the outer reaches of the city walls, I’d come to the realization the city had shut down for the better part of the day. Vendors at markets had closed, boarded up almost. Impoverished men and women took to the narrow streets and wound their way towards the center of town, beggars continued to beg while the more well-to-do citizens ignored them, moving towards a central gathering. Soldiers looked on; patrolling the streets or along the rooftops. Breastplates of shoddy iron were painted in the red eagle herald of the Rathmanian line and with fervent push of the crowds, extolled a fear that carried to their subjects. Rysa gripped my waist tight as we carried the horse along the wider paths before reaching the outskirts of the lavish regions of the capital.

I found a stable open for business and with a slight offset to exchange, purchased us a healthier horse. He took one glance at the robber’s horse we stole and muttered only two words, dog meat. Several coins remained in my pouch as I walked the new mare through the brick lined streets to a three-story tavern and buckled the beast to the hitching post. We were welcomed with a hint of blossoming flowers mixed with the aroma of aerated wines. A more pleasant offering than the low-rent taverns we’d encountered. I slapped down the cost of four Saratian crowns to a good room and warm meals and all the warm stout I could muster to cover the remaining change.

We settled up to our rooms, the stairs steady and polished unlike the uneasy creaks from the villages. The beds were fitted to be made, unstained sheets that I could tell. Rysa sat on the bed across from me apparently disgruntled at the choice of two beds and politely expressed her words to the accord.

“Keep appearances,” I reminded her, “impartiality. Can’t have a Knight showing affections towards your common tavern wench. Wouldn’t be prudent. Wouldn’t be sanctimonious.”

A horn bellowed outside to the toll of the hour followed by the heraldic announcement of the coronation by the next blow, “We should watch,” Rysa extolled.

“Why? A king is to be crowned. I don’t care what the guard said. Not the place of the Knights, nor myself. We’ll rest here, then we resume our journey to find your village in the morning. If what you say is correct, we still have several more weeks before we’re there.”

“You heard what the guard said. A Magi is here.”

I know what the guard said, I mumbled to myself. I still don’t see how or why a Magi would involve himself in the handing down of a worthless relic. “Fine, we’ll go, but I still fail to see why it’s important to you? If there are Knights here with a Magi, why would you want to be seen in the open after what they did to your village?”

“I want you to see it, firsthand.” Her eyes listed with a past of suffering and lies. Deceit boiled over her like a fiery cauldron. She had no reason not to trust me and with her inflection, I sensed she wanted me to know what she knew. Knights were sent to decimate her village, this she told me, accusing her people of being heathens to the Magi and the gods. As a Knight, I trusted my vicars to the truth. Men of the gods, all of them. Loyal and devoted to their blessings. This woman named Fersyn was an outcast, an anomaly and the epitome of sin to our gods and Rysa devoted herself to her. I could turn her over now, a refugee of the village once ransacked to the north. I sensed doing so would be my own end. I’d be seen as abetting and accused of blasphemy and defying my oath. None would know my fate for in the end, a Knight is at the mercy of his vicar as sayeth the oath administered to us.

We filtered outside to the avenue, following the crowds as I clinched my sword to my left hip. My musty and dirtied cloak would provide ample disguise as I raised the hood to protect my head from the sunlight. Rysa took my right hand, pairing us together as one and offered me a short-lipped smile to her affectionate cause, affirming her trust in me. The roads and avenues wound through the capital city reaching a common square where several banners of the red eagle hoisted overhead in reverence to the Rathmanian line.

Murmurs and whispers filled the uneasy crowd as the bell tolled the hour. I sensed their dread and uncertainties at the event. News of Seuverat began to reach the realm from the words overheard in the crowd. No confidence. My rune tickled. A coronation would mean a new king, the son of Hestan Rathmana assuming the crown and throne. Youth and revitalization as a show of renewed efforts to restoring confidence in the realm which a frail, old king could not exude. Much needed in the wake of the loss of relatives to a foreign enemy. Not uncommon among the kingdoms of Roth for when an old king was seen as weak, unable to rule, many times would call for their heir to assume the duties before the death of their fathers. I sensed this time was different.

Representatives from several of the noble houses of Sarat lined the presentation balcony overlooking the public court; Offtil, Bovariàr, Wenfier, Fiasti, Rutin, and Denwich. All of which held prominence to court from their respective regions while on the opposite side were those of Haestich, Oufeld, Orftag, Sotisch and Voskon of the northern houses of the Simnoman lands. Rathmana was a northern name, come to prominence in the past few hundred years and claimed rule of Sarat from an earlier house no longer existing. Conspicuously, I found them absent among the court.

The northern land of Simnoma united with Sarat in the rise of the house several centuries ago, uniting the realm as one known as the Rykanian Kingdom, with its capital in Sarat. This we all knew. The people being of pale complexion bringing us together like brothers and sisters. Magi, Knights, many of us came from this realm as being the most populous. The Rykanian Kingdom has a long and steeped history to the gods, my feelings were no different.

I felt Rysa’s hand grip tighter as a pair of horns blared to the announcement of the festivities. A pair of Knights exited the archway first, their war armor shined against the golden sun above with the angular rune of Plavak’s Fire on their breastplates. My rune burned against my flesh. Something wasn’t right.

Following the arrival of the Knights, an older, balding man exited wearing the crimson vestments of a Magi of Plavak. He walked with a frail gait aided by a staff taller than he and topped with an orange stone encased in a triad branch which suspended of its own flames. Sinja Marist, Supreme Elder to the Council of Magi and vicar to Plavak, the god of fire. I still recalled my trial at his command, the flames of Plavak whirled through my skull, igniting and charring the memories I wished to forever hide engorging me with a rage unmatched in my life. They said my heart nearly exploded after the trial, I could hear it thumping wickedly within my chest and his appearance recalled the same feelings as my rune brightened to a cerulean hue. I furrowed the sleeve to hide it from prying eyes as he began to speak.

“Citizens of Rykana, citizens of Sarat, my name is Sinja Marist,” his confident voice defied his weakness, “It is through me, the god of fire takes hold in the world. It is through me, the Council of Magi has devoted our support of your realm in freeing Seuverat from its occupiers. The Council of Magi has decided to hold an emergency coronation of your realm. A new king must arise, remove the old blood and start anew. King Rathmana has acknowledged this decree and agrees to assume his duties to another.”

Boisterous calls hailing the king echoed from the crowd, “The threat we face in Seuverat is not an isolated one. For one day, they will be here. They have seen your weaknesses and know in due time, they seek to decimate your way of life. A feeble king is not fit to this new enemy, a feeble king is a coward in their eyes.”

Unease shifted in the positions of the delegation from the north, “Thus, the Council of Magi has endorsed a new king, a strong king. One whose ideas have stewed in opposition to the Rathmanian line for many years, a king who knows the strength of his army is only as good as him.”

The crowd began chants to the name of Seistel, the king’s son. Sinja smiled on his dais. He had ulterior plans. He lifted a crown with his left hand, removed from its previous owner and proceeded towards the Saratian delegation with a limp aided by his staff. He stopped behind a man dressed in linen attire, slicked in the color of the yellow sun above and a perfect part in his hair; Diterian Bovariàr. As he placed the crown atop his head, the crowd began to boo calling for the ineffectual house newly crowned to be immediately dethroned. Banners of blue dropped in front of the red eagle heralds as the rope mechanisms unclenched the old heralds to drop onto the ground below. Paired on the new blue banners, a new eagle crest with dual heads. The Magi didn’t just endorse a new king, they endorsed a new dynasty. I turned to Rysa who pulled herself to me tighter. Is this what I was supposed to see? It couldn’t be worse. It was.

The armored Knights took positions behind the northern delegation and with the whistling sizzle of their swords exiting their scabbards to their backs, the heads of the men evacuated their necks. Diterian lifted his hands to the massacre as his banner fell from an overhang behind him and with the pomposity of his new reign, the crowd shifted to his act to see the old king and his son bound and struggling from ropes as the banner splayed between them.

“No longer will you be ruled by an ineffectual king,” Diterian opened, “We will clean house in Rykana. What happened in Seuverat can never happen again under my dynasty. We must weed out the weak, the heathens and blasphemers that have infiltrated our realm. Diseases who have been permitted to promulgate with the Rathmanian line. A realm without devotion to the gods, is a realm weakened by corruption and decay. The Magi have foreseen this. The enemy in Seuverat is willing to strike here. They see Sarat as spiritually weak, I denounce their ridicule and proclaim we will be spiritually strong. The Knights will supplement your forces, train them and devote them to the seven gods.

“I decree that all able bodied men and boys be conscripted into service to Rykana, for your realm, for the gods. Seuverat may have been a defeat, my people, but we will not lose the war!”

At his command, pandemonium wrecked through the audience as several more Knights came sweeping into the crowd. With their full armor and helmets, they were like mechanical men to the simple peasants and commoners who had no defense against their brutishness. They kept their weapons sheathed, relying on the blunt force exhibited by the scabbards to contain those who became unruly.

I turned to Rysa, “I can’t defect against my own.”

But her eyes told me a different story. I had seen with my own two eyes a new ideology take hold in Rykana. A king devoted with his own life to the religion of the seven gods with no room for opposing views, coerced by the Supreme Elder of the Magi to unwavering testaments. This is what Rysa experienced in her village. House Bovariàr ruled the northern outskirt edges of the Saratian realm beneath the dividing forest to the Simnoman tundra. A palatial estate dominated their prominence stretching many, many hundreds of miles along the lands. I listened to her spirit speak to me and tell me where to find her village. Sinja needed a standing army, the Knights were too obvious. Rykana would supply the army under the pretense of an existential threat. We were being set up, but for what?

I turned to Rysa who laid a smile upon her face as she led me away and through the crowds to find our way to the inn we were to call home tonight. This Fersyn would know the answer. We had to find her.