((By invitation only.))
Ashiakin’s pen held steady even as the tower’s foundations quivered, reverberating with the cannon fire and the cries of the masses outside. The black ink left a complex trail of tribal code and ancient glyphs across the parchment—a secret language that only he could read. Seated at a cramped desk in the king’s private study, it felt strange to him that record keeping was even necessary now, that logbooks and records could serve as a counterweight to the revolutionary demagoguery of the rabble. The people love to talk about bread and freedom these days, he thought sourly, but not how it’s hardly possible to have them both at the same time.
Across the room from him stood Iorlan Rathaxea, King of Salvar, silently witnessing the collapse of his kingdom through the tower window. He was a tall man for a Salvaran, in his late forties with long, graying hair that had once been brilliantly dark, and he maintained a well-trimmed beard. Ever since the events of the morning—the betrayal of the Church and the news of nascent peasant revolts in the countryside, his own army being forced to lay siege to St. Denebriel’s Cathedral, rendering them incapable of controlling most of the riots in the capital—he had reacted calmly and with strength. But now it seemed there was something dead in his gray eyes.
Aside from the king, Yesirvn Jaicnec, an ex-Arbiter of the Church of the Ethereal Sway sat at a long table, idly flipping through The Records of the Enlightenment. Stocky and in his middle-fifties, the “retired” priest was an unsettling figure—gruff and quick, somehow giving the impression that he knew everything that was going on without paying attention. He had been released from the Church and bereft of his lands some months before on trumped up charges, his true crime having been serving as a spy for Iorlan in the religion’s upper echelon. Ashiakin did not entirely trust him.
The door to the crowded study squeaked open and a lanky blond woman, her olive skin implying Coronian descent, stepped into the room. She was Aerran Ivkinic, the Countess of Aouk, and a close ally and friend of Ashiakin’s. Rumor had it that her rural holiday estate had been seized and her family slaughtered by a mass of blood-thirsty peasants, but for all that she seemed reasonably well-composed. There had been all sorts of rumors flying about since the morning and it was difficult to verify many of them—even for someone who was as well-connected as Ashiakin. Stills, all the rumors from western countryside seemed bleak, and it did not seem morbid to expect the worse.
“Your Majesty,” she said quietly, bowing slightly in Iorlan’s direction.
“Aerran,” said the king, turning toward her. “My condolences.”
“What, to her family or to our kingdom?” Yesirvn asked gruffly, slamming his book closed. “I’ve got a son in Sulgolok that the army may have bloody well run through because he’d felt a higher calling, but I doubt we’re here to chat about it. I don’t think a damn knitting circle is going to help us pick up the pieces of our government.”
“Yesirvn,” Aerran said levelly, taking a seat at the table, “that’s hardly appropriate.”
“Perhaps not,” said Ashiakin, looking to Aerran and then to Iorlan. “But I think we have to admit that he’s right. This is something that we’ve always planned for, but never in circumstances quite like this. We won’t last the night if we don’t concede that.”
Iorlan waved his hand to prevent anyone from speaking further. “Our course of action has been decided upon,” he said. “You all know that isn’t why I’ve asked you here. This isn’t about policy. There is something that the three of you must do for me.”
Ashiakin set his pen down in its jar of ink, the clink cutting through the silence of the room as loudly as the cannon-fire in the distance. He had been afraid of this and had been naively hoping it would not happen. “We are your friends and servants, Iorlan,” Ashiakin said, shooting a sharp glance at Yesirvn when he seemed ready to interject.
“Yes,” he said, looking at each of them in turn, “you three are the only friends I have had in this viper-filled labyrinth they call a castle I’ve lived in for the past three years. You’re the only ones I trust to do this. You must gain entry into St. Denebriel’s Cathedral and find the Justice of the Church. You must kill Lev Testhan.”
The three of them had known what he was going to ask and therefore there was no surprise. Clearly none of them wanted to do it—but clearly all of them were loyal enough to the man to do it even if it meant their deaths. “Then Lev Testhan will die,” Ashiakin said simply, and the other two echoed their agreement.
“There is something else,” he said, lips twisting at an odd angle as if he were regretting haven spoken already. “There… There is a man that you must find in the Cathedral. He must accompany you and you must bring him to me after Lev has been slain. His name is Dr. Dorian Ionos. He’s a conductor with a… curious connection to magic. I feel that I may be able to use him in the future, and that you may need him in the Cathedral.”
Ashiakin frowned—he did not like being told to take on an unknown accomplice with little explanation, but he trusted that the king’s motives were trustworthy. Still, he gave his assent along with the other two, wondering if they felt the same way.
“I may have to flee the city, if things get bad,” Iorlan admitted. “If I must do that, I’ll flee to Aihnrekvalok or Vogstok, most likely. The four of you are to meet up with me there when you have done what I’ve asked of you. I see no point in delaying any of this further. Please prepare yourselves and depart within the hour. You’re… you’re dismissed. I wish you only the best of luck. I’m afraid that you’ll need it.”
The three stood to leave, agreeing to meet in the armory in the castle’s basement shortly. Ashiakin was the last to leave the king’s study. As he was stepping out the door, the king called out to him, causing to pause and turn around to face the monarch.
“Ashiakin,” Iorlan said, a calculating look seeming to bring light back into his eyes, “I hope you’ll be able to ensure that betrayal does not cross their minds of your own.”
Ashiakin’s blue lips curled into a smile. “The Sway save the King,” he said.
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