Chapter 3: Well Met

Chapter 3: Well Met

Minos, Day 15 of Rhexia

Winking Moons

Year 602

The longer I live, the more I wonder if the Cure for Everything isn’t just Tomorrow.

—From the private journals of Bricot Camdetch,

Master Alchemist at Craestor University from 600 to 604

Farax Lucean hated being stuck inside.

When she’d pursued her education at the University of Gradl in South Urda, she’d been torn between concentrating as a combatant or as an alchemist for this very reason. In the end, she’d chosen to become an alchemist, deciding that she could always train physically in her spare time. And it had better to know the brewing process inside and out in any case. If her body happened to deteriorate with illness, injury, or age, she could always brew, sell, or teach. Alchemist it was.

These days though, Farax wondered if she’d made a mistake. If she could save enough money, she thought she might go back and earn her master combatant status. Then she could teach that.

It wasn’t about the teaching. Teaching was fine. Teaching was—fine.

On days like this, though, feeling the sun on her back and the wind in her hair was all she could ever desire. She pulled the strap of her quiver tight so that it was as flush with her body as possible and ran.

The immediate grounds outside of Craestor University shimmered with tall, golden eborel grass, and beyond that stood thick stands of forest, which was where Farax was headed.

She left the main road that led from the university into the Village of Craestor proper and bounded through the grasses, praying to Ydos that the wouldn’t inadvertently find any ankle-injuring holes.

Finally, she saw them.

The edge of forested growth was flanked by six targets, stuffed with spongy dromo leaf and painted different colours. The tall grasses had be shorn here, so footing mistakes were less likely.

Farax came here from time to time to practice shooting.

Out of breath and laughing slightly, she took a seat on an obliging boulder and organized her gear. She wasn’t bad really—at archery. And she enjoyed it. Her goal was at least eight perfect shots today.

She stood and retrieved her bowstring, and bent to pick up her bow.

Then slackened.

She heard wild shouts behind her, and turned.

“Farax! Master Farax!”

Alarmed, she turned toward back the university, half expecting to see flames on the horizon.

Students. It was only students. There were two of them, and they were laughing and running and they had followed her here to her private, most favorite spot. Right when she was trying to meditate, center herself, and get in some target practice.

Farax sighed and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Can we watch you?” called Bela expectantly. “Pikkia’s never seen anyone use a bow.”

Doubting that somehow, Farax nodded. “Lessons are over for the day, I take it?”

The two younger women approached Farax, who by this point was close enough proximally to them that no one had to yell. She estimated them both to be eighteen or nineteen summers old or so.

Bela smiled beatifically, breathing hard. “Yes, all done,” she confirmed proudly. “We have the whole rest of the day to do whatever we want.”

Pikkia looked uncomfortable. “I think we are disturbing her,” she said quietly to her friend.

Bela’s face fell at this, and Farax sighed inwardly. “No,” she said. “No, you aren’t disturbing me. Of course you can watch, if you really want to. It might be a bit boring for you though.”

Bela grinned again, saying, “Oh, good. It’s so beautiful out, we thought it would be nice to take some sunshine. You don’t even have to entertain us; I brought a game.”

The two young students made themselves comfortable on the short, stubbly grass—Bela spread a blanket efficiently there and the two sat with their legs folded beneath them.

Farax smiled a little in spite of herself. She knew what was happening. She had younger sisters.

She put down the jumble of supplies she’d brought with her and began to string her bow. It was a beautiful wooden recurve model, polished smooth with years of care and use.

The thick piece of gut she used had loops at either end. She affixed one to an end of the recurve bow, and then stepped over the piece of timber, using the back of one of her knees to bend it slightly. The tightness of the motion drew the curves together, and she was easily able to fit the other loop snugly around the other end of the bow.

Bela was laying out her game eagerly on the blanket and preparing to play, but Pikkia watched Farax curiously.

The master found her hide glove and donned it, wriggling her fingers to stretch against the tight fit. This would protect her pulling hand. She settled the strap of her quiver comfortably over one shoulder.

She glanced at the row of targets. She was about fifteen paces away. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Then in one smooth, liquid motion, Farax drew an arrow from the quiver and fired off a practice shot. There was the sharp flit! sound of the arrow being released, and the click of the string as it returned to its place.

Pikkia jumped.

Farax looked up appraisingly. It hadn’t been a bad shot, for a cold one.

Feeling the tightness in her shoulders and regretting her decision to jump straight to shooting without limbering up, she put the weapon down and took off her quiver.

She stretched her hands toward the sky, reveling in the pleasant warmth of her lower back when she did this. Then she dropped her arms and rolled her head a few times. She stretched her arms firmly across her chest, pulling a little and exhaling as she did. Finally, Farax took a deep breath and squeezed her arms behind her as far as they would go, pressing the shoulder blades together. She moaned a little. That was the spot.

Then she picked up her gear and began in earnest.

Farax started at twenty paces. When she was practicing like this, the world and its sounds and sights seemed to melt away. She didn’t worry about her peripheral vision anymore, and so it seemed not to exist in her insulated consciousness. Limiting her focus to a small area pleased her, and afterward she always felt as though she had just awoken from a dream. She fired four good shots, and two exemplary shots.

A faint noise brought her out for a moment—a muffled, hesitant sound.

Farax lowered her bow and turned to face her students. Bela was just moving a game token fashioned into a tiny ship onto one of the tiles, but Pikkia was looking at her.

“Did you say something?” asked Farax.

Pikkia nodded. “I said, how long have you been doing this?”

She thought for a moment. “Probably since I was ten or eleven summers old.”

“Oh.”

And Farax went back to practice. She moved laterally back and forth before all six dromo-stuffed targets, peppering them with arrows. After two more perfect shots, she was out, and had to go retrieve them. She did this six more times, and then decided she should sit for a while, her arms burning.

Bela and Pikkia were sprawled on their blanket talking softly when Farax approached. Pikkia’s red hair and Bela’s chestnut mingled with each other. “Room for one more?” she asked, and the students moved to accommodate her. They had put the game away.

“I thought you were playing Rivers and Roads,” said Farax lightly.

“We were,” said Bela. “Pikkia kept beating me. It got boring.”

The younger girl laughed. “You have to think before you move your pieces!” she pointed out. “You can’t just make it up as you go along.”

“Bah,” said Bela, smiling a little.

Farax pushed her long kinked hair back over one shoulder. “So how are lessons?”

“Good,” they both replied in unison, then smiled at each other.

“My favorite is research and experimentation with ingredients,” Bela offered. “Master Bricot’s lectures are so interesting. I think I’d like to become an alchemist.”

Farax looked back toward the school, judging from the sun that they had just a little time left before supper. “Alchemy is a fine choice,” she said. “It has served me well.”

Pikkia was still watching Farax. The girl had flame red hair, freckled skin, and blonde eyelashes. “But you seem to love martial skills so much,” she pointed out. “You’re good with a bow, and I’ve seen you spar with Master Ishka and the others before.”

“It’s true,” Farax replied. “I love both concentrations.”

“It must’ve been a difficult choice when it was time for you to pick one,” said Pikkia.

And the master alchemist looked at the girl as if seeing her for the first time. “It was,” she said slowly. “It really was.”

Bela shrugged. “Well, it’s good that you can still get away to practice, I suppose,” she said. “I would think it’d be frustrating otherwise.”

“I’m very grateful for this training area,” Farax agreed.

The breeze picked up, and a sweet silvery sound emanated from the nearby rustling trees. The first few chirps of the insects were beginning to sound, and the grasses around them smelled so sweet. It was a perfect evening.

After a moment, Farax asked, “Pikkia, do you know what you’d like to study?”

The girl smiled a little. “I’m not sure yet. There’s a lot to consider.”

“You’re both doing well in my classes,” Farax said, climbing to her feet, albeit regretfully. “You seem a pair of driven and focused students; it’s honestly a pleasure to teach those like you. Where are you from? Were you friends before Craestor?”

“My mother was from Eral,” said Pikkia, “and my father from North Urda. I grew up in a small town right next to the Boradîc Sea.”

“I’m from right here in Craestor,” added Bela. She looked at her friend. “I wish I had grown up next to the Boradîc Sea!”

They laughed, and Pikkia looked over at Bela, saying, “We met during our first few lessons.”

The two of them stood and joined Farax. Pikkia and Bela shook out and folded the blanket, while the alchemist gathered up her things. She normally practiced longer, but she had to admit that she hadn’t minded the company as much as she’d initially supposed she would.

“Thanks for letting us shadow you today,” Bela said. “You’re really very good.”

Farax smiled. “You’re welcome. It was nice to spend time in your company. Just remember I was this personable today, because you’re getting a test tomorrow.”

* * *

“They’re ready for you, Imperial Highness,” said a quavering voice, and Beynon looked up into the pimply face of a page perhaps sixteen summers old.

The boy was staring at Beynon, open-mouthed. Looking at my wound, Beynon realized.

In earlier years, Brynn had grown his hair out so as to cover it, but no longer. Now, the sides were cropped close. The emperor was counted by many to be an exceptionally handsome man, with dark, narrow eyes gleaming almost black beneath a striking pair of strong brows. The plans of his face were smooth, as though polished. The missing ear had seemed an incongruity at first, but now he wore the old injury with pride. He would not be ashamed. Let the populace see what happened without proper accountability.

The page realized the emperor was regarding him steadily and dropped his eyes. He seemed so young.

“How old are you?” Beynon asked curiously.

The page blushed. “Eighteen summers, your Imperial Majesty.”

Beynon smirked, amused. “Don’t worry. They’ll go away.”

His spotty face reddening even more, the young man shuffled from foot to foot, then glanced anxiously at the door.

Bryn climbed to his feet. He had already been to breakfast and had a morning walk with his steward while his chambers were cleaned and tidied. Then he’d returned to his sitting area, where he’d been waiting for the council meeting to start.

The curtains on the great windows had been drawn back, and out over the balcony, glimpses of a fair day in Daitak promised good moods from everyone on the council. The doors between his and Alisia’s sleeping quarters had been thrown open, his evening companion had been dismissed, and everyone in the Capital was politely pretending that Beynon and his wife shared an actual, operational marriage.

Beynon smoothed his jerkin and gave himself a once-over. He wore burgundy today, with the city’s crest embroidered on his chest, and tighter long sleeves underneath in a deep charcoal grey. These were the traditional Daitak colours. It was probably useless, but he thought it couldn’t hurt to appeal today to the council in whatever possible.

“This way, Imperial Highness,” the page murmured, leading him out into the hall.

In general, Beynon hated council meetings. There were too many people in attendance, always. And they wanted to talk about inane things. For the hundredth time, he wished he were already of age—he’d be granted absolute power and the ability to overrule the council. This change was overdue as far as he was concerned. Remnants of the old guard were still left; those who had been loyal to his mother, and her perceptions, and her wishes.

It would take a long time, but he would tear all of it down. And then he would rebuild it.

The council chamber was a square room hung with a slew of tapestries depicting historic victories and interpretations of the Divine Pantheon. They’d been there as long as Beynon could remember, and he was grateful for them. It gave him something to look at so he didn’t have to stare into the earnest, wrinkled faces of the people who were slowly and determinedly destroying the Capital.

A long, sturdy wooden table stood at the center of the room with several chairs clustered about it.

Everyone was already seated, but stood as Beynon and the page entered.

“His Imperial Majesty Bryn Beynon, son of Calqua Beynon The Fox and Emperor of Daitak,” called the page, his thin voice ringing out over the rest of the council. There were fourteen people in attendance, and Bryn made them fifteen—a quorum.

All bowed  silently, and Beynon lifted a hand, gesturing for them to sit.

There was much shuffling, and whispering, and scraping of chairs, but everyone found their seats. One of the intendants procured a chair for Beynon, and he sank down into it, never once lowering his eyes.

Royal Secretary Longren cleared his throat. “Greetings, gentlemen. Let us begin.”

The scribe in the corner flipped a piece of parchment hastily and began scratching away.

“Today as always, we address the needs of the inhabitants of Daitak, including the royal court, knights, and serfs. You are reminded to wait your turn to speak, and that perjury will not be tolerated.”

Beynon kept his expression neutral but thought with vehemence, Half of you stodgy bags lie your ancient lips off at every one of these meetings and you know it. Why continue to pretend?

“I believe that Earl Marshall Robard has news for us regarding the recent robbery?”

Robard nodded. “Indeed, Edius. The stolen mare has been recovered. She was found in the village at the home of a spinner. Apparently, her young son had made off with it.”

Longren waited for the scribe to catch up, then asked, “And has punishment been administered?”

“Aye,” replied Robard. “Two lashes, one for each day the animal was missing.”

“Does anyone else present wish to offer an observation on this situation?”

No one spoke.

“Very well,” said Longren. “Next topic.”

A young man with mousy brown hair and a long face raised his hand silently.

“Yes, Almoner Kyne?” asked Longren.

“I have the temple contribution numbers, if the council is interested.”

There was a general murmuring of consensus, and Longren motioned for Kyne to continue.

“Citizens seem to be concerned that these consecutive days without rain will be the start of a drought. People are concerned for their crops and are giving generously to the Pantheon entire. The first week of the year, the total was nine hundred and ninety-eight marks and two gems. I am pleased to report that this has risen by at least two percent, as this week we collected over ten thousand marks. Year 602 will be a good one, if the beginning of it is any indication.”

“Only if there is no drought!” added one of the great officers, amidst agreement and amused chuckles.

Beynon knew that the numbers had most likely been fudged, as the temple and its staff had a habit of keeping a percentage for themselves off the books.

“Thank you for this report, Kyne,” Longren said. The royal secretary was short and barrel-chested, with thin, straight red hair and a mighty beard. His eyes were kind and blue, but he rarely smiled. “We will move on to the proposed budget later in the meeting. Oh, before I forget, Corbin?”

The constable looked up at the rest of the assembly. The man appeared to have been staring at his hands. “Edius?”

Corbin used the traditional term ‘Edius’ to connote a person higher in station than one’s own. When Beynon was a child, he had grown confused upon hearing several men called by this title. He once asked his mother ‘which one was truly Edius.’ Of course, to call an emperor an edius was a terrible insult. Only royal titles would do for that purpose.

Longren scratched his densely bearded chin. “Any serious tax evasion to worry about, Corbin?”

Corbin hesitated, then waffled his head from side to side. “The usual, Edius Longren. Just a few cases, and none that my men cannot remediate.”

Beynon found himself nodding. Taxes in Daitak were not set very high, and citizens made plenty of coin off of farming, trade, and services. Most people enjoyed peaceful, pleasurable lives and would have no honest reason to refuse paying the royal treasury their due.

“See to it,” Longren said.

A tall man directly to Beynon’s left raised his hand.

“Yes?” asked Longren.

“The hunt,” said the man. “Are we to presume it will take place on the thirty-sixth of this month?”

“Ah, indeed. Your Imperial Highness, have you considered this?”

Beynon cleared his throat and answered. “I have. I understand that Orwa is an odd day to celebrate, being named for the Goddess of Mourning, but that’s when the eclipse of Petra happens to occur this year. I consent to host the festivities on this day.”

Longren nodded. “Very good, Imperial Highness.”

Hodric, Master of the Horse, raised his hand and added, “Kreem, Pineas and I are engaged in planning activities for the young ladies of the court as well—since Empress Alisia will be riding in the hunt this year.”

Beynon’s head snapped up. When had she decided that?

“This calls for extra organization and development,” Hodric continued.

Longren noticed the emperor’s reaction, but politely moved on. “Thank you, Hodric. What types of activities do you anticipate will be available?”

As the gentlemen discussed the annual hunt, Beynon’s mind raced. He couldn’t say he was pleased. True, he and Alisia had only been married for two summers, but she had never expressed interest in sport. Why now? He hoped she wouldn’t distract him, or worse, sabotage the festivities somehow. On some level, Bryn understood this was completely irrational; Alisia was always a model of propriety. Never had she embarrassed him in public or made a political faux pas. Rejoining the conversation, Beynon attempted to shake off his uneasiness. He would have to ask her about it later.

Longren was nodding. “I think that’s a fine idea. A few ladies of the court can judge the entries, and we can offer prizes for exemplary costumes. Imperial Highness?”

“Yes,” Beynon managed.

“Good. Now—”

Brynn took the opportunity and stood. “Excuse me.”

The rest of them looked up at him in surprise.

He took a breath. “Gentlemen of the council,” he said. “I’d like to bring up an item of business before the meeting has run its course.” He had learned to do this. His advisors would sometimes attempt to distract him until the meeting was almost over and then protest that there was no time left to discuss his ideas. He thought ruefully that this would never happen if he were of age. “Concerning education,” he began, and there were a few faint groans from various places in the room.

Beynon turned sharply to glance at the few protesting council members, and the men snapped their mouths closed, sitting up that much straighter in their seats.

“Imperial Highness, if I may,” Longren asserted.

“You may not,” Beynon answered calmly. “I have the floor.”

There was a brief silence.

“Concerning education,” he started again. “I would like to suggest to the council,” and here he looked at them all, “again, that Daitak Capital cease the funding of private universities in Urda.”

No one said anything. They had all expected this as a possibility, but everyone had probably hoped that Beynon was gotten bored with his project, or forgotten about it.

“This is a drain on our resources, and these schools are doing nothing useful to enrich our populace.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” said Grandmaster Li, “We’ve discussed how withdrawing support from Urdan schools will convey a lack of goodwill to your citizens.”

“Then we’ll do it gradually,” Beynon responded. “And I’m not suggesting that we pull funding from every institution of learning. I’m speaking, of course, of the Universities of Gradl and Craestor.”

Again, there was a pregnant silence. Beynon could hear their tiny minds working.

The University of Craestor and the University of Gradl were demonstrably the ultimate centers of learning for magic users—specifically, potion brewers.

“Daitak University and The South Urda Institute of Science obviously contribute significantly to our society, and I see no reason to defund their operations. The other schools already collect sufficient tuition from their students. Their attendance numbers are needlessly bloated. It’s irresponsible. I propose we save our resources. It’s the wisest choice.”

Longren had the most disgusting look on his face. Beynon could only describe it as placation. “Your Imperial Majesty, the council has already voted on this subject in favor of continuing distribution as is. The result was three in agreement and twelve opposed.”

“Longren, I am emperor of Daitak, am I not?” Beynon’s voice was low and smooth.

There was an embarrassed pause while the Royal Secretary worked his mouth. “Indeed, Imperial Highness.”

“I have quite literally given my blood to protect the Capital, yes?”

As he spoke, he noticed several of the men’s eyes flick up to his right ear. Or lack thereof. Longren nodded silently.

Beynon stayed quiet and calm. “Let that be my recommendation.”

Longren started to respond, but Beynon beat him to it. “I understand. I am twenty-three summers old and I need to be twenty-four in order to overthrow the council. Believe me,” and he met the man’s eyes. “I understand. And I have no desire to deny protocol.”

The room was so quiet that he could hear each of them breathing.

“But hear you this. This issue is important to me. I take a personal interest in it. And I will continue to bring it up again and again, in every council meeting from now on, until I come of age and can accomplish the thing myself.” He looked into the eyes of every man present. Was that sympathy in the royal secretary’s gaze? “Am I clear?”

Together, the room responded, respectfully, as one. “Yes, your Imperial Majesty.”