In front of him, an elf smoothed down the lapels of her military-cut civilian tunic, touched her brown hair to make sure her glossy braids flowed back behind her pointed ears, and turned to a contraption on a tripod.
“This is Perdita del Verro, your WFTV News reporter at Ferenzia, capital of the south, covering the arrival of the Light candidate in the forthcoming election, the Holy Paladin Amarynth Goddess-Son. With the election only six days away, and the promised scandalous revelations about to be disclosed, tension here is steadily mounting—”
Will Brandiman slicked back his glossy black curls (from which the grey had again been removed with dye-spells), arranged his plain white collar and tightly buttoned doublet, and smiled directly over her shoulder at the camera lens as he passed. Like all WoF’s recording equipment it had “Made in Graagryk” stamped on it.
“‘Kinematographic theatres,’” he murmured, “‘To bring images of the news to one and all, across the Southern Kingdoms.’ I wonder if I could interest Mother in carrying broadcasts from the Good Abbess Edwina and the Reverend William, appealing for the Holy Prayer Wheel Fund…”
He arrived at his vantage-point on the steps of the first gallery.
“I don’t know about you,” a gruff contralto said in his ear, “but I feel like a young halfling let loose in a chocolate factory!”
Ned Brandiman’s red habit bulged more than Will remembered it to, especially around the waistline. He had the suspicion that if he picked his brother up and shook him, the wimpled halfling would clink.
“I’ve told you before about purses,” Will reprimanded. “We’re here for much bigger game.”
Ned’s powdered and painted face creased with laughter-lines. A brown curl escaped from under the edge of his wimple and he tucked it back. “Brother, be sensible. We’ve robbed the Blasted Redoubt. There aren’t any challenges left! Even taking Magorian’s Regalia would be taking sweet-breads from elflings.”
“What I really like about this,” Will observed obliviously, “is that the only thing that orc bastard thinks he has to worry about is the Dark Lord’s election chances. And the Bugs.” He rubbed small calloused hands together. “Little does he know!”
A shrill blasting of silver trumpets shook the chamber. Dirt sifted down from the gothic vaultings. The Royal Hall was only brought out and dusted for occasions of extreme ceremony, Will remembered (from the coronation of High King Magorian, which had also been profitable for purses), and now sweltered behind pointed ogee windows that did not open and behind vast oaken doors that were currently shut.
“Hail Amarynth! Hand of Fire, Goddess-Son!”
The great double doors banged open to another screech of brass. Will, from the first gallery rail, watched the Ferenzi nobles—vastly uncomfortable in the ancient but traditional formal wear of doublet and skin-tight hose, fur robes, tippets, and liripipe hats; none of which seemed overly suited to midsummer in the south—turn their noble heads first for the breath of cool air that entered down the central aisle and then for sight of Amarynth Firehand.
“As you know, I’m not talking about worldly profit, Mother Edwina,” Will observed quietly. “There is a more satisfying spiritual spoil to be had.”
Ned’s plucked eyebrows raised. “Is that what you call it?”
“Trust me,” Will said smugly. “And keep on your furry little toes, brother.”
Dust motes filled the regulation sunbeams that spotlit the throne at the far end of the Hall, under the rose-window, flashing back from King Magorian’s golden armour (which, close up, Ned Brandiman had established to be only gilt) and from the flowing white locks of the High Wizard Oderic.
A rhythmic tread shook the granite floor of the Royal Hall.
Twelve Flagellant Knights in full plate harness clashed through the double doors and down towards the throne. Somewhere in the centre of their banners and ostrich plumes Will detected the dark-skinned Holy elf paladin. He bowed as deeply as the rest of the assembled nobles, in case Amarynth should have his eye on his priest and abbess, and with his head down muttered to Ned, “Is it there?”
“Under one of the knight’s cloaks. Never one to miss a dramatic moment, our Holy One.”
“O great Nobles of Ferenzia!” the elf cried, his high voice quieting the Royal Hall completely. “High King of the South, Magorian of glorious fame!”
“Mpph, what?” The High King sat up, scratching at his balding scalp.
The High Wizard Oderic patted him comfortingly on the arm and stepped forward onto the marble floor before the throne. “Great Amarynth, your return to the councils of the wise is most welcome.”
“But I bring fell news,” Amarynth replied as if rehearsed. Will Brandiman, who had spent much of the past three days rehearsing him, found his lips moving in the shape of the next words: a foul crime has been committed—
“A foul, murderous, impious, and vicious crime has been committed!” Amarynth exclaimed.
“Everybody’s an improviser,” Will grumbled.
He noted that the hot and thirsty assembly, who had assumed themselves there merely for a formal welcoming of the Light candidate to the great and honourable city of Ferenzia, jewel of the south, et cetera and et cetera, straightened up and began to take notice.
The elf bowed deeply to the throne, moving to where another sunbeam illuminated the much-worn granite flooring. The light shone from his brown pointed ears, his glossy black starburst-hair now fastened back with a silver fillet, his plain white habit (made from Archipelago silk), and his ivory staff.
“Listen to a humble pilgrim!” Amarynth beseeched.
Will Brandiman caught the Holy One’s eye and nodded reassurance.
“Without more ado,” the ex-Paladin cried, “High King Magorian, must I bring to your attention a most foul and despicable crime. My Lords, the other candidate in this heretical election—”
Amarynth’s brown nostrils flared. His high cheekbones coloured bronze, and he began to pant.
“That blasphemy! That He, the epitome of Evil, dare appear in a female form to mock my mother Goddess, the Lady of Light! Blasphemous mockery!”
Will Brandiman filled his chest and sang out resonantly, “Amen!” Several others of the assembled Knights Flagellant and a number of the Ferenzi nobles echoed him. And, as Will had calculated, the sound of a familiar voice recalled Amarynth to his script.
“My Lord High King, I bring to your knowledge a crime against peace and humanity, for which the perpetrator must be arrested and tried.”
The elf swept back his ragged flowing hair, his eyes blazing.
“When I was an elf of war, I laid siege to a wilderness fortress, Nin-Edin of the north. The story of that is familiar to all. The orcish filth of that fortress held out, by some devilry, until I and my army were recalled.”
One or two of the younger, more fashionably dressed Men smiled. The beefy, gorget-wearing old campaigners watched impassively.
“We marched,” Amarynth continued, “instantly to the relief of Sarderis. Infantry and cavalry, we fell upon the remnants of the Evil Horde and freed the city. In doing so we had undertaken a forced march and come from Nin-Edin to Sarderis in a time never beaten. And—our baggage train followed. Followed us far more slowly, and with but one junior mage, because as you know, the baggage train is sacred under the rules of war.”
The Royal Hall came alive and electric with attention. Will caught Ned’s eye, and the Good Abbess grinned. The two halflings at the gallery rail then composed their faces into expressions of righteous indignation.