White Smoke
“Joyous day to you, Master!” A fresh-faced young novice said as Orran strode by and he frowned in response. Though it was not fair to take out his displeasure on students of Grace, fairness had nothing to do with his mood. The council had made a mistake, he was sure, but convincing them seemed an impossible task.
By the time he had reached the tall smoke tower in the center of the palace, Orran’s mood had darkened to near black. For the last six months he had been fighting a war of words with men he knew – good men – who seemed to be caught under the sway of a sudden contender for Rennor’s throne. Vacant over the last two hundred years, the golden chair required only that a claimant of the realm step forth and prove their linage.
Ichtol Marbeza had appeared in the city a year ago as a noble merchant and began quickly making friends of Rennor’s elite. Within four months a potential link to the Kings of old was spoken in whispers and soon Ichtol was declaring his candidacy for the throne. At first, Orran and the others on the Council had been skeptical but almost overnight all of its members became convinced of Ichtol’s claim. Something didn’t sit well with Orran, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what or explain his misgivings to the council.
Hefting the globe of powder in his hand, he considered “losing” it outside a narrow window and letting it fall to the river below. The crushed crystal used to mark the rising of a new King was difficult to obtain and if the brazier did not burn those in the city would never accept Ichtol’s authority – no matter what the council said.
“I trust you will not fail the council,” a voice said from behind him and Orran spun, clutching the white orb to his chest. He had done nothing wrong!
“Tomas,” he grated in reply, frown deepening. The blond-haired knight and his armored companions had arrived not long after Ichtol’s declaration of his lineage and few had left his side since. Tomas was the worst of the lot – loud and boorish and with no respect for the local women. At first Orran had hoped to glean something of the larger man’s reason for supporting the new King with such fervor, but the man was rotten to the core and being around him was an exercise in frustration.
“I am doing my duty as ordered by the council,” he said once it became apparent that Tomas was not simply going to slither back into deepening evening shadows like the snake he was. “What are you doing here?”
“Making sure that all of our new King’s subjects are doing as they have been told,” Tomas smiled and reached out a meaty hand for Orran’s shoulder, but a raised arm and muttered words of Grace in return pushed the Knight back.
“You would dare?” Tomas’ eyes were narrowed and his face was red. “I thought your Grace prevented you from such rash action!”
“I am bound to fight the forces of darkness and its minion, the Awl,” Orran intoned, the familiar oath giving him a measure of peace, “and your soul is as black as any I have ever seen.”
Tomas laughed, a hollow sound, but his eyes did not share in the mirth. “Hardly a good enough reason, Master. Now climb – we will see this brazier lit together.”
There was no tactful way to refuse; Tomas had been granted status as Captain of the guard, a position that gave him free run of the palace. At best, Orran could pretend the puffed-up knight was not three steps behind him. The sixty-five prayers of Grace served to calm him as steps slipped by and he had almost forgotten his shadow when Tomas spoke again in a whisper.
“Blood oath,” he said, voice strained.
Orran turned but Tomas merely flashed another sly grin.
“Tainted,” the voice came almost as soon as Orran had turned around. “Don’t look.” He didn’t, and Tomas went on in a violent rush of words. “Hard to speak. Compelled. Ancient rituals; Ichtol. Tainted blood oath.” There was the sound of heavy breathing, as if the Knight had endured hours of battle in full armor. “Awl.” The last came through clenched teeth – a word of undying hatred.
“What are you saying?” Orran didn’t stop climbing and didn’t try to meet Tomas’ eyes again. “Have you been compelled to this action?”
“Yes.” The word was faint, but there could be no mistake in its sound.
They arrived at the brazier, and Orran moved quickly to the north window and stretched out a hand, ready to drop his white cargo to the paving stones below.
“No!” Tomas had him by the arm and hauled him into the middle of the room before he could loose his fist. “You cannot! The monster will kill us all!”
“I will not acknowledge a false King!” Orran bellowed. “Grace does not permit it!”
“Damn your Grace,” Tomas’ face and neck were red and veins along both muscled arms stood out sharply in sunlight. “Awl has his eye on this place, Orran – and wants Ichtol to be King. If you do not light the brazier, Servants will be sent to slaughter everyone in the city.”
“We must stop him!” Orran was desperate.
“We cannot. Your only hope is to fight him from within, to see to it that his decisions are always questioned and that power is never freely given.”
“You overestimate me, Tomas!” he cried. “And what will you do to save the people of Rennor should we let this thing come to pass?”
“Nothing.” The big knight slumped forward and released his grip. “I am bound.”
Orran appealed to Grace – a desperate, whining thing that brought no answer. On unsteady feet he moved forward and dropped the orb down into smoldering fire, then watched as white smoke began to billow.
Long live the King.
- D
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