The Patriarch, Ichabod Dyre, Anita Vulfen, Saf Guyen, Alfred Yonnar, Anne Dreor. Nessanda, The Arch, Felland, Dolpon, Zagravin, Utoll. The most powerful people in Drevon, representatives of their provinces, sat together for the first time in nearly two years. Though they were together, they appeared as anything but a unified front. The bickering had already begun in earnest, silenced only by the Patriarch's arrival at the meeting of the High Council.
The arguments were inevitable. They always were. Try as they might to hide it, the people of Drevon were more different than they were similar. It only took a look at this room to prove that for Anne. Some, like her, were dressed in military garb, though most of that lot were from Uttoll, with a few from the Arch. Others wore fine doublets, and lovely gowns as if they were living a hundred years in the past. Then, there were those of Dolpon and Nessanda. Dressed in long, loose ceremonial garb of a rainbow of colours, they'd certainly dressed to impress the Patriarch. Some were plainer, washed with, silvers, yellows, and greens. Others had patterns in their dress. Mostly worn by the women, these dresses had spots like a leopard, or were striped as the Sabretooths of Dolpon were. Though they appeared as big cats, none of the Counts, Countesses or their retinue wore fur. It wasn't prohibited, per se, but the sight of it often enraged the Patriarch, especially when worn by a woman. If someone hadn't killed a creature themselves, the philosophy of Atoth's Chosen was that they had no right to wear its skin.
Anne had a much simpler reason for disdaining fur. It stank.
She glanced around the room, taking in each man, each woman, quietly committing their faces to memory. She'd known most of these people for years, though there were others among them, those she was meeting for the first time. In remembering them, she ensured any betrayal, any misstep, no matter how minor, would be remembered too.
It was in this exercise that Anne missed her husband. How he would have torn into this lot, pointing out every flaw they had. A mole hidden by makeup, a disgusting laugh, there was nothing Robert would not notice. He'd goad Anne into his game, conjuring insulting names for each man and woman in the Council, hiding his snickering behind a cough, watching Anne struggle not to smile. In those moments, things were just like they had been when they first met.
Robert was not here though. In truth, none knew where he was, a fact that annoyed the Patriarch almost as much as the loss of a dozen Pure Sons, alongside the destruction of a good portion of Quenasses' catacombs.
"Dreor," said Ichabod Dyre. The blind Count of The Arch managed to set his glassy eyes on Anne. She hated when that happened. He was a stick of a man, with shaggy hair and a beard that must have made up at least half of his body weight. "You've called us here. We've settled. What do you have to say?"
Anne glanced at the Patriarch. In his armour, he looked comically large compared to the rest of the Council. His eyes, cold and clinical, had not left the table since he'd sat down. Still, they did not move, though his body made no sign of moving either, granting Anne permission to speak.
She stood, pushing her gloved hands from the fine marble of the table beneath her. She took in a long, silent breath, looking up to the glass ceiling of this tower of the Bastille. Rain pattered from the glass. Droplets raced their way down the dome to the stone of the tower below. Anne was glad it wasn't a sunny day. She couldn't stand it when the sun was in her eyes, and there would have been no avoiding that in this room.
"Counts, Countesses. Lords, Ladies," Anne said. "We appreciate your coming here today, as I'm sure you've all seen, the road has been long and arduous in Vovequia, but it has also been victorious."
The Council grumbled their approval. They were never happy about praising Anne. Success after success they undermined. There was always something to improve upon. Their porridge was never cooked just right.
"With Quenasses under our control," Anne continued. "We now have influence over the entirety of Southern Vovequia. The lands, the people, the livestock, and resources are all ours now. Yet, we must be wary not to push our luck. Through powder and matchlocks, we have gained a mighty advantage, yet we are not invincible. Recently we were faced with a most regretful defeat at the battle of the Low Wood. It should be a reminder that we are mighty, but we cannot simply bull our way through Vovequia as we please. Thus, I have come to terms with the Stag Queen. We will meet to parley in the coming weeks and from there we can collect our new lands before Winter sets in."
Some of the Council breathed a sigh of relief at the word 'parley', while others stared Anne down, waiting for her to reveal this was all a joke. The worst of the lot looked as if they were ready to leap over the table and throttle her. The fury in their eyes made Anne glad weapons were prohibited from Council meetings, and gladder still that the people guarding the chamber were her own, each ready to blow the head off a councilman at a moment's notice.
Anne entertained that thought for a moment. What would occur if everyone in this room died? Say, if there was a whole keg of powder under their feet, and the whole chamber were to explode. As long as Anne, and the Patriarch survived, Drevon would carry on. They'd be better off without this whining tumour that was the majority of the Council. The flock, as Robert had so often called them. Even if the Patriarch perished, Anne knew she could carry on. Faith in Atoth would merely be replaced by faith in powder. A beneficial trade by any account.
"And so, what," started Guyen. "We are showing our bellies after one, minor defeat?"
Saf Guyen, Countess of Dolpon, with her dark, perfect skin and doe eyes, was an irritatingly gorgeous woman. Yet, she was no battle commander. In the many years of Drevon's war with Vovequia, she had spent not one second near a battlefield, instead locking herself away among her rich, fertile lands. Still, she was one not to antagonise; she supplied the rations. She was aware of her power as much as everyone else was, and she swung it around like the Patriarch's great hammer. Even without her involvement in the war, Guyen was almost as respected as Anne among the Council. Almost.
"May I remind you, Countess Guyen," Anne said. "That by bringing this war to an end now, we can stabilise what we have won and our lands at home. We can recuperate to bring about a stronger offensive in the future. Surely you'd be glad to not send off half of a harvest to supply our armies?"
Guyen nodded, though she wasn't done. "And what of our enemy? While we recover, so will they."
"They have lost far too much to recover. Their pride, their minds will be shattered by our consistent crushing of them. Even if they could retake their land, they won't want to try. May I remind you all that we now occupy half of a country."
"Not enough," grumbled a deep, powerful voice. Anne dreaded that voice, she hated even the thought of hearing it. So deep was the Patriarch's tone, so booming was his voice that with every word whatever was around him appeared to tremble.
He set his cold, malicious gaze on Anne. She sat down within an instant. She liked to tell herself she was not afeared of the Patriarch. That was a lie. Everyone feared the Patriarch. Sat ever in his armour, none were allowed to see him as a man. He was always the Patriarch, the Grand Warrior, the Lion of Atoth, Atoth's Chosen. He appeared to his allies as he did his enemies, and Anne was always glad she was a member of the former, though she'd seen him cave in the skulls of men she once thought to be allies too.
"Would you be full after eating half of a meal?" boomed the Patriarch. "Would you walk well with only one of your legs? Could you fight with half of a blade?"
The Council shook their heads like schoolchildren. They were all under his trance now. All, except Anne, who had replaced her fear with anger.
He had agreed to this, she steamed. Now he seeks to undermine me?
"What would you have us do then?" Anne asked.
The Council snapped their heads to her, she might have even heard a gasp. The Patriarch locked eyes with her. Anne did not recoil. It was a petty thing to cut through his monologue like that. It undermined his authority just as he had done hers. None of these things bothered Anne now though. She had had enough of this bloodthirsty man-child. He was never satisfied. The way he was going, either Drevon would soon rule the world, or he would die trying to achieve that. Anne decided in that moment, with her eyes meeting his, that the Patriarch would not live long enough to see either option play out. He was too volatile, too dangerous to be left as the leader of Drevon.
After Anne did not give in to his staring, the Patriarch huffed, removing his gaze from her. He reached under the table and pulled out Reckoning. Part axe, part war hammer at its head, the weapon was at least six feet long, made of gleaming silver, the same as the Patriarch's armour. The axe half of the head was made of a viciously sharp blade, though at the flick of a wrist, the Patriarch could flip the weapon, and bludgeon his opponents with a blunt hunk of silver shaped like a roaring lion's head. It was a garish, ugly weapon. Robert believed it was almost definitely compensating for something.
The Patriarch dropped Reckoning on the table. Anne thought she saw the marble crack.
"Half of a country," he said. "Is simply not enough. It is not even close. I don't know about the rest of you, but I won't be satisfied until all that is on our maps is known as Drevon."
There were hoots of agreement, even some light applause. It was all Anne could do to stifle a groan.
"I do not care if I have to do it myself," the Patriarch continued. "But I will not bow to any ruler that is not Atoth himself. I will march up to the Stag Queen's palace, and take her heretical head."
He slammed Reckoning down. This time the marble definitely cracked. Chips flew across the room, peppering Anne and the rest of the Council.
"We've pushed so far," Guyen said. "Why not go the rest of the way?"
Anne glared at the Countess of Dolpon. She was inches from giving the order from them all to be shot.
"Aye," agreed Dyre. "Let's let them have it. Once more, for Atoth, for the Patriarch!"
The rest of the High Council soon joined in with their own versions of Dyre's sentiment, each declaring their fealty, their willingness to step into the great beyond of Northern Vovequia. There was cheering, a raucous applause. It was enough to churn what little food was left in Anne's stomach. She did not order the Council to be shot. If they wanted a war, they could have one, but she was done fighting. See how confident they feel without her thunder at their backs.
*
Conrad itched his neck. He'd never worn the clothes of a nobleman before, and he never intended to again. His dark blue doublet was pretty enough, with silver trim, though it fit far too tightly. The doublet chafed against the scars along his chest, forcing Conrad to suck in his stomach with every step he took else it threatened to burst. The rest of his outfit wasn't as tight, though it was as elegant. Nothing too flashy, just an air of decency.
Bearskull looked no more comfortable in her dress. She appeared to have the opposite problem to Conrad, in that her mossy dress appeared large enough for a woman double her size. If they'd wanted to, Conrad was sure both he and the hag could've fit in that garish balloon of fabric.
"Take my arm," Bearskull said, pulling up her sleeves. It was all she could do not to trip over herself every few seconds. "People are looking."
She linked her arm with Conrad's before the latter could protest.
"I don't think people are looking because we're not linking arms," Conrad said.
"Well, it could be one of the reasons."
"If you insist," Conrad sighed.
Conrad was noticing the stares now. There had been a few of them along their short afternoon walk, though as they got closer to the Bastille, the crowds of people were growing thicker, and for every new set of eyes, there was the high chance they would look on the odd pair of Bearskull and her undead pet.
"Is there any reason for the influx of people?" Bearskull asked. She pulled Conrad to a halt for a moment. From a loose sleeve she pulled out a handful of seeds, scattering them into a nearby patch of earth. She'd been doing this for their entire journey. They'd walk for a few minutes, then unceremoniously stop as Bearskull chucked a handful of seeds into a nearby bush, or on a small patch of dirt.
"If I remember rightly, and if we're just unlucky enough," Conrad said. "The High Council is meeting today. Half of the noble families from Drevon and their retinues are going to be crammed in and around the Bastille."
"Sounds fun," Bearskull said.
"Sounds like an easy way for us to get caught. More people of value will mean more soldiers to guard them. Soldiers that could recognise me."
"You live such a fearful life," Bearskull said sympathetically.
Conrad tried to pull his arm away. Bearskull held on with a stronger grip than her frame indicated. "I live a normal life," he said. "Or I did until you came along, and Arten got taken, and now his head is a mess and we're here spreading fucking seeds!"
Bearskull feigned a pout. "I'm sorry dear, but that's what the world is. Once you dig even the slightest bit beneath the surface, you'll see all the horrors, all the mysteries, all the oddities this world has."
"I never wanted to see that."
"You should count yourself lucky that you have," Bearskull said. "Most people here live in feigned ignorance, yet you have been brought into the truth, even if you were dragged kicking and screaming. You are someone of import now, even if you don't want to be. You've seen what the Patriarch can do, what his servants do. You can't sit by idly anymore, Conrad."
They were getting dangerously close to the Bastille now. Bearskull didn't seem to care. She stormed forward, tugging Conrad along as she went. Even if they weren't recognised as traitor and witch, Conrad and Bearskull appeared as an odd enough couple to be earning the stares. Around the Bastille knights, ladies, barons, and duchesses were all prodding their partners, their guards, even their servants, to ogle the soldier stuffed into a doublet and his skeleton of a wife.
In all their shining armour, their radiant raiment, Conrad would have once loved to stare back at this gathering of nobleman. Their banners hung proudly in the air, combining in a rainbow of purples, greens, and deep reds. Now, with roles reversed, and all the eyes on him, Conrad couldn't help but try and avoid their gaze. His eyes drifted to the floor. His ears did all they could to shut out the whispers, the obvious titters. He let Bearskull drag him around for a while, without Conrad really knowing where they were going.
"Isn't this wonderful?" Bearskull said, elbowing Conrad a bit too hard in his ribs.
"What is?" Conrad looked up.
The garden was wonderful, as much as Conrad was hesitant to admit anything was. Towering bushes, rows upon rows of flowers, surviving even among the harsh winds and rains of autumn. There were a few spindly trees, of wood that looked a strange, white colour. Leaves hung from branches no thicker than Conrad's fingers, either clinging on to the last green of summer or turning red as Autumn demanded.
"I just wish it was quieter," Bearskull said. "Too many people. They take away from it."
Conrad begged to differ. He found the dresses and smart outfits of the people walking along the garden to be complimentary of it. Purples matched purples; greens almost blended in with the bushes. Nothing is beautiful without the people to admire it. Without them, the garden would have been empty. It would have been much like the Low Wood, the hole in the ground Bearskull so adored.
"The bushes," Conrad noticed, looking at how the bushes and hedges had been trimmed, the shapes that had been made of them. "They're all women."
"Does that shock you? Really?" Bearskull asked.
"We don't really do much with bushes in Drevon. They are as they are."
Bearskull waved away Conrad's words. "A pity. These wonderful, shapely shapes before you Conrad are actually just one woman. Voma wa Aliksh. The Giver of Life, in your tongue."
Conrad remembered the name. "I think Arten called her something else."
"Most have a name for her," Bearskull shrugged. "I've always thought her to be a bit overrated."
"Life is overrated?"
"In a way, yes. Think about it; life is a gift only to some. Those who can enjoy it. To others, those who spend their lives surviving rather than living, they would have been better off lying with Oblivion."
"Oblivion?" Conrad asked.
"The eternal enemy of Voma. Or her lover, depends on who you ask. Either way, he's the giver of everything except life, to put it on the most basic of terms."
"And Atoth?" Conrad asked, watching as Bearskull scattered another handful of seeds. She threw them under a bush depicting the Giver of Life opening her arms wide in embrace.
"A construct of Drevon," said the witch. "Nothing more."
"Isn't it the same for the others? People have to think of them, pray to them, for them to exist."
Bearskull itched her chin for a moment. "No."
"What do you mean no?" Conrad asked.
"I'd best not say anything more. I don't want to harm those precious normal ears of yours." She pinched Conrad's ear, pouting her dried lip with false pity.
"Come now, I've finished my errand," she said.
"Have you?" Conrad asked. He couldn't believe she'd got him dressed like this just to walk around planting some seeds.
Bearskull didn't give an answer. She tugged Conrad along by the elbow, racing through the crowds surrounding the Bastille. They bumped into more than a few people, but Bearskull was moving at such a pace that her and Conrad never needed to nor had the time to apologise. Before Conrad could break from her grip, Bearskull had thrown him into their 'abandoned' house, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"That was fun," she declared, panting lightly.
"Was it?"
"Yeah. Playing roles, sneaking around. I haven't seen so many people in so long. Well, people that were alive anyway. I saw tonnes fall down into the Wood after that battle you lost."
"Hmm," Conrad said. He never really knew how to talk to Bearskull. She was the witch that had brought him back to life, the most powerful being he'd met in all his years. Also, she was a madwoman by all accounts. How do you get to know someone like that? Especially someone so odd, who could talk of existential philosophy one moment, and throw seeds aimlessly at the ground the next.
They headed up the stairs and towards Arten's room, but not before they could get a change of clothes. Conrad swapped his tight doublet for a much looser light shirt, while Bearskull returned to her long, billowing robes. She didn't wear the bear's skull over her face now, and she looked rather odd without it. Her grey, small head poked out among an endless swath of shadowy black cloth, making it look like she was about to be swallowed by her cloak.
"I wouldn't expect much," said the witch, holding shut the door to Arten. "Recovery, even from the slightest exposure to the Pure Sons' methods, requires some time."
"Alright," Conrad said. He didn't really know what she meant. He didn't really know what any of this meant. Two weeks ago, he'd thought of magic as something that had maybe existed, once. Now, it had been used on him to such an extent that now Conrad was told he could not die. He still didn't know whether he believed that statement; he didn't know if he could believe anything. Still, Bearskull's words had rang true. He hadn't died, not yet. Magic too, had changed Arten, and there was only one way to find if those changes could be fixed.
They opened the door to Arten's room cautiously.
"You can come in," said Arten. "I wondered when you'd be back."
He sounded entirely normal, entirely as he'd been before. In his eyes, there was that same, curious life. In his posture, there was the status of a rich man's son. Except for the blotches of white along his skin, and his thinness, Arten was as he had always been. He'd dressed himself into a fine, formal short coat, with brown trousers stuffed into knee length socks. He'd even cut his hair, ridding himself of his odd strands and gaining a squarish cut that accentuated his finely shaped jaw. It wasn't military regulation in its length, but it looked good.
Bearskull and Conrad stood stunned at the entrance to the room. It was Conrad who took the first step in, grabbing hold of Arten and pulling him in close.
"You cheeky bastard," Conrad said. "You had me worried."
"I'm sorry about that," Arten replied, returning the hug. "Really. I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, is it? We're going to sort it."
Arten pulled away for a moment. His eyes wandered to a book, the same book he'd clutched all through the ritual. "There's something I found out. Something you, no, everyone needs to know."
"Might as well spit it out," Conrad said.
"Enlighten us," Bearskull agreed.
Arten hesitated, as if he didn't trust his own mouth to carry the weight of his words. "The Patriarch. I believe he wasn't born, but made."
"Right," Conrad huffed, releasing Arten. Though it sounded stupid, Conrad believed it. With all that had gone on, it was more likely true than false. It was one thing after another these days. Bloody brilliant.
Arten raised a curious brow. "Why don't you seem to care?"
"Oh, just I've had a lot of these ground-breaking things revealed to me over the last few days," Conrad said. "At first, I was shocked at these things, but now I'd be more fearful of a day that seemed normal. Anyway, go on, how was he made?"
"I don't know," Arten said. "But it's enough to know that, isn't it? We can't follow a man that isn't human."
"We aren't following him. No choice in that matter, Bearskull over there wants to kill him."
Conrad looked at the witch. She seemed entirely uninterested in the conversation, brushing the dust from an end table with her finger.
"Something tells me you already knew this," Conrad said.
"What?" Bearskull said suddenly. "About the Patriarch? Yes, I knew that. I thought it would be a widely known fact. He should stink of magic, and his body will look a lot like a Pure Son under all that armour, just much bigger. Also, you're only half right when you say he was made. He was originally born as all of us were, but in making the Patriarch, there was a process."
"He doesn't stink," Arten said. "Not that I've heard, and I don't know anyone who's seen him without that armour."
"Peculiar," Bearskull commented.
"How do you know all this anyway?" Conrad asked.
"Well, my coven and I, we were the ones tasked with creating him."