Articles of Faith

‘And Amiran’s our fucking father now? He sent me away, Sab. Now he’s sent you away, too. Soon it’ll just be—’

‘A-hem.’ The vizier was back. ‘His highness the prince commands your attendance.’

‘Which one?’

‘You, boy.’

‘No, which prince?’

If the vizier had been sneering before, now his expression could have curdled milk.

***

‘Vedren Chel of Barva,’ the vizier announced, contempt dripping from his voice, as he ushered Chel into the grand pavilion then withdrew.

‘My brother’s saviour!’ Prince Mendel strode forward, grasping Chel’s unresisting arm and pumping it, a warm smile beaming from his absurdly handsome face. Thick, golden hair like a mane crowned his head, matching a well-groomed beard. Chel found himself gazing into earnest, cornflower-blue eyes, creased with concern.

‘Dear Tarfel was telling me of the horrors you saw at Denirnas when the Norts attacked, how you rescued him and carried him to safety.’ Chel raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly, expression neutral. Tarfel avoided his eye. ‘You must have been terrified. I know something of life and death situations myself,’ the prince went on, one hand straying to a jagged scar that ran down one side of his face. It managed to follow the line of his jaw, if anything augmenting his already exemplary looks. ‘But witchfire! God’s breath …’

It seemed to Chel an ideal time to remind the princes of the agreement, in case such things had somehow slipped Tarfel’s mind. He could stand his sister’s disapproval — in time she would understand.

‘Your highness, I—’

‘I can only apologize that you had to face it alone. It’s no secret that the siege is going badly – we should have broken Omundi long ago, and been with you well before festival week. I’m afraid it’s the same as it was in Father’s day – these wretched so-called “free cities” would rather starve themselves to death than rejoin the kingdom.’ He shook his head, seeming genuinely rueful. ‘We have …’ Mendel went on, then tailed off, his beautiful face shifting to a frown. ‘We have …’

A robed figure came gliding from the shadows of the pavilion’s inner chamber behind the crown prince. Balise da Loran, still hooded, floated to Mendel’s shoulder and bent to murmur into his ear. The light returned instantly to the prince’s eyes.

‘We have received more news from the port,’ Mendel declared, as if the interruption had never occurred. Da Loran slid back into the shadows, to where a trestle stood at the pavilion’s wall, piled with message scrolls and missives. Chel watched as she picked up one of the messages and cracked its seal.

‘Yes, brother?’ Tarfel was leaning forward, pained and anxious. He was awfully pale in the lantern light. ‘Have the Norts laid waste to all Denirnas?’

‘No, dear Tarfel, indeed they have not. It seems Grand Duke Reysel may have overreacted to their initial overtures, and they made their point on the sea-fort in return. We’ll have to add that to the reconstruction tally. For now, however, they seem content to sit in blockade, until their demands are met.’

‘Demands? What are they demanding, brother?’

Behind them hung a giant embroidery of Mendel’s late twin, Corvel, a golden sun framing his golden visage, white lions rampant each side. The embroidery bore the legend ‘The Wise’. The twins had been known as ‘The Wise’ and ‘The Fair’ respectively – there was even a song about them – and from Chel’s current vantage, Mendel was very fair indeed.

Balise da Loran was back at the crown prince’s side, and to Chel’s shock he seemed to be deferring to her. ‘Their demands are unimportant,’ came a gravelly and thickly accented voice from beneath the hood. ‘Acknowledging them would be catastrophic.’ She fixed Tarfel and Chel in turn with her hooded gaze, her face within lost in a void from which no light could escape. Mendel was looking at the floor. Chel kept his own eyes fixed on the crown prince; the prelate made his skin itch.

‘The League’s troops remain mired in the siege,’ da Loran continued. ‘Attempting to march everyone to Denirnas now – this close to the end of the campaigning season, with Omundi on the brink of collapse – risks an uprising in our own ranks. But we cannot show weakness in the face of this foreign provocation. We must hold firm, until we can marshal the forces to expel these godless savages.’

Mendel was nodding along, past the end of her words and into the silence beyond. After a moment, Tarfel said, ‘Meaning what, brother?’ forcing Mendel to look up again.

‘Meaning—’ da Loran began, but Tarfel cleared his throat, spots of colour on his waxy cheeks. Chel realized he was as unnerved by the prelate as he was.

‘I’d say my brother can speak for himself in matters of state, wouldn’t you?’

Da Loran stared very hard at the young prince, who seemed to lose an inch in height beneath her gaze. After a moment, she rumbled, ‘Of course, your highness,’ and turned her gaze to Mendel, who looked momentarily surprised. Da Loran muttered something, and the crown prince’s eyes came alive.

‘Meaning, Tarf my boy,’ the crown prince proclaimed, refocused, ‘that the festival celebrations in Denirnas must go ahead as planned. A symbolic gesture, true, but hugely significant. We will show the north that the crown of Vistirlar does not bow or flee in the face of heathen aggression. We stand tall. We celebrate the festival of our father in defiance of savage alchemy, and we show this fractured kingdom that we are not afraid.’

Chel listened with his brow crunched in rising incredulity. Tarfel seemed no less astonished. ‘We do?’

‘We do. And I can’t think of a better representative of the crown to oversee the festival proceedings at Grand Duke Reysel’s side.’

Nobody spoke for a moment, Tarfel slow to meet his brother’s beaming gaze. A heartbeat later his pallid face became entirely bloodless.

‘Brother! What the fuck?’

‘Tarfel, language. You must be our avatar, little brother. You must bear witness to the splendour of the festival’s events, first-hand.’

Tarfel’s voice was very small. ‘But they have witchfire …’

‘Let them … Let them …’ Mendel wasn’t listening, ‘Let them bob and rot in the harbour-mouth. Our people are resourceful, resilient. We will find ways to cope without sea trade. We can lump supplies over the hills from Sebemir’s river docks, that should prevent total starvation.’

Tarfel looked to be gagging, unable to speak. Eventually he said, ‘But you’ll send reinforcements? The army, the League, some will be coming too? We’re at war …’

Da Loran answered this time. ‘The forces of the League are needed in the east. Omundi must fall.’

Tarfel had visibly slumped, his head slung from the sloping mound of his shoulders. Chel watched with a sort of vicarious horror. This plan seemed ludicrous, and he could not wait to be as far away from these people as possible. ‘For how long?’

‘While the campaigning season lasts, although I suppose at that point the League will be breaking up for winter.’

‘But then you’ll come? To the winter palace? You’re expected …’

‘It wouldn’t be fair to leave Father on his own down south, would it? We’ll send a couple of regiments, maybe a free company or two, but this is a battle the Norts cannot win, and they know it. They’ve spent what threat they have, and now they must sit and wait. They cannot break our resolve, our unity. Take heart, dear brother, they will be slinking back over the sea sooner or later – storm season in the north is but a couple of months away.’

‘A couple of months?’

‘Fear not, you won’t be defenceless. Master Chel, I understand my brother made a promise to you?’

Chel swallowed. This was it.

‘He did, your highness.’

‘Good, very good. And who is your current liege?’

‘Hanush Revazi, Lord Sokol.’

‘Do I know him?’ A quick look toward Balise. ‘Not to worry.’ A warm feeling began to creep over Chel. ‘Would you mind kneeling?’

Chel knelt, almost unsteady, his hands trembling with anticipation. Mendel summoned a flunky with a clap of his hands.

‘Right, you, vizier, get this down. Vedren Chel of Barva, by decree of the crown of Vistirlar, your oath is dissolved. All restitutions and so on through the usual whatsit and so forth – Balise knows this bit.’ Chel bowed his head, a fluttering feeling in his chest. ‘Ready with the next one? Splendid. Master Chel, your hand, please.’

The warm feeling vanished, replaced by a sudden tingling cold.

‘I can’t think of anyone better suited, dear Tarf. Now, Master Chel, if you wouldn’t mind repeating the following …’