Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

 

Url led Aren to the archives, aware that every lord and lady they passed would be rushing to report back to whomever they called master. He also knew that his father, and the other barons, would be watching the court to discover who reported to whom. Once the lines were figured out, they were hoping to be able to tell why, at that point in history, the throne had drawn the barons to the palace.

The further the throne stretched its manipulative influence, the more magic it used. Of the barons, Merkat of the south was closest to the palace by far. It had been him who sent the missives to each of the others to call them to court. At different times, days and days apart, yet Merkat recalled sending all the missives at the same time. To the others the statement was clear.

The throne called them.

Why, though? North and east had already signed the treaties which would, one day in the near future, reunite them with the palace. Borders erased, completely under palace control. They signed hesitant treaties that would take almost twenty years to culminate. Allowing them to walk away if they had to, but also giving them a chance to bring one of their queens to the throne instead of living through another Em.

Mirmae had been the first choice, the only right choice. She was the strongest the north had to offer. She turned down Url's father, his uncle, and numerous other warriors, because she chose Ervam. A combination of northern and eastern bloodlines, Mirmae was a remarkable argument for the reuniting of the lands.

By separating the families, they were removing the possibility of their strongest lines breeding together to create stronger ranks.

“What are you thinking about?” Aren asked Url.

“Breeding,” Url said without thinking as they stepped into the archives. “Not like that,” he added quickly. “I was simply thinking of breeding in general. Mirmae Hue—have you heard much about her?”

“She was Ervam's mate, mother of Av and Jer,” Aren said. “She was born of the north, but had a coastal name. Doesn't she share the same name as the baron of the east?”

“That she does,” Url said nodding slowly. “They are distantly related. The Hue line, like the Marilton line, is well known for its ranks. Her father's blood mixed with that of a northern whore, yes, an actual whore. It's an honourable profession. Most give up the children to their fathers. Mirmae was strongest in a while. Until you, it would seem.”

“Ervam is under the impression I'm weaker than Mirmae,” Aren said. “I have no stick with which to measure myself.”

“Impossible for you to measure yourself with these ones around, everyone hiding themselves,” Url said with a nod. “Ervam believes Mirmae the strongest queen ever born. A man who links himself to a woman tends to believe as much, when it's real, true love. While she was the strongest the north had to offer, even now, she was not the strongest, nor are you, though you are stronger than she was.”

“Then why would your grandfather send her south?” Aren asked. “Strength is a precious commodity in a queen, so why banish her? Just because his new mate didn't get along with her?”

They stopped at the archivist's desk. The man who sat behind the desk was older than any man Url had ever seen. Knowing this was the archivist, he bowed his head slightly. To take the position one had to train for a very long time and needed a special skill along with magic of his own.

“The one who sits the throne?” the old man croaked. “Coming to see me? Without Telm dragging you down, kicking and screaming?”

“My name is Aren,” she said politely. “Who are you?”

“The archivist,” was the grumbled response. “You are here to void two matings. I've got my boy searching for the papers.” With a tremble, the archivist turned to Url. “What do you want?”

“I would like to make an alteration to the papers of Ervam Marilton and Mirmae Hue,” Url said.

“No.”

The archivist pushed two papers to Aren for her to sign. Written commands to find the mating papers and allow the archivist to void the matings upon finding the papers.

Url frowned at the man.

“What do you mean, no?” he asked.

“The papers clearly indicate their state,” the archivist said without emotion. “You wish to remove the documentation which states they were mated.”

“Weren't they?” Aren said to the air between Url and the archivist. Url watched the young woman think about it, watched as her face twisted up in surprise. “When you people mate, does the woman take the man's name?”

“Yes, because he comes first to the mating.”

“That's why Jer is a Hue,” Aren said.

The archivist harrumphed. “Ervam has told the tale I wrote for him for a long time. Perhaps he believes it now, easier than his memories. The papers for Ervam and Mirmae will never speak the truth.”

“Why do you want to change this now?” Aren asked Url. “Why not change it before?”

“I didn't know they were claiming to be mated before,” Url said. “I didn't know Ervam brought the boys down here and claimed that Jer was his. I can overlook the mating, her blood mingled with that of mine, as far as I'm concerned, that's enough. But lying to Jer about how he came to be? Lying about my grandfather?”

“If your grandfather didn't send Ervam here,” Aren said, looking to the archivist. “Then why did they come south?”

“Because, while killing one's father is not against the law in the north should it be done for honourable reasons, killing the baron while not a warrior is,” the archivist said. “Baron Er sent his brother south because according to the law, Er had to take Ervam's life and his mate.”

“Take his mate?” Aren asked, sounding surprised.

“Multiple mates are permitted, under certain circumstances,” Url said. “Such as, your father is baron, a commoner takes his life. You have to take the commoner's life, but that makes you responsible for his mate and the blood he leaves behind. Every execution you perform, you adopt new blood. Not to perform mating duties, but in all other respects.”

“With a toddler and newborn babe, Ervam Marilton and Mirmae Hue were banished to palace lands,” the archivist croaked. “Papers were provided for them, which I included in my archives, papers which I knew were illegitimate, but made no attempt to correct on the command of the one who sat the throne at the time.”

“Why?” Aren asked.

“For the benefit of the heir,” the archivist said. “According to the law of the north, the strongest warrior of all the children of the baron inherits his lands.”

Aren frowned. “I'm getting really tired of people running circles.”

“Jer is heir to the north,” Url said. “However, Ervam claimed Jer as his. That's how the north can rejoin the palace lands, because the baron line broke for the first time since we separated from the palace. Mirmae told my father to sign the papers; he signed the papers.”

“Why is Jer heir, though? Is it the strongest warrior from the line? And… how do you tell what warrior is strongest?”

“We know,” Url said. “It’s hard to explain. Especially to someone who doesn't have a stick to measure her own rank.”

“I said, the strongest warrior child born to the baron. When Mirmae was to give Ervam paternity over her second born, Ervam's step-mother accused her of carrying on an affair with his father. Mirmae countered by calling a tribunal of her peers and defended before them. They relayed their decision, that Jer was the son of Ervam's father, but not by an affair.

“The step-mother flew into a rage and attempted to murder Mirmae. By the time the two settled their dispute, Ervam had split his father in two.”

“A fitting end to a rapist,” Url added.

“Because Mirmae did not grant any man paternity, Jer retained her name unless she mated for life, in which case her children would follow the rights of the mate's born land. If the land knew they were not mated, it would have been forced upon them when Mirmae took the throne. They would have mated by palace law. Meaning Jer would have taken Ervam's bloodline, at which point the north would have their records updated and their archivist would assume Mirmae admitted paternity. Giving Jer the title of baron.”

Url watched Aren consider this information, then she turned slowly to Url. “Why would you give me this information?”

“Because I am high lord to the north,” Url said. “Do you know what a high lord is?”

“A representative of the palace in the independent lands. You are an open offer to the lands to reunite with the palace and, should they reunite, you would very likely rule in place of the palace.”

“That's pretty much right,” Url said. “I'm giving you the information you need to unite the north with the palace immediately. All you need to do is to change the records.”

“At the risk of damaging this man's sense of self permanently,” the archivist huffed back. “Rather than being the good son born to the good man, he would be nothing more than a bastard, forced upon a family of victims.”

Aren spoke, but Url had to strain to hear her voice. “If I don't, the north still joins the palace, just at the time of your father's death. Because if you tried to change your mind about the treaty, Lord Url, I could simply assert Jer's right and deal with his anger then.”

“Bold,” Url responded.

He wondered if Aren would keep her word, if he went back on the treaty. Or if this was one of those idle threats that ranks sometimes tossed to their friends and families to make decisions easier. Url had been wondering whether or not he could go through with the treaty his father had begged Mirmae to write.

In order to save the people, Er said, always in order to save the people, but how could Url kneel to the throne? How could he bow to this untried woman? The north had always led with strength, they had never declined to the lowest point of the other lands.

Their ranks were not, at that present time, as strong as the western ranks, but they did outnumber the western and eastern ranks put together. The north might have been populated mainly by warriors, but that didn't make them any less powerful.

“Is there anything else I should know about the brothers?” Aren asked, either ignoring or not detecting Url's hesitance. “Or about Ervam?”

“Ervam is a trainer, Mirmae was a queen, yet Ervam sat the throne without question because his boys stood to his back, protecting him from others,” Url said. “There's not much more for secrets.”

“Lord Av is a true warrior,” the archivist muttered. “Still a warrior. A true warrior is one who breeds true. All of his children will be ranked, if the mother cannot provide life to a ranked child, it will appear they are unfortunate enough to be barren.”

Url shook his head. “Myth, they aren't real. That's like saying a warrior queen is a real rank, it will never happen.”

“It happened once before,” the archivist said. “What has happened once might happen again. When Mirmae first came to the palace she brought the boy to me, suspicious of his rank. He knew too much, he insisted on being trained from the moment he could talk, and had difficulty with letters and numbers. Bred to breed more of himself, these warriors are seen in upswings, when the ranks have died to almost nothing but are coming back.”

“We haven't died to almost nothing,” Url said.

“We are not following the cycle we should be following,” the archivist said. “There has been a spattering of ranks with no cataclysmic event to either unite or divide us ever since the commoners and the other ranks attempted to destroy the queens. The era of the short-lived queens did not truly begin until the palace was renovated, and all the strong lines had been destroyed by that point in history.”

“Wait,” Aren said, holding up a hand to stop the archivist. “Cycle? Explain.”

The archivist actually smiled. The man cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat, far too pleased with himself. “A cycle is what our world goes through, strong queens until a peak. From there on the queens are replaced by those weaker than themselves, or none at all. They are the first rank to succumb and die off. Without queens to lead them, the warriors flounder. No need to make more of themselves, fewer are born. Without the need to see to both ranks, healers die off. Never has the world seen a generation without a healer, but it has seen a generation without any other rank.”

“Does the world cycle?” Aren asked. “Or just the ranks?”

“Ehm…” the archivist struggled with his own memories. “The strong queens tend to rise out of darkness and riot, sickness even. In the time of the strongest, there are few problems, either illness or natural. In some cycles the light or dark is more than usual. To those periods of great light, we give the name enlightenment periods. To those of great darkness, we try not to speak.”

“True warrior,” Aren said. “Explain.”

“One of the warrior rank who shall only birth ranks. Above all else, he will birth more of his own rank. The last in recorded history, and we only keep documentation on the last, found himself in a predicament of existing during a long darkness. The past was forgotten, cycles forgotten. He thought himself the last of his rank. Bred on two women and conceived two queens, four warriors, a healer, a trainer and one of the un-ranked ones.”

“Un-ranked?” Aren growled out.

“This time does not recognize the rank and therefore I do not mention it further,” the archivist barked back at Aren.

Making a face, Aren responded with, “Warrior queen. Explain.”

“One who chose to train amongst the warriors, she learned well and led her armies to victory. These names, honour, traditional, warrior? Mean nothing. You are, all of you, queens. The honour queens upset the traditional queens and told them about the cage that contained them. Demanded freedom and when it was denied of them, simply took it. You are queen. What training do you have leading this land?”

“None,” Aren said.

“What training have you had leading an estate?” the archivist asked.

“None,” Aren responded.

“Yet, no one complains,” the archivist responded, motioning to Url. “How much training have you had, boy, leading this land?”

“This land? Not as much as I've had leading my land.”

“And how much training have you had leading an estate?”

“I can run numbers, treaties, orders, and all the rest,” Url responded calmly.

The archivist made a sound, then focused on Aren. “The girls we put on the throne are barely capable of tying their boots, most of the time. You are a log to the fire unless you learn and be sensible.”

“How is this mating to the south sensible?” Aren asked. “For me, not for the politics of the land.”

A shaking finger pointed to Aren, then touched the side of the archivist's nose. “The throne allows those who sit it certain insight. Yet in the end, my dear, that is the only question you should ask. How is this sensible?”