The Left Cavalcade

Lady Feorynne listened to her footsteps echo as she walked down the dark, stone staircase. She never imagined she would be following anonymous messages offering support, but she was not born to a powerful House, and if she was to ever wear the crown, she knew she would need support.

Her eyes were adjusting to the flickering dark, and she could hear voices murmuring as she sensed an end to the torch-lit staircase. Emerging to a large, dimly lit room, she found herself in the company of a motley knot of men, muttering and pointing at one another. She recognized a few of them as lesser lords with claims to the White Throne: there was Lord Lindsen Gratham, who looked smaller than she remembered, Lord Richard the Sanctum, known for his rigid zealotry, Lord Richard the Parrier, in full plate armor, and a few others that she could not place. They all looked up when she entered the room.

“And who is this now,” a dark gentleman asked accusingly, “another nobody? I am sure I am in the wrong place!”

Lady Feorynne had been insulted before, and the barb found no mark in her pride, but her trepidation had quickly given way to confusion in the face of the greeting. “I beg your pardon,” she began, “but did one of you ask to meet me here?”

Lord Richard the Parrier threw up his arms. “What is happening? I am supposed to having a duel with The Trumpet!”

Half of the men began arguing again, while the other half muttered to no one in particular. Lady Feorynne cut in, “My lords, please! Goodly men, who sent for you? Why are each of you here?”

The arguing died down, and now the men were overly chivalrous, each inviting someone else to explain. Finally, Lord Lindsen spoke up, “It would seem we all received anonymous messages with empty promises. Mine had the sigil of a fox.” The men all nodded in agreement.

“Are you all lords of the Redlands seeking the White Throne?” Again, the men nodded. Lady Feorynne was surprised at the comfort she found in this response. Some of these men were much better known than she, yet here they were, scrounging about forgotten vaults and chasing ghosts, just like her. This feeling lasted only a few moments, however, before there was an abrupt clanking that echoed down the twisting staircase behind her, followed by a distant roaring growing rapidly louder. Realization unfolded across Lady Feorynne’s face. “It’s a trap!”

The group frantically moved toward the opening to the stairwell, but they were met with a blast of water surging down the stairs that hit them cold, knocking most of them to the ground. The room was filling up fast, and panic was setting in faster. Lord Gratham began flailing against the torrent, half running, half swimming, all the while shouting, “No! No! No! No!” Lord Richard the Sanctum was shouting something about the gods. Others were splashing in circles, or simply standing in wet clothes and blinking, as if reality had not yet sunk in for them.

Lady Feorynne was scanning the room, trying to think, while her heart pounded against her rib cage. She pictured The Trumpet with his flimsy claim to the throne and his smug smirk, and it infuriated her that she was going to drown here unknown while he floated along on an undeserved armada. At that moment, she spotted a large chest pressed sadly against the far wall, and she began plowing towards it with intensity of purpose.

She tried to pull the top open, but found it locked tight. The water was rising quickly. She began smashing at the latch with her fists until they bled, but still it would not budge. She felt a cold hand on her shoulder and gasped. It was Lord Richard the Parrier, holding out an axe for her to take. “Good luck,” he said, giving her a brave smile. She looked at the heavy armor covering his body. He would never get it off in time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Roderick Eiles was the type of man who took up space. It was not just his bodily excess, as his stomach pushed its way against his loose robes and his cheeks tumbled outward from his face, but the way he spread himself out, stretching his arms to envelop any chair he sat in, or in this particular case, his red chaise, as he lounged on one side, sipping wine and munching on dates. He was not being supportive of his adopted daughter, Meagen.

“You weren’t there, father. You didn’t see how his men were treating those women. You didn’t see what he let them do.”

“I know The Trumpet is a provocative person, but I asked you to get information and report, not put a scar on his arm.”

“I was aiming for something lower.”

Roderick shook his head, “You know our House Words: We take no side.”

“Is that what you tell our allies? Listen to me, father. We both know The Trumpet will be a disaster for the Redlands. We can’t just let him do whatever he pleases.”

“He will be dealt with, my dear, but in a way that most benefits our House. Be patient. Right now he is more dangerous than he looks, and I don’t want you in harm’s way.”

“I can handle myself.”

There was a knock at the door. Lord Roderick put down his wine and his dismissive tone, looking at Meagen seriously. “I am expecting news from my other Foxes. I am afraid we must end here, but understand me. I will take down The Trumpet for you, but I will do it my way. You just have to promise me that you will stay away from him and leave this to me.”

Meagen answered him defiantly, “You take care of him as you see fit, but I will not make you promises I cannot keep.” With that, she left the room.

Roderick picked his wine back up and swirled it thoughtfully, sighing softly to himself, “Poor Trumpet.”

A man and a woman entered, dressed in black. Roderick greeted them expectantly, “Come, my little Foxes! Tell me.”

“It is done, my lord. We barred the doors and opened the sluices, just like you said. We waited until the screaming stopped.”

“Excellent! Eight fewer ‘kings’ to deal with!”

The two shuffled uneasily, “Actually, father, only seven. Lord Jon Kassick did not show his face. In fact, he sent you a raven.”

One of them handed Roderick a strip of paper, on which it was written:

Dearest Roderick,
I regret that I shall not be able to attend your secret meeting for support.
However, you are more than welcome to dine with me at Columnbust
should you and your Foxes wish to hear my plans for Amerikos.
Jon Kassick, Rightful Lord of Columnbust

“That cunning son of a bitch,” Roderick remarked, putting down the message and turning to his confidantes, “I may have underestimated this Kassick. Marta, I want you to go Columnbust and see what you can learn about him. Hemmar, I want you and my other Foxes to plant a whisper and let it grow. I want everyone in the realm to say that The Trumpet drowned those people, not us. He took the air out of the room. He is cutting out the weakest lords. Do you understand? I want every minstrel singing about him. I want the other lords to be afraid of him. I want them begging for our support. All the whispers in the realm should either be questions about The Hill’s vanishing ravens or awe at the strength of The Trumpet.”

Hemmar let out a grin. “But we take no side.”

“Indeed. That is why I also want you to send a message from me to The Trumpet apologizing for Meagen’s behavior. I want to assure him that our House takes no side and we will not hinder his path to the throne.”

“Meagen is not going to like that.”

“I must do what I think is best for our House, the Redlands, and the realm. In that order. Now go.” Hemmar and Marta filed out of the room, leaving Roderick to his indulgences.

 ~~~~~ To Be Continued ~~~~~

King Obam gazed out the window of the Oval Keep, across the spires of King’s District, to the blue horizon beyond.

“My king?” Lord Josiff of House Bydon, the Hand of the King, had entered the chamber moments ago, but the King seemed lost in reflection. “King Obam, the small council is waiting for you. We need you to lead.”

The King let a long sigh. “Lead? It is easy to speak of leading when one imagines followers, but what can a king do when he is beset by opposition on all sides? I sought to change this kingdom: to unite it. But Amerikos remains as divided as ever. Perhaps even more so than when I began my so-called ‘rule.’ I am tired, Lord Josiff. Grey and tired.”

“Do not speak that way, my king. You know as well as I that you have accomplished things other men could only dream of. You built House Barackeon from nothing. You brought the kingdom back from the brink of financial ruin. You have made friends of our enemies and crushed those who would destroy us. Who thought a peasant boy from the Volcano Lands, born of a foreign father, would come to sit on the White Throne?”

King Obam turned around, the spirit returning to his face. “You are right, of course. And there is much more to be done before I am driven out of this exalted prison. My successor will not be wanting for problems to solve.” The King paused before continuing, “Have you given more thought to your future, Lord Josiff?”

“My future? My king, I am still mourning my son. I am not ready to think about such matters.”

“I am sorry. He was a fine knight, and could well have been king one day. Still, you cannot pretend to me that the flame of your own ambitions no longer burns.”

“My own ambitions notwithstanding, had we not agreed that The Hill would ride for you, to lead the Bluelands?”

“Lady Hillar Clintane? Indeed, we agreed that she would ride for me, but she has no stronger a claim to this throne than do you. The people of House Clintane became some of my most loyal bannermen after they surrendered to me so many years ago, but I have had no friend more loyal than you, Josiff. I can think of no one I would rather have carry on my legacy.”

Lord Josiff widened his eyes to reveal their crystal blue, as he often did when he was being deadly serious. “Be that as it may, my king, The Hill is an accomplished knight, and I do not relish the thought of fighting her. She and her husband still have much support from The Will’s days as king. I’m not sure I’d stand a chance even if I wanted to challenge her.”

King Obam scanned Josiff’s face shrewdly once over. “Well, we mustn’t leave Lord Keiry waiting, so let us go to the small council. But consider what I’ve said here today, my friend. The game has only just begun.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Jebry was fuming as he trundled ahead of his men upon his chestnut steed, spitting words like poison. “That son of bitch wouldn’t even be a knight if it wasn’t for me, much less a lord! If Lord Marcus doesn’t understand loyalty now, he will when I have my boot on his face and my sword at his neck!”

Ser Diaaz, his Captain of the Guards, and Lady Broadshaw, Jebry’s most trusted adviser, cast each other tense sidelong glances behind their lord. They had not expected the news of Marcus Ruby to break through Jebry’s carefully controlled exterior like this.

He continued, without expecting a reply: “King? The insolence! Does every petty jackass with a title think they can be king now? I don’t have time for this. I should be preparing against The Hill if I ever hope to sit on my throne. That wretched wench still believes her husband gives her a greater claim to the throne than mine.”

“Lady Hillar has not yet conquered the Bluelands,” Lady Broadshaw cautioned, “we should not be hasty in our conclusions. The word from the north is that Burning Sands continues to grow in strength.”

“That old kook? I don’t care what magic they say he wields, the Clintanes will cut him down.”

Lord Jebry steadied his horse as they crested a hill, and signaled his men to halt. Ser Diaaz rode up beside him. “What is it, m’lord?” As he spoke, a night-black raven alighted itself on Lord Jebry’s outstretched arm, a message furled around its leg.

“News about The Hill, I presume.” Lord Jebry uncoiled the parchment, handing it to Ser Diaaz, “Do me the honor, Diaaz?”

Ser Diaaz cleared his throat, and slaked his thirsty eyes upon the scrivened words. “It’s actually about The Trumpet, m’lord. It says he has assembled a fleet and is raiding the Redlands along the coast.”

“The Trumpet? That jester?”

“Jester turned pirate, m’lord. He fancies himself King.”

Lord Jebry scoffed. “He may not be a jester anymore, but he’s still a fool if he thinks he’ll be King. He is as loud and empty as his name suggests.”

“He has stockpiles of gold from his inns and taverns, and his name is on every one of them. He is rallying support among the Tea Folk.”

“Of course he is. Such people cannot tell the difference between confidence and competence.” Lord Jebry leaned forward, closing his eyes and squeezing his forehead between his fingers. The bad mood had worn him out. “Well, tell it to me straight. Where has he hit us?”

“Actually, m’lord, it says he is hurting the smaller houses most of all. On the whole, there seems to be no pattern to his raids, except against those who have slighted him. Shall we bolster our fleet?”

Lord Jebry sat back up thoughtfully, “No. Let us not draw too much attention to ourselves for now. Let him bleed House Ruby and House Pall if he will. In the meantime, we must fortify our position in Hampshyre. We will keep our sights on halting the advance of the White Walker. He, or it, is the true threat. If we cannot stop him, Diaaz, he may well turn both of us White.”

Diaaz looked uncomfortable and spoke softly, “M’lord, pardon my saying, but you are already white.”

“Well, of course, I mean… you see, not like that, obviously. My wife is foreign-born! I mean the icy white of the White Walker.”

“Yes m’lord. No one is as white as him.”

Here Lady Broadshaw interjected, “But my lord, what if The Trumpet comes after us?”

“Then we will face him if we must, but not on his terms. The sea is his element. If it comes to battle, we will fight him on solid ground. When the other lords realize what a menace The Trumpet truly is, they will drop their petty claims to the throne and rally to House Butch.”

“Then you can unite the Redlands.”

Lord Jebry sighed, “What is left of them.”

~~~~~ To Be Continued ~~~~~