The Elder Lands

A little after the sunrise of the fifteenth day since their departure from Arpague, Lucan caught sight of the capital. Eldham was surrounded by white walls that did nothing to hide the grandeur of the city’s interior. Blue-capped spires rose out of the royal palace, guarding between them a grand dome that matched their azure shade.

Two ambitious temples on opposite sides of the city competed with each other in size and splendor, both only a sliver shy of the palace’s size. The infernal and abyssal temples, praying and warning against gods that sought to drag them to their respective oblivions. The first temple was made of rusty reddish stone and the second from dark, depressing blocks of granite.

Neither the temples nor the palace were the most prominent feature of the city, however. The most magnificent, most sizable structure of this city wasn’t made of stone but of light gray wood. The Elder Root stood opposite the royal palace, towering over even its tallest spire. Its bare branches spread up like upside-down roots digging into the clouds. A gigantic skeleton of a tree that never had a leaf to its name, yet it was the most living thing one could imagine. Without it, the Elder Lands would be no better than the perished continent beyond the Hearth Sea. It was a sentinel against encroaching danger that was now no more than inconvenience thanks to its protection. And the fools to the East had burned it down in their rebellion. Lucan didn’t even know how they had managed it.

It was said that damaging an Elder Root was no easy feat, let alone utterly destroying it. Yet they had, and now they suffered the consequences. The rebels had reveled in the chaos for a while, thinking it an opportunity to turn the tables. Eventually, though, they had come to realize their folly, their ignorance. It was difficult to wrest control of a Kingdom that no longer existed. Rather, it was difficult to survive against the new dangers that prowled the eastern lands.

The Elder Roots in Barwalis and The Vincemare’s lands had still provided a measure of protection even with the long distance, yet it hadn’t been enough. It was difficult to survive a hostile world that you were not familiar with, and even harder to survive a locale where everyone hated you for unleashing the local apocalypse. None of the rebel families still stood today. Their very names were taboo in the east, the few still remembered stood for curses, dark bedtime stories, and insults to one’s intellect.

Lucan gazed with awe at the tree. It was no tree, he knew, not in the way others were. The Elders had built–or grown–it. No one knew how the Roots worked, but all benefited from them. It was a wonder of great proportions. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it either. He’d also seen the one in the south from the shore of the lake where his father had taken him years ago. It was, however, difficult to restrain that awe when you weren’t used to its presence by living in its vicinity. His father had once told him that on clear days, the Elder Root in the great lake was visible from their keep, yet Lucan had failed to catch sight of it even once. A slight fog had also prevented him from glimpsing it on their journey where the High Road came closest to the lake, yet his imagination had conjured a shadow of it beyond the fog when they’d come across the fork in the road.

Lucan was riding behind his father, deep in his thoughts, when the latter pulled back to ride beside him. “Remember, don’t speak of our intentions to anyone. Don’t make any promises however small. You’re of age now, your words will hold weight, mostly over you, but they can also undermine our estate as a whole.”

“Yes, Father,” Lucan said. “Are we certain of our choice though?”

His father nodded. “It’s an opportunity, Lucan. Something like this will only come along once. We might not have the opportunity to rise in standing again until your own children come of age. Regardless, I’m only advising the King as one of his subordinates, as one of his aides in a way. I cannot demand anything.” His father’s voice dropped to a discreet whisper. “And it won’t only be us in opposition to the notion of a new crown prince. Aside from Arpague and its allies, the northern lords won’t find the matter appealing either. They’re the ones that appreciate the Kingdom’s internal solidarity the most. If the Vincemare smell weakness, we’re in for another war, and they would be the ones to pay the price first and foremost.”

Lucan nodded. “Then may the gods spare you their intrusions, Father.”

As he spoke with his father, Lucan spied a rider coming from the city to speak with one of the princess’s knights then gallop back with haste.

His father spent some more time preparing him for what was to come, and by the time they were done speaking, they’d arrived at the city’s gates. They hadn’t been the only nobles arriving at that time, but the princess’s retinue was of course given precedence of entry to the city. At the gates, an honor guard from the city watch waited for the princess, some standing on the sides of the road to greet her upon her return and others marching alongside her guards. Their procession was squeezed thin as they trotted into the city, forcing Lucan and his father to fall back to the tail.

The smell of the city hit Lucan in the face as soon as they passed through the gate. It wasn’t as bad as Arpague, but it was the smell of a city, and it never smelled good in a city.

The window of the princess’s carriage was closed. She didn’t open it to wave or greet any of her honor guard. Some of the city’s residents crowded around the road to watch the spectacle, held back from getting closer to her highness’s carriage by the guards. Others were indifferent, continuing to their destinations, as though this was a normal occurrence to them.

Getting to the palace took longer than expected, what with the honor guard marching on foot all prim and proper. The road being cleared for them didn’t help with their pace. When they did reach the palace, the honor guard delivered the princess and her retinue to the palace’s Royal Guard who took over their duties.

The princess’s party and his father’s were separated. Sir Golan and Lucan were guided to proper lodgings where they could prepare themselves for a formal audience with the King where they would deliver their respects and the King his blessings before they were allowed to prowl the outer palace as they wished.

The doublet was tight around Lucan’s chest, the feeling of it smothering him. It was nothing real of course, rather it was his relative unfamiliarity with formal garments. It’d been years since his last visit to the capital, and since then, he hadn’t had to saddle himself with such clothing. His father had had these made for the occasion, and they were as colorful and ostentatious as required, or so he believed. Lucan’s doublet was bright blue over a cream-colored shirt and yellow trousers. To his judgment, he was only two steps away from a court jester, but he wasn’t a judge of these occasions or their required dress.

He stepped out of his chamber and found his father waiting for him with garments that were only different from his in their darker coloring, which gave him a more equable look. For a moment, Lucan looked at his father accusingly, as though he had been sacrificed to the peacock gods. His father pretended he didn’t see the look on his face and nodded in the direction of the approaching servant.

The servant, observing all manners of decorum and politeness, guided them toward the hall of the throne. They were led through a series of hallways and corridors until they reached their destination. Instead of a simple chamber door like most of the palace, this one was large enough to be dubbed a gate. Double doors made of wood painted gold and carved in the shapes of eagles, phoenixes, and wyrms barred their way into the hall of the throne. Two knights carapaced in the Royal Guard’s plate armor and a cloak that was reserved for formal occasions flanked the doors.

The servant bade them wait until the King’s current guests were done with their greetings. The wait didn’t last too long, for soon the doors opened and a man along with his three sons came out. Lucan felt that he was familiar with the faces, but he couldn’t quite name them. He didn’t have to, however, as his father did it for him.

“Lord Marquel,” his father addressed the man, lowering his head slightly with a nod.

“Sir Zesh,” the nobleman said. “A pleasure to see you on such a festive occasion.” He gestured towards the young man and two boys beside him. “You’ve met my sons, though they were quite young back then.”

The two boys greeted Lucan’s father respectfully with a “Sir Zesh.” while the young man gave a more neutral greeting which his father returned.

Lucan bowed to Lord Marquel and nodded to his sons. “Greetings, My Lord.”

“Ah, your son,” the lord scrutinized Lucan. “It is good to see you once more, young Lucan.” Then he turned his attention back to his father. “We won’t delay you from your audience any longer,” Lord Marquel. “We will have more suitable opportunities to converse during the feast, I imagine.”

“Indeed,” Sir Golan said. “It will be my pleasure.”

The lord and his sons departed and Lucan found himself gazing upon the large closed doors. It only took a moment for them to open once again and for another servant to usher them inside. As he and his father stepped into the hall of the throne, they were met with wide, high steps that they were supposed to take position before, and above those steps were closed curtains that hid the King’s throne.

Sir Golan gestured for Lucan and they stepped forward together, taking a knee before the steps. As they did, the servant who’d shown them in announced them.

“Sir Golan Zesh of Upper Barwalis and his son Lucan Zesh kneel before the King in supplication,” he declared, emphasizing the highlands where their estate was founded.

His father followed the servant’s words with his own. “I, Golan Zesh, affirm my oath to the King and carry my loyalty to the Crown openly and proudly.”

The curtains were pulled apart gently by servants and the King was revealed. Lucan’s head was lowered, however, and he couldn’t see him.

A wizened voice answered his father. “And I welcome you, a faithful vassal, to wall and hearth where you may observe my protection and generosity. Rise.”

Lucan’s father rose before he followed him and he finally caught sight of the King. His memory of the most powerful man in Barwalis was blurry and this might as well have been the first time he’d seen him. The King had white hair. So white it differed from the natural grey of the elderly. His hair was long, cascading over his shoulders to meet with a smooth narrow beard of the same color. His eyes were difficult to parse since he had them narrowed in a smile, but Lucan believed them blue. He wore light golden robes and had discarded his crowned golden mask on a small table beside him. He was flanked by four armored knights of the Royal Guard, all standing straight and still. Behind him stood a servant ready to attend to his every want.

“You’ve trekked a considerable journey,” the King said.

“I would trek a thousand like it at your command, Your Majesty,” Sir Golan said.

“Yes, I would think so,” the king spared a deep, soft laugh. “Your son?”

“Yes,” Sir Golan said. “Lucan, my only son and heir. He has come of age, Your Majesty.”

The King hummed as he observed him, and Lucan felt like shrinking in on himself. Rigidly, he bent his back in a solid bow and spoke. “I greet Your Royal Majesty.”

“Yes, yes,” the King said before shifting his gaze back to his father. “Not much poise, but he is still young, he may learn.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” his father said.

The King nodded and let out a persistent hum again before speaking. “Well then, may your sojourn be pleasant and all that. You have your leave. If you wish, my scribe may arrange an audience for you on the morrow.”

Sir Golan nodded deeply and spun on his heel. Lucan mimicked him perfectly before they both marched out of the hall.

A breath Lucan hadn’t known he’d been holding found its way out of him once they stepped outside. Their march back to their chambers was silent and Lucan would gaze down at his attire from time to time. Fortunately, he would be liberated from these garments. Unfortunately, he would find himself shackled with them once more on the eve of the feast.

But before then, they would have to attend to the matter of succession. Of course, it would only be his father who would speak to the King, but that didn’t detract from the weight Lucan felt due to this matter. It would be a significant undertaking for their family, perhaps even more significant than the canals he was having dug back home. Though this undertaking would occur within a simple few words that could carry them up the status ladder or bury them far beneath it.