~
"Moredea is overseen by four statesmen. Each statesman is an acting governor to one of the cardinal territories of Moredea."
They were in Beatrice's study, a lugubriously dark room, filled with shelves of ancient books and wood paneled walls covered in yellowing maps. The largest of the maps was of the Pythean territories, before the storms. It was beautifully hand scribed with Eandera on one side and Moredea on the other. Another map outlined the vast complex network of railways in the Pythean, from the northernmost tip to the southern wilds around Babbocks Cove and Barrenterra.
"The man who oversees the whole of Moredea is of the Armarouge clan. He, like the statesmen, is from one of the ancient mystic families and succeeds through election," Beatrice said, pointing to a map of the territories east of the Pythean.
"How does one succeed through election?" Isobel asked, walking to another map which showed the labyrinth of trails and roads over the mountain range.
"There is an unspoken law which predisposes the Armarouge family to succession, and they reinforce it at all costs. Most Moredeans are fine with the arrangement. They are taken care of and want for little. We pass through the motions of an election, celebrating the perceived victories and protesting the losses, but the end results are usually the same. The Armarouge clan is there, behind the curtain, pulling the strings."
"And those who aren't ok with it?" Isobel asked.
"They are far and few between. Natural disasters, such as the meteor storms, have a way of taming rebel fires, paring down realities and expectations alike," Beatrice said.
"Armarouge pulled us through the same disaster that killed off entire nations. That is how kings are made, Isobel," Eadric said from the doorway, entering the room.
He plopped down into a large armchair that dwarfed under his tall figure, leaning back and crossing a polished boot over his knee. The brown leather chair squeaked under him in futile protest.
"I wouldn't be here if not for the Armarouge clan. They saved my land and my ancestors and, in return, I have lain my sword at their feet, as will my son and his son thereafter."
A smart rap on the doorframe revealed a much recovered Admiral Vin. His arm was bound in a loose sling and his color was good, if not a bit too ruddy. His long black hair was pulled back in a neat braid. "Good evening. It would appear that dinner is served in the pantry," he said, turning on his heel as the party followed him to the kitchen.
The feast laid out on the table beckoned her senses, gleaming deliciously under the soft flickering glow of beeswax candles. The room smelled sweet, like caramel and honey, the aroma of roasted meat mingling with the scent of fresh baked bread going straight to her growling stomach.
The Admiral handed her a cup of elderberry wine and, raising his own glass, toasted, "To a sun drenched homecoming, long overdue."
"Yes, quite overdue," Beatrice said, dimple in place.
Soft music streamed from a source Isobel could not see. The song was familiar to her, though she couldn't recall ever hearing it before.
"How long have you been gone from Moredea, Admiral Vin?" she asked, sitting down at the bench opposite him. Eadric sat next to her and filled his cup with more wine.
Admiral Vin smiled, looking off blankly as he tried to remember. "Now, if I recall, that would have been around the time of the storms," he replied, taking a deep swig of wine. "Around the time the dragons disappeared. At any rate, a long time," he said and touched the jeweled pin at his throat, the large red stone dancing under the flickering candlelight like a starlit garnet.
Isobel took a piece of bread and topped it with a thin slice of meat and some red sauce which tasted a lot like sweet radishes. Piles of buttered muffins with seeds and exotic spices danced with the smell of roasted meats and heady red wine. Potatoes, browned and laced with herbs and nutty oils tickled her senses. She was ravenous and ate while the others talked, incapable of stopping. She wanted to try everything, at least once. With a large swig of wine she sat back and smiled indulgently, pleasantly sated.
"So, what is the story of Leumane?" she asked, burping lightly.
Admiral Vin pushed at a rivulet of melted wax with his finger, seemingly lost in the amber liquid pooling into the crevices and grain of the table. Another familiar song started playing, the melody lilting and hypnotic.
"The Dragona Leumane was the most powerful dragon that ever lived. She was the single progeny of the great North dragon, Gaeaf, and his Queen, the stunning South dragon, Veran. Leumane embodied the power of both their blood and used it to protect the Pythean territories successfully for thousands of years. When her time came, she delivered three daughters into this world. As you know, Jita is one of those daughters."
Isobel sipped at her wine. "Saba and Laska, I think she told me, are the others," she said, patting her flushed cheeks with the back of her cool hand.
"That is correct," he replied, picking at a slice of cheese.
Eadric rested one arm on the table and stared into his cup. "At home we'd sit around the fire and my father would often regale us with fantastic stories of Leumane and her three daughters, how they protected the Pythean. I wish he were alive. I'd tell him that I spoke to the fiercest of the three, or so legend tells. He would think it spectacular," he said.
"I knew your father, Eadric. He was a good, strong man," Beatrice said, holding her cup high. "To Commander Bryn Drustan. A good, courageous warrior, like his son."
"To my father," Eadric said proudly, and hit each raised mug with poignant emphasis.
They ate and drank their fill that night, the humor high and the tall tales many, and the candles burned down to small nubs too soon, leaving them all to retire for the night.
Chapter Fifteen