Mousa had stood in the heat of the Place of Weight for the better part of the afternoon, as candidate upon candidate mounted the steps that led to the Scales to weigh himself and his presumed right to rule, balanced against the Ring of State in the other plate.
One by one they stepped nervously onto the empty golden plate, eyeing the small oval of hematite and rubies on the other.
One by one, the Scales weighed, then discharged them, some more violently than others, as if the great instrumentality was not only declining their suit, but actively vomiting them off balance.
What remained of the crowd from the funeral that morning had brought rough blankets and food, camping out in the square to watch the spectacle. Their persistence was rewarded; some of the candidates had been dumped so comically on their heads or hindquarters that the onlookers felt as if they had been treated to a performance by a circus of clowns.
Now there was only one left, a distant cousin several times removed. He came to the top of the last step hesitantly, his long, loose shirt stained down the back and under the arms with nervous sweat. Nielash Mousa forced a benevolent smile.
“Speak your name.”
“Karis of Ylwendar.”
The benison nodded, then turned to the assemblage and repeated the name.
“Is it your wish to address the Scales, in suit for the Sun Throne of the Dark Earth, for stewardship of Terreanfor, and all the realm of Sorbold, from its dark depths to the endless sun above it?”
“It is,” the man replied anxiously, his eyes darting around the square.
“Very well, Karis of Ylwendar. Step into the eastern plate and cast your lot to Leuk, the wind of justice.”
The man stood frozen.
The benison exhaled tensely. “Do you wish to sue for the throne or not?”
Karis looked over his shoulder, then looked back at Mousa, shaking like a leaf in the desert wind.
“I do.”
“Then set about it, man,” the benison said as pleasantly as he could, mustering what little protocol was left in him. He did not want to be remembered as the cleric who insulted the next emperor just as the Scales confirmed him, though from what he could guess, there was little chance of that.
Nervously, Karis stepped onto the plate.
Just as his second foot came to rest, the wind blasted through from the west in a great hot gust; it spun the plate crazily, then tilted it with an enormous recoil and swung it like a giant sling shot.
Karis of Ylwendar sailed over the heads of the delighted crowd and into a fishseller’s cart, sending dried herring and salted mackerel flying in every direction. A chorus of cheers and hooting saluted him as he landed.
Mousa struggled to maintain a solemn mien. “Is there anyone else claiming royal birth who commands a Weighing?”
Silence answered him.
The Blesser of Sorbold cleared his throat and spoke, the heaviness in his heart mixing with the inevitability of the outcome.
“Very well. Having performed ritual Weighing for each person of royal blood who requested one, and found none suitable in the eyes of the Scales to assume the Sun throne, I declare the Dynasty of the Dark Earth to have ended. A colloquium will commence immediately to determine the interim leadership; any candidates who emerge in the course of that, or any other discussion, will be summoned to the Scales by the tolling of the bells of Jierna Tal. Until such a time as that occurs, I command the bells to be silent.”
He signaled to his guard retinue and descended the steps, the weight that he carried on his shoulders suddenly much heavier.
Silence reigned in Jierna’sid.
It held sway in the Place of Weight, where the mammoth scales now stood, still for the moment, glowing as the shadows of evening grew longer. The townspeople had been shooed from the square, replaced by an expressionless wall of swarthy, heavy-faced soldiers, all garbed in the livery of the now-defunct Dynasty of the Dark Earth. There was a pervasive nervousness about them that had made the crowds uneasy anyway; the townspeople had quickly gathered their blankets and the remains of their picnics and had fled the square, the carnival atmosphere now replaced with an ominous stillness.
Night fell heavily as the preparations for the colloquium were finished. The town square in front of Jierna Tal, from the castle entrance to the outside edge of the Place of Weight, was lined with blazing lamps, tall torch stands holding cylinders of burning oil to light, and perhaps enlighten, the discussion.
Two wide rings of tables, the smaller inside the other, had been set at the base of the Scales, along with chairs for the assembled guests. The evening was still warm in the grip of summer’s heat, but the breeze, while hot, was more refreshing than the dank, stale air of the palace, which still reeked of death and incense left over from the burial preparations.
Watching each other with trepidation across the inner circle were representatives from each of the major factions of Sorbold; Fhremus, the empress’s trusted supreme commander of the empire’s army; Ihvarr and Talquist, the Heirarchs of the eastern and western Mercantile, the tradesman’s guilds and shipping compacts that between them controlled nearly all of Sorbold’s trade and industry; and the twenty-seven counts who were the magistrates of the empire’s twenty-seven city-states. This combination of military, economy, and nobility was combustible, which might have been why the benison had put them into the center, so that if tempers flared, the outer ring of foreign dignitaries could be relied upon to act as a buffer, or at least throw a cloak over whoever ignited and roll him in the sand.
The invited guests from outside of Sorbold were fewer and farther between, seated in the outer circle with the members of the clergy. Ashe was there as head of the Alliance, with whom Sorbold had peace and trade accords, as well as the various sovereigns or their representatives who had their own realms within the Alliance, Achmed for the Bolglands, Tristan Steward for Roland, and Rial for Tyrian. Additionally, those sovereigns of the realms that lay beyond the Inner Continent — the Diviner of the Hintervold, Miraz of Winter; Beliac, the king of the far eastern region of Golgarn; and Viedekam, chieftain of Penzus, the largest of the southern Nonaligned States — were eyeing each other, and the leaders of the nations their lands surrounded, with a mix of stoicism and suspicion.
Ashe struggled to maintain a calm, cheerful mien, though internally he was roiling. The air in the Place of Weight was charged with unsaid words, fraught with hidden agendas. He could feel it at the fringes of his dragon awareness, but did not doubt that even if he had no wyrm blood, it would have been clear to him anyway.
Nielash Mousa was standing near the palace entranceway with Lasarys, the chief priest whom Ashe had seen marking the scrolls with the death weights of the empress and the Crown Prince. Lasarys was the sexton of Terreanfor, the cleric responsible for the maintenance and protection of the basilica of the Earth, as significant a position in the Patrician religion of Sepulvarta as the Tanist, or official successor, was to the Invoker of Gwynwood, the religion of the Filids, the office Ashe’s father had once held. Lasarys, a quiet, bookish man who spent his days in the dark depths of the earth, lovingly tending to the secret cathedral, seemed unnerved to be out in the open air of the Place of Weight, in the midst of so much unspoken venom. Ashe felt a pang for him; he, too, wished that he could unturn the Earth, move Time back to a place where what was about to happen could be avoided.
He crossed the dark square through the archways of flickering light and stopped before the benison, bowing politely.
“Your Grace. How are you holding up?”
The Blesser of Sorbold smiled. “I will be happy when the night is over.”
Ashe nodded. “Will the Patriarch be attending? I do not see a place for him.”
Mousa shook his head. “He intends to bless the proceedings, but will be departing immediately thereafter. He must return to Sepulvarta in order to be back in time for the midsummer consecration rites.”
“Indeed.”
The deep voice of the Patriarch
sounded behind them; Lasarys jumped, bowing respectfully, then withdrew quickly to the circle of chairs. The silence in the square became suddenly more profound as the other participants in the colloquium noticed the holy man’s presence.
“I was hoping to have a chance to ask how you were faring before the colloquium began,” Ashe said to Constantin, making the appropriate countersign in acceptance of the blessing that the Patriarch bestowed on him. “How are you, Your Grace? My wife will want to know.”
The tall man smiled, his blue eyes gleaming. “Please convey to Rhapsody that I am well, and that she is long absolved from any need to worry about me.”
“Can you not delay for another day?” the Lord Cymrian asked, watching the shifting of chairs and glances in the center of the square. “Wisdom of any kind is sorely needed here now, either from the Ring, or from your experience. You would be a welcome addition to the discussion. I’m sure you have some opinions about what should happen next.” He smiled; he knew from whence the Patriarch had come, though, other than Rhapsody, no living soul did besides the man himself.
The Patriarch chuckled and shook his head. “I have opinions on everything, my son, but part of the burden of wearing the Ring of Wisdom is knowing without doubt when to keep those opinions to myself. And in this matter, it is not the place of the Church to be a party to the decisions of how Sorbold will continue, but to support those decisions prayerfully and respectfully.” He looked sharply at the assemblage in the inner ring, then leaned forward slightly so that none beside Ashe caught his words.
“However difficult that may ultimately prove to be.”
He raised a hand to the assemblage; all those who were adherents of the Patrician faith of Sepulvarta bowed reverently. Only the Diviner, Achmed, Rial, and the King of Golgarn remained standing straight, in polite silence. The Patriarch then bowed slightly to Ashe, who, as Lord Cymrian, was titular head of both the church of Sepulvarta and the faith of the Filids, the nature priests of Gwynwood.
“Nielash Mousa will serve his nation well as the church’s representative,” he said softly. “And I do not wish in any way to overshadow his authority here.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Well, then, Lord Gwydion, please commend me to your lady wife. I must be on my way.”
Ashe cleared his throat nervously. “If you would entreat the All-God on her behalf when you perform the midsummer ritual, I would be most grateful,” he said quietly.
The sharp blue eyes of the Patriarch narrowed. “Is she ill?”
The Lord Cymrian shook his head. “With child.”
Constantin considered for a moment, then patted Ashe’s shoulder.
“I will offer prayers for her each day of her confinement until your child is born,” he said seriously. “If she takes ill, send for me. I learned some things long ago that might aid her.”
Ashe bowed deeply. “Thank you.”
The Patriarch, his face still solemn, signaled to his retinue and took his leave of Jierna’sid.
It was only matter of moments after the Patriarch had departed before the ugly nature of what was to play out became evident.
Hours into the discussions, that ugliness had taken root and begun to grow.
It began with the contention put forth by the nobility, the counts who had been given right of stewardship of the city-states by the empress or her ancestors. Though unrelated to the familial line, the noble families had served for generations as titular heads of those states.
The death of the empress who had granted them their titles had given them opportunity to cement that stewardship into something more autonomous.
“The empire is no more,” stated Tryfalian, Count of Keltar, the third-largest of the Sorbold city-states. “You heard the Blesser state it: the Dynasty of the Dark Earth has come to an end. Every man with so much as a drop of the dynastic line in his veins was been weighed, and to a one, all were found wanting. There is no emperor, no empress, to command Sorbold as a nation. The empire has ceased to exist. What remains now are only the twenty-seven states, each with its own governance. It is here in which order lies.” His eyes glittered as he looked over the assemblage. “It is here that it should stay.”
“What are you saying?” demanded Fhremus, commander of the imperial army. “Are you suggesting that Sorbold be broken into twenty-seven pieces?”
“Not twenty-seven. There are nine major city-states: Keltar, Jakar, Nicosi, Baltar, Remaldfaer, Kwasiid, Ghant, Telchoir, and of course Jierna. The others are too small to be considered able to stand on their own, to support an army —”
“You are proposing to dismantle the army?” Fhremus shouted over the dozen and a half voices that rose in objection from the counts of the smaller city-states Tryfalian had just invalidated.
“Not to dismantle, Fhremus, merely to reassign, reapportion.”
“You’re insane!” The commander’s chair screeched sharply as he leapt to his feet, only to be drawn gently back down into it by a tap on the shoulder from the benison.
“Actually, it has worked quite well for us,” inserted Viedekam, representative of the southern coastal region known as the Nonaligned States. “Penzus, like each of the other Nonaligned States, maintains its own army, its own naval fleet, its own tax and tariff structure, which differs substantially from some of the other states’, particularly the landlocked ones. The autonomy has been extremely beneficial to each of the member states, allowing it to determine its own destiny.”
“And, judging by the wealth and influence the Nonaligned States exert on the world, you will only continue to consider that independence beneficial, I’m sure,” snorted Tristan Steward contemptuously, drawing glares from the counts, Viedekam, and Ashe. “It was precisely the example of the Nonaligned States that convinced Roland to band together under a single regency, so that we might not continue be a loose and messy conglomeration of conflicting laws and priorities. In the three years since the consolidation of the provinces of Roland, we have found great economy, efficiency, and, above all, strength in unity, while retaining the provincial autonomy. Sorbold has that now. Why would you compromise it?”
“Thank you, chieftain, m’lord,” said Nielash Mousa blandly, lifting a hand to forestall the angry chorus of replies rising from the nobility. “Mayhap it would be best to ask if there is any faction within Sorbold that would like to respond to the proposal that Tryfalian had placed on the table.”
“Allow me to do so,” said Ihvarr, the eastern Hierarch, smoothly, but with evident anger bubbling beneath his calm manner. “Talquist and I can assure you that a nation with the size and scope of Sorbold would fall to chaos under such a plan.”
“Why?” demanded Damir, the Count of Jakar. “As the westernmost province, I have had little to do with Jierna Tal for the last twenty years. I am all but autonomous already.”
“Perhaps,” acknowledged Talquist, Hierarch of the guilds and shipping compacts in the western region and, like Ihvarr, a heavyset man with broad shoulders and skin burnished in the sun. “And you have been a fair and well-respected ruler, Damir. But, for all that I have been the one supplying you with workers for your salt and sulfur mines, transporting your goods, and building your city, my trade agreement was with the empress. I worked for the Crown, not, with respect, for you. If I had to negotiate trade agreements, exchange tariffs, make security arrangements, and all other sort of terms with you, and each of the twelve counts to whom I supply these things, I would go mad.”
“As would I,” added Ihvarr.
“But think of the advantage your shipping lines would have under such an arrangement, Talquist,” said Kaav, the Count of Baltar. “You could sit in consultation with the rulers of the coastal states and persuade them to deploy a larger percentage of their forces to defend the shipping lanes, and they would be a more sympathetic audience to your request than the empress, who had to protect an entire realm, with far more land than sea.”
“Leaving my workers unprotected?” Ihvarr demanded
. “I will brook none of that. Then who will you find to ply your copper, anthracite, and silver mines, Kaav? Who would transport your goods? For surely I will have no dealing with you if you cannot protect my assets with armed forces.”
“And where do you propose to find these forces?” Fhremus asked bitterly. “Remember, the might of the Sorbold army comes from two factors–commonality of purpose and love of our native land. Not to mention loyalty to the empress, may her soul fly freely among the clouds. I gainsay this plan because it will divide us, state to state, column to column–and we are weaker divided.”
“Nonesuch,” said Tryfalian angrily. He glared at Fhremus, his eyes lighting on the foreign dignitaries assembled in the outer circle. “And I charge you, man, do not again utter such treasonous words in the presence of those who might wish to take advantage of them.”
Beliac, King of Golgarn, snapped to attention from what had previously been a somewhat drowsy state. “I resent that,” he bellowed, rising from his chair. “We are here in this damnable heat, listening to your endless prattle, because Golgarn is your ally, not your enemy. I came to pay my respects to my longtime friend the empress, and her son, and to offer my support to the new rulership. And for this you insult me.”
“Apologies, Majesty,” Nielash Mousa said quickly. “No insult was intended, I assure you; we are grateful for your presence, and for that of all of Sorbold’s true friends.”
He turned, his eyes containing a clear look of despair, to the inner circle.
“I have a suggestion,” he said to the divided group of nobles, soldiers, and merchants. “The Scales can weigh ideas as well as men. When the first emperor was chosen at the end of the Cymrian War, a colloquium similar to this one met, with many of the same concerns, expressed by the same factions. A symbol for each of the factions was placed on the Scales against the Ring of State. The scales weighed in favor of the military, whose goal was to see a single, united Sorbold, so it was from there that the emperor was ultimately chosen. I suggest that, as it is almost midnight, this might further the discussion to a better conclusion.”