The hall was empty except for two tribunal guards, one at each end. Neither would care where the daughter of the Tribune went. Courtney marched her way to the Council chambers. She knew the way well; better, perhaps, than she should. No doubt other daughters of Tribunes in other cities knew their place and stayed in their parlors and reception halls, doing little more than performing host duties for other heads of state.

Courtney, however, cared little for that. Her father often blamed her for his premature hair loss.

Vintnerbrook, the ancestral home of House Brent, was not the largest estate in Pyrallan, but it was very large, and set on the side of a hill, overlooking the Central Round. Thus, going almost anywhere in it was a true journey; nearly everything was on a different floor, or across a bridge, or required wire lifts to access. Her own room was on a turret at the top of a tower designated for the daughters of the House. As she was, at present, the only daughter, she nearly had the tower to herself, unless one counted her handmaidens and Widetail, who could be anywhere she wanted to be at almost any time.

Courtney made her way past Ghostdown, the system of staircases surrounding the shaft that housed the main lift. The staircases were designed to confuse invaders. The spiral set that surrounded the shaft would every now and then go up, take you into a door that would lead to a shorter flight up, a longer one down, and then another that seemed to take you to the other side of the shaft in mere seconds. Confusion was aided by the house ghosts who prowled this part of the castle and used their meager spells to make distances shorter and longer, as well as manifest themselves before intruders. Courtney knew the quickest way down, but she never really got along with the ghosts and did her best to avoid them.

“Where might young Courtney be off to this morning?” said a sighing voice. Courtney didn’t bother to respond.

“Does she go to make trouble? Does she go to find trouble? Is she in trouble?” The voices echoed up and down the flights. She continued ignoring them. They probably all knew more than they should, but she was fairly certain no one listened to them.

Reaching the bottom, Courtney strode across the narrow bridge that connected the family spires with the State Rooms. All ancestral houses had a section devoted to whatever business the family was in, and Vintnerbrook was no exception. This was where Father met with Council members, heads of state, visiting dignitaries and his central staff. The inconsistent architecture gradually faded into stationary hallways, foyers and reception areas, as well as the offices and conference centers that were scattered liberally throughout.

The central conference room was a long, wide chamber that her father had claimed as the Council chamber upon first being made Tribune. A giant central table ran nearly the length of the room in the center, while several smaller tables lined it on both sides. Chairs lined the walls all the way around it.

At the moment, however, only four men occupied the room, three seated at the central table, one over her father’s shoulder. Father sat at its head, naturally, his personal physician and resident scientist Dr. Pipes standing near his chair. Edgar Echols, her father’s Chancellor, was seated to his right, currently reading off a list of preparations for the next day. His back was to her as she entered, but sitting across from him, a large book set in front of him, and writing as Edgar spoke, was Master of Annals and chief Librarian Weston Raynes. She shot him a quick smile when he looked up and saw her, and he nodded. The smile was in his eyes, if not his face.

Father was looking tired, and somewhat anxious. He was leaning on his left hand. His other hand fidgeted with his quill. Courtney walked to the table and sat down a chair down from Edgar, who suddenly broke off.

“My lady Courtney,” said, Doctor Pipes. “How nice to see you.”

“I apologize, my lord,” said Edgar. “May I continue?”

“How much more is there?” asked her father.

“I was nearly to the details of the banquet’s second course.”

“I see. And how many courses are there?”

“Twelve.”

“Agh! Why so many? Do elven lords typically eat that much?”

“Better to serve too much than too little, Lord Callister,” said Edgar.

“I apologize, Edgar, but could this not be left in the hands of the chief Steward?

“My lord does not wish to know the particulars of the festivities in honor of his daughter’s betrothal?”

“It is a petition, not a betrothal,” said Lord Callister. He cast a weary smile at Courtney. “This simpleton has been deluging me with figures and sums for flowers and carpet cleanings, drapery hangings, seating arrangements! I’ve forgotten more than half of it, and he still has three pages to go.”

“Surely you’re used to delegations petitioning for my hand by now,” she said. Her tone was not lost on her father.

“This one is different,” he said. His face took on a set that showed he was addressing her as Lord Callister, Lord Tribune of Pyrallan, not as her father.

“Yes, this one is more than a petition,” said Weston. “And as it turns out, it could not come at a worse time.”

“Your lord father’s guards had to arrest a group of twenty protestors last night,” said Dr. Pipes. “More Hand of Dawn nonsense.”

“They gathered across from where Seraph Lyton had convened a heraldry meeting, and started chanting,” said Lord Callister. “Seraphim are liars, Seraphim are liars. Nothing but trouble, they are.”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “Pure trouble. I can understand why such demonstrations bother you, Father.” More than you know.

“I’ve enough to worry about without disgruntled citizenry spreading sedition in the streets!” Her father clenched his eyes shut and rubbed his bald head. “Believe me, daughter, I do sympathize with their position, but there are ways you deal with things without open treason!”

“Is it treason to protest injustice, Father?” she asked. “Or treason to tolerate it?”

Callister sighed and opened his eyes. “One day, my girl, you will be the lady of a great house. And you will understand how things are done. Protests do not help. Demonstrations do not help. All they do is incite violence and hate. This ‘Hand of Dawn’ may have good intentions, but they have supplied poor results.”

“Have they?” she asked. “It seems to me they are usually arrested or otherwise silenced before they have a chance for anyone to hear what they say.”

“You’ve heard what they say!” said Callister. “Their blasted manifesto keeps turning up in butcher’s shops, stables, whore houses! They say the gods are not fit to rule! They wish to topple the very structure that ensures the world keeps working. What can you call that, if not treason? Now, I know as well as you that there are problems in this world, and they need addressing. You must know by now that I routinely entreat Chan’gar to address the concerns in our city, and you know that I have met with the Pontifex Quorum routinely on those matters.”

“I do,” she said. “And I know that nothing has been done.”

“There is a process,” he said. “Things take time.”

“Too much time,” she said. “Refugees arrive every day and are barred entrance. More and more women are afraid to bear children for fear they will have more daughters. And here we sit, in the lap of luxury, and you tell me about ‘processes’. No wonder the people are losing faith in their Tribunes. They receive no aid and endless excuses.”

“Young lady, I…” began Callister, turning red.

“My lord,” said Weston, adjusting his bulk. “Are we concluded?”

The Tribune let out a breath. “I suppose we are for the moment. Gentlemen, I will meet with you on the morrow and we can discuss the…” His mouth twisted. “Finer details of the proceedings. Until then, we adjourn.”

Weston hauled himself to his feet and winked at Courtney. She smiled at him surreptitiously and cocked a single eyebrow, questioningly. He nodded back, almost imperceptibly, but she caught it.

“A good evening to you then, my Lord,” he said. “Chancellor. My lady.” The warmth in his voice was almost enough for the others to perceive. She caught herself flushing and quickly turned to look out the window onto the farther side of the Central Round.

“Stay a while, Courtney, if you would,” said her father. She had intended to anyway.

“I have asked you before,” he said once they were alone. “If you must behave like an ungrateful, rebellious wretch, would it be too much to ask that you don’t do it in front of my councilors? They’ve already taken me to task for your lack of discipline. That was an official meeting you interrupted.”

“Looked to me like you couldn’t have been more grateful for my interruption,” she said.

“To a degree, yes. But then I realized why you’d come. Courtney, have no concept of what you’re putting me through?”

“Have you any concept of what the citizens go through every d— ” she began.

“That’s not what I mean!” he said. His fist slammed the table with a loud bang. “These rebellious displays only intensified since I announced your eligibility. And now you show your protest by demanding that I not only fix the entire world, but that I turn it into a world that doesn’t, cannot, exist. I understand the situation for the common folk is dire. But I cannot simply march into Chan’gar and demand they accede to all my demands. That’s simply not how government works. You must work within the system. You must curry favor. Then, and only then, can a difference be made. And it is because of this that tomorrow must go well. I wouldn’t fret overmuch about this. There is a possibility that an agreement may not be reached or that the elven warrior may not wish to marry you. Hopefully, all will be well, but…”

“You’re worried that he may reject me?” she said.

“Not worried, per se, but…”

“Father,” she said. “I have been warned by everyone, yourself included, what the ramifications will be if I reject this marriage contract. The message it will send. But no one is worried about a message being sent if it is Styer Windstalker who rejects it?”

“Perception is everything,” said Callister. “Sensitivity to societal mood is required.”

“In other words,” said Courtney. “No one cares about what an elf thinks of a mortal, but everyone cares what mortals think of elves.”

“You insist on only seeing the negative,” said Callister. “I have heard great things about this Styer. And think of it. The first elven-mortal marriage among the southern city-states. Is the significance of that lost on you?”

“I don’t wish for my marriage to be ‘significant’,” she said. “Not to anyone but myself and the man I marry. I know you and Simon believe I’m clinging to old ways that are only fit for common folk, but therein lies the problem. The old way of matrimony may not be modern. But does that make it meaningless? There must be a reason common folk still practice it.”

“Because their unions are overall inconsequential,” said her father. “If a tanner’s daughter wishes to marry a cooper’s son, what does that matter? What strength will their houses have once the match is complete? We do not have the luxury of treating marriages so casually. Your brother and Eleanor understood that. Why can you not?”

“If Simon and Eleanor are such a strong match,” she said. “Why have they not produced an heir? Steven Louden arranged his daughter to marry Simon so that his family could be counted among House Brent, but that can only happen if she produces a son. Five years in, there is no sign of that.”

“Leave them out of this,” said Callister. “If you must dwell on their…situation, do you not see why that makes it all the more urgent that you be joined to a strong house?”

“Scattertail Tribe isn’t even a house of Pyrallan,” she said.

“Perhaps not, but they have much pull in Chan’gar!” said her father.

“Listen to yourself!” she said. “Five years ago you were passionate that the regime in Chan’gar was thoroughly corrupt.”

“They are, still.”

“Then why are you so concerned with what they think of you?” she asked. “Work within the system, you say? The system was designed to benefit none but the gods. You think you’re currying favor with your constant bowing and scraping. But the reality is that they laugh at you and all your efforts to ingratiate yourself with them.”

Callister was silent for a while. He rubbed his head and sighed.

“You just don’t understand,” he said. “For a while, some talked of the sort of regime change like the one we once experienced. And it seemed a good idea until we were forcefully reminded of the great Ragnarok and all that came after. A thousand years later, and still we are rebuilding, and the situation is worse, not better. I agree that the gods have failed to make good on most of their claims. But they are still the gods, the only ones we have. And mortals simply cannot fight gods. Not with force anyway. These Hand of Dawn miscreants are only inviting more trouble for themselves. With every public demonstration they put on, more Nephilim fill the sky above us. Does this sound desirable? Do you wish to invite more strangulation by the Temples, more spying from the Nephilim?”

“No,” she said. “But there must be other ways than simply trying to become one of them.”

“Like bring on another Ragnarok?” said Callister. “Like prove ourselves no better than the godless Darkenlanders? No, daughter. The Hand of Dawn has it wrong. Anarchy is not the answer.”

“It’s better than no answer at all,” she said. Then she turned and stalked from the chamber. The conversation was going nowhere. Tomorrow, she would be paraded like a prize heifer before a delegation from Elvenskald, and it would be up to him, not her, whether or not when he left, she would be leaving with him.

Instead of turning back to the bridge to Ghostdown, she walked down a long, winding staircase on the other side of the State Rooms until she was in an area lit entirely by torches. No one had seen her descend, and no one had any reason to suspect that she would wish to go to this place.

Tapestries lined the hallway depicting wars long forgotten. Ronan Gryphonhook slaughtering an entire legion of the giants of Rhukonia. Shulric’s raging battle with Kald all through the halls, bridges and spires of Caladhym. The great Ragnarok. She hated those tapestries.

The hall of records was almost completely dark, but a dim, flickering light betrayed the spot where Weston sat among his piles of books. She made her way toward the light.

The corpulent librarian sat at the end of a long table, a thick book open before him, as she had suspected, and a decanter of wine beside him, the two goblets still empty. He did not look up as she approached, keeping his attention focused on the book. When his eyes stopped moving back and forth, he looked up at her, his face serious.

“You heard of the arrests,” he said. “If this is allowed to continue, we shall be strangled in the cradle.”

“Father won’t budge,” she said. “He’s convinced the Hand is a group of anarchists and traitors. He sees no difference between their activities and the godless legions of the Darkenlands. I cannot seem to make him see reason.”

“There was a time your father would have joined us,” said Weston. “It’s why when I completed my education, it was he I came to work for. Now he wrings his hands and urges caution, always caution, when dealing with the Imperium and the gods. His deference to them even seems sincere now.”

“You sit at his Council table every day,” she said. “I can’t believe he refuses to listen to your wisdom on these matters. The refugees are only part of the problem. Mortals have simply grown to see the society that we all live in as normal. Rich or poor, it won’t make a difference if the Nephilim hear you speak words the gods would not approve of. So few, if any, speak out at all. People disappear in our culture, and no one seems to care. It isn’t always the Nephilim who come for them. Why are we gathering armies to send over the galnic waters? The Darkenlanders are such a horrible threat, but no one’s ever seen one. And then there are the girls in our city. I still can’t believe Father simply sits back and lets it happen.”

“The problem your father faces,” said Weston. “Is that in his sincere desire for the overall protection of this city, he has spent too many years sacrificing one thing to prevent what seems a worse thing. To prevent raids by Nephilim, he keeps the peace of the Imperium by forbidding open speech against the gods. To prevent our city being bled dry, he allows Chan’gar to buy our young girls. After all, their safer as concubines for gods, demi-gods, Pontifexes, Augurs and Seraphim than they are dead, are they not? Their mothers and fathers may hurt deeply to lose them, but they stay alive and whole. To prevent complete occupation, he forces the city to pay larger and larger tributes to the gods, and send more young, poor men for this army against the Darkenlands. After a while, compromise and sacrifice becomes a way of life. Your father thinks he’s making friends with the gods, and their heroes, and the Pontifex Quorum. Instead he is proving that he is weak, malleable, and useful to them. As long as he remains useful, he will remain Tribune.”

“Remaining Tribune of a slowly dying city is hardly an honorable goal,” she said.

“I agree,” said Weston. “And a year ago, I still thought it was possible to make him see that. Now I’m not so certain. We’ve spent two years each of us sharing our ideas, probing to see if he is the man to lead the Hand of Dawn to victory. I am becoming sadly convinced that he isn’t.”

“If not he,” she asked. “Then who? Most of the other Tribunes are deeply in the pocket of the gods.”

“Perhaps most are,” he said. “But we shall keep searching until we find our leader. And if we cannot find one, perhaps it is we who must lead.”

She laughed. “A girl and a librarian,” she said. “Imagine our enemies quaking with fear.”

Weston stood and stretched. His ample stomach strained against the confines of his silk robe of state. “Well, look at us,” he said, smiling at her. “A fat bookworm and a young, rich girl? Who would not be terrified of such as us?”

“Well, I know you to be fearsome,” she said, moving closer to him. “In the right circumstances you’re quite the beast.”

“And in those same circumstances,” he said, stepping toward her. “My lady is a voracious animal.”

“Mmm…somehow I doubt the masses would be as impressed by that,” she murmured. Her heart had begun pounding in her ears and her breathing became shallow. “But then, I’ve never cared to share that part of myself with anyone but you.”

“If we bring the same sort of passion to our cause as you always bring to me,” he said, unfolding his robe from his bulk. “We shall win over all the masses.”

“Right now I only have one person I wish to win,” she said. Her stola joined his robe on the floor.

“You’ve won him, dear lady,” he said. There was hunger in his voice.

She sat on the table and positioned herself for what was to come. “No one else will come down here?” she asked.

“No one does but me,” he said, his hands taking hold of her.

“Leave the candle lit,” said Courtney. “I want to keep looking at your face.”

Next Chapter: The Ragged Lands