Chapter 5 – The King’s Speech

The king took his place, and the assembly rose again. King Edmund let his gaze wander over the crowd, and when he spoke, his deep voice carried effortlessly throughout the entire hall.

“Lords, venerable prelates of the Holy Church of the Martyr, and commons of this realm of Sommerland, We, by the Martyr’s Radiant Flame King of Sommerland, greet you well.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“We gather today, as our ancestors have done for centuries, under the watchful and benevolent eye of the Martyr, who suffered and still suffers for our souls.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembly. The Scorchbishop nodded solemnly.

“For over four hundred years,” the king continued, “Sommerland has flourished under the protection of the Martyr and the wise rule of Our predecessors. Our realm has known peace and prosperity and security. But” – his voice sharpened – “peace is not a birthright. It must be earned, defended and sometimes fought for.”

Valentina felt the atmosphere in the room shift subtly. The military-minded lords like Whitehall sat up straighter, while others exchanged nervous glances.

“Clever,” Vyxara murmured. “He’s preparing them without saying anything specific.”

“The challenges facing Our realm are manifold,” Edmund continued. “Our roads and bridges, the arteries of Our kingdom, are in urgent need of repair. Our ports, through which the lifeblood of trade flows, must be expanded and fortified. The Western Frontier, where brave Marcher Lords” – he nodded toward the Marquesses and the other Marcher Lords – “hold the border against uncivilized elements, needs reinforcement.”

“And then there’s rampant piracy,” his voice hardened, “threatening Our trade routes, rob Our merchants, and endanger the prosperity of Our realm. They operate with increasing audacity from ports across the sea…”

“Ah,” Vyxara mumbled in her mind. “The first hints. ‘Ports across the sea’, that means Clairmontine.”

“But these are not merely worldly concerns,” the king continued, his voice taking on a more solemn tone. “The Martyr taught through his sacrifice that indifference and indolence are the death of the soul. Sommerland has a place in the order of things, given by fate. We must not allow fear or inertia to prevent us from taking our rightful place.”

The Grand Illuminator nodded thoughtfully, as if in complete agreement. Valentina wondered how much the Church really knew about the king’s plans.

“In the coming weeks,” Edmund concluded, “this parliament will form common counsel, will discuss the means to overcome these challenges. Taxation, yes, certainly, an unpopular word.” A subdued laugh rippled through the crowd. “But also, the source of opportunity. Opportunities for those with courage and the will to lead Sommerland into a glorious future.”

He raised his hand in a gesture of blessing. “May the Martyr’s flame illuminate these parliaments deliberations, may his wisdom guide its decisions, and may his sacrifice remind us all that true greatness always comes at a price.”

“Hear, hear,” replied the assembly in unison.

The king sat down, and a herald stepped forward.

“Due to the size of the assembled representatives and the heat of summer,” he announced in a loud voice, “Parliament will meet in the specially constructed buildings on the palace grounds. The lords, prelates and commons are requested to proceed there. The formal ceremonies for today are concluded.”

The assembly began to move, a controlled flood of nobility streaming toward the exits. Valentina followed the duchess, but her thoughts were in turmoil.

“The king is clever,” Vyxara analyzed as they walked through the corridors. “He has laid the foundation without committing himself. Pirates from Clairmontine ports, the ‘rightful place’ of Sommerland, it’s all beautifully vague, but the wiser lords will understand perfectly well where this is leading.”

The temporary structures on the palace grounds proved to be surprisingly well thought out. High wooden beams supported linen roofs that let in enough air to make the summer heat bearable, while cleverly placed Essence patterns provided additional cooling. When the formal first session came to a break, the strict order loosened up a little.

“Now the real work for us begins,” Lady Beatrice murmured as she discreetly dabbed the sweat from her forehead.

Duchess Rosalind moved through the crowd with elegant and experienced routine. A nod here to Countess Lovelace, a quick word there with Lord Ashfield. Valentina followed in her shadow, absorbing every detail.

“The proposed military levy is completely unacceptable,” she heard the Earl of Ravenshire say to a group of minor nobles. “A fifteen percent increase? His Majesty’s Lord Treasurer must think we’re milking gold from our cows.”

The Duke of Southwatch nodded gravely to that.

“The pirates are real enough,” replied a portly viscount. “My merchant ships have been attacked three times this year.”

Through the open side doors, Valentina could see Duke Cosimo surrounded by half a dozen lords. He gestured animatedly, his deep laughter echoing across the square. She watched with fascination as he worked the cluster of magnates around him with a pat on the shoulder here, a confidential whisper there. The Earl of Redpool was already nodding enthusiastically to everything the duke said.

“Of course I understand your concerns,” she heard Cosimo say as they drew closer. “But think of the possibilities. Secure trade routes also mean more profits and fewer write-offs. And who knows,” his voice lowered conspiratorially, “maybe sooner or later there will be new lands for deserving lords.”

The men around him leaned forward, wanting to know more. Cosimo’s gaze swept over the crowd and briefly met Valentina’s. A tiny smile played around his lips before he turned back to his conversation partners.

“He’s really enjoying this,” Vyxara remarked. “You’ve chosen an interesting patron.”

“He chose me,” Valentina corrected in her mind.

“Well, I remember it being a very mutual agreement.”

Before Valentina could reply, she froze. There, near the eastern wall, stood a figure that made her blood run cold. Lord Boarfend.

He was like an older, harder version of Faustus. He had the same reddish hair, but streaked with grey and the same deep-set eyes, but without the softness that his son possessed despite all his cruelty. Where Faustus had been a bit heavy-set, his father was sinewy and hard, like old leather. He was talking to other minor nobles with a sharp and commanding voice.

“Taxes, always taxes,” he growled. “As if we weren’t bleeding enough for the crown already.”

Valentina forced herself to look away, but Lady Beatrice had noticed her interest.

“Lord Boarfend,” she said quietly. “Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation,” Valentina replied cautiously.

Beatrice lowered her voice even further. “A tough man, they say. He’s only a baron, but he’s practically the true ruler of Edhel while Duke Whitehall plays with his soldiers. He rules the duchy for him with an iron fist.” She paused meaningfully. “Had a scandal with his firstborn recently. The boy was disowned, fled abroad. Allegedly, he was involved in demonic practices at your university.”

Valentina’s stomach clenched.

“Calm down,” Vyxara warned sharply. “Don’t show anything. Nothing at all.”

“How unfortunate,” Valentina murmured neutrally.

“Yes, but he has a younger son who is now his heir.” Beatrice turned away. “Come, the duchess is moving on.”

They followed Rosalind to a group of noblewomen and their ladies-in-waiting who had gathered in the shade of a large oak tree. The atmosphere here was different. Fans fluttered and muffled giggles mingled with more serious conversations.

“The tournament is sure to be spectacular,” enthused a young lady in a light blue dress. “I’ve never seen a big tournament before, I’m so excited.”

“My brother has already signed up,” added another. “He dreams of excelling before the king.”

Juliana Montfort, the Countess of Redpool, snorted softly. “As if we didn’t have more important things to discuss.”

“Oh, but there are important things to discuss,” said another in a conspiratorial tone. “Have you heard? The Ashbourne-Greystone engagement is to be officially announced during parliament.”

Valentina’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face neutral.

“Lord Lorenzo is a good catch,” someone remarked. “Handsome, intelligent, heir to Duskenshire, the perfect package.”

“And Lady Innogen is a beauty,” added another. “They’ll have gorgeous children.”

“What about the Darkmoore situation?” the Countess of Redpool abruptly changed the subject. “I heard that the Duke of Mirkshire is currently refusing to pay tithes to the church in the duchy because his youngest son took vows as an Ember against the duke’s will and entered a monastery.”

A lady-in-waiting to the Countess of Ravenshire snorted loudly. “Yes, because the Ember Superior finally convinced his son that his fondness for boys is a sin that he can only control through abstinence and daily prayers to the Martyr.” 

The group fell silent. One lady fanned herself nervously.

“We shouldn’t…” one began.

“Oh, come on,” urged the young woman. “We all know about the perversions that go on at the court in Mirkshire, like-“

“Ladies,” Duchess Rosalind interrupted gently but firmly. “Perhaps we should turn to more edifying topics.”

The group hastily dispersed amid murmured apologies. Rosalind caught Valentina’s eye and raised her eyebrow a bit.

“These parallel networks are fascinating,” observed Vyxara. “The men openly discuss politics and money, while the women exchange the really juicy secrets. Who is sleeping with whom, who is loyal to whom, where do the real weaknesses lie.”

A page in the royal colors appeared at the edge of the gathering and bowed deeply to Duchess Rosalind. “Your Grace, His Majesty requests selected members of the nobility for a more private audience.”

Rosalind nodded graciously. “We will follow immediately.”

The path led them through a corridor with polished marble floors, their surfaces reflecting the light of the Essence lamps. Valentina followed the Duchess at an appropriate distance, Lady Beatrice to her right, and shortly thereafter they caught up with Duke Cosimo and Lorenzo, who were waiting for them.

The small audience chamber was smaller than the Great Hall, but no less impressive. The ceiling was decorated with frescoes of the Martyrium, and heavy velvet curtains in royal red framed the tall windows. About thirty selected nobles and their entourages had already gathered, all in carefully orchestrated order.

King Edmund III sat on a raised but not overly ornate throne. His wife, Queen Beatrice sat enthroned to his right, her long, thick black hair was artfully pinned up and adorned with sapphires.

A blush rose to Valentina’s cheeks. She had taken on the form of this woman in Violet Delights. The memory of Illuminator Eastwald’s panting breath behind her, his hands on her – no, on the illusory queen – overcame her like a wave of nausea.

To the king’s left stood a woman who immediately caught Valentina’s eye. She was older, perhaps sixty, with ice-grey hair and a bearing that radiated absolute authority and casual confidence. She wore a simple but exquisitely cut robe in deep purple, adorned with a brooch depicting a golden primrose.

“The Duke and Duchess of Duskenshire and their affinity,” the herald announced in a piercing voice.