He signaled to his guard retinue and descended the steps, die 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.”