The Consuls of the Vicariate Read Free Page A

strong and persevere, but Brice’s parents had resolved to see him working a loom for the rest of his days.”
    “No matter. It might take more time, but I’m confident he’ll come around.”
    “That makes one of us,” Marac said. “I’m not so convinced.”
    “Give him time.” Laedron stood, grabbed his spell book, and patted Marac on the shoulder. “Apparently, we have plenty of it.”
    “Lae?” Marac called out before Laedron entered the hall.
    “Yes?”
    “The wand and the scepter, what purpose do they serve?” Marac glanced at his sword. “Simply tools of the trade?”
    “Yes,” Laedron said, then paused to consider a more thorough explanation. “To manifest our spells, we require three things—concentration, a focus, and an incantation. The wand, with its intricate carvings, sturdy weight, and rough finish, gives something real to focus upon.”
    “And priests? They use staffs?”
    “Or rings, like Jurgen’s.” Laedron grinned. He was glad Marac was showing interest in his craft. “Goodnight, my friend.”
    After entering his room and closing the door, Laedron put the scepter on the nightstand, then placed the tome in his pack. He saw his practice wand poking through the flap on the side. As he traced the intricate carvings running deep along the shaft, he remembered how, during his training, he couldn’t reproduce an illusion of his wand. Then, he recalled the powerful image he had conjured from his memories, his happy days with Marac and his sister Laren by the old oak in Reven’s Landing. Before going to bed, Laedron knelt and appealed to the Creator for Ismerelda’s soul to arrive safely in the heavens.

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    A Day of Remembrance
     

     
    T he morning light drove away his nightmares, and Laedron opened his eyes to sunlight dimmed by the foggy stained glass in the narrow window of his room. The hazy yellow image suggested the figure of a holy man of some kind, probably a Heraldan saint whom he neither recognized, nor deemed important. To think, an entire world littered with such icons . Well, I suppose there are worse ways to waste glass. At least it’s pretty to look at. He snatched the scepter from the table, then headed to the common room.
    Caleb was busy stirring a cauldron suspended from an iron hook in the fireplace. The scent of a fine stew drifted into Laedron’s nostrils, exciting his empty belly. He wouldn’t have thought of eating anything the day before; his near miss upon the executioner’s table and his sympathy for Valyrie’s situation had been enough to ward off any hunger pangs. Sitting at the table, he eyed the clean bowl in front of his chair and waited as patiently as he could.
    “Morning,” Jurgen said.
    Laedron noticed Jurgen wore his ceremonial robes. “Morning. Do you think you’re a bit overdressed?”
    “The dead deserve utmost respect, regardless of their station.” Jurgen poured some wine into his cup. “Sleep well?”
    “Everything was fine until I woke up.”
    “I know the feeling.” Jurgen watched Caleb ladle some stew into his bowl. “Thank you.”
    “Do you have any preparations to make for the ceremony?”
    “A few, but it’s well in hand.” Jurgen carefully sipped from his spoon. “We’ll make it to the seaside before noon, I would imagine.”
    “Is it so far?” Laedron started on his stew as soon as it landed in the bowl.
    “A few miles from the city. Not to worry, though. I know a private place.”
    Laedron heard a door close down the hall, then Valyrie joined them and took a seat. No sooner than she had picked a chair, Brice wiped his mouth and followed Caleb out of the room.
    “Where’s he going?” Marac asked.
    Jurgen shrugged. “They mentioned something about practicing, but they went quiet when they noticed me.”
    “Ah, well, I hope the little fool doesn’t get himself in any trouble.” Marac crossed his arms. “I suppose we’ll end up having to