The Consuls of the Vicariate Read Free Page B

rescue him.”
    “I seem to remember rescuing you , Marac Reven.” Laedron paused as Marac’s head drooped with guilt. “And I’d do it again. Without reservation.”
    Marac returned Laedron’s smile. “Point taken. Sorry.”
    Having eaten the large bits with the spoon, Laedron lifted the bowl and drank the broth, then wiped his mouth with a scrap of linen. He glanced at Valyrie and felt some guilt for eating so freely while she had barely touched her meal. “Are you feeling well?”
    Of course she’s not, fool . She just lost her father. Unable to withdraw the question, he waited for her to respond.
    “As well as I can, I suppose.” Her eyes remained locked on the chunks of meat floating along in the bowl.
    “Jurgen said we can have the ceremony around noon. Would that be acceptable?”
    She dipped her head. “When do we leave?”
    “Not long now.” Jurgen brushed breadcrumbs from his otherwise pristine robes. “In fact, let us be on our way. You’d better cowl yourself, Sorcerer.”
    “I’ll get my things,” Valyrie said, standing.
    “All right.” Laedron stood. “I’ll get the urn, too.”
    “No need.” Jurgen pointed at a dimly lit corner of the room, and Laedron saw the urn sitting on a table. “I’ve already done that.”
    Jurgen opened the door. Laedron followed, but turned to Marac before leaving. “Aren’t you coming?”
    “No,” Marac said, leaning forward. “I leave it to you, friend.”
    Laedron nodded. “We’ll be back soon.”
    Valyrie wore a black shawl, and Laedron complimented its quality before closing the door behind them. Pulling the hood over his head, he looked at the building which, up to that point, he had never seen from the outside. The structure had every feature of an aged, abandoned church he could imagine. The otherwise plain and dilapidated exterior set off the dirty stained glass windows running the length of each wall and the base of the dome. Gray and tan stones to match the silver and gold themes? Perhaps.
    Following Jurgen, he caught himself before stumbling on the platform holding a fountain resembling a dull golden cup. Looks like I’ve found the golden chalice, Meklan . Almost bathed in it, too.
    Jurgen led them through the shady parts of town, apparently unconcerned with or unafraid of the sordid persons walking the lanes. They would never interfere with a priest, right? Laedron thought, eying them. Perhaps clergymen are off limits in this place. For once, he was thankful to be in the company of a holy man.
    Laedron saw—and in some cases, smelled—people from all walks of life and nations of origin, but most were clearly Heraldan or of some Midlander descent. He reckoned that the xenophobia and religious intolerance of the population caused the lack of foreigners. It’s a good thing I’m a Midlander . Easier to fit in if I look similar to the locals .
    The priest seemed to find his way to the eastern road with ease, as if he’d walked the route a hundred times before, and Laedron followed him along the dusty road and into the hilly landscape beyond. Only an odd tree graced the roadside, each obviously planted by the inhabitants of that country; the trees towered above the highway in a straight line into the distance, and each stood a precise increment away from the cobblestones. With the sun peaking in the sky, Jurgen stepped off the roadway, through the first meadow of tall grass Laedron had seen, and down an embankment. Laedron helped Valyrie descend the steep hill to the waterside.
    On the sandy banks of the Sea of Pillars, a lacquered bench carved entirely from a single piece of wood sat beneath a drooping willow tree, its long branches swaying with the breeze. That breeze, thick with saltwater, gave Laedron some relief from the heat of the day, and he removed his hood, deciding that no one would see his face in that secluded nook of the shore. They stood isolated from the rest of the world with only the sound of the waves washing onto the