Arc 7: Chapter 18: Faith of a Crowfriar
“Of course, it is a great honor to host an esteemed member of the Emperor’s court.” The Mayor of Tol’s pleasant smile was just a bit too stiff to convince me he believed his own words. “I only wish we had been notified of your arrival in advance, so that we could properly greet a person of your standing.”
“It was not His Grace’s wish that my presence here cause a disturbance, if it could be avoided.”
I refused a servant offering me wine. We were guesting in the parlor of Castle Tol, which was not so much a true castle as a fortified manor set on one of the town’s meandering corners. Delphine sat on one of the couches, sipping at a local vintage, while Vicar admired an oil painting on one wall. Besides the mayor we were also in the presence of Tol’s garrison commander, a knight clad from neck to foot in white steel. The only other two in the room were the furtive servant with the wine and a well dressed man who I took to be a clerk. Ormur, Delphine's pet weasel, sniffed around on the table despite the anxious looks of the servant.
The Mayor fussed with his sleeves. He was a tall man with long, elegant limbs and a wide midsection that spoke of a sedentary life. He would be an elected official, a wealthy merchant or distant relative to one of the local Houses, a civilian tasked with daily matters. The knight represented Osheim’s king. He would defer to the mayor, but did not answer to him.
The Mayor coughed delicately. “Well, if His Reverent Majesty the Emperor is eager to know of our progress, then who are we to refuse him?”
He laughed and glanced at the knight, almost as though hoping the other man would give him an answer to that question. Clearing his throat he gestured at the commander. “May I have the honor of introducing Ser Cyril of House Stour, who leads Tol’s guard by the grace of our king.”
I recognized the name. “The Stork of Osheim? You’re King Kale’s nephew.”
The elegant knight dipped his head into a bow. Ser Cyril was a man in his late twenties, with golden-brown hair pulled back into a tail and an ear shriveled by old burns. “It is an honor to be recognized by the Headsman of Seydis. Your deeds in Garihelm are known to my kinsfolk, as are your efforts during our holy war against the Recusants.”
“You think that was a holy war?” I asked. It had seemed anything but to me.
The young man’s eyes widened in earnestness. “Of course! The rebels sought to overturn the very foundations of law and tradition that we abide by. The authority of the High Houses and the wisdom of the Church are gifts from God, and it is not for mere mortals to dispense with them. Those are sacred, for She gave them to us. Every clan that did not rally behind Markham Forger was and is apostate, for he is the sword and the shield of our faith.”
The man’s eyes hardened, an edge creeping into his soft voice as he touched the golden rune worked into his left pauldron. “If a struggle for our very way of life against heretics is not holy, then I do not know what is. It is good that you repented of the Alder Table’s sins and seek repentance in service, Lord Hewer. I know what they say of you, but my uncle and mother were both at the Bridge of Bells. They remember you, and know you to be no devil.”