It is only right that we begin with His Majesty.

I will not attempt to argue whether this be done out of respect or reproach. His Majesty’s reputation, like any man’s, was in constant competition with his office. Suffice it to say, then, that it is an act of justice that the crisis made general across the Known World be first seen through the eyes of he that sat upon the throne of highest regard. Let this be justice rendered to the realm, to our beleaguered subjects, and to His Majesty, who, for his entire life, occupied a most unenviable position. Let it be justice also rendered to ourselves, we witnesses for both the prosecution and defense of so bewildering a time as ours.

So let us begin with His Majesty Edgardo Oberto, King and Emperor of the Speranzian Empire, who, on the final morning of a long and languid Summer, sat with a practiced and unnatural grace in the vast audience room of the Reggia di Speranza, awaiting the arrival of Gasparro Cavallo. He had been there almost an hour, struggling to remember the passions that had led to the impending well-coordinated scandal.

His Majesty’s state of mind was beneath the notice of the crowd surrounding him. That his Court was with him at all might have been unusual had it not been for the delightfully preposterous occasion. The courtiers had learned early in the reign of Edgardo Oberto that the royal milieu cultivated by his father would continue to be barren, only this time defined by the king’s disinterest rather than his absence. In those crucial early days, the Court’s advances to the withdrawn Edgardo had gone unanswered, a precedent was soon enforced by both parties.

The Court nonetheless performed their duties as demanded by ritual, etiquette, and ceremony, attending only those functions in which the Court’s absence would create an uncomfortable spectacle. And so, having neither the familiarity of regular proximity nor a personality that inspired intimacy, His Majesty remained far removed from his royal circles, making those necessary gatherings such as today’s a painful reminder of a lost opportunity. The Court, however, in the absence of the only environmental pressure to which it would adapt, pursued a separate line of advancement and entertainment. Indeed, being neglected by their king, the Court had only themselves to please and, with the indomitable hubris of the times, committed itself to the task of relentless self indulgence. It started with the dissolution of their part in the royal daily schedule, and had recently escalated into the addition of women, rogue but connected ladies of the court. The blended party cavorted, plotted, and lazed about, but the circle never missed an opportunity for political titillation. Thus the Court, normally keeping a sincerely respectful distance from His Majesty, had not been able to resist attending this particular audience, and His Majesty, loathe to exert pressure on those he had so far avoided, had made no objection. Now, they held vigil together in contrary attitudes–the King, in timid disquiet, and the Court, in bubbling, gleeful speculation.

On all sides, His Majesty found himself bombarded by their shameless prognostication regarding the King’s mysterious plot. His courtiers had arranged themselves in pods of inscrutable cliques, each of them disinterestedly orbiting the dais upon which he sat in isolation. Against their cynicism, he had no defense. To their enthusiasm, he could offer no contribution. And in all their prophecies, not once did he hear himself mentioned.

The one member of the Court whom Edgardo did rely upon was characteristically late. He was marooned on a barren isle, a many tiered dais surrounded by checkerboard marble sea from which mighty columns rose to carry a golden vaulted ceiling. The throne itself marked the end of a long carmine carpet that led back to the double doored entrance of the chamber, dividing the nave neatly between the east facing windows and the massive, well adorned western wall. Edgardo dared not look to his courtiers for fear of engagement, and his eyes wandered restlessly. From the windows could only be seen the pale oppressive glow of a cloud smothered sun. The doors to the chamber remained silent and closed. And so His Majesty’s gaze settled, as always, upon the Dynastic Gallery of the western wall.

For as long as Edgardo could remember, that wall had been all but covered with the gigantic portraits of the Obertian dynasty. Most were of a reasonable size, but some, those ancestors held in particular esteem, spanned the height of the wall itself. In a hundred styles and a hundred attitudes, rank upon rank of royalty maintained an eternal watch over the throne room. Those celebrated artists that had resurrected the royal line had long been forgotten, their signatures consumed by the power of those they had rendered into painted eternity. Over many reigns, there had been monarchs whose favor or fancy had rearranged positions of honor, but in all the years of the palace, the sun had never risen without a royal audience.

Yet again, His Majesty took in the Gallery. He shifted and squirmed in their throne with a subdued desperation to copy the effortless gravitas of the painted giants. He avoided eye contact the Court, and he avoided eye contact with the paintings, loathe to invite any of their pointed attentions. Better to remain a voyeur in company such as this, a lesson he had learned and internalized over many years. As a boy, Edgardo had found the gallery overwhelming. As a young man, inspiring. And in the final days of his father’s life, Edgardo had found the collected portraits a reliable consolation, being almost eager to see his long suffering lord join their incorruptible ranks. But Armand Oberto’s final breath had stirred something within the looming canvas, imparting a new and mysterious life. Those mighty faces that had once looked out to sea, boldly, proudly, confidently awaiting each new sunrise on the empire, were turning their attention by degrees downward, down to the throne that now lay so far below them.

Beneath their gaze, Edgardo recalled the business of the day and trembled.

His anxiety was interrupted by an unseasonable yet familiar breeze that carried away the threat of introspection. His Majesty looked to the main entrance of the throne room, but, finding it shut and guarded, turned with a childlike expectation to the adjoining parlor at the chamber’s rear, closed to all but the most connected persons. The Court, too, turned their attentions to the backmost vestibule, which had begun to fill with cooled vapor. Edgardo immediately turned back and settled into a portrait of his own, and the Court swelled with a dignified cheer, as Lord Rork Hiemont at last made his appearance.

There were few northerners who would endure the physical or political climate of the Imperial heartland, but Lord Hiemont had never in his life acclimated to anything. By charm of personality had he cooled the suspicious, impassioned heartlander aristocracy, and by prowess of cryomancy had he bent the air about him to a more comfortable degree. In spite of this wintry aura, His Lordship moved through the room and among the Court with fantastic energy, meeting his colleagues as the sea meets the cliffs. To some he bowed, and with others he even shook hands. But always was Lord Hiemont deferential, even as his lean but powerful build distinguished him from the leisurely class of the Court. His Majesty listened with amused admiration to the effortless intimacy with which Rork engaged the enchanted courtiers, never daring to imagine how he himself might ever do the same. He did not have Lord Hiemont’s striking diamond face, his brotherly smile, his pioneering sense of fashion, nor, most of all, the wondrous reputation of heroism that made Lord Rork Hiemont, hero of the northern provinces, the most famous man in the Capital City.

In no small part, surely, did the enigma at his shoulder contribute to his celebrity. Either in his wake or at his extended hand sailed the vague likeness of a young girl, at once both of real substance and a pale blue vapor. A pair of large white eyes peered out in perpetual earnestness, competing with a broad and unflappable grin for room on a small, round and otherwise featureless face. An icy mist poured from her head, congealing into a single braid that trailed behind her neotenous body, which seldom ended in anything more than a wispy tail of cloud. Many years ago, in the early days of Lord Hiemont’s residence in the Capital, he had introduced her as Frosty, and from the moment of that first ingratiation, all the Court had fervently treated the strange entity as an honored friend and companion. They had heard old tales of familiars and homunculi, dubious footnotes of the long history of thaumic practice, but Frosty defied classification. The phenomena of her identity had become an opportunity for the educated public to practice that peculiar and performative nonchalance to which all socialites aspire. Even now, Edgardo could hear the desperate nonchalance in their voices, each competing with its fellows to see who could be least puzzled or disturbed by her strange presence, who was most familiar and at ease with the new, the bizarre, and the unknown.

Edgardo, to his credit, had never tried. In fact, he had rarely if ever directly engaged Frosty. She had rarely done so with him. But the mystery surrounding her, and the absence of any explanation from Rork, only contributed to the charming mystique of the Capital’s most celebrated noble. She monitored his engagements, mirrored his enthusiasm, and echoed his sentiments in a lively, girlish voice, freely aiding and abetting Lord Hiemont’s signature repartee.

Loathe to completely satisfy the hunger of his audience, Lord Rork Hiemont bid the Court farewell and bound up the stairs of the dais with boyish vigor, Frosty bouncing enthusiastically behind him. He looked to the empty entryway, and then, turning to his friend and liege, planted his fists on his hips with profound satisfaction.

The king and his councilor shared a smile, before the latter spun about to face the entrance once more, clapping his hands in mischievous delight.

“God’s blood, it’s all in place, isn’t it, Ed?”

“They said as much.” Edgardo said, nodding to the bubbling courtiers.

“And it was I, no doubt, that told them. So it must be so, surely! Today is the day. God’s blood, today is the day!”

Frosty planted herself on Rork’s shoulders, a short pair of legs emerging from her icy waist like retractable claws. Rork paid her no mind, venting some of his excessive excitement with a contented sigh. He glanced at Edgardo with a more formal regard.

“A bold move, sir, to neglect a throne guard on today of all days.”

“Bold, sir?”

“Beyond bold, sir, on the precipice of foolhardy–but only the precipice, sir! Splendid show of confidence, even if we lose out on a more impressive arrangement. Ah, but the throne is enough, isn’t it? The throne and the morning rays! No shock and awe needed for this business, I agree, sir. No more than you have in me, at any rate, eh?”

“… Well… it’s… it’s not like they’d be necessary, do you think? On my soul, it’s only the Grand Monitor, our loyal servant, isn’t it?”

Rork retreated to Edgardo’s right hand, settling onto one knee as he peered with an almost predatory focus to the entranceway. The mention of Cavallo’s name prompted his smile to cool and dig deeper into his face. Frosty clung to his neck, matching his grin.

“The Grand Monitor, yes, and his quarry. All three at once, if–“

Edgardo stiffened. “All of them? Here? You mean… here? Right… there?” He gestured to the front of the dais.

Rork leapt to his feet and clapped the back of the throne, resisting a laugh.

“All three at your feet, indeed, sir, which I insisted upon–on your behalf, naturally! It’s the only way, sir, the only way this program can begin properly. Meat for us, crow for them, and crumbs for the pigeons.” He gestured discreetly to the babbling Court.

Edgardo chuckled nervously, but clutched at his cravat.

“… Would… just a small detachment of the guard be so terrible?”

“Practically speaking? No, surely not. Optically, sir… well.” He smirked, inspecting the lace of his cuffs. “Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures, and the mighty arm of His Majesty’s armies is a tired show of force. Just a mathematical proof, is it not? We are trying to transcend a mere accounting of our power, Ed–this must be a philosophy. And you, my friend, you will be our first premise.”

Lord Hiemont prowled about the dais with grand sweeping steps, sketching into the air with thespian rhythm.

“Any primitive will gawk at the larger club, but we cannot compete with the world over who will wield the greater fear of death. The lower faculties will avail us nothing. Not in our Enlightened age. This program is not a threat, no more than the whisper of conscience is. This is a summons, an offering… a gift. God’s blood, a gift, Ed! And a gift is only as precious, only as cherished, only as honored… as the giver.”

Rork turned at last to Edgardo, hands outstretched as if presenting his king to world for the first time. Edgardo, outwardly pleased, felt himself nearly fall into a swoon.

His Majesty was not a man of particularly strong imagination, but a man of sense–specifically, a sense of the expectations of others. The hopes and dreams of heaven and earth, once abstract and romantic, had apparated before his eyes at the moment of his coronation, arraying themselves on the horizon like a cannon battery. Every day of his reign saw the addition of new pieces, new reports of a decline that even his father had only been able to slow. The bombardment had yet to come, but come it would, and Edgardo, hyper aware of the danger, was helpless. He knew the demands, and he felt the urgency, but his internal world was paralyzed. Answers and propositions struck like an ecstasy, only to sink in the dark waters of his anxious mind. Dreams of prophecy and resolution descended at night, only to burn away in the numbness of morning. His Majesty could not bear to think of the lives that had been dedicated to his instruction and education, the arc of an entire bloodline curving to a moment belonging solely to him, and all of it forgotten with one glimpse of the looming battery.

But from the moment Rork had arrived, the uncertainties had dissolved into inarticulate noise, and a vision, opaque in the lonely mind of His Majesty, had bloomed into dazzling clarity. Edgardo’s tyrannical intuition preyed on the few dreams his limited imagination allowed him, but Rork was his interpreter, the oracle of the royal mind. In Edgardo’s silence, Rork had heard the order. He had seen the quest in his eyes.

“And that, sir, is why I would advise you in the strongest possible terms to face these brutes yourself. “

Frosty cartwheeled along his right arm before hopping to his left. “All four of them!” she sang. Rork smiled.

“They must face the might of the empire, yes, but that power must be incarnate, and not only incarnate, but complete… as only the emperor representing his empire can be.” Rork snorted. “Besides… besides, you know who they are, what they are. Not exactly plucked from Point Prominence, were they? These scrubs come to us as canker sores, and spiteful ones. If ever a relationship is going to be cultivated, as it was the many years ago in Caerkirk…” He stroked his chin sagely. “… A man must confront men.”

He looked to Edgardo intensely, and the king looked away.

“Gasparro is no brute.”

Lord Hiemont turned and collected himself, resisting the exasperation that swelled in his throat. Frosty’s grin faltered. She floated into a silent tantrum, eyes glowing. After a moment, Rork spun back, smiling broadly.

“My dear friend.” Clasping his hands, he paced the dais slowly.

“It is essential, Ed, that you do everything in your power to resist the desire, noble as it may be, to defer in this matter to Grand Monitor Cavallo. I wholeheartedly understand that he is impressively… uncompromising. There is… so much to admire about that stalwart, impenetrable head of his.”

Rork paused, eyes wandering in rueful thought.

“But we must also remember that the Grand Monitor is, first and foremost, a liaison between ourselves and mother Church. He is not pontiff, nor living saint, nor apparition of Our Lady… goodness knows.” He chuckled. “Bear in mind that his priorities, his duties… his perspective… none of that is necessarily in perfect alignment with our own. Nor binding, for that matter.”

Edgardo watched Rork uncomfortably. “If he is not agreeable, I am not sure what you expect me to do about it. He is… well, he is the Grand Monitor. Am I supposed to… ignore him? You know what he will say, surely.”

“I would pay more attention to what he’ll do, Ed.”

“Which is?”

Rork, having gleefully anticipated this question, almost gave his impeccably rehearsed answer, but was interrupted by Frosty, who had violently wheeled to face the audience room entrance. From the corridors beyond, the royal party could now hear the staccato of a struggle, which quickly degenerated into a crashing peal of thunder. There were cries and bellows, barks of foreign tongues. And then, without pause, rapidly approaching footsteps. Edgardo, in shock, looked down to see the carpet beneath him shift and tug as something galloped directly toward the chamber doors.

Who is to say what Lord Hiemont was thinking. He made no move to intercept or even prepare for what was coming. He watched, a half smile etched into his face. He stood on the dais steps by his King and never moved.

The doors nearly came off their hinges. The first of the audience had come, ahead of his time and place. His momentum carried him staggering into the nave of the hall, a tall, swarthy man, bound with chains kept his hands manacled behind his back. He was filthy. What was left of his shirt was speckled with dirt and blood, his ill fitting trousers soaked through with sweat. His whole body heaved with quick breaths of exertion, every muscle strained and pulsed with preternatural force, as if his skin might split open to reveal a truer identity. The brute whirled this way and that, greasy tendrils of hair lashing his sharp, angular face, wild eyes scanning the crowd like a huge, incensed cat. He had paused this bestial charge for only a moment, and that was enough. For even as he locked eyes with Edgardo Oberto, even as his mouth peeled back into the largest, toothiest grin any of those assembled had ever seen, even as a single feminine shriek escaped from the stupefied Court, and even as the barbarian lunged with an inexhaustible vigor across the carpet with a howling cackle, he was violently jerked backward into the air. The contrary forces of his momentum and his restraint nearly popped his shoulders from their sockets, and the man crashed to the ground with a snarl of rage and pain. He rapidly rose to his knees, but immediately crumpled again, arms locked awkwardly in pain. Seething, he caught his breath, and glared hatefully back toward the chamber doors.

The arrival of His Eminence the Grand Monitor accomplished what the savage’s had not. The brute that heaved upon the ground had merely missed his cue in a performance for which the assembly had been well and eagerly prepared. But the scheduled procession had indeed arrived and, despite the shock of a threat from which the Court was far too sheltered to appreciate, succeeded in triggering the ritual instincts of the courtiers. Even as the hall echoed with foreign oaths and profanities, the Court had arranged and composed themselves into neat ranks alongside the throne, patiently providing a well of ceremonial gravity. But in the Court’s sudden formalities, there was another force at work, more primal than even their courtly instincts. For just as the moon pulls the tides, the personal gravity of Grand Monitor Cavallo was an overwhelming anchor of propriety.

Cavallo stood upon the threshold of the audience chamber, winding the barbarian’s chains about his left arm. He stood otherwise motionless, eyes fixed on the howling beast that cursed his name and damned his eyes. Cavallo, tightening the iron coils in his fist, approached his prisoner like an animated statue. The wild man, rapturous in his defiance, heaved himself to his feet and postured impressively for a fight, barking breathlessly through his obvious exhaustion. If he had been frightening before, no spectator could recall. Now, even the brute’s impressive size fell beneath the shadow of the Grand Monitor, who towered over every soul in the city, let alone the palace. And if the savage knew his situation, he did not show it, lunging at his captor with bared teeth and frothing spittle. Cavallo tugged the chain viciously with his left hand, then crushed the brute’s face with his right. The barbarian crashed to the ground, wheezing and groaning unintelligibly.

It marked the end of a years long struggle. Had Cavallo not been deceived regarding his purpose that morning, it might have ended more decisively. Instead, the Grand Monitor unceremoniously walked away, dragging the deadweight behind him with little visible strain. In the silence of the audience chamber, he centered himself before the dais and the throne and his king, and he knelt.

He knelt, he waited, and he said nothing.

Edgardo had never looked away. His Majesty had never been exposed to violence or genuine danger, and so the shock of the barbarian’s attack had been almost dreamlike. Gasparro Cavallo had come like a slap in the face, but a welcome one. Whimsy did not survive the presence of the Grand Monitor. If the Court had fallen into line on sight, the king was nearly paralyzed to be the object of Cavallo’s undivided attention–worse still, his absolute obeisance. Edgardo had relied heavily on the nobility of silence to navigate his encounters with men such as Cavallo, but on a morning such as this, with intentions such as his, Edgardo had no such option.

“… Good morrow, sir. I–we are pleased to see you here, now.” he said, blinking rapidly for focus.

Cavallo stood and looked expectantly at his king. It had often been joked that in order for the Grand Monitor’s body to sustain its size and strength it necessarily needed to drain his head of all life, and indeed there was some spectacle in seeing so hale and hearty a frame supporting so skeletal a face. He was indeed strong and quick and graceful. But the vitality of his body could not be seen his face, neither in his eternal scowl nor the sunken recesses from which he peered in perpetual accusation. In the morning haze, Cavallo’s solemn expression was almost cadaverous.

Edgardo knew that no amount of conversation could indefinitely delay the proposition which he knew must be made, but instinct is a devilish thing to resist.

“You… well, Your Eminence, I am… pleased to see you here.” he repeated. “I had nothing but total, complete faith in your abilities, so I knew you would return to us when the time was right. That is, when you had accomplished that which you had set out to do, that which we had commanded you to do. Not, of course, that such a task required a command, and, even more to the point, not that the Grand Monitor would need a command to accomplish that which he was already doing. But the immediacy, I suppose, is what was required, the confirmation of what priorities should be addressed, and when, which was now. The last few months, to be exact. And now there is no room for doubt, if ever there was before–which there was not, naturally. You served well, sir, and we are pleased. Pleased to see you here.”

Edgardo nodded decisively. “We had complete confidence that you would be. Here. Now.”

The Grand Monitor paused. “Your loyal servant, sire.”

Through titanic force, Edgardo managed to accept Cavallo’s reverent address as sincere. If he were to make it to the climactic moment, however, he would need much more fuel.

“Have you… produced all three of the fugitives…?”

Cavallo turned to the entrance, now occupied by a motley troupe of soldiers almost surrounding two other men, each fettered as the barbarian. This was signal enough, and the two fugitives were all but carried to Cavallo’s side. As they drew close, His Majesty become aware of an endless stream of muffled rambling. He found their source in one of these fugitives, a short, athletic looking elf, unsuccessfully gagged with a filthy rag. He, like his fellow prisoners, was sloppily dressed in simple breeches and linen shirts, and his enraged, purple face swam in the ocean of ill-fitting clothes as he was manhandled to the foot of the dais. Cavallo gestured wordlessly, and the guards withdrew to a polite distance, eyeing their prisoners wolfishly.

The elf wheeled about with his newfound freedom, panting and barking through the gag without a care of who might actually understand him. Fidning himself chained to the Grand Monitor, he tested his distance, glaring furiously out at his enraptured audience. Catching his breath, he muttered something to Cavallo, but planted himself defiantly in front of His Majesty, chained hands comfortably folded behind his back. The elf, satisfied or exhausted, at last fell silent. He could not, however, silence his eyes, and they bellowed flames ceaselessly at His Majesty, fanned by every haggard breath.

“Sorman Vestra’Vich.” said Cavallo, yanking the protesting elf closer to his side.

“Dazirak Marazi.” said Cavallo, stomping his chain and pinning the seething wild man to the ground.

“Jovan Astreides.” said Cavallo, nodding back to the third man, who stood bent, still, and silent behind his captor.

Edgardo knew he should feel the electric thrill of seeing many months of research, reports, and daydreams bearing fruit in the flesh, right before his eyes. And yet the chosen men had indeed been men. Sormon Vestra’Vich, who had stalked the benighted streets of long suffering Bashnigrad, who had terrorized the agents of the Crown and Klarikan rebels alike, who had humiliated the Bastonieri at every turn–Edgardo could see nothing of that spectacular reputation in the petulance of Sormon’s boyish face. Professor Astreides, too, that luminary turned destroyer, seemed to totter on the edge of a swoon–whether from starvation or distress, Edgardo could not tell. Only the savage, Dazirak the Mad, matched the shadow cast upon His Majesty’s mind these last few months. But even Dazirak Marazi, would-be conqueror and heathen warlord, was breathless at his feet. “The menagerie,” Edgardo thought “is not the wild.”

As Cavallo waited at the foot of dais, the silence deepened. His Majesty’s gaze passed rapidly from one fugitive to the other in a pantomime of deep thought, but still the Grand Monitor stood coiled in the peripheries of His Majesty’s inspection. Now and again, Cavallo would tug the chains, testing the wills of his prisoners as a fisherman tests his catch, but Cavallo’s gaze never left His Majesty, no matter how long Edgardo tried to avoid it.

“Bravo, Cavallo! Oh, what am I saying–Bravissimo! Bravissimo, Cavallo, good show!”

Lord Hiemont, who had endured Edgardo’s indecision enough, emerged from the silent courtiers with extraordinary zeal, applauding enthusiastically as he approached the dais once more. The Court, given the crumbs of direction they so desperately wanted, struck up their own feverish applause, cheering as Frosty soared about Cavallo’s head, leaving a delicate icy garland to flutter down about his broad shoulders. Edgardo almost joined in the congratulation himself, clapping once before realizing his redundancy. Nonetheless grateful for the intervention, he took a reflexive, relieved step backward, eagerly giving way to his two most trusted servitors.

Lord Hiemont had come to the Capital city as a bracing wind. He had come to the Grand Monitor, however, as a draft in the night. Upon hearing that cheerful, booming voice, Cavallo’s face, until now frozen in ceremonial grace, began to thaw as the meticulously controlled passions that fueled his enormous body began to percolate. Cavallo did not so much as shift himself toward Rork, who walked unabashedly to the side of the Grand Monitor to clap him firmly on the back–a gesture no other man in the Empire would have dared.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Hiemont, turning to the courtiers. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the finest servant of righteousness in all the Empire–no, the world! Show me he who strives more, who seeks more, who yields less, and I will show you a mountebank, ladies and gentlemen. He does not exist, who would–who could–surpass Gasparro Cavallo in loyalty or generosity of spirit.”

The court, so instructed, returned Lord Hiemont’s commendations with spontaneous praise of their own, and a confused competition of affirmations began.

“And let none doubt that it is that spirit, nay, that heavenly host of devotion, that would draw our beloved Grand Monitor away from his most necessary and demanding duties in order that the will of His Majesty be realized.”

Edgardo shuddered.

“Ladies and gentlemen, behold.”

Rork stepped aside, framing the bewildered fugitives between himself and the rigid Grand Monitor.

“Behold the fruit of that spirit. The Imperial Spirit.”

The court, so cued, fell into attentive silence.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is the mandate of our time. The impotent, insolent, wayward rage of the old world, subjugated. Subjugated… and sublimated.”

Rork had by this time mounted the dais steps once again in a heroic attitude, becoming the epicenter of a dazzling display of orbiting laurels of ice. Frosty had long abandoned Cavallo to a cloud of icy dust, now circling her lord with cries of adulation. Whether the court understood what Rork was implying was neither clear nor consequential. They had at the very least sensed, however, that a shift in the palace’s gravity was underway, and they were prepared to accommodate it.

The Grand Monitor held his tongue. With one foot he kept Dazirak pinned to the ground and with one hand anchored the feverish elf to his side. Astreides remained behind him, bowed and motionless. But he never looked away from King Edgardo.

His Majesty, wholly taken in, did not notice. But as Lord Hiemont spoke, it dawned on the king with a sobering horror that his councilor was merely giving the preamble to the scandal that could only be ordered by His Majesty.

“King Edgardo has made it clear, ladies and gentlemen, that the victory of the New World cannot be built on mere addition or, as some crave, subtraction. We require a new arithmetic of progress, a future of multiplicative flourishing–“

Lord Hiemont leapt to the top of the dais, a man possessed.

“God’s blood, the story is the same now as it was in the beginning—the choice between resignation and transformation. Do we accept the squalor as sufficient? Do we settle in the wreckage? Or do we not make temples of the rubble? Do we not make tabernacles of the dust? The diamond, ladies and gentlemen, is never more striking than it is when nestled in the rough.”

Lord Hiemont no doubt could have spent the whole morning in the furor of presentation, and neither His Majesty nor the Court would have interrupted him. Even the Grand Monitor, who had long ago accepted His Lordship’s whimsy as a regular form of mortification, might have allowed a politician his trade. But on this particular morning, Gasparro Cavallo saw that his king, rather than drift dreamily into the aether of Rork’s rhetoric, was folding into himself with every word that fired from his councilor’s lips. A strange chill crawled up his back.

“Sire,” he said, “Dismiss the Court.”

His Majesty froze.

In those days, His Majesty’s circle had learned to wait not for His Majesty’s orders, but for his denials. None came. None came from Lord Hiemont, who, having landed so triumphantly in the valley between rhetorical peaks, was both shocked and unprepared to protest in the following moments of crucial silence. And none came from the Court, who, reluctantly and inevitably, surrendered themselves to the risen tide of the Grand Monitor influence, carried away in stately formation out of the audience room and into the adjoining parlors. Even the guards preemptively obeyed, sparing themselves the indignity that would come with the expectant tilt of Cavallo’s head. They, too, left the chamber, ceding the intensifying silence to the two hapless triumvirates.

His Majesty gave a terrific performance of calm as his mind collapsed in on itself, flailing desperately for the words to ground himself in the impending calamity. At his side, Lord Hiemont stood in an attitude not inaccurately described as combative, though he made no move to engage Cavallo. Unlike His Majesty, he met the Grand Monitor’s gaze, and, unlike His Majesty, was perfectly willing to wait the Grand Monitor out. The fugitives shifted uncomfortably, the King looked at Rork, and Gasparro Cavallo, his manner evolving into a striking expression of passion, spoke.

“It is only just, sire, that the fruit of your orders–your victories–be presented to you personally. It is only just that those who would attack the sovereignty of the Empire be made to face the divine object of their criminal reprobation. And it is only just, Your Majesty, that their sentence be verbally and officially pronounced by the ultimate executor of Imperial justice–yourself. That is why I made no objection to your sudden orders to seek audience before I handled the execution of that sentence. That sentence being, as you know, sire, death.”

Cavallo’s eyes carved the space between Edgardo and Rork.

“That is why I am here.”

Edgardo could hear the words before Rork spoke them, and, in a rare moment of initiative, spoke up in a good natured, hurried voice.

“And it is… so good to see you, Your Eminence. Please, forgive the delay, if you would, I…” He cleared his throat confidently, the newfound thread firmly in his hands. “I was… I was curious, Grand Monitor Cavallo, most curious. Curious how… curious how you were able to so… so effectively hunt these men down, these men who proved so… unreachable. That is, I never doubted you, Your Eminence, never doubted that you would succeed, and I, certainly–we, certainly–never imagined this quest as being futile or impossible. No, you were just the man for the job, of course–and we do not impugn the loyalty or effectiveness of other servants in so saying. Only, that these men have been wanted for some time now, urgently wanted, with no secret of their danger to our subjects, and, having gone so long without even an official sighting of them, we were growing concerned–“

“Yes, sire.” interrupted Cavallo, evenly. His eyes flicked toward Lord Hiemont, who nodded sagely with a polite seriousness. But Cavallo watched Frosty. Her grin nearly split her head in two. “Of course, sire.”

As the discourse and energy of the room turned over, the fugitives once again became agitated, shifting in their own ways to contend with the irregular rhythm of their exposition. Dazirak Marazi lashed up from the ground like a viper and was summarily returned to the tiles with a vicious kick of Cavallo’s heel, his skull cracking with a ghastly noise against the marble. Sormon Vestra’vich peered incredulously at the Imperials, pacing within the tethered space afforded to him as he muttered into his gag. Professor Astreides remained utterly motionless.

Cavallo, too, settled into himself, reasserting his iron grip on the manacles binding his charges to him. He looked to the king expectantly. Edgardo was invigorated by a shot of genuine curiosity, the dreamer within himself reaching out to make sense of the mythic figures at his feet.

Edgardo eyed the chains tethering Astreides to Cavallo. They lay limp upon the ground. Cavallo made no effort to restrain him, and he made no challenge to his bondage.

“Perhaps,” ventured His Majesty, “you could begin with how you managed to track down Professor Astreides? Given the… the nature of his crime, the witness accounts… I am surprised to see him so lightly fettered, now. God’s blood, the man who fed the center of Ventogelo to the sky is standing in the Reggia, Your Eminence. Are… are we sure we’ve secured him? Appropriately, I mean?”

Cavallo’s lip curled. With a few steps, he maneuvered behind the frozen professor, and, with a rough push, provoked the wan figure into a few stumbling steps. Astreides rebalanced himself, shuddered, and returned again to his withered posture.

“If he is like to cast, sire, he would have done so by now. The anti-thaumic bindings will suffice. Whatever devilry Jovan Astreides conjured in Ventogelo remains in Ventogelo.” he said. “Most of what remains will be carried in the folds of the warped flesh of those unfortunate enough to survive the ordeal… and the rest, sire… the rest will soon be food for the worms.”

Jovan Astreides shuddered wordlessly.

“Come now, sir.” chuckled Lord Hiemont. “Don’t begrudge us the story.”

[Comic Mode Engage]

[We do not know how he did it. We do not even know exactly what he did. All we know is what happened. And this is enough.]

[Jovan Astreides destroyed the center of Ventogelo.]

[He survived.]

[He fled.]

[… And he was pursued.]

[I am sure most of the Province was united in its demand for justice, sire, but there are those for whom any crisis is rich earth to be tilled.]

[Their time will come.]

[Months passed.]

[A test of faith.]

[I recognize, sire, that there are many among the Signore that have become skeptical of the efficacy of the Office of the Grand Monitor. Emboldened by the length of time between the catastrophe and the arrest.]

[The hand of justice cannot be clumsy, sire. It must be deliberate.]

[I honor the thirst for righteousness. Concern is always warranted.]

[Evil, after all, does not sleep.]

[But neither does justice.]

[Insert Astreides Capture Sequence, including the death of a soldier and the attempted murder of Astreides by a Ventogelo survivor and Nuovo Vista operative.]

“The devotion of such common folk… it’s extraordinary, sir.” said Edgardo breathlessly. “You are truly an inspiration, sir.”

Cavallo was unmoved.

“The enormity of his crime, sire, has indeed proven to be a galvanizing agent in the region. The people are, understandably, perturbed.” Cavallo looked again to Lord Hiemont, as if he could bore into a mind so uncharacteristically restrained. “Many, sire, have submitted formal correspondence celebrating his imminent execution. A delegation from Nuova Vista should be arriving shortly to witness the event. Perhaps we should discuss logistics-“

“In time, sir, in time.” Chuckled Rork. “Your powers of storytelling have us… captivated. Yes, wouldn’t you say so, Ed?”

Edgardo did not answer. He looked at the pale, stooped man before him, the pathetic and fragile vessel for what had promised to be the greatest mind of the Empire. Professor Astreides, ever withdrawn, had been poised to dominate the Imperial Institute through sheer reputation and reference alone. And now, he had nothing but the horror of his home town. No wonder then, thought Edgardo, that his desolation be so complete. The spectacle of the inarticulable catastrophe of Ventogelo was surely matched only by the banality of degradation of its architect.

“Do you have anything to… say for yourself, Professor?” ventured Edgardo warily.

Cavallo sprung like a snare. “Jovan Astreides is no longer recognized as Professor, Your Majesty. His credentials are as scrap parchment.”

Edgardo gave a startled nod, mumbling an apology to no one. His question lingered for a moment and died in the morning haze, unanswered. His Majesty prepared to go further, but was interrupted by Cavallo’s controlled eruption.

“Answer your liege.” He ordered.

The disgraced professor trembled under Cavallo’s shadow, but his face turned ever so slightly upward towards the throne. He did not make eye contact with His Majesty. He did not even look at him. But his gaze fell with rigid anxiety upon the steps of the dais, and Edgardo was given his first glimpse into the eyes of Jovan Astreides.

Twin stars flickered dimly in a sea of black.

“No.” said Astreides. And he spoke no more.

Lord Hiemont laughed. “Absolute domestication.” he chuckled softly.

The elf, who had been chewing his gag in a seething silence up until now, gave a great, violent yawn before spewing the rag from his mouth in outrage. Out came a frothing flood of elvish, foaming in a dialect that bewildered His studied Majesty. It was a clear voice, a bold voice, young and fiery, but most striking of all was its clarity of enunciation, its polished edges. Sormon Vestra’vich spoke with all the fury and grace of a Bashnigrad noble.

Cavallo made no move to stop him. An oppressive pall of patronizing silence greeted every inscrutable proclamation from Sormon’s mouth, sending him again and again into ever more emphatic denunciations and oaths.

“I… admit I haven’t spent much time in Bashnigrad, sir. What exactly did he say?” asked Edgardo delicately. Cavallo’s lip curled. “Nothing you wouldn’t hear in any slum corner sermon, sire.” The Grand Monitor dragged the fuming Sormon before His Majesty. “If you bid him speak, sire, then he will do so in your tongue…”

Cavallo placed a heavy hand on Sormon’s shoulder.

“Or not at all.”

Edgardo blinked. “He knows how?”

“Sormon Vestra’Vich is low born, sire, make no mistake. As cretinous as they come. But he fermented in the same womb as every other grasping, scraping rebel–educated, or, more precisely, molded. A back alley golem, animated by spite.”

Sormon’s scowl slowly drifted into thin smile. “Remaking me in your own image, are you?”

“My word…” mumbled His Majesty.

“Your word?” scoffed the elf, rolling his shoulders, “Your word, yes, well, which one might that be? Kill? Ravage? Enslave? Exploit? Destroy?”

“I beg your… no, nothing of-“

“THAT’S the one, yes! Nothing! Very forthright. How could I forget? Yes, you’ve broken free of your pedigree, haven’t you? Embarked on a new campaign, with a new cardinal rule of engagement: disengagement. Clever, isn’t it? Active subjugation, that’s a relic. Inefficient. And a new age demands a new method to feed the Beast. Neglect… that’s the fashion, and so economical! Yes, you certainly had made a name for yourself out there. And that name is YOUR word. Edgardo Oberto. King of Nothing.”

Cavallo, incensed from the first syllable, jerked Sormon’s bindings over and over, but, within his newfound rhythm, the elf proved unflappable. He followed every surge of force and with each turn of his condemnation leapt from tile to tile in a defiant jig.

Edgardo Oberto knew well the silent judgement of his allies, but he was wholly ill prepared for the critique of his enemies. The Professor’s silence had been one thing, but the contempt of a condemned man was quite another. His Majesty had chosen these men almost a year ago, chosen them from among the throng of vipers and scorpions that were piling up against the dais of the throne–in their defiance, a dignity; in their transgression, a solemnity; in their depravity, a fortitude. Yes, the decision had been tactical, pragmatic, results oriented. But in the election of these men, there was a singular prime mover–His Majesty’s unspoken admiration.

With a final twist and yank, the Grand Monitor pulled every inch of slack out of the elf’s chains, suspending him in the air as Sormon desperately braced himself before his arms popped out their sockets. Hooking his legs onto Cavallo’s arms, he rambled on.

“Come on, Cavolo, I just got done telling you–action out, inaction in! Neglect me, damn you, neglect me!”

Cavallo’s lip curled with equal parts contempt and strain as he hefted the elf on his arm, shaking him violently to the ground.

“It may please Your Majesty to know that the apprehension of the infamous Sormon Vestra’Vich was managed in a single plot over the course of a single day.” He growled. “Balance any offense taken by the prestige of the giver. This one has none, sire. Though he will be the last to know it.”

Sormon righted himself effortlessly, sitting on the marble floor with childlike petulance.

“Revision only works when the victim isn’t in the same room, Cavolo.” he sneered. “You did the only thing you people can do–throw bodies until you get what you want. And given how many it took, how can I be anything but pleased? Bashnigrad will remember.”

Cavallo scoffed.

“Bashnigrad,” Sormon insisted, “will remember.”

“That,” replied Cavallo, “is unlikely.”

[Comic mode engage]

[Sormon and Cavallo battle perspectives on his role in Bashnigrad. Sormon sees himself as the third way between the Klarikan rebels and the Empire. Cavallo describes him as a lone, wayward, incoherent anarchist. Sormon touts his good deeds. Cavallo lays out his many acts of violence against Imperials. Sormon reiterates his intentions of triggering grassroots action against the Klarikans. Cavallo claims he is only emboldening and shoring up the position of Nikolai Rass’Kazov, Klarikan leader. Sormon denies this, but says little about it.]

[Cavallo says Sormon was tricked, lured out of hiding, and captured in an ambush. Sormon gives a more forgiving description, ascribing his arrest to overwhelming force–and asking that if they always could have captured him like that, why didn’t they? Sormon’s commentary elicits chuckles from Edgardo.]

“Amused?” asked Sormon, smiling mirthlessly.

“That will be enough from you.” Cavallo interjected. He yanked Sormon backward, but the elf stood his ground, glaring at the king intently. Edgardo looked back, smiling nervously.

“Does it tickle you, what we’re fighting about? The pain of a whole city? How droll is it, really?” Sormon held His Majesty’s gaze in the vice of his own metallic grey eyes. “… The Apostles are right about one thing, aren’t they? You won’t understand until it all happens to you. And it will, Golden Boy. Spare a wager for that.”

The Grand Monitor eclipsed the throne, towering before Sormon like a cresting wave.

“A threat.”

“A promise.”

Cavallo loomed, the wave threatening to break. For a moment, Sormon faltered. But he looked deeper. And he smiled.

“… You know it, too.” he said giddily. “You know what they’re going to do to that fellow.”

He barked out a single hearty beat of laughter.

“… And you won’t want to stop them-“

The Grand Monitor’s fist drove the elf’s gut into the air. Sormon, hollowed out, doubled over in a muffled croak. The next blow nearly twisted the elf’s head from his shoulders, and the elf crashed backward into the carpet, inert.

The growing heat of the day was at once chilled in the icy silence that followed. All the more biting, as a snickering susurrus grew into a cruel belly laugh.

Dazirak Marazi had not moved from where he had fell, even as the Grand Monitor’s attentions had collapsed onto Sormon. Indeed, he reclined in easy state upon the polished marble, his contemptuous cackle shooting into the vaulted ceiling before drifting down onto the brows of his captors. If Cavallo was shaken by Sormon’s outburst–or his own for that matter–he made no sign. He stood as tall as ever, arms wound in the chains of his prisoners, and stared at Dazirak with a steady, unflinching calm. His Majesty, however, braced himself against the throne, unsure of what was expected of him. He looked to Lord Heimont furtively, only to find his councilor with an unchanged attitude of professorial spectatorship. And still Dazirak laughed.

Cavallo voice barely cut through. “If you are satisfied, sire, then I will escort the fugitives to Piazza della Veglia immediately. The gallows were built for an audience, which is clearly a priority for your… royal program.”

Edgardo almost choked as Cavallo made to scoop up Sormon Vestra’Vich’s limp body, the words he had been practicing all morning–all last evening, all last week–falling over one another in an impotent tangle of thought. Rork made no move to intervene.

As Cavallo grabbed at Sormon’s ankles, Dazirak coiled and sprung up and onto his feet in a single motion, planting his back foot against the dais and setting himself between the Grand Monitor and the throne. Cavallo allowed himself to be pulled backward, spinning to face the rejuvenated savage. And indeed, Dazirak Marazi was radiant with vigor. All evidence of exertion had faded, every wound slighter than before, every breath easier. Though sweat poured down his face and over his swarthy shoulders, and though the black sopping tendrils of hair clung to his filthy face like the arms of a squid, Dazirak Marazi looked positively unbowed. And with the voice of a great and terrible serpent, he spoke.

“You will not speak of us, will you? Talk is done, is it?”

Cavallo violently pulled Dazirak’s chain taut, but the wild man remained planted.

“You chase your lost manhood through two tall tales. But it belongs to ME now… doesn’t it? I, Dazirak Marazi, whom you leave within strides of the boy king. He is pale. Clean. Fresh.”

His smile was all teeth. His face was all teeth.

“I like that.”

With one motion, Cavallo shrugged off all but Dazirak’s chains, pulling both men one thunderous step closer to the other. The leering grin of the bestial prisoner was slowly pulled and twisted into a strained grimace of exertion, as every one of his muscles resisted His Eminence’s pull. His Majesty watched as the Grand Monitor’s veins pulse and throb, flooding and swelling with scarlet hate. And yet even now, his wrath was tempered by a strange but familiar restraint, locking his features and motions with a control that could only be described as statuesque. Or cadaverous.

“The snapping of your neck,” Cavallo growled between his teeth, “will sweep the city like the Basilica bells.”

Dazirak Marazi snarled, or laughed–if his response had been human at all. His Majesty could not tell. The Grand Monitor was a powerful man, peerless in the mind of the king. But Dazirak stood his ground and more, taking a heavy step up and onto the dais steps. The chain links ground against themselves and the tethered hulks seethed. Dazirak’s quivering flesh sent a fine mist of sweat over the carpet, mingling with dirt and flecks of blood. The contortions of his dark face masked anything comparable to thought, and the man most might have compared to the beasts soon looked the part.

Even now, after months of rumination and preparation, the bare-faced villain of the last decade remained an enigma. The self-proclaimed Shahenshah of an envious, foreign horde; the would-be conqueror of the vanguard of civilization; the instigator of a senseless and slaughterous war waged upon the supplicants of a new age. That such an obvious monster was involved in this scandalous dream terrified His Majesty to no end, and to see him in bondage–brutalized and filthy as he was–did nothing to assuage the horror of his inclusion. His Majesty’s wisdom was exclusively found in his awareness of his own weakness, and he was all too aware of the vast cloak of naivety that protected him from the winds of a dark world from which men like the Mad Man could be spawned. He could see and hear the viciousness, but he could not understand it. He could feel his own revulsion and disgust, but could not fully articulate it. Of all the villains in all the Empire, why him?

“Hope.” thought Edgardo. “… Obstinance?”

“Folly,” returned a whisper of the royal mind.

The swarthy beast forced a laugh through his huge grinding teeth. He turned slowly, hissing, toward King Edgardo. The rictus of his snarling resistance twisted back into a huge, inhuman grin.

“Ask me, little thing.”

Dazirak’s whisper was as thunder.

“Ask me why I am here.”

Edgardo did not so much as breath.

Dazirak turned again to Cavallo, cackling.

“Ask me how the great and mighty Gasparro Cavallo managed to overcome the Lord of Ardu Al Halzun! Ask me what power there is behind the judgement of Amada! Ask me, little boy, and I will tell you what this meat is worth, this blustering meat.”

Every word seemed to pump new strength into his limbs, which pulsed angrily to the rhythm of his serpentine accent. Dazirak’s smile might have split his face in two.

“Your heart’s desire,” whispered Dazirak, “is wasted on someone like you… Eunuch.”

A trick of the mind, perhaps, thought Edgardo, as Gasparro Cavallo, his indomitable Grand Monitor, seemed to slide slowly but surely toward the Mad Man, who took another step up the dais. Something other than loathing passed over Gasparro’s face, the shadow of something Edgardo had never dreamed possible. But only for a moment.

Gasparro released the chains, sending Dazirak crashing into the dais steps and Edgardo leaping in terror.

The beast was on his feet in a moment, only a few yards now from the King. He bolted to his feet, manacled hands still bound tightly behind his back, and made to advance on His Majesty, panting with anticipation–but in just two steps came to a stop. Cavallo never moved, nor even Lord Hiemont, who watched in relaxed silence from his post beside the pale King as Frosty’s unblinking eyes floated in a ceaseless orbit. The Mad Man hesitated, glancing about with a suspicion only available to predators.

His wary, hungry gaze fell on Edgardo.

“A true lord,” he hissed, “graces the palace at last.

Edgardo’s world contracted around Dazirak’s eyes, and all that was not terror was fascination. The Mad Man’s face was a depthless storm of hatred–and Cavallo’s voice was as a bolt of lightning.

“True lord.” Gasparro sneered.

Dazirak was yanked backward, staggering to maintain balance, before wheeling about, facing Cavallo once more. The Grand Monitor’s scowl deepened.

“Conqueror. Scourge. Shahenshah. Bears may dance and birds may sing, but your pantomime of man puts all of creation to shame. You are a wild and witless beast, a beast with only enough mind to rage against the humanity it lacks. And in your tantrum, you trample and crush everything around you. Your home, your future, the destiny of your whole barbarous race–all of it stamped into the ruin as you dance and preen.”

Dazirak Marazi did not listen for long. Even as Cavallo spoke, he returned his focus to his bindings, straining dangerously against his manacles. His grin never left, but his lips curled and twitched manically in the struggle. Muttering and hissing, the Mad Man ostentatiously ignored the Grand Monitor as he pushed and pulled. And yet despite the threat posed by the vengeful and unaccompanied savage, Edgardo sensed that the peril of this audience had begin to subside. Lord Hiemont might shift from one foot to the other, and Cavallo might glower and scowl, but no one made any move to restrain Dazirak Marazi. And Dazirak Marazi had clearly begun to notice.

“Oh, you like the sound of that, don’t you, you worms… well, drink deep of your excrement, eat your fill. I’ll wring it out of you in screams when I’m done with you. You CANNOT contain Dazirak Marazi. I tread on YOUR filth, YOUR bones. You CANNOT shame Dazirak Marazi. My will is my own, my future my own, my TRIUMPH my own.”

“An honest word at last. Yes, Mongrel, whatever unspeakable delusion you’ve called victory is yours. Whatever fools still follow you may claim the afterbirth, but the stillborn humiliation will be buried with you.”

“You cannot kill me. Shahenshah of Al Halzun. The Mouth of Duzakh. Dazirak Marazi. ME. You all had your chance, but you were weak, you were small, you were nothing but meat. And if not for treachery, lies, jackals, I would have killed you all–AND I *WILL* KILL YOU ALL.”

“No, Dazirak Marazi. No, you will not. You will hang to the applause of your conquerors. You will die for the glory of your enemies. And you will be buried to the cheers of your people.”

[Illustrated segment where Dazirak succumbs to Athra and easily breaks his chains, screaming the iconic wail of the Athravan. Windows shake, Edgardo and Rork are debilitated, but Cavallo, who has been exposed to this wail many times in the war against the Halzuni, stands firm. Dazirak charges him mindlessly, and Cavallo easily shoots him with a psionically treated bullet from Nuova Vista, pacifying him. Astreides is nearly catatonic, curled up in a corner in silent terror. Edgardo and Rork are recovered as Cavallo prepares to leave.]

A hunted doe had never been so still as His Majesty.

“You killed him,” he whispered.

Returning his pistol to its holster, Gasparro Cavallo stepped over the Mad Man’s limp body and, pulling a cartridge from his hip satchel, held it up to his liege.

“Cyanite, your majesty, refined for the purpose of hobbling beasts such as Dazirak Marazi. A gift from Nuova Vista, ever grateful for your royal patronage.” Cavallo bowed. “But let us speak now of justice, sire. The gallows rise in the Piazza, and the guilty lay at your feet. The rest is a formality, one I shall gladly see to myself–in your name and with your blessing.”

The Grand Monitor bowed again, withdrawing from the dais and turning to his captives. His Majesty boiled beneath his cravat, words percolating at his lips impotently.

“But… g-good sir…”

“I take my leave, sire, so that you may continue with your royal business.” said Cavallo, and he knelt beside Dazirak’s body.

It has long been said that power is the great revealer of character. It may be submitted that panic is a worthy substitute.

“That!” shouted the king.

“That… will not be… necessary.”

[Cavallo freezes, Rork urges Edgardo on]

“Good Cavallo… I do not wish for them execution. I-I wish for them… penance…”

[Cavallo rises and, in a shocking act of gall, mounts the dais steps until he stands before the king, towering over him.]

“The boom of the pistol, sire. As loud and piercing as it was righteous. My ears… ring. Command me once more.”

Edgardo had rehearsed this moment with Lord Hiemont for what had felt like months, but there is no proper substitute for the primal forces of conviction. And Cavallo, huge and pale and cratered with abuse, was as a great and terrible moon, bathing His Majesty in a rising tide of self assured wrath.

“Used, your Eminence! I wish, we wish, to use them, to… to use them up, you see! A chastisement, Cavallo! From the Lord! Us, I mean. To them. For their crimes.”

Cavallo must have retained some degree of confidence in his liege, for it had not yet occurred to him what season it now was in the Empire.

“Used, sire? Pets. Livestock. Beasts of burden. These are used, sire. Stroke a cat. Milk a goat. Yoke an ox.”

His eyes bore deep into Edgaro’s, who held his gaze more in awe than nerve.

“Vermin, sire, have but one use. Peace of mind. Via extermination.”

Edgardo was nearly pinned against the throne, but he held his ground as best he could. Cavallo’s conviction, if not his words, had stripped away His Majesty’s powers of reason–save but one, that penultimate refuge of the weak.

“… A-and each particular villain, should he fall into our mercy, s-shall see those graces and powers granted unto him by God measured under the oaths of honest and law-worthy men, so that where there is great reprobation, there shall not be great loss of those mortal gifts by which the Dyad cultivates Its church. Henceforth, those found to have abused their exceptional gifts in freedom will be made to pay that debt in full to his country and Lord until royal pardon is granted and the deficit of good works ameliorated in the sight and judgement of the Crown, which by the grace of God mobilizes the particular powers of the great family of–“

[As Edgardo recites this passage of the Concord Initiative, it dawns on Cavallo what Edgardo is trying to do. Edgardo’s words become the document itself, which crashes down on the Grand Monitor]

“… By the Chalice…” Cavallo whispered. “The Concord Initiative.”

King Edgardo Oberto stood by his throne with an uneasy resolution, looking everywhere but at the Grand Monitor. He considered offering a confirmation but settled for a slight raising of his chin. It was more than enough for Cavallo, who, to the King’s surprise, seemed to withdraw, retreating back into a statuesque stillness. The etched face, as if cut from blemished marble, brought to the royal mind all manner of whispered giggles from Court of Gasparro the Bowelless, and he could not deny that even now, in apparent stupefaction, the Grand Monitor maintained the air of a grotesque.

“It is grim, then, sire,” he said simply.

With that, the strange powers that fueled Cavallo’s hulking body seemed to surge, and the great monument expanded once more to fill Edgardo’s world.

“I am not blind, your Majesty, to the condition of the realm. Whispers of famine, Klarikan reprisals in Bashnigrad, diplomatic setbacks across the sea. I am well aware. Well aware, sire, that a lord responsible for a realm as vast and goodly endowed as ours is beset by extraordinary questions and risks. We are, all of us, desperate.”

It had long been said that the only vigor left to Cavallo was wrath, and His Majesty began to tremble as he saw its infrequent but familiar power begin to swell the Grand Monitor’s veins.

“But it cannot be, sire, that we are so desperate, so… impotent as to resort to something so catastrophic as the Initiative. I cannot believe, I WILL not believe, that in the greatest seat of worldly power on earth there is so appalling an absence of strength, of virtue, of vision, of faith, of REASON, that my King would wield, as substitute for the HAND of JUSTICE, THE WARTED CUDGEL OF HYPOCRISY!”

“Zounds on zounds.” chuckled Lord Hiemont at last. “And they call me dramatic.”

If Gasparro Cavallo had taken any notice of Lord Rork Hiemont at any point during his audience with His Majesty, he had made no sign of it. But with Rork’s words came a crashing, terraforming wave of realization that swept every grain of Cavallo’s attention from the king to his councilor.

“You.”

“Well, I shan’t blame them. Nor hope to never deny it! We are, all of us, in a peerless drama, from cradle to grave. And would any here deny the weight of this moment? Are we not soaring, as I speak, toward an historic climax? By God we are, sir! Then let it not be a tragedy, sir, but an epic! A new epic for a new world.”

Lord Hiemont’s words, and his effortless stride, were wreathed in Frosty’s ice bedazzled wake as she emphatically traced his speech in the morning air. He crossed over the dais to join the king at last, planting a firm but gentle hand on Edgardo’s shoulder. Rork was tempted to smile in desperate relief, alone no longer, but the Grand Monitor had at last been jolted from his stonework composure.

“YOU. Of course.” Cavallo coiled like a snake, grinding his fists into his hips. “This circus REEKS of your pittance perfume.”

“Tut-tut, sir. Everyone knows there is no finer wash than High Mount Fragrance. None so bold either–I will grant you that splendid compliment. But we have more important matters to discuss, don’t we, sir? Your Majesty, it is an honor to bear witness to this moment! Huzzah for our liege, don’t you say, your Eminence? What a pathfinder we have under that crown!”

“Impeccable timing, my friend. I was just trying to explain to His Eminence this–“

“ABSOLUTE NONSENSE. You CANNOT expect me to accept this. No, you cannot expect the Signoria to accept this!”

“Ah, nonsense, the epithet of every great moment of vision, sir!”

“You are a nobleman of many titles, Lord Hiemont, but on the subject of epithets, I had never thought ‘visionary’ among them. Fancy, whimsy, notions… it seems one of them has slithered its way into his Majesty’s ear.”

Rork laughed good naturedly, if not merrily. “I… admire… your righteous skepticism, your Eminence. But good King Edgardo has, of his own imagination, conjured up a new and novel chapter of the Imperial destiny. True, as a member of the Signoria myself, it is only my duty and privilege to advise His Majesty, refine his brilliance, iron on iron and so on.”

“You’re much too humble, my lord.” said Edgardo softly.

“Well, it’s true, sire, true as steel. I will grant you only that I was profoundly moved, sir, inspired by your vision. If I helped formulate this idea, it was only in expressing your royal desires. Articulation, sir.”

“And what is it you’re ‘articulating’ this time, Lord Hiemont, if not the usual cloud and vapor?”

“For a thousand years, the people have questioned whether there is anything more to their imperial membership than sweat and paperwork. It’s all drudgery, Cavallo. The peasants are worn and the nobles are bored. Forget the pain of life, sir, it’s the tedium that stings most. You ask what I’m offering, but there is only one thing of value that the great can offer the small: Hope, good Cavallo. Hope that there is more to the kingdom than the plow, the loom, the lathe. More than the tankard, even, or the dice. More than God save the King and a flag in the piazza. There must be something more than toil and creed. But who knows what that something is, eh?”

Rork Hiemont drew himself up, smiling broadly. “I know, Gasparro. I’ve always known. There is The Story. The drama of life given form and energy and trajectory. Without that motion, that momentum, there can be no hope of any value. It is not enough that something be done, sir. The people must see it done… even if it is only the shadow of the doing they see. And what is happening? What will the people see? That an Empire was so great and pursued a vision so bold that even its greatest and most compelling enemies were cowed into sharing its burden. That all things in the Empire are made to work toward a grand and triumphant climax. That the public’s struggle is the struggle of outrageous characters and powerful personalities.”

“The people, sir, can no longer be treated as mere actors. They must be the audience. From that well of energy, we shall draw the waters with which to wash the Empire clean of its crises.”

Cavallo grit his teeth. “The army. The Bastonieri. The Signoria. From board to barracks, this Empire is overflowing with power. Marshal the vanguard, levee fresh regiments, harness the realm! The Empire is the instrument of its own deliverance, not its enemies, not THEM.”

“Yes, yes, yes, Cavallo. Pikes and pistols will carry the day, as always. But these three will capture the imagination. And that is the gambit. That is what is at stake in a crisis such as ours.”

“You talk as if they were domesticated.”

“We all are, your Eminence. A lesson you taught me long ago. Professor Astreides is an academic… a pragmatist. No scruples, clearly, but no spine either. You should read the reports on his years at Ventostrano. He wants to live. He’ll do what he’s told.”

“The elf? The axe he’s grinding can be sharpened here, with us, more finely than anywhere else in the realm. He’ll rave and rage, but he’ll cling to the justification offered him.”

“And the Mongrel?”

“… I’ve arranged for his cooperation.”

The Grand Monitor was once again in statuesque contempt, a masterpiece of professional dissatisfaction. Lord Hiemont cleared his throat, a soft current of impatience starting to sound in his voice.

“Are they scoundrels? Absolutely. Have they committed grave and intolerable crimes. Of course. But imagine how exceptional, how talented they must be to have transgressed in such grand and inimitable ways! And once they achieve the image of rehabilitation, what better national heroes could we have? Zounds, we pile commoners by the thousands into a firing line to acceptable effect, why not these boys? At worst, what, they get themselves killed–“

“At worst? AT WORST!?”

Cavallo’s wrath, barely contained, appeared to inflate him to tremendous size.

“At worst you’re infecting our crisis response capability with wickedness, with explicit damnable MALICE. At worst you expose the public to those who despise them, hate them, work towards their destruction. At worst you threaten to sabotage our efforts to contain these crises, and for WHAT? For pageantry and whimsy and circuses?”

“It is all we can AFFORD to give them right now, this circus,” barked Rork. “Or would you prefer to be crier to the world, let them all know, pauper to prince, that the Imperial treasury is empty? Or that we’re entangled in three separate seemingly interminable regional conflicts? Or, best of all, that half their countrymen are on the verge of open REVOLT? Tell them their starving, Cavallo. Tell them they will starve in the fields or on the battlefields. Tell them any solution we have is months, years away, and that they must watch their children wither and die before their small lives reflect even a shadow of a larger correction. Tell them your truths and break them, Cavallo. Or allow me to tell mine and inspire them.”

“Your truths.” Cavallo spat. “You’d like them dazzled and blinded, wouldn’t you, sir. Numbed and fascinated by your little puppet show, cheering for the estimable Lord Rork Hiemont, cheering for costumed murderers and thieves. You mock the people, sir. You mock the law, sir. You mock GOD, sir.”

Cavallo’s color had changed dramatically over the course of his outburst, all the more so in seeing that Rork had turned his attention to King Edgardo, who, crestfallen, stood painfully apart from his two great squabbling inspirations. In the heavy silence following the Grand Monitor’s accusation, Rork stepped dutifully toward his liege.

“That’s enough huffing and puffing for the moment, I think. What do you make of our quandary, Ed… sire?”

His Majesty loved the friend he had in Lord Hiemont, and he admired his champion, Cavallo. But just as the Grand Monitor’s deference had come to wring out his intestines, so too had Rork’s concern come to prick and nettle his heart. Edgardo did not have the strength of will or conviction to look either of his councilors in the eye, and so he settled on the towering windows that bathed the chamber in piercing late morning light. He had lost his taste for this audience, and the thought of tangling horns even further was exhausting. Reason quickly have way to frankness.

“I’m afraid to say that I’m tired, Eminence. I am tired, and I am all the more tired knowing how little I’ve done to warrant feeling so. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. My father knew. And his fathers and all my line. They knew because they could see what the Empire was supposed to be. They saw more than a silhouette. Armando Oberto dreamed of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. All I dream about is him.”

“And I am King, Eminence, and I sit the throne, and it is I who should see far and wide. Further and deeper than those below in the dells of the realm, where there is no light by which to see even the shadows of what my father saw… what he saw and what toward which he climbed and slaved. My father died under a setting sun, the last rays of whatever illuminated the path of the Oberto line. He left me. And that light has left me. How dark it must be, down below.”

“I don’t have any light the way of those who suffer and wallow and die down there, Eminence. But Lord Hiemont is confident that the Concord Initiative can be the torch with which we can keep moving toward dawn. Not forever, no, yes, we will… we will find… another light, something, somewhere, but we must do something. I… must do something. I must–“

“No light, only flame.”

“I-I must act, I must–“

“We will burn, sire–“

“Someone must do something–“

“EVERYTHING will burn if you surrender to this–“

“Something, anything–“

Cavallo erupted. In one step, he was over Edgardo, his own volcanic face inches from the King’s.

“OUTRAGE!!!” He roared. “OBSCENITY!!! HOW CAN YOU DO THIS!?!”

His Majesty cowered, quivering in shock and terror. Reason had given way to honesty, and honesty now gave way to nakedness.

“I-I-I’m king…” he said. “I’m king… I’m king, I need not defend myself from you…”

On the brink of defeat, King Edgardo was little more than a sincere whisper.

“… Do I?”

The conscience moves much quicker than the body. Perhaps Cavallo realized his treasonous posture immediately upon taking it. But it was only at that final desperate question that he withdrew, stumbling even, backwards down the stairs of the dais, until he was squarely below the humiliated King and a smiling Lord Hiemont. Edgardo had never seen such expression move across the Grand Monitor’s pale, gaunt face. Rising tides of shame washed over his face and drowned the words that choked his throat. After several terrible moments of silence, he put a hand to his heart, bowed his head, and spoke.

“… No, sire… never, sire.”

“THIS is the golden blade of the new millenia, sir!” proclaimed an exuberant Rork Hiemont. “Consensus! A meeting of great minds, united as one in love of country. We are agreed, then. We link hands and efforts in devotion to the will of our sovereign Lord and Liege, do we not, Eminence?”

Cavallo said nothing, the hand at his breast clenching violently.

“Tut-tut! Never fear, Eminence! Your spirited–dare I say, principled–dissent is noted and cherished. But in the interest of the honesty owed to brothers in arms, I must inform you that this matter was in fact approved by joint sessions of His Majesty and the Signoria last week, in your… regrettable absence.”

Cavallo was aghast.

“Absence… Settled? The Signoria cannot simply decide to–

“To waive your invaluable but ultimately ceremonial approval? As a matter of law we can. And as a matter of fact, we did. We applaud your noble and successful efforts to retrieve our new wards, and we grant you leave to return to whichever ecclesial duties demand your dear attentions.”

Lord Hiemont bowed to the stunned Grand Monitor and turned to His sullen Majesty, who stood in a state of awkward shock by the throne. Edgardo found a small comfort in his admitted impotence. Years of pretense and pleasantries seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders, and yet even now, as he listened noncommittedly to the muffled sound of Rork’s chatter, he could hear the approaching flutter of new and crueler pressures, coming soon to roost.

“Your Majesty,” came the Grand Monitor’s voice. Rork and Edgardo turned in surprise.

“In accordance with the Articles of Communion, I invoke emergency powers of my office, effective forthwith.”

“Eminence, if you please-“

“I hereby assume personal command and responsibility for the Concord Initiative-“

“Zounds, man!”

“-Until such time as YOU, sire, deem it necessary to relieve me of such duties.”

Cavallo was motionless, but his eyes had regained an intense and almost overwhelming energy of conviction. They fixed themselves on His Majesty.

Edgardo paled. “Eminence, you… but… but I need you here, I need…”

Lord Hiemont placed a sharp and jolly hand on the King’s shoulder. “As if we could or would ever deny you, sir!”

There was no dignity from which His Majesty could draw even a modicum of authority. He nodded.

“… I know this is unsavory business, Eminence. Your cooperation is-“

“Is forever owed to you, sire. My hand, my life–they are sworn to you. I beg your forgiveness. My outburst…”

Cavallo heaved Sormon’s inert body onto his shoulder and took Dazirak by his filthy tangled hair.

“… Vanity is infectious, Your Majesty. And there is an epidemic, here.”

Lord Hiemont smiled tightly, nudging a steaming Frosty. “There it is, old girl. Have you ever seen such a stiff upper lip?”

Cavallo made no reply. Hefting Sormon and dragging the Mad Man, he began his march out of the throne room. With a knock on the door, his men promptly entered, and quickly escorted the still trembling Astreides back into the hall. Cavallo never looked back.

King Edgardo clutched his cravat before calling out. “Eminence!” Cavallo slowed, but did not turn. Edgardo felt sick.

“When you shot the Mad Man down… did you not fear to strike me by mistake?”

“No, sire,” he said. “You are much too small a target.”

[Edgardo slips into his first dissociative catalepsy/haunting (epilepsy?)]

[Rork brings him out of it: “Your Majesty? Sire? … Ed?”]

“Ed? Ed, talk to me! Good God, man, are you alright?”

Edgardo breathed in the last of the morning air. “I’m alright.”

Rork clapped His Majesty on the back. Gently. “I should think so, my lad! I can’t think of very many who’d stand up to that old browbeating Calvo, eh?”

“I wish you wouldn’t speak of him that way. It makes me feel so very low. He’s a good man, Rork. Strong and brave.”

“… Indeed.” said Rork.

Edgardo gripped the back of the throne, fingers digging into the grooves of the polished wood frame. The smooth polish, the intricate etching, the immaculate form–to think that it was his was almost nauseating. “And I’m just tired,” he said.

With an urgent warmth, Rork yanked the King to his side, thumping him merrily on the chest.

“You’re as humble as they come, Ed, I’ll grant you that. But it is high time you reckon with the truth–you’ve just given the order for the new age to begin in earnest. How many years did we dream of this as children? How many hours did we act out the legends of myth of those heroes of old? How many times did you tell me of the forgotten glory of chivalric rule, of a common knighthood, of an Exemplar Empire? Well, it begins today, Ed. It begins with thieves and murderers today, and it ends with every prince and pauper seeing within themselves the great drama of nation building. One hundred million hearts emboldened by the men who lit the torch of Nation Destiny made personal! Two household names!”

“Rork Hiemont, Local Legend to Imperial Icon! And Good King Eddy, of course!”

Edgardo smiled, and enjoyed that wonderful moment, wonderful and brief, in which the enchantment of an elusive notion crystallizes into the divine beauty of a clear and true thought. It was articulate and pure, a conception of virtue worthy of the great theologians, low of portal and high of terminus. he saw the convergence of all people, of all tortured branches of the family of man, into the crucible of dramatic heroism. The Passion of the Dyad was of painful, breathtaking beauty… but it was marred by divinity, bowed with dogma, and so very, very long ago. Redemption for the new age would be found in the lowest and most wretched. And who more lowly and wretched than reviled enemies of the Crown and Her people?

“Well, sir, it was a choice morning indeed. Absolutely delightful to set His Eminence on the right track, I must say. But, alas! The Signoria is waiting for the Grand Monitor’s approval, and I must give it to them. And then, perhaps, we begin our lives as playwrights. Good morrow, Good King Eddy!”

And with that, with barely a breath, Lord Rork Hiemont bowed and left Edgardo’s chambers, chatting jovially with an equally jolly Frosty. Whatever His Majesty might have said to Lord Hiemont, whatever hopes or doubts or fear or anticipation he might have wanted to share, they were left to him. Left to him, or withheld, as many such thoughts are when the will is wilted. King Edgardo stood alone in the throne room as the last direct rays of light began their turn down and away from the dais, and the sun rose to its hidden vantage above the Reggia.

It was no melodrama to say he was tired. it was, in truth, the abiding state of his waking hours over the past year. It made little difference how he slept or how long. He rose and lay incomplete. Over time his body and mind had learned to use the dull and monotonous terror his daily duties as fuel, and he had become an efficient engine indeed. Mornings like this one would easily take him to the very edge of the day. Normally they would.

But Edgardo stood in the rapture of clarity of his vision, clung to it as paramours cling to one another before the violent waking to their real lives. The beauty of its simplicity and the profundity of its charity numbed His Majesty to the familiar apprehensions of his life, and with the numbing came the soporific calm. He sat down on the steps of the dais and simulated the revelations that would sweep the empire, the reaction to this outlandish Initiative. From scandal to sensation.

[Edgardo has his first true night terror–in the morning. He awakens in horror, having been confronted with the nightmare rage of his ancestors. He cowers as we move to the North, where Fen travails through the mountains. Edgardo’s letter to the Signoria is read as we see Fen and Tucker evade the first appearance of the Path. The caravan of heavily armed pilgrims moves North, led by Velasco and Maestro. The chapter ends with a full page illustration of Edgardo’s sign off to the Signoria under the shadow of the oppressive intelligence haunting him.]