Grave Tidings

The exterior of the palace is calm. A gentle breeze tears free a single petal, which swirls and twists through the air. Purple, and vaguely hexagonal, borne by alcea omnimatrem, Allmother's Blossom.

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The sky darkens suddenly. Black clouds swirl and crackle with exciting blue electricity. In a blinding flash, followed immediately by a rolling boom, the clouds disperse. The exterior of the palace now bears a dark, charred scar where lighting struck. Soon, the earth begins to heal itself. Stood above this healing scar is Lughad, the famed exile. The petal sits between his thumb and forefinger. He regards it for a short time.

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‘Come home, sister,’ he mumbles, before releasing it and striding across the drawbridge.

The moat below begins to heave and crash, exploding into conflicting waves with each thump of boot against wood. By his very nature, his approach seemed aggressive. It was for this very reason that Lughad had worn his hook today. It was a declaration of vulnerability. It disclosed his diplomatic intentions better than any false smile or kind word could.

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Though his brother would understand as much, the two guards levelling halberds at the god were not so well informed on Seraphim politics.

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‘The Gravedreamer is not accepting visitors at this time,’ says one, stammering only slightly.

‘Might there be an apotheote that could address your query?’ The other speaks more brazenly.

Lughad suspected they had seen worse horrors than he in their wars against the Old Ones. But their impressive courage did not temper his impatience.

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‘I must speak with my brother and my brother alone,’ his voice boomed. ‘And I shall not be kept waiting.’

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The first guard flinched, the second remained headstrong. Was this bravery, or stupidity?

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‘I am sorry, but he gave us explicit orders to-’

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‘Lord Uncle!’

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From a window above, the stoic, chiselled features of Qaregnon almost seem to reflect the sunlight as marble would. In truth, this reflection is due to the rime-coated tunic that endlessly chills his heart. The Frostpatron’s attention turned to the guards.

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‘Bring the First Thunder in and ensure he is tended to. I will be with him in a moment.’

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The guards allow Lughad entry at last, wherein a servant begins escorting him through the halls. He dreads traversing this palace. Its walls are plastered with ostentatious carvings of peace treaties and armistices and burials of hatchets. An embarrassing record of every evil mortal that escaped retribution through savvy negotiation with their too-soft enemies.

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The disgusting shrine to half-measures opens into a wide, circular drawing room. Tapestries depicting the Gravedreamer and his family sit in curved frames that accommodate the arcing walls. Lughad allows himself a moment to observe them and finds one depicting his own family. His wife is depicted with a boarding axe, and he remembers that battle fondly.

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‘Is there anything we can provide for you while you wait, milord?’

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Lughad stares down at the servant who escorted him, young and short. A large port wine birthmark lies over his right eye. He waves him away with a grunt. His eyes were drifting over the tapestries again, searching for his sister. He found her family above those depicting himself and his brother. Two children are locked in fisticuffs, the third laughing uncontrollably. Her husband, ragged and dishevelled, clutches at his head by the trunk of the weeping willow that encircles them all. His sister is not depicted.

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‘What in-’

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‘There is no offence intended, uncle,’ Qaregnon notes, falling into step with Lughad to observe the tapestry. ‘That image is of Feidhleamad's creation. One of his more coherent creations of late. As I’m sure you recall, he escaped your daughter’s care some dozen years ago. He burst in here insisting that Dad accept it as a gift.’

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‘I did not know. Xelve and I have not spoken in some time. She is well?’ he asks in earnest.

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‘Thriving, last we met.’

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‘Good.’

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‘You will truly see him?’ Qaregnon asks warily, seemingly apropos of nothing.

 

Lughad eyes him with suspicion. ‘I will. Is that so odd?’

 

‘Well, Lord Uncle, it has been some time. You have only spoken through others, and rarely so. It’s rather difficult to believe. Is there some danger?’

 

‘No.’ He turns to look square at his nephew. He folds his arms. ‘Is there some cause to think so?’

 

Qaregnon laughs and shakes his head. He drifts away from Lughad to pour himself a glass of wine. ‘Come on, when is the last time you made a courtesy call?’

 

‘This is not a courtesy call, no. But it is not a prelude to damnation either. I simply have matters to discuss with your father.’ Lughad waves away the offer of a glass. Qaregnon happily began drinking from both in turn with a shrug.

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‘Fill me in.’

 

‘I need only speak with your father.’

 

‘Whatever this is about, it concerns me too. I have a hand in every pocket Dad does.’

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‘I do not doubt the importance of your input, Nephew. But I have arrived with mere rumour and speculation, and I should like to see them verified before I go any further.’

 

Lughad injects as much respect into his tone as possible. Qaregnon is an important player on the field of divine politics, and he has outshone his elders in many regards over the last millennium. The Stormking does not withhold information because Qaregnon cannot be trusted with it, but because the information cannot be trusted to begin with.

 

‘If this information can be verified by your father, you are more than welcome to then retrieve it from myself or the Gravedreamer.’

 

Qaregnon acquiesces, ‘Very well, uncle. It was good to see you, anyway.’

 

‘And you, Dreamsaviour.’

 

He places his drained chalice back on the table and takes his leave. The gold goblet is dented, the pattern of Qaregnon’s hand has been set into the metal. Lughad marvelled at how far Qaregnon's control had come. Some centuries ago, the boy would’ve obliterated a palace with a single flinch.

 

Silence gradually settles in as Qaregnon’s footsteps fade. Lughad glances around the drawing room, looking for something to hold his interest. The crystalline amphora on the desk stirs and wobbles. The wine within it is lapping and splashing about. Lughad breathes deeply, tempering his frustration. The wine slowly begins to settle, only a droplet or two having escaped the jug. It settles to a perfect stillness, as though it has not been disturbed in centuries.

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A door creaks open from behind Lughad. ‘Long time, no see, brother,’ yawns a deep, croaky voice.

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The wine immediately swirls into a maelstrom, launching the amphora across the room. It shatters against the mantelpiece, while the wine cascades across a beautiful rug, indelibly staining it.

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Lughad turns to see his brother, Somnan. The regent looks the same as ever. Slumped and weary, but handsome. The sleepless rings beneath his eyes are almost as dark as his long, dark brown hair. The robe he wears is a deep blue. It almost resembles loungewear, but feels formal nonetheless. He is unfazed by the spilled wine.

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‘Somnan. We must talk,’ Lughad demands.

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‘To the point, as always. Come,’ Somnan beckons as he re-enters the room he emerged from.

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Lughad follows reluctantly, stepping through to see the throne room, which they have entered from a side door. The room is long and adorned in garish quantities of gold and velvet. A plot of earth lies in the middle, from which curls an ancient willow tree. The dais holds three thrones. One is tall, and modelled on the patronages of Zynterra, it has been vacant for millennia. The others are simpler and lie lower than his sister’s seat. One is reserved for Somnan, the other is occupied by his wife, Vána.

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Somnan is stalking up to his ostentatious throne when Lughad voices his disapproval. ‘It was my understanding that the receiving of guests occurred in the drawing room, not the throne room.’

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Somnan flashes a weak smile as he sits. ‘Perhaps for friendly visits, brother. But Vána believes you have arrived with demands.’

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Vána's friendly eyes are glazed with a veil of hospitality, but Lughad knows she has been discerning his intentions from the moment she laid eyes on him, and perhaps earlier. Her right eye, purple and pupilless, still holds the curse that gave her rare patronage of a fourth domain. Lughad’s heart sinks. He had hoped she would have made progress toward the alleviation of that cruel curse.

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Vána's face softened as the thought crossed Lughad’s mind. A look of thankfulness, perhaps. ‘I have arrived with a rumour I wish to be verified. What happens thereafter is up to you, brother.’

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‘And this rumour is...?’

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Lughad glances to Vána again, then back to his brother. ‘I had hoped to speak with you privately, Gravedreamer. And I had hoped we could speak on even ground.’ Lughad heavily telegraphed his observance of the throne and dais, which gave Somnan some four feet over Lughad.

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‘I could find you a chair of equal height, brother.’

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‘Stand, Dreamer, and speak with me privately!’ Lughad demanded.

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Thunder crackles somewhere far away. Somnan's expression hardens imperceptibly. ‘Brother, you are here with intent to bargain, negotiate, and demand, Vána has seen as much. You are here for diplomatic reasons, and thus I am receiving you as a diplomat. Do not insult my wife’s intelligence by pretending you have come for any other reason.’

 

Vána starts slightly at that comment, placing a placating hand upon Somnan’s. The Dreamer lies back in his seat, looking to his brother expectantly. Lughad meets his gaze with gritted teeth. Lightning crackles down his hook momentarily, before he exhales and centres himself. ‘I have learned that the Pretender was permitted to commune with one who is not devoted to her. She did not send this message through the Players. Instead, she spoke directly through dreams. Furthermore, she has influenced the fate of my champions, without my ascent and against my will.’

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‘It seems you come with a complaint, rather than a rumour, Thunderking,’ Vána notes.

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‘Then it is true?’ Lughad’s eyes fix on Somnan again, ‘Playing favourites, brother?’

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Somnan straightens in his seat. He speaks curtly, ‘She received a prophecy, explained the possible repercussions if it were not adhered to, and I deemed it necessary to impart the prophecy to the concerned party.’

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‘And you trust that our niece was truthful?’ Lughad regrets the question as soon as he asks it.

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‘I am quite sure, Lughad,’ Vána remarks, slowly and sardonically.

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Lughad begins pacing, trying to shield his reddening cheeks from Somnan, though Vána certainly knew he was embarrassed before he did himself. ‘Regardless,’ he starts again, ‘I want to speak with my champions directly, they have been too long without direction. Their faith is waning.’

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‘What are you willing to offer, brother?’ Somnan asks coolly.

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‘Offer?!’ Lughad rapidly wheels around to lock eyes with Somnan. A bolt of lightning cascades down and tears through the ceiling, disintegrating what lies immediately above Lughad. The rubble freezes mere seconds after the initial strike. Somnan has extended a hand toward the damage, holding the rubble by some unseen force. He is standing now, his expression as cool and controlled as ever. The rubble tumbles back to the ceiling, reforming rapidly until there is no evidence of damage.

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‘Yes, brother,’ Somnan growls, his voice low and absolute. ‘Offer. That is the system we decided on, and that is the system we use to this day.’

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‘I decided on nothing!’ Lughad barks back. He hears water crashing beyond the surrounding walls, accompanied by gasping servants.

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‘Your decision to abstain from negotiations was your own. If you take issue with it, perhaps you will think twice about missing the next conclave.’

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‘If I had agreed to this ridiculous economy of favours and bargains, I’d be beholden to every damn Seraph in the pantheon.’

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‘If you had shown up, you might have suggested something different! But you left me alone to fill the void our sister left, and I did what I could to prevent absolute chaos from descending upon us.’ Somnan is slowly descending the dais now. With each step, a new tear streaks down his cheek. And with each crash of water in the surrounding palace, that tear lifts from his face and swirls around his brother.

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‘I have worked endlessly to encourage our sister’s return. I have brought peace among Gods. I have severed their unjust interference in mortal affairs. I have not slept in two millennia! And where have you been? Condemning soul after helpless soul to a life of crime and piracy so that they can enact your warped vision of justice. If they don’t end up imprisoned, they end up dead!’

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‘That’s enough!’ Lughad roars. Water cascades in from every available door, drawn from baths, fountains, jugs and glasses. It all tumbles and tumults towards Lughad, until Somnan raises a hand again, and it freezes inches from the Stormking.

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‘No, brother. It is not “enough”. If you do not wish to participate in this pantheon, so be it. But you will not arrive at my doorstep, two thousand, three hundred and seventy-six years after our last meeting, and throw a tantrum in my throne room because your niece participated in the system you have ignored for those same two thousand, three hundred, and seventy-six years.’

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Lughad marches forward, through the still-motionless water, to stand face-to-face with Somnan. As he passes through, lightning courses through it. It crackles violently, scarring whatever walls and pillars it can reach, before dissipating at Lughad’s stop. ‘It is my right to speak with my champions.’

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‘That it is, brother.’

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‘Then let me.’

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‘I cannot do that, brother.’ Somnan still speaks with unwavering calm. ‘If I am seen to give exception to-’

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‘I am entitled to that exception!’ Lughad interrupts.

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‘How can a god who does not participate in his pantheon be entitled to any component of it?’

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‘If you do not aid me, I will speak to my champions myself.’ Lughad declares, before moving for the exit.

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‘Meddling in mortal affairs without due cause is not permitted,’ calls Somnan.

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‘I never agreed to that,’ Lughad replies, nearing the door.

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‘Yes, but two dozen other gods have, and they all owe me a favour!’ Somnan taunts; something beyond statuesque bluntness worms into his voice at last.

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They have had to defend their regency before. So Vána has been watching this exchange with a bored expression. Yet she clears her throat. ‘You never asked what your niece’s prophecy was!’ she calls after Lughad.

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Lughad freezes at the door. ‘And why should I?’

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Vána smirks at Somnan, who is giving her a warning look. She looks back to Lughad. ‘Because it concerns your sword!’