Chapter 15: ‘Warrior’ (4325 words)

Summoned to the glass court, the seat of power for House Ulmadr, Vievel must finally answer to his father.

We’ve always warred. First against the horizon, then humanity, and now the Dwurkn. The Aælfir have always fought. The thought of all that conflict unsettled Vievel. He knew that an heir of the Ulmadr - strong, capable, and persevering - should be able to shake off his misgivings and make his people proud.

But as he stood in front of his father, listening to speak of glory and battles yet to come, battles that Vievel would fight in alongside him, all Vievel could feel was fear.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The grand doors of the glass court were smaller than he remembered. Granted the last time he’d visited these halls, the only time, he had been a child, but he remembered both as being astonishingly tall. The first of the two, the fair and crystal twin, towered over him now, but a great deal less so than he recalled.

Though it was a remarkable construction, a marvel of artisanry and glasswork with winding intricate patterns cut and gilded directly into the interior of the glass itself, it was only three meters taller than him, shyer than the almost-mythical regard his memories had held it in. The second of the grand doors, a thick and shrouded glass one meter behind the first, was no taller.

Soldiers stood at either side in silence, each with a bolt-rifle already drawn and in-hand. Unlike most members of the military, neither soldier had greeted him on his arrival. Neither acknowledged him even now, not even as he paced back and forth in front of them.

The summons had taken him by surprise. Though his house’s courtiers, and the military, had always treated him with deference and by title, as ‘Lord Ulmadr’, to most, he was still Vievel, the son of the patriarch and a noble in name only; that he was heir apparent had always had very little impact on his life. He didn’t attend court or conduct himself as a member of the nobility, and his father had never exercised his right to officially call upon him, but today the attendant had been very clear; the Patriarch summons Lord Vievel Ulmadr to court this evening.

Lord Ulmadr. Though in reality, they shared it, in Vievel’s mind the title belonged to his uncle, Vostoth, and him alone. It was a pomp and circumstance he would’ve rather done without, but there was a part of him that knew, had always known, he couldn’t avoid this part of his life forever. His father clearly had designs on introducing him to court life and educating him on his responsibilities as heir apparent.

The glass court was crowded on his arrival, but many of the attendees had now left. This was especially true of the lesser nobles and courtiers who watched from the overhanging balconies - they had filed down in droves until Vievel was convinced that there couldn’t be anyone still in attendance up above. He’d been watching the thin and well-polished staircase, one of two that stood in the respective corners of the entrance, when a timid voice from behind him drew his attention.

“My lord”. A page had descended from the left-most staircase, bowing deferentially as Vievel turned towards him. The page wasn’t more than five long-cycles older, in his early twenties, yet he didn’t behave as though he was speaking with a peer; whilst he spoke to Vievel he kept his eyes cast downward, as though he was addressing a member of the ship brass or nobility.

I guess I am dressed the part, Vievel thought ruefully, glancing down at the flared sleeves of his silvery blue dress-tunic.

The page meekly bowed to Vievel, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence. The top half of his uniform, a light-blue puffed vest worn over a tight silver undershirt, caught the fixture light from above; the reflected light caused his arms to glimmer with a scintillating swell of colours.

“Hey,” Vievel murmured, trying to spur the page on more than anything.

“The Patriarch is ready for you, my lord. I can announce you whenever you’re ready,” the page spoke hastily to cover his nervousness. Vievel nodded, feeling his own anxieties rising up in his chest.

“Easy kid, you’ll be fine”. The human’s voice steadied his restless nerves. Throughout Vievel’s wait, Calito had whispered reassurances; he hadn’t manifested since before Vievel’s visit to Felder’s corner, now several hours past, but he’d been a constant companion.

Vievel took a hesitant step forward, testing the gait he wanted to present as he first walked into court. It felt oafish and awkward so he practised a second step, well aware the three Aælfir in the entrance hall could see his attempts to practise his walk; to their credit, neither the page nor the two soldiers commented or even reacted to the patriarch’s son. No-one else was privy to Vievel’s strange exercises - the exterior of the grand doors was clear, but the interior door of the pair was purposefully fogged, obscuring the room inside. Despite the cloudiness, Vievel could still see the glass court remained engaged; a few shapes, though they were nothing but hazy figures, stood out behind the interior door.

He took another step, a powerful forward stride which made his inner thigh muscles cry out in pain.

“That’s the one,” Calito said, and Vievel nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, speaking out loud accidentally. The nearby page perked up, assuming the sound was directed at him.

“My lord?” Vievel shook his head.

“I’m okay - I’m ready,” he said, swallowing his fear. For better or worse he was about to enter his father’s world, a place he’d long avoided; somewhere he’d always been headed.

The interior door was surprisingly heavy, and sweat had already begun to bead on Vievel’s forehead as he pushed the thick fogged twin of the grand doors open.

“The Lord Vievel Ulmadr,” announced the page, already standing at the balcony hanging above him and to his right. Vievel marvelled at the page’s speed.

The atrium, entrance to his family quarters, was plainly visible underneath, beneath the reinforced transparent plastic floor - the view was blocked only by a light-blue metal path running down the middle of the room. Five pillars held up the roof of the court. The first four were separated into two metal pairs, jointly supporting the overhangs on either side; each travelled from the floor and through the balconies until they reached the ceiling.

Behind the throne of the patriarch - a towering seat at the end of the hall, fashioned with faded red fabric and a hand-stitched chartreuse lining, sat upon a tiered marble dais - was the last pillar. A singular and mighty glass column which stretched from the roof of the room to the floor of the atrium below. It was the crowning treasure of the Ulmadr, awarding the glass court its name, displayed proudly where anyone aboard the ship could visit and marvel at it.

There were nine Aælfir in occupancy on the lower floor. Two soldiers flanked Vievel as he entered, each as armoured and armed as the soldiers in the entrance hall. A further two soldiers stood at attention beside a small door on the far end of the court, leaving five individuals on the ground floor.

He couldn’t see as high as the balconies, where lesser nobles and courtiers, if any, would be congregated, and neither could he see his uncle, Halycen’s father, Vostoth. On the right side of the blue path were two Aelfr and on the left two Aelfi and an Aelfr.

The closest Aelfi of the left-hand group was thin, wearing a long silver overcoat with black buttons, her hair strung together in a last-minute messy ponytail and lenses upon her face. The sigil on her overcoat marked her as from house Gallauda, the house of Sight and Ideas. She glanced at Vievel with a kind smile as he approached.

The middle of the group, the Aelfr, stared straight forward without blinking. His stern face was fleshy, betraying his weight despite the tawny brown robe that gave him a uniform shape. A hood obscured most of his face and with no sigil present on his robe, Vievel quickly decided that he must be a cleric, an agent of the church. No other Aælfir would have been permitted to stand amongst the greater nobles without bearing their identity.

The third, the older of the two Aelfi,  wore a tight overcast-grey dress, with immaculate white strings binding it in place. On her head sat a metallic headband, a luminescent silver similar to the colours of the Ulmadr; the band bore the sigils of house Nalmunr, the house of Metals and Songs.  On either side of it, her curly black hair was expertly wound into a split-braid which extended down to her shoulders; she looked over her crooked and broken nose at Vievel with great interest, unsettling him as he caught her gaze. A barely-tamed savagery bristled beneath her eyes.

On the right side of the court stood Sera Odill, sporting his distinctly bald head and a scowl which had remained unchanged since the last time Vievel had last seen him; without his advance armour, the marshall was a great deal smaller, though his wiry musculature was well-pronounced behind his black fibreweave tunic.

Last of all, to Odill’s side, there was a young-looking noble. At his oldest the Aelfr was in his late-twenties, and a dagger he bore in a jewelled sheath at his side marked him as a warrior, as did his strong jaw and keen watchful eyes; he wore a wine-red jacket with a narrow neckline, heavily-weighted slacks in lieu of breeches, and red boots lined with golden laces. As Vievel approached the throne he glanced back at the stranger. He couldn’t identify the house behind the sigil on his jacket - a legless serpent swallowing a star.

“Lord Ulmadr”. The patriarch spoke without aggression or challenge, his words carrying out loudly enough to be heard but no louder, yet the room hung on his words. Vaegath sat at the far end of the court, his throne dwarfing him. He wore a black surcoat - marked with the crescent sigil of their house in the centre - and an ivory and silver breastplate, the edges of which were barely visible beneath. Underneath his upper layers, he wore a navy-blue undershirt on his top half and identically-coloured breeches, beneath a wide leather belt, on his lower half. His breeches ended in thick black boots with meticulous silver stitching, and around his shoulders was wrapped an exquisite cerulean cloak.

“What a cheery place,” Calito suddenly piped up, audible only to Vievel. The hall was silent, the air still as every onlooker seemed to be anticipating something Vievel wasn’t privy to.

Quiet, he hissed towards the human.

“My liege,” Vievel said, bowing. He’d practised the bow his entire life, even had occasion to perform it mockingly in private, but this was the first time he’d given it properly and formally. His heart was trembling as he entertained a hundred reasons that the patriarch might call him to the glass court. He hoped the word ‘human’ wasn’t about to come out of his father’s mouth.

“You have been summoned here to answer a question that a loyal servant of the house Ulmadr had no choice but to raise”. Vievel could hear the subtext behind the explanation, louder than the actual words.

A question that was asked publicly, instead of privately where it could be silenced. The patriarch’s rule was not absolute, despite what many on-ship believed. The ruler of the house predominant might not answer to their subjects or the military, but the matter of which noble house was predominant? That matter was changeable.

The choice of whoever presided, whenever the question was posed, was decided by the greater assembly of Aælfir, a council of houses predominant that met at each gathering. At any gathering the right to rule, to become a house predominant, could be challenged by a lesser house who had garnered enough support amongst the other nobles on their home-ship. A patriarch or matriarch had to weigh exercising their authority, particularly the when managing the balance of power between military and nobility, alongside maintaining the favour of their supporting vassals.

The moment after the patriarch spoke an Aelfr revealed himself, stepping out from behind one of the stone pillars. It was the soldier that had stood guard over the Ulmadr quarters as Vievel had returned home.

I was still wearing my armour, he realised. The soldier saw him dressed in stolen armour, a uniform he shouldn’t have even possessed, let alone worn. Vievel’s heart sank - and then his father asked exactly the question he was expecting.

“Were you present upon the Dwurkn frigate during the recent military action?”

A rush of irrational adrenaline challenged Vievel to flee, but all his body could do, even in the face of his mind’s panicked pleading, was tense up and root itself to the spot. A moment passed before he could calm his thoughts long enough to discern another voice clamouring for his attention.

“Hey-hey-hey-” The human was repeating himself, his tone growing sharper with each instance. “Kid!” Calito yelled, when at last Vievel’s internal discord had reached a natural lull.

What? Vievel snapped.

“You’ve got contributions,” Calito said, reminding Vievel of what he already knew. “You told me that was enough. Just present them”. The knapsack was back in his bunk, where he’d dropped it off earlier, but he still had it. Vievel knelt down suddenly, drawing a murmur from the court.

“M-my liege,” he stammered, feeling like the floor was about to fall away. Beneath and to his sides he could see the hallway that led into the atrium below. It didn’t help his concentration. “You are correct. I was present on the ship”.

The hushed murmurs blossomed, becoming a rage of yells and frantic cries. Accusations, most of which went unheard against the storm of noise from the balconies, flew wild and free. For their part, the five Aælfir nobles on the lower floor, as well as the four soldiers, remained composed and quiet. After a few seconds of allowing the cacophony to continue, Vaegath silenced the room by raising his hand.

“You violated orders during a military action?” His words were slow - deliberate and measured - leaving nothing to interpretation. To admit he had done so, in front of the court and nobility no less, would leave his father in a precarious position. Fortunately, for both their sakes, Vievel had no such intention.

“My liege,” he said, with greater care than before. “I did indeed board the Dwurkn ship, but I did so in the name of honour and the U-Ulmadr-” Vievel felt his voice beginning to trail off and began to speak quicker, hoping to finish before his voice caught. “-I returned with offerings and spoils-” His tongue was drying suddenly, his throat a scouring paper against his neck.

“-for us, and our people, as is my right and duty as heir”. It was Vievel’s voice, but Calito speaking. Where Vievel’s confidence had faltered, suddenly, somehow, the human had stepped in. The sensation was unnerving. One moment Vievel was delivering a plea to his father, a speech he had imagined several times over in the past few hours, and the next he was an observer, looking on down from above, as someone else finished it for him.

The calm was as deafening as the clamour from moments past. Vievel caught several of the Aælfir on the lower floor exchanging glances and imagined the nobles and courtiers of the balconies above to be doing much the same. The cleric scowled openly toward him, a vicious look, the sort of which Vievel would’ve reserved for an enemy; he wasn’t sure why his expedition would have offended him, or the church, so much. Glancing away from the cleric, eager to look anywhere else, he thought he caught a strange grin of approval from the Aelfr standing beside Sera Odill. By the time Vievel looked back the grin had vanished and he was once again focused on the throne.

“-and what did you find?”

“Medical supplies my liege, at least seven separate boxes,” Vievel said as he turned back. Slight muttering from the balconies above, as well as some broken applause.

“Medical supplies are always welcome, as is your contribution-” his father paused. “-warrior”. As he finished speaking his voice suddenly dipped, a melancholy filling it. He looked down at Vievel, at his son, as though he was looking at him for the very first time; his expression was wretched, more twisted than it had been as he’d asked his initial question.

Warrior. The patriarch had just named him warrior, those who were permitted to go offshore during military actions, the knights of the war company and rangers of the advance; those Aælfir alone could claim honour as a defence, as he had done. Vievel had chosen his only path, and his father had chosen his.

“Court is suspended”. The patriarch stood from his throne without waiting for a reaction, stepping down from the seat and onto the second step of the dais on which it was built. He glanced at Vievel and called - “Lord Ulmadr, Lord Jorumos, with me” - before turning towards the small door at the back of the room. Vievel had barely stood from his bent knee as the smiling Aelfr, the noble in the wine-red jacket, strode past him.

That went as well as could be expected.

“It’s all for the best kid,” Calito said. “Trust me”. An uneasiness pressed up against Vievel’s mind as Calito sought his trust. The human had taken control of his speech. He started toward the small door, trying to catch up.

Why? How can you believe that? Vievel tried to focus on his reply, to lure Calito away from his other doubts. The soldiers stepped aside for the noble ahead of him, and then for Vievel himself, but they did not follow either of them or the patriarch, into the small chamber beyond.

“You aren’t banished, are you?” Whether he trusted Calito or not, Vievel had to agree with that. Whatever was about to follow, it was preferable to expulsion from an airlock.

The chamber beyond the small door was narrow, but deep, stretching on for at least forty feet. Vievel remained by the entrance, admiring the metal-reinforced brickwork, as the soldiers closed the door from outside. An equal distance from every wall sat an oak table that gleaned as the fixture light caught it from above.

The Aelfr stepped confidently into the middle of the room, running a finger over the table as he moved alongside it. A sharp high-pitched sound rang out as his finger dragged along the table.

“Vacuum membrane?” he asked, turning to the patriarch. Vaegath nodded.

“An antique, pre-horizon”. The noble instantly drew his finger back, the colour draining from his face along with whatever bluster had been in his step.

“M-my apologies my liege, if I had known-”

Vaegath lifted his hand and the Aelfr went quiet.

“It is protected by the seal, be at ease Morn”.

Vievel glanced towards the noble, looking at his face for anything he recognised; aside from a strong jawline, and vigilant stare, he had a tangled mop of harvest-blonde hair, and thick but styled black eyebrows. His eyes shifted with the light, one moment green and the next moment blue, never seeming to settle on a single colour.

Morn Jorumos. The name sounded like a name he’d heard before. The Aelfr caught Vievel looking at him and gave him a mischievous smirk.

“Vievel”. Whether it was the acoustics of the chamber or just his imagination, his father’s voice filled his head wholly. The patriarch’s pensive gravity demanded attention. “You are assigned to the war company, effective immediately”. Whatever relief Vievel had felt at surviving the glass court, it died in his throat at that moment.

The war company... He’d hoped to be assigned to the support company, or even the advance, to be placed in a role that emphasised his talents. Like hiding.

“You will begin as a squire, answering directly to Paladin Jorumos-”. Vaegath grinned a broad smile which momentarily pierced his sombre exterior. “-fittingly so, since Morn was my squire not so long ago”. Suddenly Vievel recognised the young Aelfr Paladin. Morn had been his father’s ward, the third-born heir to another home-ship and house predominant, who had become charge and squire as part of a diplomatic exchange; Morn had been his father’s ward for several long-cycles during Vievel’s early childhood.

“It’ll be a pleasure to work together,” Morn said, turning to Vievel. “If I’m half the teacher your father is, you can expect one hell of a time,” he laughed. Even Vaegath spared a soft chuckle at the paladin’s joke.

A few minutes more passed as Vaegath outlined his expectations, and what being a member of the war company would entail. He finished his speech, a speech largely directed towards Vievel, and turned to Morn.

“Vievel is my heir - I trust you’ll ensure nothing happens to him”. Vievel looked up, shocked at the sudden expression of concern.

“On my life Patriarch”. Morn’s face was intensely serious, his eyes unblinking as he nodded. All the bravado and playfulness he had displayed throughout the briefing beforehand had vanished.

“I will trust your word,” Vaegath said. “Now, if you’ll leave us?” Morn saluted and then bid Vievel farewell, taking the dismissal in stride, as though it was expected.

The moment Morn passed through the small door, his father sat, falling into the chair with a defeated air.

“Your actions pushed my hand Vievel,” he said. “I would not - would never have wished this for you”.

“You don’t believe in me,” Vievel said, finding his voice. It wasn’t a question. Vaegath shook his head.

“It’s not a matter of belief, it’s a matter of fact son. We have always warred. The Aælfir have been in a state of war for a full millennial cycle; first against the horizon, then the humans-” In the back of his skull Vievel could feel Calito prickle at the mention of humanity.  “-and now the Dwurkn. There will be battles, glory as well, but countless battles to come. You are the heir of a house predominant, and that comes with power, and advantages, but it also comes with expectations. You will be called upon to make difficult decisions...” His voice trailed off. He looked at Vievel with heavy eyes.

“I worry that you are not prepared, that I have sheltered you”. Vievel swallowed, feeling his courage escape him. He wasn’t ready. All the fears that lived deep in his soul, all the worst things he thought about himself; not only were they true, but his father believed they were true.

“I-I will try my best father…” Vievel murmured. Vaegath nodded wearily.

“I hope you do”.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

“Vaegath!”

The bottle of skulla in his hand already half-drained, Vaegath had long hoped his day to be over. As his brother crashed into the council chamber, dragging Halycen by her arm, he realised that was most likely not the case. He looked up from the drink, staring at the chief engineer, his brother, and Halycen, his bewildered niece.

“What is this I hear of Vievel being admitted to the war company?” Vostoth blustered. His brother’s face was reddened and swollen; whether it was from exertion or frustration, he didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care either.

“Lower your tone Vos - this is not an appropriate way to speak to your patriarch-” he said. “-nor any poor soul with a budding hangover,” he added. Vostoth inhaled, taking a deep breath. This kind of overt outrage was usually beyond his brother, Vaegath mused.

Perhaps I am not the only one having a dreadful cycle.

“Halycen deserves to be made a warrior,” Vostoth snapped.

Ah. So that’s what this is about. He should’ve worked that out quicker; he spared a quick glance at the bottle of skulla, and not for the first time, reminded himself that it was a poison, a bad habit, and that he should quit.

“What shall I do about that Vos? I spared one of our children. You should be thanking Callisto it was yours”.

“Halycen wants to be a warrior,” Vostoth bristled.

“Is that true?” Vaegath turned towards his niece, who had yet to say a single word the entire time that her father had been holding her by the arm. Sleep circles hung beneath her eyes and she was still in her nightwear, so he couldn’t imagine she’d made the journey of her own accord.

“I-” she started.

“-of course it’s true-” Vostoth growled, cutting his daughter off. “Now, I demand it brother”.

“You demand it?” He laughed, the drink making his brother’s bravado feel all the more absurd. “You demand it?” He drew up from his seat, wavering slightly, buoyed by the indignation now bubbling through his chest and into his addled-skull. “You demand nothing from me brother. Now be gone, before I make you a warrior”.

Vostoth stood, staring at him angrily for a moment. As no more words were exchanged between the pair, the fight seemed to leave him. His shoulders slumped as he admitted some kind of defeat, turning away with his daughter in hand.

“We’ll speak more of this,” Vostoth muttered, as he pulled a still-silent Halycen from the room. The door slammed but did not close, now unguarded as it was.

Most likely, the patriarch conceded silently, as he slumped back into his chair. That was the last thing he needed, another foe. Another direction to watch. He’d have to find a way to appease his brother soon.

Vaegath filled the patterned glass cup in front of him with skulla, right to the brim. First, the gathering. Then, assembly willing, they’d be on their way to the next coordinate, wherever that blasted station was. He lifted his glass, offering up a toast.

“House Illandr’s home. Jupiter save us”.