Chapter III - Eastmost Hall - Jiro

The Eastmost Hall was alive with raucous laughter and the clangor of glass on glass that only died when they stopped to drink. The Lords and Ladies of the Oasis had already downed about two cups of chardonnay apiece, and they were only toasting to their health. Jiro looked on silently from where he stood guard, next to the Seventh Duche at the head of the stone slate table. As of yet no important business had been discussed, from what Jiro could tell, apart from the important business of having the serving girls fetch another bottle of wine.

Orville was sinking into his chair, fighting to keep his eyelids open. The boy was wide awake when we were in the booktower. No doubt he was on the wrong side of one of Gaelon’s odd concoctions. Jiro had half a mind to summon the Eldyr to mix another, but the little Lord would just tire again soon regardless.

“A final toast,” the fat Lord Jothan of Ferrendell bellowed, “to the spirit of our beloved brother and fellow Lord, Robett of Sand Arbor, taken before his time.”

“A fine man!” Lady Rosalie of Thornhall shouted.

“I shall honor my father’s life by ruling as he would have,” Tomett of Sand Arbor put in, looking every bit his father’s son.

“Hear, hear!” Syr Wycliffe of Doldon Tower cheered.

“May the Prophets guide him.” Lord Jothan raised a glass.

“May the Prophets guide him!” The Lords and Ladies took up the call and tipped their cups.

“I heard it was the Kojan Wo that did it,” old Lord Fosset of Glencairn wiped the wine-reddened spittle that dribbled from his chins, “sneaky desert bandits and their damnable voodoo magyk. When the coroners took apart his body, they found half his intestines gone, and those that remained were in the wrong place.”

“Close to the sands as we are my Lord Father had no choice but to defend himself against the bandits’ constant raiding,” Lord Tomett stood to explain, “so he signed a decree into action; no one of Kojan Wo blood would be allowed within a hundred yards of Sandarbor. But the bandits did not take that kindly.”

“An ill thing,” Lady Rosalie swilled her glass. “To defend oneself is honorable.  What you speak of is racial segregation.”

“We’ve been having similar troubles with the bandits in Saimon,” Lord Tariik offered, his eyes, skin, blood and voice heavy with the flavors of Phobos. “Lord Robett cannot be faulted for simply protecting what belongs to him.”

“We’ve all had troubles with the Kojan Wo,” the Lady of Thornhall chirped. “That does not mean we should turn a blind eye to those in need.”

“A bandit’s a bandit,” Syr Wycliffe spat, drawing his longsword, “and paper makes a piss poor shield against magyk. Why not meet them with steel instead.”

“And what you speak of, Syr, is genocide.” Lady Rosalie barked.

The knight of Doldon Tower shrugged. “The soft words of a woman. You’re tighter than that bun on your head.”

Lord Fosset sniggered, “in the game of paper scissors rock, magyk beats all.”

“THIS IS FOLLY,” Lord Jothan roared. He slammed his fist on the shale and all grew quiet. “Are you daft, Fosset? Magyk? I will not have the good name of Lord Robett of Sand Arbor sullied with such insolent talk.” The fat Lord had been one of the Sixth Duche’s closest advisors, and when the throne had passed to Orville, Jothan had taken it upon himself to lead the councils.

“Apologies, my Lord,” the old man shrunk.

“And you, Rosalie. What mercy would you give to a group that have raped and pillaged your people and murdered your brother?”

The Lady of Thornhall chose silence as her response.

“And Wycliffe, for the last time, your sword goes its damn scabbard.”

The gaunt knight seemed to have forgotten he had drawn it in the first place. “Begging pardons, m’lord.”

“Magyk or no, the Kojan Wo grow more hostile with each day that passes,” Lord Jothan continued. “We may have pushed them back to their desert three years ago but we knew they wouldn’t be gone for good. Now they’re pushing back with a vengeance, and this time we wont make the mistake of showing them mercy. Lord Robett had the right of it, we must banish all those who bear Kojan Wo blood in their veins from the Oasis.”

“Damn right!” Syr Wycliffe hooted. Lord Fosset nodded his approval.

“And how do you propose this to be done?” Lady Rosalie played the skeptic quite well.

“We simply order them to leave and slaughter those who refuse,” Lord Tomett remarked as if it were obvious.

“I would take it a step farther,” the fat Lord drew his blade and huffed over to the magnificent mosaic map of the Oasis that graced the back wall of the Eastmost Hall. “I’d see a hundred men from each keep, holdfast and fort march for the edge of the Oasis, along with two hundred from each city, and five hundred from Lissium,” he gestured around the map with the point of his sword. “And once the host has gathered, they’ll build a wall, north to south, from the strait of shuul to the waterhorn, five miles west of Saimon.”

The following could only be described as a stunned silence.

Lord Tomett, all color drained from his face, was the first to speak up, “b-but my Lord! What will become of Sand Arbor?” The desert port was the farthest territory from the Oasis, resting on a barely-fertile patch of land on the northern coast of the sand sea, far from the protection of the proposed wall.

“What do we need a port for?” The tone of the Lord of Ferren Dell’s voice indicated that he had wanted to say this for a long time. “The Monolith gives us more fuel than we could ever dream of using, we’re entirely self sufficient!”

The lordling slouched, crestfallen.

“When they hear tell of this wall, the Kojan Wo will swarm Sand Arbor,” Lady Rosalie objected. “You would sacrifice an entire city for your supposed peace?”

“A wall will not keep them out, only keep us in,” the Seventh Duche spoke up for the first time all morning. Jiro was startled, thinking that Orville had dozed off. “You forget these people are savages. Once they find out you’ve been slaughtering their people behind that wall, they’ll stop at nothing to get their vengeance. You’ll start another war.”

“Yes, little Lord,” Jothan dipped the feeblest of bows, “that is the idea.”

“You’ll address me as the Seventh Duche,” Orville snapped. “You forget your place, do you need me to remind you? I will not have more bloodshed, do you hear?”

“What exactly do you expect us to do then?” The Lord of Ferrendell’s jaw became a hard line, “just lie down and take it? As you said, my Lord the Seventh, these people are savages! They will continue to raid our lands until we give them what they want!”

“Then give them what they want. Some water, rice, bread, salt beef, and a little bit of crystal myst are all it takes to keep the Kojan Wo happy. Is the price for peace too high for you, my Lord of Sausages?” Orville had given Jothan that nickname not long after his coronation, Jiro remembered. The Lords of the Oasis thought it amusing; all but the Lord of Ferrendell.

He’s playing his mind games again, Jiro noticed. ‘Getting a rise out of someone was the best way to get them to tell the truth,’ the Seventh Duche had reminded him often.

“They must pay in blood,” the fat Lord’s face went beet red. “Have you forgotten that they are murderers as well as thieves? They killed Lord Robett!”

“They killed my father too,” the Duche’s tone was icy cold, “or have you forgotten?”

“None of us will ever forget our Lord the Sixth,” Syr Wycliffe chimed in. “Lord Orson was a fearless leader who will live on forever in our hearts, Prophets guide him.”

“Prophets guide him,” the rest of the Lords and Ladies murmured in agreement.

Syr Jiro decided that this was as good of a time as any to intervene. “Lord Jothan, my Lords and Ladies of the Oasis. I pray you forgive our Lord the Seventh if he has offended you. It seems he grows restless for tonight’s festivities, and he was unable to find much sleep last night.” The lie went straight through his teeth.

The Lord of Ferren Dell eyed him warily. “I thank you for the courtesy, Syr Jiro, but I assure you no offense was taken.”

“Splendid,” Jiro forced a wide grin onto his face, “perhaps it would be best if we resumed discussion on the morrow?”

Jothan chuckled and shook his head, “It’s always ‘on the morrow’ with you capital folk.”

“And it’s always ‘at first light’ with you oasis folk,” Orville quipped, silenced by Jiro’s hand on his shoulder.

“I could agree to that, on the morrow,” Lord Fosset rubbed his belly. “I hear they’ll be roasting a whole albino waterboar with giant onions and truffles down on Baker Street, and I aim to cut myself the finest slice.”

“Ah, yes, the festivities tonight should prove to be quite impressive,” Jiro attempted to rally the group. “The feasts for the bloodmoon will be most succulent. There will be games and music and plays; our local theater troupe will be performing a reenactment of the founding of Lissium for the centennial.”

Lady Rosalie’s ears perked up when she heard the word ‘theatre’.

“You should all try some Phobosi cuisine,” Lord Tariik cooed. “My cousins roast a fine lamb, they’ll be cooking under a tent in the market tonight.”

“I saw Kaya Goldstring plucking her woodharp in the square this morning. “What I’d give to hear her angelic voice again,” Lord Tomett swooned, the only Lord of the Oasis who had risen with the sun. Upon his waking he had found himself with a few hours to burn, and decided to take a stroll through the streets of Lissium for his first time as a Lord.

“Will there be a melee?” Syr Wycliffe’s hand instinctively fell to his swordbelt.

“How many of you can say you’ve stepped a foot outside your castles since the war?” The Lord of Glencairn complained. “I did not travel from my own keep to rot away inside a different damn keep!”

“Very well then,” Lord Jothan finally conceded, “on the morrow. I have a mind to taste this roast lamb of yours, Tariik.”

The Lord of Saimon clapped his hands together and swayed a polite bow.

And with that the host filed out of the hall, one by one, until only Lord Tomett remained. “My Lord the Seventh, Syr Jiro,” the lordling appeared to be in physical pain. “This talk of a wall… and of Sand Arbor… it would not, I mean… it pains me to… ah, my people…”

“Fear not, my Lord.” Jiro braced him by the cuff of his arm. “The Seventh Duche is a reasonable man. I assure you, this shall not come to pass. And I will see to it personally that Sand Arbor is well protected.”

The look of relief on Tomett’s face was noticeable. He shook Jiro’s hand and shuffled out of the hall. “Thank you, Syr, my Lord. I will not forget this kindness. The Prophets guide you both!”

It was not until the Eastmost Hall was deathly silent that Orville spoke again. “I could have handled that myself,” he brooded.

“Of course you could have, apologies my Lord,” Jiro remarked with sarcasm. “Are you saying Lord Jothan should be applauded for attempting to undermine your authority?”

Orville just shrugged. “I say we leave the sausage to his delusions of grandeur. I think it’s funny. And if he ever gets out of hand its just a matter of knowing what to say to make him shut his mouth.“

Jiro couldn’t help but laugh. “Let’s get you to your bedchamber.”

The Duche made for the door as soon as Jiro pulled the heavy stone chair out from under the slate table. “I want to go to the booktower,” the little Lord declared defiantly.

“You can’t right now.” Jiro did not have to try hard to keep pace. “The Lords and Ladies of the Oasis will be expecting to see you at the festivities, as well as your people. Every Duche of Lissium has given a speech on the eve of the bloodmoon since your great-grandfather the Fourth, remember?”

When they entered the foyer, Orville made a swift bounding right toward the south bridge to the booktower, but Jiro caught him around the waist with the crook of an arm, scooping up the little Lord and pointing him in the proper direction.

“Traditions can be broken as easily as they are made.” Orville sighed. “Do you enjoy the festival, Jiro?”

“No more or less than anyone else. Delphi would love it, but I’m sure she can find someone to go with. However, I would enjoy the festivities no less while escorting you, my Lord,” Jiro replied, ever dutiful.

The Seventh Duche yawned. “Syr Corwyn can escort me. He has had enough time to rest by now, or at least I hope he used the time I gave him for rest, the dullard. Take the night off, Jiro. Take Delphi to the festival, have a good time. You deserve it, both of you.”

Jiro did not think he had heard correctly. “Are you certain, my Lord?”

Orville stopped mid-stair. “Jiro, the only time you’re ever familiar with me is when you’re scolding me. How I wish you would speak to me that way more often. I have not been speaking to you as Orville your Lord; I’m speaking to you as Orville your brother. I didn’t keep you on my castle guard just for your sword, you know.”

“Thank you,” Jiro bowed out of habit. “That means the world to me.”

“But you’re not off duty yet,” Orville flashed a grin. “I still have to repay you for not ratting me out to Gaelon earlier.”

The moment Jiro opened the doors to the Seventh’s bedchamber the boy scrambled inside, making a beeline for his fine oak bureau in the corner. From the sleeve of his silk cloak he produced a yellowing scroll, which he carefully spread out on the desktop. “Shut the door,” he called, “come look.” Curious, Jiro did as he was bid and approached. The parchment’s age was apparent by its color, and more and more cracks appeared as the distance between them closed. Despite this, its contents appeared to be untouched by time. Awe inspiring, if the maw of Jiro’s gaping mouth was any proof.

It was a map of what Jiro presumed was his world in an age long passed, writ in deep crimson ink. In the east was Phaedyssia, he could tell, with its frozen wasteland in the far north and desert horn in the far south, but not in its current form; the raging waters of the gulf of ghosts had not yet separated the island continent from its mother to the west. In fact, the chart went farther west than Jiro had ever seen on a map before. Even for the most knowledgeable cartographers, the western continent ended at the Grand Barrier, but on this ancient scroll the vast landmass sprawled endlessly. He could not believe how far west it went! Bays and straits cut into the coastline as if carved out by a giant’s knife.  His eyes went to a lake that drained to a river that drained south into a massive bay twice the size of the Kojan Desert. A little farther down the northern coast split like lightning, leaving an ocean-filled jaw baring earthen fangs. He saw a walled city clinging to the shore of a skinny peninsula that hung beneath the belly of an empty wasteland, a cluster of isles that looked like mountains that had been swallowed up by the ocean, a sea so massive it threatened to rent the landmass asunder.

The immaculate brushstrokes ended where the rest of the scroll lay furled, and would have continued if the scant length of the bureau had permitted. Jiro was almost afraid to see what lie beyond, yet endlessly fascinated all the same. Locations of lands, realms, kingdoms and cities were notated vertically in a cryptic series of symbols that he could not make heads or tails of. He had seen them once, he remembered, in a crumbling tome he had found in the booktower during one of his sleepless nights. What was that book about again…? The realization came to him suddenly.

“This… this is a maege map,” Jiro could hardly form the words. “A map drawn by a maege in the maege language, Orville, this has to be thousands of years old! Where did you find this?”

“Among my father’s things in the vaults. I was rummaging through some old chests when I stumbled across that scroll.” Orville looked pensive. “It made me think of you, so you should have it. I remember you told me one day, not long after I had taken the throne of Lissium, that your father had explored every corner of Phaedyssia, and even some corners beyond. You said that when you were younger, you wanted to be like him and explore even more distant, more mysterious lands. It is a noble dream, Jiro, and a dream I hope you have not yet given up on.”

For a boy of nine, the Seventh Duche was infinitely wise. He certainly knows how to cut to the core of people, and not just by mocking them. Jiro felt the tears welling in his eyes as he fell to one knee, not out of respect for Orville his Lord, but for Orville his brother; he was more of a brother than any blood sibling Jiro had ever known. “From the moment your father bought my blade, your family has shown me more kindness than I could have ever come to expect. I was sworn to protect your father, yet the poison-tipped spears of the Kojan Wo reached him all the same. Despite all that you named me to the head of your guard and call me brother… there are no words that can fully express my gratitude.”

Orville tugged at his scarf, gesturing him to rise. “My father was a war hungry oaf. The instant those desert bandits touched grass he was at the front lines with his army, his sword and his steed.”

“At least he didn’t try to build a wall,” Jiro snorted.

“I’m thoroughly convinced that if he had not hired you, I would not have had a father for half as long.” The little Lord rapped a finger on the desk over parchment. “The maege may have been driven from Phaedyssia, but they had to go somewhere. If you don’t have the words to thank me, perhaps they do. You should ask them one day.”

“Maybe I will, one day,” Jiro smiled. “But if I’m off hunting maege, who will see to your safety?”

“Syr Corwyn is a dutiful man,” Orville flashed a grin. “He will see to it, I’m sure. And if he doesn’t like it, there are ways to persuade him.”