CHANCELLOR LOREN

Weak afternoon light filtered through his open veranda and the warm breeze caressed gold-and-white draperies, sang their way through crystal-chimes, and kissed cooly at his damp brow. Perched at his desk, elbow on the table and chin in his palm, Chancellor Loren suffered through another migraine.
The worst was over, but his body ached and his mind seemed numb. He had business to attend, however, and a visitor to greet shortly after sunset. The man called for his steward when he was able to suffer his own voice, shuffled the papers that were scattered on his desk into a stack, and rose from his gilded ironwood chair.
“A lavender and sage bath, if you would, my dear man. Warm, this evening, not too hot.” He cleared his throat before continuing and it sent the last sharp throb of pain across his forehead. “But first fetch me some iced lemon-water, cheese, olives, and golden-pears.”
“As you wish, Chancellor,” The steward replied with a bow, and went off to see to his duties.
Food was served on the veranda. Loren waved away his attendants and served himself, cutting slices of golden-pears and cheese off the half-wheel that was brought to him. He poured lemon-water from an embellished silver flagon and ate amidst the afternoon songbirds that frequented his garden. He popped an olive in his mouth as he reclined in a bed of cushions, the pound in his head receding to almost-nothing.
Crystal-chimes became music, as did the soft rushing water of the garden fountain. He contemplated while he ate and found himself both comforted and perplexed when his bath was ready for him. By the time he was dressed in his Chancellor finery and his solar was made fit for an audience, the sun had dipped below the horizon and washed the sky with reds and pinks and creams, lavender and sea-green foam.
When his steward announced the arrival of his guest, Loren stood beside his chair and let the heat of the fire at his back warm the chill that had already settled into the twilit night. He grasped Lord La Clair’s offered arm and bid him to sit. After dinner and desert had been served, Loren dismissed his steward and poured himself and his guest a glass of peach brandy.
“Come now, Alyster, we’ve barely talked all evening. We’ve much to discuss.”
“Too true,” Alyster La Clair replied, pegging him with a golden-eyed stare. “When this folly is finished I’m sure our conversations will be more chatty.”
Chancellor Loren took a sip of his brandy and rolled his eyes. He expected such a reaction, of course, but it didn’t stop his disappointment. He was about to say as much when Alyster spoke abruptly.
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” His voice wavered for only a moment, so sudden was it gone that Loren half wondered if he imagined it. Alyster chuckled softly then continued with a shake of his head. “She’s starting to grow on me and it’s your fault, Jons Rowa. She reminds me of…”
Loren watched the Lord’s speech waver off, eyes awash in lost pride and confusion. Golden eyes. Old eyes. One that had seen plenty of loss and shame brought down upon his Great House. His son’s celebrity had known no bounds in the city of Lemere two decades past, and after his betrayal the people that loved him so dearly dubbed him the Golden Traitor. A snubbing courtesy that still brought the old man annoyance.
His act of defiance was spoken of even today, by the common folk who had nothing better to talk about, and even quieter, by the nobles who wished Alyster ill-will for retaining power and good-standing with the Magisterium. His son had a magnetic quality about him, one that could turn even the foulest ill-wisher to his side and inspire the common folk with mere words.
Unfortunately, for the both of them, Alyster’s granddaughter seemed to share a similar magnetism. And he had to admit it, if only to himself, begrudgingly.
“You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Alyster.” Loren crooned with a half-smile.
The man didn’t deny it, just pegged him with another golden stare and finished his glass of brandy. Courteous as ever, Loren refilled it and Alyster thanked him.
“The Rose Oath must be performed,” Alyster said after a moment, golden eyes hard. “It’s the only way to end this folly… and you must be the one to perform it.”
“Me?” Jons Rowa Loren stared at the old man in shock, surprised at the notion. “Surely there are more competent Extractors than myself!”
“Of course there are,” Alyster said with a scowl and a wave of his hand. “But you’ve brought this mess upon us, Jons Rowa, and if anyone should be condemned to the Rose Oath, it should be you. Be it your loss or your reward, we should know soon enough.
“With the city in such an uproar, the Magisterium shouldn’t be dabbling with chaos. These mock trials and courtings are folly, we are both aware of that, Jons Rowa. You suffer through them as I do. We need to find a solution to the Magisterium’s unrest and then go about settling the city.”
“I’ve offered solution upon solution to our unrest and the chaos that haunts our walls, Alyster.”
An odd flush crept up the old lord’s neck and he glared at him for half a moment. “It’s too late to kill her, Jons Rowa, there’s been too much talk of her; in the courts and in our own streets. No doubt the talk has spread, it is the King’s Capital, after all!
“No, if you kill the girl we’ll bring war to our kingdom’s doorstep. Our king gives us many freedoms, but he’s always forbidden us that. Besides, technicalities are with her. She’s under our own nobility laws and that of Arania’s as well. If we kill her, it will entice the Aranian’s into war and we mustn't have that.”
The Chancellor scoffed into his peach brandy and pegged Lord La Clair with skepticism. “My Lord Alyster, do you truly think her death will bring about the end of two decade’s worth of peace?”
Lord La Clair returned his scoff and glanced at him with pity. “Who gave them that peace, Chancellor? I’m surprised, usually you don’t overlook so much.”
“Surely she doesn’t mean as-” Loren began at once, only to be cut off by the golden eyed lord in front of him.
“She’s not just some Magisterium play-thing, Jons Rowa! She has heraldry unlike anything we’ve ever seen and gods be good, if the prophecy turns out to be true, this young woman could prove herself to be the next Tullameir. And yes,” Alyster said harshly as Loren mimed to interrupt. “Tullameir was the last documented Grace-Child. Think about it, Chancellor!
“This girl has blood of mine own, ancient and great from Lemeria of Old and was born into this world by a woman who can trace her ancestry back to one of the greatest warlords Arania has ever seen. The Zabala’s helped the Aranian’s gain their independence and helped them keep it. They’re infamous to everyone but their own! They hail them to this day, Jons Rowa, and you know as well as I do that our peace-pact has always been tremulous.
“Imagine how they’d react when it’s revealed that their Battle Princess lives on in this child, who looks so much like a Zabala, save her eyes. A trait she bears, may I remind you, from my own line. She’s already caused quite a stir in the past few months and some members of our own court would see her absolved of all alleged crimes! Imagine the outcry, Jons Rowa, when it becomes known that the Magisterium ignored the peace-pact and their own nobility clauses to conspire and murder a young woman under baseless accusations?”
Loren was quick to finally reply. “I saw her with my own two eyes, Alyster, she and her father stole documents from the Mavenistry building and I’ve no doubt that she somehow helped the crystal-thieves, may I remind you, that stole away with so many crystals that the Khitan Mavenistry has yet to calculate all its losses. Last count neared forty-seven thousand goldlings.”
He could feel his brows pulling together in annoyance and with a grunt, poured two cups worth of brandy.
“If I didn’t know you so well, Alyster, I’d think you were trying to protect your son. But it’s only your House you’re protecting, isn’t it? And maybe your graces with a potential Grace-Child?”
The stare Lord La Clair gave him sent a shiver down his right arm. He held it up like a white-flag before he continued. “Selecting Extractors is a court decision, Alyster. We’d have to take the matter to them, first, and only then can the process begin.”
“I’ve already taken up the matter with the courts.” Alyster La Clair said with an air of finality. “You’ve held the reins this far, Jons Rowa, now it is my turn. We started this together and we will end it together, but for now, we do things my way. You’ve caused the balance to shift, and now you will serve to right it.”
He finished his cup of brandy and recited traditional good-blessings before he took his leave. There was a hardness in his words, common and exact though they were, and Loren was glad to see the sight of him leave.
The old godsdamned man is right. If I don’t agree honorably, they’ll force it upon me in punishment regardless.
Loren drank as he contemplated, reclining in his chair as flames flickered low behind him. His mind cycled through everything Alyster had said and after awhile, his head began to ache. He kept up his silent lament until he could no longer stand the pounding against his skull. High Magistrate, Chancellor Jons Rowa Loren staggered to his sleeping rooms, cursing the tinkling crystal-chimes on his veranda and the city bells, heralding the second-moon curfew.
“Iced water,” Loren called out to his steward when he nearly fell into his bed. Rarely in sight but always near, his steward, a man who's seen near thirty years in his employ knew well of his condition, and brought the iced water at once. Loren barely managed a thank you before the pain rendered him speechless.
Hours later, as the third moon made it’s crescendo and the chill ate away at his bones, Loren woke from a series of dreams that disquieted him. He shed the blankets that were twisted around him and stood upon trembling legs. They bore his weight as he staggered to his solar, croaking for more iced-water, finally aware of what he had to do.