Chapter Text
“A song from Silesia, if you know one, Maestro?”
The room fell into silence as Selis spoke. They were gathered around the fire, which did little to dispel the spring chill of northern Isaac, drinking farewell to his younger brother, about to leave for a reconnaissance mission in Imperial lands.
The bard nodded. His weathered but nimble fingers quickly adjusted the strings for a different tune. After a few scattered notes and a short silence, he began to play.
The melody was a sweet one, and every note masterfully played. Yet the bard did not sing, and made no apologies for the missing words. So finally on the second refrain Sety looked up from the fire, and began to sing the words with the conviction of one who was not afraid of it.
It was said that the younger son of Sigurd of Chalphy and Lewyn of Silesia had the demeanor and poise of the late Silesian crown prince. Indeed, just as Selis himself bore the holy brand of Baldo, the mark of Forseti had long ago manifested on his brother. So as Sety began to sing, Selis wondered if his father had sung in the same mesmerizing voice, disguised – as the stories went – as a minstrel in his many travels.
It was a song about love. Of love blossoming like the lone flower on the snowy peaks of Silesia, dreaming of the day when the summer sun would chase away the shadows. Few had spoken to Selis about his parents, but somehow in his mind’s eye, he could see the wandering prince sitting on a rock amidst the mountains, half-heartedly plucking at the strings of his mandolin while contemplating the landscape below.
Those must have been happier days. Days before war ravaged pristine Silesia and dyed its snowy plains red with blood, before the crown prince ripped his own kinsmen to shreds and annihilated their dismembered flesh in the gust of Forseti, and certainly before it all came to an end in the flames of Belhalla.
Selis only realized that he had been long lost in thought when he heard Lana’s voice. The song had ended, the bard had gone on to a new tune, and everyone was talking again.
“You are good at this!” Lana was saying to Sety, with her characteristic sweet smile.
“Thank you,” his brother replied with an expression of completely feigned modesty, “I’ve been practising. It would make a good disguise, travelling as a minstrel, don’t you think?”
“You have to be careful…”
But Selis already stopped paying attention. Oifey was sitting with Shannan, with a wistful smile on his face. They half-whispered their conversation, as if they did not want the children to overhear. Selis did not look their way but turned an ear.
“You remember, certainly?” his guardian and strategist said.
“Yes,” answered the prince of Isaac, “Erinys tried to teach me the song once… but we are too young to be this nostalgic. We can fight, and we will fight.”
“We will fight,” Oifey repeated. “But you remember – they sang this song at Lord Sigurd’s wedding.”
“I remember. Ayra danced – ”
Shannan stopped abruptly, stealing a glance at Lakshe and her brother, and the rest of the conversation vanished as if into a puff of smoke.
Shannan used to like weddings.
He was so excited to be the ring bearer when Ayra was betrothed to Lex of House Neiru, that it became customary in Lord Sigurd’s army to give the young prince a part in every such celebration. When Sigurd declared his intention to marry the heir of Silesia, Queen Rahna indulged Shannan with the honor of toastmaster. Oifey mumbled something about the politics of the decision, but Shannan couldn’t quite remember what he said.
Of all the people involved in the wedding, Prince Lewyn seemed to be the least enthusiastic, muttering that his mother appeared happier about having Sigurd as a son-in-law than about seeing her own son wed. Yet (this Shannan remembered Oifey saying) it was important to put on a show for the people of war-torn Silesia; therefore Lewyn, for all his detestation of formalities, put on a most splendid one like the bard he could be.
It probably wasn’t too hard, given the glitter of hidden passion whenever the Silesian prince smiled half-mockingly at Sigurd – such was the love that only one who had lost too much innocence could bear towards one still innocent. Lewyn even got some revenge out of embarrassing his fiancé ever so slightly with public displays of affection, but Sigurd was too large-hearted to understand this kind of playful vengeance, so all that remained at the end was only affection.
Like when they were walking up the long flight of stairs to the palace in Silesia, and the successor to Silesia suddenly stole a kiss from his companion’s cheek. Sigurd had stopped, somewhat perplexed, and then pulled the prince in for a long, solemn kiss.
They must have heard the crowd cheering and whistling below. Shannan thought Lewyn probably didn’t mind and Sigurd cared more about other things.
Lord Sigurd was a man for whom each word was like a vow.
So the people of Silesia drank and danced in the short northern summer, celebrating the return of their long-absent prince, in whom an end to all their troubles was almost promised. Amidst the songs and the flowing mead they chanted the name of Sigurd of Chalphy, by whose might they had been delivered from endless strife. In darker times, when the armies of Grannvale pounded on the walls of Silesia, when fire rained on its frozen plains and thunder shook its snow-clad mountains, that same chant was taken up as a warcry until it was finally trampled under the deafening hoofs of knights and drowned in the wails of the wounded.
There was a time when Shannan liked weddings. There may yet be a time when he will like weddings, but that time is not now.
Unable to catch more from Oifey and Shannan, Selis went over to talk to the bard. They called him Maestro, for lack of a better name. The seemingly unremarkable man first came to Tirnagog five years ago, and since then consistently brought them information about the world outside on his visits.
And he played his strings for them. It was a rare treat in the long winter of Tirnagog.
“I’m glad to see you well, Lord Selis,” the bard smiled as he saw Selis going towards him. “It appears that I have chanced upon an important occasion.”
“Sety insists on going,” Selis said. “I was hoping, if that’s not too much to ask, if you could speak to him a little of the dangers. Certainly the Empire would hunt for him if they learned of this.”
The bard was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “The blood of the Crusader Baldo runs in his veins, as it does in yours and your father’s, Lord Selis. The Empire hunts for the scions of the righteous, but they have not capitulated – it is this that gives the people hope. The path your brother chooses is a valiant one, and one that is necessary to kindle the flames of tomorrow.”
“You put me to shame now, Maestro,” Selis answered.
The bard shook his head.
“A greater destiny awaits you, Lord Selis, though it has yet to be revealed. If your brother can afford the luxury of the valiant path, your destiny allows only for the prudent one.”
“I do not feel ready,” Selis said.
“We are all as moved by events as we can move them,” the bard said, and with a reassuring smile placed a hand on Selis’ shoulder. For a moment Selis felt almost enchanted by a strange, surreal warmth, until his converser changed the topic with a noticeably lighter tone, “Now, where is Yuria?”
Selis turned around. The silver-haired girl who occasionally accompanied the bard to Tirnagog was beside Lana, who took a liking to the soft-spoken visitor since the first time they met. Lakshe and Skasaher were arguing about some point on Grannvale Empire’s military deployment, to the point that Sety decided to ask for Oifey’s intervention.
“Ah, there she is,” the bard said brightly. “I have been meaning to speak to Prince Shannan and your brother as well.”
They stood up and went over, inconspicuously sequestering the latter two from the heated discussion. After due greetings, the bard said, “You would forgive me, Prince Shannan, for making an abrupt request.”
The Prince of Isaac nodded his acknowledgement, so the bard continued.
“I’m about to embark on a journey on which I dare not take Yuria. If it would not inconvenience you, I was hoping I can leave her in Tirnagog for some time.”
Shannan looked at Lana (all smiles), and then looked at Selis (sheepishly nodding).
“I don’t see why not,” he said, “she is most welcome to stay.”
Yuria blushed and lowered her head, “Thank you… I will try not to inconvenience anyone.”
“You are too modest, Yuria,” her erstwhile guardian said. “All is well then. There is one last matter before I must be on my way.”
He turned to look at Sety. Caught off-guard, the younger prince blinked, and then broke into a smile, “Do you have words of advice for me, Maestro?”
“Not today,” the bard said quietly but firmly. “Some time ago on my travels, I passed through Belhalla.”
Silence swept across the room. The name of the Grannvale capital was like the deadliest of charms, stirring every memory, every fear, every irretrievable loss.
The bard continued.
“And, by fate, this tome came to me.”
He took out a leather-bound tome. On its cover, an emerald glimmered with an ancient, mystic light.
“Forseti,” the bard pronounced, pausing for a moment as if to feel the weight of that name. “Take it, Sety of Silesia.”
For some time Selis was not sure he understood the situation, but Sety seemed just as dumbfounded, until he finally managed, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “What thanks can I give for this?”
“What you will do with it, will be thanks enough,” the bard said. “Take it.”
Sety held out a hand, uncertainly at first, but as his fingertips touched the tome’s cover, a bout of resolution flared from his person. Then it was the wind. Every breath of air seemed to have been bound, held still in obedience to the overwhelming power of the tome. Every sound deadened, the howling evening winds of Isaac screeched into absolute silence all around them. The emerald blazed with a brilliance that blinded the eye.
Then the light faded into a faint glow, and air started moving again, radiating a scarcely distinguishable warmth.
“So this is the power of a holy weapon,” Sety said, a little breathlessly.
“It came into the world to do good,” the bard said. “May it protect you and others from harm.”
“I will not fail,” Sety said.
The bard sighed. He almost hesitated, when Sety pressed, “Is something the matter, Maestro?”
“Power,” the bard answered softly. “The power of holy weapons can make one forget many things. I wish you would not take it for granted, Lord Sety, lest your journey ends in sorrow and regret.”
“He won’t,” Selis interjected, without knowing whence he found the courage. “We thank you, Maestro, for bringing this to us. There is not a more worthy successor to Forseti – we will not betray your trust.”
“That I know,” the bard said.
With that, he took his leave.