Eathel the Bastard, Chapter 7: The Wasted of the Clericy
IN WHICH: we hear STORIES; a TALE of HALDRIC; MASTER ELMANDT takes his JUNIOR to TASK; & a FABLE of Haliday
Allusions
Eathel's Notes During Sagavond's Poetics Symposium
After begging his father to be included, Eathel is finally permitted to study letters with the other young noblemen (and some daring noblewomen) in the court at the Teran capital, Xiatep Tera.
𐫱 𐫱 𐫱 𐫱 𐫱
The breath inside you and its warmth sparks vision of a capacious hearth, one beguiling from very start, from fullness of those who ardent are toward emptiness in those who aren’t. – Vondhek Chiro, Poetic Analects
𐫱 𐫱 𐫱 𐫱 𐫱
→ IN PURSUIT →💰
Part the 1st ~
RAGA SWAY races upon the Kiger Mustang OL’ REL across the SOTERAN BASIN LOWLANDS toward SONË, a deputy LEEGO under her command — — but does RAGA have command of HER OWN HEART around her unaffected DEPUTY?)
RAGA SWAY chases a CAVALCADE of the BARONS, pushing hard; during a moment of RESPITE, the three EATHEL & SERA conference with HALDRIC concerning the GREAT DAGASZONA, our HERO’s grandfather…
& Part the Third ~
A meeting of Parence and Master Elmandt
& Part the Fourth ~
A fable of Haliday
“Tell me another story about my grandfather,” said Eathel.
Eathel and Haldric were resting the horses with a slower trot after some miles of hard riding. Even the constant that Vampest, his shining, black Teran destrier, blew peals of heat back up at his rider in the early autumn heat.
Behind them the armor of the men rattled, lighter for the scouts ahead and behind them, but a few hundred strong.
“The Lord Dagaszona?” asked Haldric.
“The very same,” said Eathel right back.
“Oh, why would you want to hear about all that?” said Haldric. His smile was wry enough to bake with.
“You marched with and against some very men we face, were their fathers’ fathers, I suppose.”
“And he was my grandfather.”
“Will you ever get tired of listening to a demented old man?”
“Only one of those things is true.”
“I assure you, I am demented as well as old.”
“I think I’ve told all there is to tell.”
This found no purchase with Eathel. “You were with him for an entire lifetime before we met. He was the first Duke of Tera under whom you served. You helped him create the southeast as our most proficient direction for the entitlement.”
“Don’t let your father hear that the Southwest Entitlement is foundering,” said Haldric
“In turn, I’d enjoin you don’t let him hear you say ‘foundering.’ That’s not what I’d call how the Tandhedren is today.”
“I hear the music of a different fiddle, my lord.” Haldric shrugged.
“Do people say that in Seanë?”
‘The music of a different fiddle?’ Yes.” Haldric looked over at Eathel. “What? You don’t say it north of the Cedehan?”
“No. It’s ‘hear a different tune.’”
“Interesting, my lord.”
“Not really,” laughed Eathel.
Serixiphina’s smile of wintery, icy breath sat off his shoulder. Eathel shivered as her smile broadened. It was as if someone were opening the door from a house into the frigid air of Upper Tera.
I was just there. Foundering it is not. It has, he paused, thumbing through the pages of the codex of words in his mind. // Sera, bored and not having anything better to do during these horseback conversations (your stupid rambles, she called them), thought a moment. facing challenges from cunning foes, but serious in our commitment and promise to return the Tandheran a fully pacific state of affairs.
“You’re going to go far, my lord,” said Haldric.
“I’ve got far to go,” said Eathel.
“Modest when it suits his lordship,” said Haldric. “What a politician you will make.”
“Ever do I endeavor to cultivate the skills of the politician. You yourself taught me that.”
“Taught you what?” asked Haldric. Haldric knew that Eathel knew the answer. Haldric himself had all but carved it into the inside of Eathel’s skull. But ritual was to have the lordly apprentice repeat the maxim whenever the opportunity came up.
“‘Ezmas-voca doph aludetiv.’”
That’s right. "Smarts beats those ‘to the manor born.’" It meant, more or less, ‘cunning trumps blood.’ That was an oversimplification though. // Put it to the side, said Sera. At least get back to the war part of the story. Sera vacillated between the poles of blithe disinterest in wanton violence and a bloodlust he’d rarely seen outside of the more depraved men in his father’s army.
“You’re not going to voca mic emasz your way out of this.”
“To our—heretofore—loyal servant Sir Haldric ad Seanë, General in the Army of the Duchy of Tera, we, the Most Noble Earl of Darren and incumbent High Marshal of the Duchy of Tera, do hereby decree and ordain: thou art commanded to tender unto thine august Earl, who beareth the dignity of a Lord, one or more fitting anecdotes, upon peril of the gallows shouldst thou fail to comply.”
“There,” said Eathel. “Now it’s an order, mine vassal,” said Eathel.
“Your lordship, with deepest humility, do I beg mercy, but my fealty is sworn to thine most noble father, not unto thee.”
Eathel sighed. “Verily, thou art in the very bosom of righteousness,” he said, ready to let the matter drop. Although he kind of supposed he was involved now. Let an order hang unheeded.
Haldric turned and looked as if he doubted Eathel’s earnestness.
“You’re still under the command of the Duchy of Tera, over which I am High Marshall. As you know better than I, the one with the word ‘high’ in it outranks even officers as high as Generals. And this High Marshall gives no order twice.”
A little flare of anger lit up Haldric’s face at the grave turn of the conversation. May have overstepped there a bit, said Sera. // I’m of a different mind, said Eathel. Haldric has been too familiar. I was his squire, verily, but I am no longer that. If I want him to follow an order, he will follow it, even if it’s to tell me a story. Loath as I am to admit it, you’re right. See? I did it. Yes you did, said Eathel.
Haldric swallowed his pride. It looked like a bitter pill. But he thought back to the stories he had with his squire’s grandfather and slowly calmed. He smiled when he found one he had not yet told. But then a darkness took away his smile. This story had a comedic beginning, but did not end with that genre’s good humor.
“It has a bad ending,” said Haldric.
“They all do,” said Eathel.
“Well, my lord, you haven’t heard it before.”
“You may proceed,” said Eathel, smiling to signal all was well between them.
Someone was burning leaves miles away, and it must have been a sizable acreage because there were fine caprioles of cinder like snowflakes making lazy caprioles around them.
“This dryness here, well south of the mountains that bifurcate upper from lower Terra—it does always remind me of a time when we were with Soronel, Count Cehedos’s father and his brother.
“We had just plowed through what was then an independent state and stopped at a town that was about one hundred miles north in the foothills of Shemmi.
“The land looks exactly the same as this spent ash heap.
“We had just made peace, albeit at the tip of a sword, and this juggler took these flaming rods and tossed them up into a great height, twirling them around.
“He got drunk, and the flames caught a house on fire—and soon the whole town was up in flames.
“It was a small village, but so much was the devastation of the blaze that it threatened to break the peace.
“People forgot that Dagaszona wasn’t just a great field commander—he was a statesman.
“Because it was such a touchy situation, he had to act in a way that enraged many of his own people to keep the peace of this land he only had just taken.
“It was a crude solution, but it struck the right note.
“It didn’t hurt that he left behind monies enough to restore the town and men to help rebuild it.
“But he had the man burned at the stake.
“That juggler was the elder brother of him who is now the Earl of Dysevo.
“Cyclevio?”
“The same. The father Veyotachs, the sire of the Count Dačev, whose forces are, at the moment, west, with your father.”
“He said, ‘You burned this town. Now I shall burn you in it.’”
“It was a dramatic event that was observed by all offended parties.
“I watched it.
“It was the first time I’d ever seen a man burned at the stake.
“It was horrifying.
“I couldn’t tell what was worse—the screams or the smell.
“To burn a lord at the stake while commoners watched him—those people who had suffered by his negligence—to have them then give them the satisfaction of his passion at the lick of the flame…
“It was too great a slight over that proud house.
“And I don’t think they ever forgave Dagaszona for that.
“And I think that animosity carried well into the current holders of the House of Iotone.”
❗️A return … to Xiatep Tera💥
It didn’t start with open rebellion; it started with some public men and women beginning to speak differently.
That cannier sort who moved in the world adjusted their rhetoric to better match a feeling that rose up from under one’s toes.
The feeling continued to rise through one’s chest and out into the air until everything started to sink then toward a kind of Saturnalia1 but one not lively; one dreary and fraught with tension.
~
“147 pieces silver to this Madta,” said Elmandt. “Did I employ you in error?”
“You have only lately returned from the front,” said Parence.
“Never tell me an excuse,” said Elmandt.
The capital, vast and dense, stank outside the gauzy curtains lilting in the earthy air of the open window, letting in warmth of interminable rain of Xiatep Tera.
The Teran capital was center of the world when matters pertained to trade, vice and games of power.
It was in this way that when war broke out in 1021 no man or woman was surprised by the news; at least those to whom Parence paid a yearly assize of some 1,294 silver pieces across 17 different sources in 12 different households and Bishoprics.
Some gentry were even with him.
~
Beyond the specie, what troubled parence more were the favors, commitments to which his own conscience was witness to consider. By trafficking in these, the gaunt man burrowed ever deeper into debt with the Dukedom.
~
‘Burrowing’ was not quite the right word. It was not the right turn of phrase Parence needed exactly.
No, the right word must be ‘borrowing.’ For now more than ever he was beholden and exposed. He served now not one but dual masters, both exacting I hefty fief.
~
“Three if you count you most immediate sovereign,” said Elmandt. “His hunger for women.”
Parence was a man given over to the sin of lust.
“You were in the Drag. And you were there for the reason of,”
The senior partner at Hasher, Elmandt pinched the bridge of his hooked nose with enough strength to draw pain. His eyes were sealed with disappointment.
Parence told his chief he had indeed been in the half-sunk slum that was the bedrock of Xiatep.
“You tell me you met this girl in a whorehouse?” Elmandt was exasperated in disappointment at his only junior Iscaer.2
“A girl she is, this is true,” said Parence. “But it was not long until the Earl Eathel of Darren agreed with me Madta Cagenet was fast becoming far more woman than girl.”
“How dare you gauge any profit might be born of this misguided scheme,” said Elmandt.
~
For this, the weak Parence may be forgiven, for him to which the young lawyer was bonded was known to be a mercurial young man.
A fable of Haliday
OR; Märchen über Honigeize3
~
We return to Eathel and his band. They ride hard and Eathel bids his storyteller Haliday to relay one of his tales.
~
LONG AGO IN ATOLOS, there was once a little girl born to a humble farmer and his wife. They had yearned for a child but sadly had not been blessed with one until they were well into their older years. To them, though unexpected, the birth of their daughter, healthy and happy, was a blessing.
They were an Olteran family, and the tradition there is to name a child after the nature of the family’s provider’s living; as her father was a farmer, he wanted to name her “Eiza,” which means a little flowering sprout of iceberry. The mother, however, wanted to name her “Honic” after her honey-colored hair. “Honic” or “Honig” both are used for “honey” in Oltera.
So in the end, they settled on Honigeize, which means “little honeywheat” in Oltera.
Years went by, and even as Honigeize grew into a young woman of astonishing beauty, her parents grew more ill with each year. She was troubled by this and resolved to help. Though their farm was just a little plot deep in the country, Honigeize walked into town every day to fetch what medicine she could from the apotheque.
It was in the town square the son of the king saw Honigeize striding across the main square with her head held high and her golden hair peeking out of her stark white linen coif, and was breath taken by her lovely form, which was clear to see despite the modesty of her dress.
The maiden, unknowingly herself, took every one of his senses away entirely, beguiling his gaze; he was seduced to follow her.
It was the prerogative of the prince that he could take any woman in his father’s kingdom as his wife. So he resolved at that instant to have her as his own. He found out who she was and, even though she was a commoner, took her as his lawful wife.
Though the man was a stranger to Honigeize, he was comely and stimulating in conversation enough. More importantly, he promised his betrothed that his men would send to her parents a bag of gold coins every month. His father the king would assign tenants to work the fields. He promised to send his royal doctor to tend to them and give them the best care. She could visit any time she wanted, and this proved to be the prince’s undoing.
“And then what happened?” asked Wenham.
“Well, it’s funny you should ask,” said Haliday. “For the saga continues forthwith.”
“Honigeize’s father was so happy at the change in the family’s fortunes that he thanked his beloved daughter with tears in his eyes, and her mother kissed her on her forehead.
“Honigeize’s heart was warmed because her elders had raised her well and with constant love, and Honigeize felt she was being a good daughter to them that poured affection so liberally into her childhood. It was this charity on Honigeize’s part that ultimately ensnared her.”
Haliday indulged in a smirk. He let the silence hang until Wenham and Utamore grunted with impatience. Only then did he continue.
“At first, all was well with Honigeize’s life. Her dear parents were cared for. The prince proved a dashing and handsome man who brought a great deal of excitement into her life.
“Things happened very quickly. He overwhelmed her with gifts and embraced her every time they met. He whispered little commitments into the nape of her neck as they held one another at night.
“He mumbled promises that he would never love any other. He spun nice little sentences, that she was his world entire.
“He kissed her ear and said into it with a deep, resonant voice that he would love her with all the passion he lavished upon her now as long as they lived.
“Honigeize awoke happier every day. She was becoming besotted with the prince. She had grown to find him very attractive. Honigeize began to feel the strings of her heart grow taut when he went away. Now, when he sauntered toward her, cheeks ablaze with smile, and his left hand draped over the polished hilt of his saber, there was a weaving, tickling cloud of butterflies in the base of her stomach. None had been there before.
“She learned how he wanted to be loved, and how to hold him in bed. She taught herself what he liked to hear his partner say. Before long, the prince rushed to visit Honigeize’s bed every night.”
“Hell,” said Utamore. “This girl’s all right.”
Haliday nodded with mock gravity, as if to say “I told you.” Then he continued.
“This prince was profuse in his love at the outset of affairs; voluble in his charming lines of poetry and wit; and alluring in his person. Yet little did Honigeize know that he was the specie of man who grew bored—and with a rapidity.
“Whatever had theretofore bewitched his interest, that thing, one day, ineluctably, devolved into a distraction or annoyance. As years went by, he grew bored of Honigeize and moved his attentions elsewhere, to other wheat fields, one might say.”
Everyone laughed.
“This defect in character was one thing, but the prince was even more sinister than that. He had found an afflicted person in his demesne, practicing as a witch. On threat of death, he entombed her in a lair in his dungeons. There she did his bidding. This wicked woman was diseased with the stain, cursed by God. Unrepentant, she rapaciously pursued the evil powers of her curse, growing wise in alchemy and les arts obscurs.
“This witch had a spell that would make in one day a morphoba of the young woman, from birth to her present adulthood, like her in every—”
“What’s that?” asked Wenham.
Hal was just getting on a roll and smacked his lips in agitation. “What’s what?” asked the storyteller.
“A morfona?” asked Wenham.
“You don’t have morphobas north of Reondir?” asked Haliday.
Wenham shook his head. No one had heard of morphobas except for Dhalen, who was from West Hratherast and so knew the tales of the local people.
“A morphoba is another person, made again by magic.”
“Like raising the dead?”
“No, that’s something different. The person who is,” Hal paused, looking for some kind of word that didn’t exist, “morphobatized is still alive. It’s like an imprint of that person. Another one of them walking around.”
“A twin,” said Eathel.
“Yes, lord, like a twin,” said Haliday. “The kind of twins that look so much like one another you cannot tell them apart unless you get to know them very well.”
Hal continued:
“Though the prince was bored of his wife in person, he was still charged with lust at her form. They had passed that early part of marriage where no one of the newlyweds strayed too long from the other’s embrace. So he inveighed upon the witch to make her potion, and thus make of his wife a sister.
“But oh, they don’t know how I loved you, do they? They cannot touch you the way I did, can they? They may be innocent to your ways and still come alive to your touch as if they first were meeting you, but they do not have that slower-burning knowledge that leaves you out of breath and spent just as the pale blue light rises.”
The men whooped and hollered.
“Fine, so she tricks him by promising a three-way. She and her sisters kill him. What’s the moral of the story?”
“Don’t do magic,” said Eathel.
“Quite,” said Sera.
A Saturnalia was an ancient Roman celebration in January during which servants adopted the roles of their betters, and their betters assumed the roles of their inferiors in turn.
Iscaer is the Teran equivalent of esquire, appended to the end of an attorney’s salutation.
Märchen über Honigeize translates to The Tale of Honeywheat in German.