The Book of the Broken

Ambridge

Osric Wulfstan rode between Myrne and Polly who thought, How handsome he is, How strong. How very regal.

But he was always like that. I wonder if he knows.

The journey up to Ambridge was that of a day, and the three of them traveled without Michael—whom, having a price on his head, they had left at the abbey—but with Hilda and a small troop of monks joined by Odo. They went up the valley, crossed the river, and beheld Ambridge an hour before evening. It was a mighty city spread on both side of the Great Ahm, the chief holding of the ancient kingdom of Inglad which, though now a holding of Hale, had sat a long line of Ayl rulers. The last of them had been Ossa and centuries later the marks of her golden age still rested upon her city. But when she died, she’d had no heirs except the King of Hale, and the Kings of Hale chose Ambridge rather than return to the cold north.

Dominating the skyline of white stone edifices and tall, red tiled houses was the length of Whitestone Castle, and the height of the pillared and low triangular roof of the Cathedral. Ambridge was older than its name, founded by the Sincercians as their northernmost city during the height of their empire, and the great temples and arches of old Heboracum still remained. Centuries later, when the New Faith had come, the beautiful structure of the great temple had become the Cathedral that loomed from the height of Saint Aidan’s hill.

“Magnificent,” Wolf breathed, craning has neck as they entered through the Janus Gate.

Everywhere were great noisy markets except for where they entered expansive plazas and, as evening came, they reached the river, and one of the many bridges that gave the busy capital of Inglad its name. Crossing they could see the glory of its palaces and shops, the busyness of a city which, even as night approached, was not ready for sleep.

The other side of the river was more subdued, closer to the palace and the most important holdings. Stately townhouses of lords, the high stone chapters hours of great guilds and the meeting places of the Great Gamot. As they rode into the courts of Whitestone, Hilda was not impressed at all. The gates opened for them easily, for this was the Abbess of Saint Clew, joined to the Abbot of Saint Fundagast in Daumany, the Prince Odo.

“How courteous they are,” Wolf commented, as they dismounted in the flagstone courtyard, and King Edmund, came out to greet them, surrounded by functionaries. “I wonder what is truly moving in their heads.”

Earlier they had discussed what Queen Edith’s plans had been.

“To disgrace me of course,” the newly made Abbess Hilda had said, but Odo turned to her and said, “Friend, there are, for royals, plans within plans and still more plans. You know this.”

They had both grown up in courts and now Hilda acknowledged this, but it was Polly who said, “Queen Edith has a cousin, Rowena.”

“I remember this,” Hilda had murmured. “Rowena was to enter the order. She was at Saint Clew a year, and then she was gone.”

Pollanikar nodded.

“This Rowena would have been moved in to replace you,” Polly said.

“Can they even do that?” Myrne demanded.

“If I had been disgraced,” Hilda said, “the King could have made an emergency move to put Rowena in, and this is probably what Edith planned.”

But, upon entering the castle, Hilda spoke not a word to King Edmund. The Abbess of Saint Clew marched across the flags of the court and through the high Waydan Door into the main hall of Whitestone Castle with as much command as Abbess Gertrude before her had ever employed. The courtiers in their rich gowns of scarlet, emerald, indigo, saffron, women in high hats, hair covered by sheer veils, swirled about to face her, ceased all conversation, ready for her appearance, hardly seeing Odo, Wolf , Myrne or Polly.

Before her throne, amidst her family, stood the tall, platinum haired Queen Edith. She was all in white and white stones, a high, veiled hat perched on the end of her head as she made a small bow.

As the Queen began to speak, the Abbess slowly approached her.

“Abbess, I heard of the trouble you encountered, and of the enemies who sought to take from you your virtue, and I am glad that you have survived intact—”

But no sooner was this lie out of Edith’s mouth, then in a swirl of black, Hilda lunged forward and struck the Queen solidly across her face.

“Lying whore!” the Abbess of Saint Clew’s voice rang from high white walls while Queen Edith, with the help of her brother, came up off the ground.

“All in this house know of your plot to deflower me, and how you sent false monks into my house and how they were subdued.”

Her voice rang off the high walls, not swallowed by the banners hanging from them, and King Edmund said, “Sister-”

“Abbess!” Hilda hissed.

“Abbess,” Edmund said again, “this charge is a grave one.”

But just then they heard a shrieking, and the Queen turned around and said, “Unhand her.”

Pollanikar, the only Royan in the room, held by the scruff of her neck the Lady Rowena Baldwin, and Hilda said, “Tell me truthfully, did you plan for her to replace me?”

“I don’t know what you mean—” Edith began.

“The truth! The truth!”  Rowena, brown haired, white throated in a red gown cried. “Tell the truth!”

“Tell it,” Polly encouraged.

“A lie may see war with the South,” Hilda added.

 Regardless of how Cedd and Morgellyn felt about her, they would have to defend her, and both of them were marrying into the House of Sussail.

“Rowena,” Edith turned to her cousin, looking sad and surprised, “Did you plan this?”

“I did not!” the brown haired woman stepped back, but did not escape Polly.

“Admit it,” Allyn Baldwin said, gently, “and your punishment will probably be small.”

Polly released Rowena in disgust, and Hilda frowned as Rowena cried: “I did nothing! You know I had nothing to do with it.”

“Cousin, please,” Edith’s face grew more sad, and Rowena cried out.

“Liars, all! Uncle Ulfin plotted this!” she told Hilda. “He told Edith. Edith told the King. The truth—”

But Ulfin Baldwin turned, and the pale haired, pale eyed man stared into the blue eyes of brown faced Polly. For a moment they knew one another, and then, just like that, he took out a knife. Polly took in a breath as the knife whizzed past her neck and there was a spraying fountain of blood. But it was not hers. Rowena collapsed on the ground, gasping, scratching at her bleeding throat, and then, after gurgling helplessly, she was dead.

Queen Edith, all her white clothes sprayed red, stood aghast, and her father looked back at her.

“My lord, King Edmund, in the name of the Abbey and the Holy Communion of God, take this man away,” Hilda said. “In the name of the Holy Orders he has plotted against and your very Throne, have him sent away.”

“Send him away!” Myrne’s voice trembled with horror. She had not expected to speak. She certainly had not expected to be seen, and from the looks of all around her, their expectations were the same.

Myrne took a breath, inspired by Wolf as well as frightened for him.

. “I am Myrne Ceoldane, Daughter of Edric of Herreboro and a lady of the Rootless Isle by my mother’s blood. You know me well. In the name of the ancient houses, send that man away.”

And then, in the court, they were all looking at Ulfin, and slowly the courtiers began to echo:

“Send him away. Away, away. Send him away.”

One shouted: “Send him away! Send him away!”

It built up:

“Away! “Away!”

“Away!” Odo pronounced, and Hilda demanded, “Away.”

“Edmund’ll be only too glad to do it,” Odo said as the guards surrounded Ulfin. “He’s been looking for a way to get rid of Ulfin for years. Plotter. Murderer of his own kin. It’s all over for him now.”

Cair Daronwy

“What in the world are you singing?”

Anson stopped.

“You don’t like it?”

“You’ve a fair voice and you know it, but it sounded familiar—the song—and I cannot place it.”

“I just know the tune really,” Anson said. “It’s one of Pol’s favorites. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it before.”

“Maybe I had other things to think of than Pol’s favorite song.”

“Maybe you did,” Anson agreed, “but you have nothing better to think of now, and if you’d paid attention before, you might know now.”

Ohean grimaced, but Anson sang:

    

“First was the mage

Who moved from age to age

And second was his hero strong

 

Third was the I’m not quite sure

 with a burr and a burr!”

 

“You’re improvising.”

“I am,” Anson said, “But then here comes the bridge, or the chorus, excuse me.”

 

Anson cleared his throat and croaked—it was late, and he had been smoking:

 

“Seven came down

Oh, and seven came down!”

Anson was about to go on, attempting to remember more, when he stopped at the look on Ohean’s face.

“Wizard, what?” he said.

“Where is that song from?” Ohean said.

“It’s an old folk song. About a war… Probably a hundred years ago.”

“No it, isn’t.”

Anson frowned, a little irritated.

“If you knew, why in the eighty-nine hells did you ask?”

Ohean ignored this, shaking his head.

“That is a spell of a sort. It is not a song. Or not only a song. It’s—” Ohean interrupted himself with a yawn, “too late to wake Pol up, but… in the morning…”

“Is it really important?”

Ohean opened his mouth, closed it, frowned.

“I do not know. I… I think perhaps we must go to the Rootless Isle. I think things may be going on that we do not really understand. More than the simple struggles of kings and queens, more than politics as usual. There always is more, really. As I am now, unawakened, I only get glimmers. You as Prince of Ondres, that song, Ermengild’s daughter disappearing and never coming back. I need to understand more and I have kept myself from understanding.”

“As have I,” Anson said.

Ohean said nothing, but Anson said, “I have stayed away from my Royan heritage, not commited to learning the Skill or… much of anything. Only wanted to be a soldier. And if you are right, if something is happening, we’d better find out. We’ve already been pushed out of Westrial into the Old Kingdoms.”

Ohean nodded.       

As Anson lay before Ohean, he said, “They say you are Arsennon reborn. They do. I’ve heard even my father call you this, Akkabeth, the great mage to glorious Avred Oss, the Once and Future King” Anson said. “They really believe it.”

Ohean turned on his side and looked at Anson patiently.

“Are you asking out of curiousity about me or about you?”

“Every time Akkrabeth comes into the world, he is accompanied by a mighty warrior,” Anson said, “this much I remember of Royan lore. Shall I be the emperor, the hero or the king?”

Ohean did not answer immediately. He turned over and Anson almost thought he had gone to sleep when finally he spoke.

“I… have to go to the Rootless Isle to undergo the Ethane.”

“The Ethane?”

“It is when all one’s past lives are restored,” Ohean said. “If indeed one does have past lives. I know that I do. I suspect you do as well. Many do.”

“Should I go through this… Ethane?”

“No,” Ohean shook his head.

“But I should. I have to.”

“Do you think Pol’s little song can help us at all?”

“I do, actually,” Ohean said. “It is about the Seven.”

“The Seven?”

Ohean shook his head. “Not now, love. In the morning. If you can wait.”

Anson yawned now.

“Yes, Ohean, I think I can.”

“I think,” Ohean said, “that once I waited for the Gods to effect something, and then I would move, their humble instrument who could do little else. Now it is different. Now I think there is something of doing what we are led to do, but much of making things happen, and that anything we want to happen we must make happen. You want to be King.”

“I don’t,” Anson protested. Then he said, “Well, not necessarily, only I…”

“If you cannot look at your own ambition, then how can anyone help you?”

Anson was still. Now he frowned, and then he sat up, hitting the bed.

“Well then, fine!” Anson said. “Damnit, I do. I want to rule Westrial. I want to be what Cedd pushed me out of being.”

“Then you must kill your brother,” Ohean said simply.

Anson blinked at Ohean.

“You are mad.”

“I am stating the obvious.”

“I am… I am not a murderer. You know this.”

Ohean nodded.

“I do know this.”

“Then—”

“You must find another ambition.”

Ohean called for the light to go out. As he settled into the bed, and Anson settled in beside him, he said:

“Or you must find another way.”