The Lord Eldric sat square in his ornate chair at the head of the table. He was staring straight ahead and his hands were gripping the carved animal heads that decorated the ends of the chair’s arms. He was abnor-mally still. Only a pulse in his temple and his whitened knuckles gave any measure of his thoughts.
A fire was burning in the large hearth and its flicker-ing lights offered the only movement in the room. Even the house dogs had stopped their ceaseless prowling up and down among the guests, and the guests themselves were sitting as still as their Lord, every eye, without exception, watching him. Apart from the crackling of the fire, the only sound in the hall was the breathing of the newly arrived messenger, standing stock-still by the Lord, but still breathless from his long and frantic journey.
One of the dogs whined a little. Eldric breathed out a sigh of resignation and turned to the messenger.
‘You are…?’ he asked quietly.
‘Hrostir, Lord. Second son of the Lord Arinndier. Serving with his High Guard.’
Eldric nodded in acknowledgement and turned his gaze forward again. The tension seemed to have gone from him a little, but the pulse still throbbed in his temple.
‘I recognize you now, Hrostir. You’ve grown a great deal since I last saw you. How is your father?’
‘Well when I left him, Lord, but that was some time ago. I’ve been on Palace duty.’
Eldric nodded, then his face twisted momentarily into a spasm of distress, and his hands tightened once more on the wooden heads of the chair arms. Leaning forward, he took up the document that Hrostir had given him, and looked at it for the second time.
‘You’ve done well, Hrostir,’ he said, his deep voice regaining its normal tone of command. ‘Very well. Your father can be proud of you.’ He raised his hand and indicated the table. ‘Join our meal. Take what you want, then rest yourself. I’ll need to talk to you very shortly.’
‘My horse, Lord,’ said Hrostir.
‘It’s being tended, Lord,’ volunteered the servant who had brought the insistent messenger into the hall. Eldric nodded to the servant and then again to Hrostir, to indicate that he could now eat with a clear con-science. Hrostir bowed and made his way to one of the empty seats that were always left at the Festival table.
Eldric rested his head on his hand thoughtfully for a moment and then beckoned the servant. The man bent forward to receive his instructions and then left the hall quickly. Eldric turned his attention to his guests, his bearded face a mixture of anger and sudden weariness.
‘My friends,’ he said. ‘It’s said to be a good omen when an unexpected guest arrives at the First Feast of the Grand Festival. And I consider it particularly auspicious that the guest is the son of my old friend. However, we’re in need of such an omen, for he’s brought… grim news. His disturbance of our feast is our pleasure, but I fear the paper he’s brought will disturb us less pleasantly.’
He paused as if reluctant to say the words out loud. Then, sensible of his duties, and like a man who must kill a wounded horse, swiftly and cleanly, leaving the mourning for another time, he spoke.
‘The King has suspended the Geadrol. The Great Council of Lords is to sit no more.’
His tone was a mixture of defiance and resignation, and its cutting edge severed the tension in the hall. A hubbub of disbelief, anger and shock rose up from his guests. Eldric sat back in his chair with his head bowed until the babble faded away as one persistent voice spoke all their questions.
‘What does it mean, Lord?’
The questioner was Tirke, a friend of Eldric’s son Jaldaric, currently seconded, like Hrostir, to the King’s service in the capital of Fyorlund, Vakloss. Eldric did not like Tirke. He considered him to be impatient, rash and arrogant, and his assessment was indeed accurate as far as it went. However, for his son’s sake he tolerated him, aware that if he forbade the friendship it might continue clandestinely and the guilt of this would probably bring Jaldaric further under Tirke’s influence.
He remembered a vulgar barrack-room epithet about it being better to have someone inside the tent ‘looking’ out rather than outside ‘looking’ in, and the thought made him smile unexpectedly. The smile coloured his view of Tirke. He was, after all, only a young lad, and we all do foolish things when we are young.
‘It means, Tirke, what it says. The Geadrol is sus-pended. The King will rule without the benefit of the advice of his Lords.’
‘And restraint,’ said a voice to his left. Eldric nodded a worried acknowledgement.
‘He can’t do that,’ burst out Tirke, banging his hand on the table. Several voices were raised in agreement. Eldric picked up the paper and brandished it.
‘He has done it,’ he said. ‘I’m no lawyer, but I imag-ine this edict is legal and within the Law. Rgoric has had many troubles in his reign and much personal sadness, and not all his actions have been of the wisest, but I’m sure he’d do nothing that wasn’t legal nor in the best interests of the country, however it might appear to us at the moment.’
Tirke made a contemptuous noise.
‘He’s been working for this for years. Chipping away at the rights and power of the Geadrol bit by bit, all with this in mind.’
Eldric opened his mouth to speak, but Tirke contin-ued. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Eldric, but I must speak as I think. You know I’m right. He’s steadily reduced the effective-ness of the Geadrol over many years, and he picks now to do this. Not just the Festival of the Four Guardians, but the Grand Festival, when everyone’s away to their estates. Only once in six years does this happen.’
Eldric was beginning to become angry. Though whether it was Tirke’s unpleasant, hectoring manner, or because he felt inclined, against his Oath of Fealty, to agree with him, he could not have said.
‘Tirke, these are times of change. Troubled times. The King isn’t blessed with the good health that most of us are fortunate in… ’ He lost his train of thought and shook his head irritably. In any event, he doubted he could plead too well on behalf of the King.
Somewhat at a loss he said. ‘Why would he want to rule without his Lords, Tirke? Why? It’s difficult enough even with advisers.’
Tirke looked at him impatiently and leaned forward on the table.
‘The King wants all authority in his hands.’
‘Authority?’ queried Eldric. ‘Authority. What is au-thority, Tirke? It’s not a thing that can be seized like a… goblet.’ He picked up a glass in demonstration. ‘Authority can only be given, and freely given at that. Given by the people to the Lords and the King. And it’s hedged about by our ancient Law, for the protection of all. You can’t seize a gift. And anyway, who’d want to seize such a burden as the rule of all Fyorlund?’
His age seemed to have fallen from him and his voice was strong and firm, but Tirke was not daunted.
‘Lord Eldric, with respect, you speak of things as they should be. I speak of them as they are. You speak from a good and just heart, a heart that can’t see evil in people.’
Eldric’s eyes narrowed.
‘Take care, Tirke. You abuse your friendship with my son, and the Festival hospitality. Your talk is nearly treasonable.’
But Tirke was not listening. His excitement and anger carried his thoughts beyond his discretion.
‘I mean no disrespect to the King, Lord, but he’s a sick man. Even with the Lords’ advice, it’s difficult for him to fulfil the duties of Kingship. We here all know that Dan-Tor is the real Kingly authority, and has been for years.’
He wrinkled his mouth in distaste at the name of the King’s chief adviser and physician.
‘Enough, Tirke,’ said Eldric loudly. The lad was telling the truth, but Eldric could not allow the King to be impugned. ‘Lord Dan-Tor, Tirke, is thought of most highly by the King. He’s brought him great comfort and solace in his many troubles.’
Then, to try to calm the young man, he continued, ‘Although I admit he’s not to everyone’s liking. We should be thankful for what he’s done for our King.’
The slight softening of his tone did not have the effect he sought. It released a monumental outburst from Tirke. He banged his fist on the table again and jumped to his feet.
‘Lord Eldric, are you blind? That… devil’s spawn out of Narsindal has our King strung like a puppet. It’s he who wants… ’
‘Enough!’ Eldric’s voice thundered down the table and stopped Tirke in mid-sentence. The sudden impact made him step back and he reached down with one hand to hold his chair to prevent himself from stum-bling over it. Suddenly sobered, his face went white. Eldric too had stood up. He was quivering with rage and his normally ruddy face was livid. His grey beard and hair seemed almost to be bristling.
‘Enough. I told you before that you abused my son’s friendship and my hospitality. Now you impugn the King and his advisers and you mention the name of that land at my Festival Feast.’ He pushed his chair back angrily and strode around the table until he stood facing Tirke.
Tirke stood very still, looking at him, his mouth tight and his eyes fearful.
‘Go to your quarters, Tirke,’ said Eldric, unexpect-edly quietly, but with a barely controlled rage. ‘Reflect on what you’ve said and allow calmer judgements to prevail. I’ll attribute your indiscretion to the fine wine we’ve had tonight.’
Tirke nodded an awkward bow and turned hesi-tantly as if to address the watching guests. Then he turned back to Eldric and a tremor passed over his face as he fought to control himself. He opened his mouth to speak, but Eldric’s eyes froze his words, and he turned away stiffly and marched to the doorway of the hall, his shoulders hunched high with tension and his fists clenching and unclenching.
Eldric watched the empty doorway for some time and then slowly returned to his seat. He slumped down on it despondently as the last of his anger suddenly left him. He felt slightly repentant. Tirke had been the recipient of the fears and shock that had arisen in him with the arrival of Hrostir and the Edict. He looked up at his guests sitting uncertainly about the table laden with the remains of the Festival Feast.
‘I’m sorry, my friends,’ he said, ‘but the lad went too far, Festival or no.’
There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘I think his heart’s in the right place, but his mouth’s another matter.’
The little jest eased the tension around the table and Eldric, sitting back in his chair, raised his hand to prevent anyone speaking.
‘I’ve already sent to the Lords Arinndier, Darek and Hreldar, and asked them to attend me here so that we can discuss this matter,’ he gestured towards the paper, ‘and decide what to do. If necessary we’ll go to Vakloss and ask the King for an accounting. I’m sure that some sound reason lies behind this deed, and that a simple asking will elicit it.’
No one offered any comment. Most of them were inclined to agree with Tirke, if not with his manners, but no one felt inclined to argue with their Lord that night. Eldric stood up and smiled.
‘I’m afraid I’ve disturbed our humble celebration and I apologize. However, I’ve done all that I can do about our news until my friends arrive so I see no reason why our festivities shouldn’t continue.’
He clapped his hands loudly and the hall was sud-denly filled with light and cheerful music. The clouds that had gathered disappeared as servants and guests alike hastily cleared the tables and began the traditional dancing and singing with which the beginning of the week-long Festival was always celebrated.
The Geadrol was the King’s Council of Lords. It advised him in all matters and was an ancient institution. It had no leader; not even the King himself when he chose to attend and join in the debates. Nor did it have any formal spokesman to take its considerations to the King; this task was allocated according to a strict rota.
The debates were governed by a strictly observed precedent. One Lord would speak, and would be allowed to say his piece fully, then another would speak similarly, a scribe taking note of all that was said. After a while, one Lord would, if he felt able, summarize the various arguments, referring as need arose to the scribe or to the Lords themselves for clarification. If his summary was accepted by the main participants, then the matter would be thrown open to further debate, and he would act as Gatherer until a satisfactory conclusion had been reached.
Necessarily, the task of Gatherer tended to fall mainly to the older and more experienced Lords, though by no means always.
The conduct of the Geadrol was the envy of houses of government in many distant lands, but its success was due mainly to the stern discipline of the Fyordyn and, as an institution, it did not travel well.
By tradition, the Lords in Geadrol were always dressed and armed for war, but voices were never raised, and interruptions were made only by the scribe or Gatherer. All had an opportunity to state their case as fully as they wished, and discussion continued until a wide agreement had been reached. The matter would then be laid before the King, whose acceptance was usually a formality.
Only when the nation was threatened could this procedure be modified, and then only slightly. The Geadrol would appoint a small group of its more experienced members to handle matters. They, together with the King, would use the same principle of thorough debate, but with less formality and greater urgency.
No one could say that the Geadrol was a form of government suitable for making rapid decisions, but under normal circumstances, the quality of the Lords’ debates, their judicious though not slavish regard for precedent, and their innate tolerance, ensured that such advice as was given to the King ensured in turn a society that was, for the most part, free from those disturbances that made rapid decisions necessary.
The whole was governed by the Law. Like the Gead-rol, this relied heavily on precedent and it could only be altered by the King and his Geadrol, ‘The greater part of the people freely consenting’.
When the guests had departed to their rooms, Eldric sat alone, surveying the scattered remains of the feast. The sight of his normally spartan hall so happily dishevelled, with its panelled walls and elaborately moulded ceiling lit by the traditional many-coloured torches, and everything decorated with winter and spring blossoms, never failed to induce a mellowness in him that he relished. His father had been a great celebrator of the Festival and its joy was rooted deep in Eldric’s memo-ries.
He nodded to himself. In spite of the sombre inter-ruption, it had been a lively affair, a fine honouring of the First Day of the Grand Festival.
There would be more events through the week: more feasting and dancing, bonfires, pageants, games and above all, traditional masques portraying the great events of Fyorlund’s history, with splendid arch-villains to be hissed, and great heroes to be cheered. It was a happy up-ending of all the normal social disciplines and Eldric knew that the traditional momentum of the Grand Festival would allow his guests to continue their celebrations largely unclouded by the news of the King’s actions. But he himself was less favoured. Now, for the first time since the Morlider War, matters of state responsibility would dominate his thoughts through this happy time, and drag his oldest friends from their own celebrations.
He frowned and leaned back in his chair. As he did so, his eye fell on the small shrine of the Four Guardi-ans. It was standing in its place of honour against the north wall of the hall where it had been placed with all due ceremony to mark the opening of the Festival. Around it were candles whose light glittered from the ubiquitous Fyordyn symbol that topped the shrine-a polished iron ring.
The shrine was a simple, old-fashioned piece of work. No one even dared to suggest to Eldric that he replace it with one of the more modern representations that came from Dan-Tor’s workshops in Vakloss. In his mind he knew its every detail. The figures were old and worn, and bore only intermittent traces of their original paintwork. They and their shrine had been in his family for many generations, and he remembered the feeling of comfort and security that they used to give him when he was a child. He smiled as he thought of it, and wondered if his own son, Jaldaric, would in turn look back on such a memory.
Heaving himself up out of his chair he walked, a little shakily, across to the shrine. Then crouching down as he used to, he brought his face close to it and peered in at the scene. Apart from the warmth of the nearby candles on his cheek nothing from the outside world impinged on his senses.
As was traditional, three of the Guardians, Sphaeera, Enartion and Theowart had their backs to the watcher, and were gazing out across the black waters of Lake Kedrieth, where Sumeral, the Enemy of Life, had sunk from this world of men after a terrible battle with the Kings and Peoples of the Great Alliance. Somewhere hidden in the shrine, Eldric knew, would be a figure representing the fourth Guardian, Ethriss, the Guardian of Life who vanished from the field at the very moment of victory. It would be well hidden by the makers of the shrine because to find it would be a bad omen, a sign of the Second Coming of Sumeral.
The saga of the defeat of Sumeral was a stirring allegory of the conflict between evil and good that must be fought continually in all men. No one knew the real, time-shrouded, origins of this myth, or why it should hold such strong sway in the minds of the Fyordyn. Nor why it should be celebrated with yearly revels leading up to the Grand Festival every sixth year, with its intangible but powerful sense of reaffirmation. That it was the relic of ancient celebrations of thanksgiving for the passing of winter seemed to Eldric to be a peculiarly vapid explanation.
Eldric looked past the Guardians into the inky depths of Lake Kedrieth, and felt again his childhood wonder at the skill of the artist in the sinister quality imbued in its dark, glistening surface.
He smiled, a little ruefully. That had been a long time ago. Times were simpler then. Now, Fyorlund’s King was weak and ailing. There was no heir from his lovely queen to continue the royal line that had been unbroken for centuries. Lords on the northern borders had been declared rebels simply for opposing his will in the matter of quite reasonably extending their High Guards. And now this-the suspension of the Geadrol-an almost unbelievable act. And over all stretched the gaunt, enigmatic figure of the King’s personal adviser and physician, Dan-Tor.
Eldric looked deep into the little model of Lake Kedrieth. Its lifeless surface seemed to ripple slowly and ominously, as if something far below it were stirring. He shuddered and stood up, resting his weight on his cracking knees. He grunted at the sound. He did not like becoming old. Its sole consolation was that it had given him the experience to better use the wits it had left him. And he would need them. People would be looking to him for some response to Rgoric’s action.
He turned and beckoned Varak, the Commander of his High Guard.