When news of the Mediator’s demise reached the Honorbound, expedience brought each to Neurial within the next half day. By whatever winged beast they could procure, those yet too far to reach the city by horse answered the emergency summons by flight, and within the hour of the last’s arrival they met to confer on this new crisis. Until now, Amelia had thought it wise to wait outside of the capital until hearing word of Develli’s success, and thus was among the last to arrive after learning of Sevner’s death. Given no time to scout out the city or gather information beforehand, when entering the meeting hall she had no knowledge concerning how the other Honorbound were taking the news. It mattered little, she determined, as everyone simply presented themselves in much the same manner that they always did when gathered, with each wearing the same masks of blank indifference that were typical of these occasions.
Given how inconsequential Sevner truly was to their affairs, and moreover, how many of the Honorbound thought of him, this outward showing of apathy wasn’t a surprise. Yet these stoic pretenses were quickly abandoned without a Mediator’s presence to keep the Honorbound in check, and discourse between them devolved far faster than usual into the hurling of baseless accusations and blame. Highloft’s Honorbound, Clavicus Kross, took the brunt of this vehemence, as it was he alone who was inside of Dragon’s Teeth when Sevner was assassinated. Of course, not everyone sitting at the table was bold enough to outright claim that Kross was the one at fault (though everyone was inclined to believe that the Crystarian-blood was involved in the Mediator’s murder in some way).
Norn Vanderlocke, Honorbound of the Hold, launched the most presumptuous of allegations, and given what Amelia knew of him, this was not unexpected. Headstrong and arrogant, Vanderlocke was much like Kross in that he too wished to depose of Cambria’s Mediator. However, Norn strived to see the exchanged of power carried out through fair and legitimate means, a far cry from the deceptive Crystarian who was not half as noble as he seemed. And yet, that Kross appeared so obviously guilty implied that there was little chance that he was truly to blame, if only because Amelia knew the man to be exceedingly cautious when covering his steps. Never would the Crystarian take action if he was uncertain of his full success, and killing the Mediator while he alone was present would do naught but pull his plotting into the light. Indeed, Kross would be closely watched now that Sevner had been assassinated, and anything the man had wished to accomplish while in Dragon’s Teeth would now be all but impossible to achieve.
Never would Kross have bungled a plan to this degree, and because of his likely innocence, the Crystarian weathered every accusation flung his way with an uncaring sort of ease. Even so, he could not freely retaliate given the precarious position he was now in, and currently unable to prove the truth, he could not yet clear his name. Kross thus held his tongue for most of the conversation that followed after this initial confrontation, but though defanged, he was not prevented from silently casting his own accusations of guilt. Though unable to put his suspicions to voice, more than once did the Crystarian stare warningly at Amelia. It was obvious that he had some reason to think that it was she who had killed the Mediator, but hardly could he make such an outrageous claim without some equal measure of proof. Fortunately, Amelia had no part in what had befallen Sevner, this was the simple truth, and so there was nothing Kross could put forward in faith to support his false assumptions.
And for untold hours their voices clashed as tempers flared in the search for truth, but by the end of it they had learned nothing, gained nothing, but disjointed thoughts, parched throats and varying degrees of headache. Precisely as Amelia had foreseen, most of the questions that had been posed had likewise been left unanswered, and any potential clues of fault—if indeed there were any—were lost in the chaotic tumult of their arguing. Inevitably, the entirety of the table was simply left feeling both disgruntled and dissatisfied, though this was the common result of lengthy squabbles that lacked the neutral insight of a Mediator.
Because of this, and because of their current inability to prove or learn of anything, the Honorbound agreed to move on to other matters that they did have the means to solve. At the present time, the people of Neurial knew nothing of the Mediator’s sudden demise, and this supplied them with a widespread state of ignorance that they could use to their advantage. Even the most transparent of the Honorbound were willing to collude on keeping Sevner’s death a secret for the time being; long enough, at least, to allot them time to concoct a plan. To reveal the truth without knowing how to proceed would only entice mass hysteria, and so they would not risk relaying the knowledge until they could successfully mitigate the resulting damage. Considering that they could give no explanation for the Mediator’s death, nor a proper direction for moving forward without him, the Honorbound had no choice but to wait until things were settled amongst themselves before they could move on to public relations.
But more importantly than this was that the start of Snowsbloom was a time reserved for celebration, and the Honorbound could not easily deny the Cambrian people their revelry without invoking consequence. The country was a swirling cesspool of foul emotions due to the unrest within their provinces, and it had become even further unstable thanks to the Springtide mirth. There was no telling what the citizenry would do if they were to so suddenly learn the truth. At the very least there would be panic, and at worst, full on revolt, with both possibilities made increasingly worse by the number of visitors flooding the city. There would come a day, eventually, when the Honorbound could reveal that the Mediator was dead, but it was nothing that they could speak of in public until they had decided on what to do.
And it took hours, countless hours, before the lot of them could unanimously agree on a remedial course of action. It was apparent that no one had been prepared to act in the event that Sevner suddenly died. Indeed, even those who wanted the Mediator removed from power had not wished it done by death, though their desire did not stem from honor’s sake but rather for their own convenience. Amelia, too, had her own reasons for being upset by Sevner’s unexpected passing, and those same reasons kept her mind whirring all throughout their continued talks.
In the end, when the first rounds of deliberations were finally brought to a close, it was decided that Neurial’s future governance would be overseen by Bruner Balus of the Arena Guild. In Neurial, the Arena Guild was the ruling authority second only to the Mediator himself, and Balus had worked closely with every Mediator and their apprentice for the past 100 years. Being the head of the local, and original, branch of the Arena Guild had proven Balus to be a level-headed businessman as well as a commendable leader, and none could question the man’s mental fortitude and talent for management. Nor could they put forth a more worthy successor than the hardened master of the Arena Guild, and so even the Honorbounds’ most skeptical eventually agreed to this exchange of power.
This was not a permanent fix however, and the guildmaster would only be taking Sevner’s place until the rest of them could devise a more suitable, and stable, solution. Alas, given Cambria’s ruling body and their many differences in opinions, there was no telling how long it would take to come to an agreeable resolution. There was some solace in knowing that few would object to Balus’s taking command of Neurial, as he was generally loved by the populace and, with his experience, the city was likely to fair well under the guildmaster’s discerning eye. But this momentary change in leadership could never hope to amend what was the Honorbounds’ larger problem. Though never said, it was nevertheless abundantly clear that several among them were considering taking up the Mediator’s mantle for themselves, be it to maintain the position or abolish it entirely. Such an action was impossible though. It simply could not be done, for if anyone did—every one of them knew—it would tip the scales of Cambria’s fragile peace and plunge them into war.
No one, not even those who wished for carnage, was in a position to stride so carelessly into battle; not this soon at least. As despairing as it was to consider, this unpreparedness that they each shared was the only thing currently saving Cambria from itself, as it was forcing the Honorbound to create a peaceful concurrence rather than take advantage of the confusion. But any false peace they enacted could not last forever. In fact, it would not last long at all, and there was no way to know who among them would be the first to spark the flames of war.
Amelia knew this all too well, and pondered it all as she paced her room. Cambria was encroaching ever closer to a full-blown civil war, and with Sevner dead, it was impossible to know how much longer that inevitable future could be staved off. In spite of everything she had done to prepare her province for it, the truth remained that the Scar was not ready for such a large-scale conflict. It was vital, therefore, that she endeavor to keep the peace among the Honorbound for as long as possible; long enough, at least, for her plans to go into effect. Stalling for time was her only hope now that the balance of power had so drastically shifted, but with the right words and proper maneuvering, she could yet salvage her ultimate goal.
Unfortunately, this meant that her stay in Dragon’s Teeth would have to be extended, for only by being present here could Amelia maintain the balance between herself and the other Honorbound. With no way of knowing just how long she would be forced to remain in Neurial, her ability to prepare the Scar for war had been severely limited. It could take months, if all went poorly, before Amelia could even consider the possibility of returning home. After all, the Honorbounds’ next round of discussions could only begin once the Springtide came to its end, for only after the festival had run its course could they secure an audience with Balus. But telling the guildmaster of their intentions did not guarantee that he would agree, and if the stubborn old man was to refuse, the Honorbound would have to start over again. Yet even if all went as hoped and a true solution was swiftly discovered, could Amelia afford to leave Neurial when it was in such a vulnerable state?
A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she came to a stop before the window, where the cold night air brushed against her cheeks and blew the curtains slightly askew. As per her request, the view from Amelia’s elaborate guestroom overlooked the river separating the Mediator’s fortress from the city. Beyond it, the Arena—engulfed in light for the Springtide tourneys—stood glimmering in the distance, where its wreath of statues, each a giant warrior, towered above all other buildings. The marketplace that made up the majority of the nearest streets was likewise loud and sparkling, as even at this hour, all of Neurial remained both alive and lively with the Springtide celebration. The night was dancing, drunk and joyful, the complete opposite of Dragon’s Teeth, and so it would remain to be for several days to come.
This is a good thing, Amelia told herself as she gazed out from her sullen prison. The turmoil caused by recent events would not be small by any measure, and for Cambria’s sake, her citizens would need these allotted days to have a reason to celebrate. Considering this, Amelia turned back inside and glanced to her oversized bed, where she watched the mound of crumpled blankets shift atop the mattress. Her daughter slept within those folds, the child having finally drifted off within the past half hour. The girl had been exceedingly lonely while waiting for the Honorbounds’ talks to end, and it had taken a fair amount of Amelia’s time to console her into gentle slumber.
It will be worth it in the end, Amelia told herself while peering apologetically at her daughter. Everything I am doing is for you. From the beginning Amelia had known that she would be away from home for an extended period of time, and so she had had no choice but to bring her child along. It was a boon that the girl was here in truth, for her presence bolstered Amelia’s will. For never would someone good or noble desire for their child to live within a world assailed by war, and thus Amelia was determined to do everything within her power to prevent that future from taking place. And it could be done, she knew this so. There was only one thing yet that needed confirmed before she could proceed.
At that moment, a knock tapped out quietly upon the bedchamber door, drawing Amelia’s attention away from her slumbering child. Carefully closing the open window and drawing in its curtain, she strode as silently as she could across the chamber to answer the door. Certain of who her visitor was, Amelia did not bother to acknowledge the summons. There was only one person she knew who would come calling now, and Amelia did not want to risk waking her daughter lest the two of them interact.
No sooner did the door swing open did the familiar visage of the arrogant assassin enter Amelia’s view, his smirking face alight with some unspoken air of satisfaction. As was the norm, as soon the man saw the Honorbound he dipped into a loathsome bow.
As he should, Amelia caught herself thinking, burying the notion immediately after. Surely she had endured too much and for too long at the hands of the other Honorbound if she was coming to think this way. She could not afford to have such dangerous thoughts lest she lose herself to their draw.
“Good evening, Honorbound Fairwater,” the assassin mocked in greeting, a sneer laced within his whisper.
“Enough,” Amelia sharply snapped, having no patience for his games. “You are unacceptably late, Develli, and know better than to bother me while I am in here.”
The assassin flashed a devious smile and glanced briefly into the room at the Honorbound’s back. “Your daughter will have no knowledge that I was here. This I can assure.”
His words did nothing to soothe Amelia’s growing anger at his impertinence however, and saying nothing, she forced the assassin out of her way to shut the door behind them. “Do you have it,” she then coldly demanded as soon as her child was sealed safely away.
But Develli only smirked again and seemed to ignore her question, turning away from Amelia instead and starting into a carefree meander about the room. Remaining purposefully silent, the assassin stopped after a moment to grab a sweet roll from the bowl upon the center table. Lazily then he bit into the confection as he leaned against the fixture, holding himself in a manner that was far too relaxed for Amelia’s tastes. The fool was actively attempting to try her patience, this much was obvious, though just as she made to berate him the assassin finally spoke.
“Your pet lizard is not here, I see,” he commented once he swallowed.
“Where I place those in my employ is none of your concern,” Amelia stated flatly. “You would do well to remember this.”
Again Develli flashed her a knowing, crooked smile, but feign understanding though he did, the assassin did not, could not, know her mind. If he did, then he would have known that in her haste to reach Neurial, Amelia had relied on her steward to see her daughter safely to Dragon’s Teeth, and that once the whinn had fulfilled that purpose, she had been sent back home to see to other, far more pressing matters in the Honorbound’s stead. Amelia’s unavoidable absence meant that her steward would have to take over war preparations within the Scar, and the Draken’kin was the only one Amelia could trust to follow her instructions and see it done.
Once realizing that he would receive no further explanation concerning her steward, Develli finally reached under his cowl and drew out a letter. “All this trouble over a single piece of paper,” the assassin mused cheekily while turning the envelope over in his fingers, making sure that Amelia could see its broken wax seal of forest green. “Though, I suppose, even I must admit that it is a rather fascinating read. Tell me, whose idea was it first to kill the Mediator: yours or his? And did you truly have the gall to carry out the deed yourself?”
The frown that came to Amelia’s face appeared too suddenly to keep hidden, and it took everything that the Honorbound had to maintain some measure of level calm. Slowly, purposefully, Amelia held out her hand to receive that which rightly belonged to her, while her manner, her expression, her every motion, now exuded an air of threat. “Try my patience further, Lon Develli, and your employment with me will cease. At which time I will ensure that you are properly compensated for your actions by your Lady of the Night.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The direct threat against his station stole all wind from the assassin’s sails, and though he attempted to maintain it, Amelia could see Develli’s grin falter in the firelight. There was no better way to put the assassin in his place than by invoking the name of his guildmaster, for talented though he may be, Develli could never hope to match the sheer might of his master’s magic. Amelia had but to merely imply that Develli meant to jeopardize Fangris’s scheming to remove the assassin from her sight, if not also get him killed. Indeed, Develli was not so integral a pawn that he could not be replaced, and by the look on the assassin’s face, he clearly knew this too.
Freshly humbled, Develli approached Amelia with a newfound manner of respect, and finally handed her the letter that she had been waiting so patiently to hold.
“And the Valor agent?” Amelia questioned once her prize was securely in hand. “Did you dispose of them?”
“Your stipulations were vexing,” Develli began, “but it was nothing I could not handle. The Valor captain has been taken care of exactly as you desired.”
Amelia turned up her nose at this and released a judgmental scoff. “Of that, I have my doubts.”
Momentarily taken aback, the assassin reached up toward his cheek and stroked one of his visible bruises. “I have arranged for a colleague to deal with the offender,” he went on then to explain. “You will not be implicated in either their capture or demise. And should the woman escape her fate, her identity is compromised. The Valor would be fools indeed to keep the woman in their company, and it will be some time yet before another will rise to take her place.”
Amelia frowned at this answer, disturbed by the implication that the task had been left undone. Falling into silence then, she considered more carefully everything that the assassin had said. That he had thought it necessary to warn her that the Valor captain could escape, it suggested that the woman likely would or, perhaps, already had. And even if not, Amelia had to account for this possibility regardless of Develli’s confidence in his plan, especially if she could not learn the end result of what he had set in motion. At the very least however, the assassin’s deductions concerning the Valor appeared to be correct. That they now knew this captain’s face meant that the woman could not return to the Scar, and whether she fled to another province or retired altogether, it would not concern them either way.
“Somehow,” Amelia slowly began, her eyes set hard upon Develli, “it seems that you have carried out what I asked. But that you offer me no conclusive results is inexcusable. I will give you a chance to redeem yourself however, to spare you the embarrassment of such shoddy work. You will discover the truth concerning the woman’s fate and report your findings to me, and once this is done, you will inform me of all you know regarding the captain’s identity. If indeed she lives, then I must know her face as well as all else concerning her. This is not a matter either of us can afford to leave up to chance.”
“I understand,” Develli replied, doing a remarkable job at holding his tongue.
“Then go. We have nothing more to discuss.”
The assassin’s face visibly twitched at being so promptly dismissed, but there was little he could say or do that wouldn’t further threaten his alliance with the Honorbound. In truth, Develli was compromised himself being that the Valor now knew his face, and if his guild was to ever find this out, if Amelia—who had already deduced as much given his obvious beating—was to report it, then it was possible he would be replaced. Fangris needed their eyes and ears ever present at Amelia’s side, and if he could not fulfill that role, someone better suited would. But never would Develli willingly give up his position. He had gained too much power at the Honorbound’s side, and relished in every pleasure granted him at every given chance. Thus, hate adherence though he did, the assassin would bend and obey whatever Amelia demanded. And he had pushed his luck too far this night, Develli realized this, for his verbal cheek had only worked to embitter the truth of his recent failings, and he was lucky that the Honorbound was willing to overlook such errors for his future’s sake.
With a proper Cambrian salute this time, Develli made his exit, leaving behind only the sound of the heavy latching of the chamber door. Swiftly silence filled the void created by the absence of conversation, and was interrupted solely by the quiet crackling of the fireplace. This covered the whole of the lounge with a disquieted sort of air, one the Honorbound felt that she could only relieve by moving closer to the hearth. The letter that Develli had retrieved for her, this she carried with her toward the fire, and now alone, she pulled it loose to read.
My dearest Amelia,
Though I wish to write to you with better tidings, I am afraid it is as we feared. Cambria is failing and magic is indeed the cause. I have seen for myself how the countries at our borders possess power far greater than our own, and with it, it is inevitable that aspirant eyes shall one day turn on us. As we are, Cambria cannot hope to win against the planesbreakers and their magic, and so I think it time that we proceed with what we have discussed.
Taboo though it may be utter, the Mediator must be removed and one of us must take his place. I have spoken in private with a number of my fellow Honorbound, yet they are as unwilling to change on this matter as the people whom they lead.
It is up to us.
Steel yourself, my love, for the road before us will not be easy. Nevertheless, we must do what need be done. Proceed in what way you believe is best. Whatever you choose, know that you have my full support.
Now and forever yours,
Thoril Fairwater
Lovingly Amelia caressed the ink scrawled upon the parchment, its every word well remembered. Within her husband’s letter existed the true purpose of Amelia’s political foundation, for indeed, it had been her and Thoril’s plan for one of them to become the Mediator. Only by accomplishing this could they hope to cure Cambria of its aversion to magic; a power that the country desperately needed to incorporate. Cambria was weak in its current state and becoming only weaker, and all while the nations at their every side grew continuously in skill and strength. Should there come a time—and surely it would—when Cambria would need to defend its borders, their basic methods and physical prowess were doomed fail in the face of their enemies’ unnatural gifts and weaponry.
Killing the last Mediator had been but the first step in Amelia and Thoril’s plan, with Amelia herself having seen to the task when the opportunity presented itself. Ever since, the Fairwaters had agreed to put their faith in Sevner, believing him key to ushering one of them in to where he was judged too weak to be. But when Thoril was murdered, everything that they had hoped to achieve had very nearly come to an end, and Amelia had been forced to make a most difficult choice in order to continue on with their work.
But this precious keepsake, this letter from her love, had been far too close to being used against her, and Amelia could not afford to preserve it lest it somehow be stolen again. Slowly then, so very slowly, she held the letter over the flames, watching as the rising heat off the burning logs caused the paper’s edge to flutter. For the first time in so long a time Amelia felt herself conflicted, for her sentiment was keeping her grip tightly bound to the letter, refusing to let it go.
“Surely you are not having second thoughts.”
The silken voice swirled around her, permeating the atmosphere, and the room became so suddenly cold that it caused Amelia to shiver. There was a new presence here, like an ooze choking the air, and was so potent in nature that it threatened to crush Amelia beneath the weight of its domineering force. Mustering her strength to resist this power, the Honorbound gazed intently into the flames to draw some comfort from their light, but even their glow appeared a slight shade darker now, for the fire had become afraid.
“I have done too much to have such thoughts,” Amelia responded to the empty room. “Nor is this a journey that I am willing, or intend, to stop.”
A satisfied chuckle answered her. “Well spoken.”
Having passed the test, Amelia felt an unnatural twisting within the cabin space, and she stiffened as an otherworldly pull raked against her back. Something, someone, had manifested itself inside the room, and in the very corners of her vision Amelia could see the shadows flinch. Like the tails of snakes they writhed in response to this overwhelming power; a power that was doing little more than amusing itself by being here. Yet there was no question in the Honorbound’s mind concerning the identity of her guest, for she had put herself in league with them around four years ago.
“The Mediator is dead,” Amelia stated, this breaking the oppressive gloom that had overtaken the abode.
“Of that I am well aware.”
“So I had assumed. But I would know how you intend to proceed. Our every calculation unto this point hinged upon Sevner being alive.”
A sound like that of a slithering serpent shifted along the stonework floor. “The goal can yet be salvaged.”
“Can it?” Forgetting who it was she was speaking to, in her desire to be certain that her ally spoke truth, Amelia’s words came out too harshly. “The peaceful transference of power will be nigh impossible without a Mediator to see it through. Sevner needed to be alive to ensure both the Honorbounds’ agreeance and my success.”
A derisive laugh came in answer, a sound so laced with unspoken warning that it caused Amelia’s muscles to tense. “What is one man to my designs? One man to my scheming?”
The Honorbound felt her blood run cold and wisely she held her tongue. Carefully then, Amelia considered the hidden danger within those words, and recognized there the lack of patience her partner held for such lapses in confidence. Brushing away her feelings of shame, Amelia silently reminded herself of with whom she had allied. Indeed, how truly significant was one man to the cunning of the goddess of cunning itself? What was one man to the dark designs and matchless power of an immortal Fawln?
“Perhaps I misspoke,” Amelia amended, finally turning toward the deity. “I take this to mean that you have a plan?”
The towering figure, some ten feet away, strode wistfully across the floor, looming over everything that existed inside the room. Though shorter currently than she usually was due to the smaller confines of the guestroom, there was no mistaking the identity of this beautiful being or her deceptive grace. The woman’s skin was a shade of the palest, greyest green, and though not naviin, even if she were, she would yet look otherworldly, for the air itself seemed to shift about the woman and possess some unnatural draw. Her long hair of a faded forest green only added to this effect, flowing in an elegant wave over the woman’s right shoulder to cover a portion of her naked skin. Her torso mostly bare, a silk sash, soft as shade, was the only clothing that covered it, with the weave wrapping around the woman’s neck and crossing over itself to shield her breasts. The lengths of it continued down her sides and below a thin, silver belt of curving, sharpened shapes, where it became a part of a dress trailing down to the floor, melting into her shadow. More flowing cloth of a dark violet hue hung about the woman’s hips as ornaments, and similar strands swooped around her back, each connecting behind her neck. These were every one attached to the woman’s wrists and moved with her every motion, sweeping through the air as naught more than a gentle midnight mist.
But as intriguing a figure as the woman was, no feature was more captivating—or startling—than that she possessed four arms: a second pair behind the first that protruded from the shoulder line. These second arms were slightly longer than the normal pair and spindled in their physique, with elongated fingers that tapered into claws making up each hand. The skin of them, though granting the arms the appearance of wearing gloves, rather seemed to be rotting away, and darkened into deeper shades of black the farther down toward the fingers it went. No other being Amelia knew possessed such strange and striking features, yet even this was as nothing when compared to the overwhelming oppressiveness of the woman’s terrifying presence.
The Fawln goddess, having sensed the Honorbound turn, turned herself to face the woman. With yellow eyes more frigid, more calculating, than any gaze Amelia could ever hope to possess, it took no small amount of courage to keep herself from turning away. Even after all these years of their continuous meetings, the Honorbound still could hardly stand the destructive force held within the goddess’s stare.
“Do you doubt me, Fairwater?” The Fawln asked, her words spoken as a threat.
“It has never been a matter of doubt, but always a matter of time.”
The goddess, Kayba, sneered at Amelia, splitting lips of emerald green, and smiled at the Honorbound with a bemused grin, baring canines that were oddly sharp. “You fear war,” the Fawln goddess accused, breathing a chilling chuckle.
“Only evil men do not fear war,” Amelia answered matter-of-factly.
Again the goddess smirked with pleasure, finding amusement in the irony given the Honorbound of the Scar’s alliances. “It is possible to avoid your war,” Kayba told her, “though our victory will be long delayed.”
“How long?” Amelia questioned bluntly, steeling herself for an unpleasant answer.
“Of what consequence to me is time?” The goddess replied dismissively. “The more import is knowing who interfered.”
“I know nothing concerning that,” Amelia admitted, disappointed that she lacked this knowledge, “nor does there seem to be any clues as to who it may have been.”
Slowly Kayba brought her fingertips together, drumming them upon each other as she fell silent. For a long while then the Fawln said nothing, her face maintaining an outward calm as she pondered over innumerable unknown things. Eventually, a chaotic grin broke the goddess’s neutral demeanor, and her expression devolved into a frightening mixture of vicious intent and deviousness.
“Interesting…” Kayba hissed before she fixed her gaze on Amelia. Her face still twisted by unspoken thoughts, when the goddess stepped toward the Honorbound, Amelia almost shrunk away, for so riled had the Fawln inexplicably become that her emotions deformed the nearby space. “Our intentions now aim toward Balus,” the goddess told Amelia then. “Ensure that the guildmaster comes to power.”
“It will be done,” Amelia replied, this already her desire, and as soon as the Honorbound agreed to obey, Kayba disappeared.
Immediately Amelia exhaled the breath trapped inside her chest, causing the stiffness that had settled into her back to ache upon its release. She took another, deeper breath then to rid herself of what emotions remained, for dread and fear often lingered long after standing before a Fawln.
“She knows of Balus,” Amelia muttered, though the longer she considered it, the less she was surprised. The Honorbound’s moot was no secret, just as it was no secret that they would be discussing things of great import. That Kayba would eavesdrop on so grand a gathering and listen in on all things shared; this was merely in the goddess’s nature. Such a method was certainly preferable to Kayba’s sifting through Amelia’s mind, for the goddess oft enjoyed prying into places that she had no reason to be.
Even so, it was relieving to hear that they had a way forward in spite of Sevner’s death, and that it started with a step that Amelia had already intended to see fulfilled. Through Balus it was possible that she would find another ally in her coup; a voice that would allow her to pass into power with little blood needing spilled.
But what had intrigued the goddess so? This question was most concerning, for if something had managed to puzzle a Fawln then it was nothing Amelia could ignore. Walking to the other side of the hearth, Amelia sat down in a cushioned chair, and resting her elbows upon its arms she laced her fingers together. Recounting everything that she had been told and all other secrets she was privy to, the Honorbound began to untangle her thoughts in an attempt to determine a potential cause.
“Is it possible?” She eventually muttered after a long, long while of contemplation. That the Mediator was killed, did it, perhaps, have nothing to do with the Honorbound? As ridiculous a theory as it seemed to be, it would explain Kayba’s fierce reaction. Obviously the goddess possessed her own visions for Cambria’s future; Amelia was not fool enough to think this not so. Was it potentially viable then that the assailant, whoever they were, was after naught but Kayba herself? That they meant to disrupt the goddess’s plan and keep her from gaining power?
“Absurd,” Amelia snapped aloud, dismissing the possibility outright. No one on Ira could possess such foresight, such insight, or such unimaginable gall to attempt a direct attack upon a Fawln. To challenge the gods was a fool’s errand, and anyone who tried was doomed to fail. Never in the history of any kindred or kind did such a challenge see success, and the very idea of witnessing it firsthand, of seeing someone act upon such an idiotic and futile fancy, it was almost enough to make Amelia laugh.
Regardless, whoever was to blame for Sevner’s death, they had at least succeeded in buying themselves time for whatever purpose they toiled for, and had also sent frustration, panic and uncertainty coursing through the whole of Cambria’s leadership. That her own ambitions had been so harshly halted was something Amelia could hardly stand to swallow, for she desperately needed to become the Mediator, and she needed to do it soon.
Standing again, Amelia returned to the fire, and this time there was no hesitation when throwing her husband’s letter into the flames. There was no time left for dawdling; she needed to begin a new stage of planning, especially now that the goddess’s plans, as well as her own, had gone so regrettably awry.
But the urgency stirred by Kayba’s visit vanished once Amelia reached her room, where her eyes fell upon her sleeping child, blissfully ignorant of everything. A calmness like a cooling wave stilled Amelia’s mind in that moment, as she was reminded of another task that was, to her, of equal importance. Just before the girl had fallen asleep, Amelia had promised that, no matter what, she would take her daughter to the Springtide tomorrow, and Fawln take her—if they hadn’t already—if she failed to carry that out.
Yes, Amelia’s becoming Mediator had been delayed, but there was nothing to be done about it, and there was still plenty of time remaining before she needed to make another move. When that time came, her owns designs and that of Kayba would return Cambria to its former glory, whereupon her people would again possess the strength they had once boasted of with such esteem.
