34. Divine Mandate
Divine Mandate
Auryn stood at the head of the Circle of Rule with her spine ramrod straight and her hands calmly clasped in a posture of regal tolerance.
Her serene visage bellied the storm within her heart and reflected nothing of the hurricane now raging in the Axis Hall.
Councilors were shouting, arguing, moving through topics without motions or votes.
Lamari Dross was sweating, his quill barely keeping up with conversation.
The Resh’Agar looked to be on the verge of breaking the Circle of Rule with his fist.
And Shu’Khan watched it all with a dead-eyed silence, like a carrion wailer circling above the battlefield to await his turn for spoils.
The conversation had turned aggressive today when Draevan Sol spoke up about the Shields collapsing again. Even when he’d brought it up a few years past, nobody had liked him grumbling about impending doom. Now he was asking for funding—demanding, really.
He’d requested the allocation of more Gleams towards researching a solution, but many opposed him.
Odd, for typically it was the opposite. Draevan had always carried a certain amount of influence in his words and motions.
Not today, however. Today, he was seeking to thin out some pockets, a quest that was doomed to failure at the start.
Coupled with the Sovereign Flame’s reprimand that the Council was ignoring the Writ of the Ninth Lattice, the atmosphere had quickly turned from a roiling boil to full out war.
Suddenly, someone pointed to her.
Torven Rax, Commander of Civil Defense—a man with a booming voice and a fragile ego. Auryn had shot down his proposal for tighter curfews a few weeks back, and he still hadn’t recovered his pride.
“Take it from the Sokar!” he shouted. “Should the Child of the Void not contribute to the health of the Shields? It is her ineptitude which is causing the magic to fail. If she had joined with the Resh’Agar in Estar years ago as was her duty—”
The Resh’Agar stood from his seat. That was all it took for Torven to swallow his tongue. Kailorien stared him down, his displeasure wrapping around the chamber like an unforgiving fist.
A tentative hand went up, trembling.
Sevrion Hale, Chancellor of Sacred Rites.
“I second the motion to take funds from the Sokar’s stipend,” he said in a reedy voice.
Admirable that he dared speak at all when Auryn could feel the fury radiating in acrid waves from Kailorien at her side.
“What Torven Rax says is logical. Had the Sokar joined with the Resh’Agar, as is ordained, this would never have—”
“The Shields were collapsing well before the Sokar’s arrival in the city,” Draevan said. Calm. Deadpan. Emotionless.
Auryn’s eyes widened, her heartbeat quickening.
Draevan? Speaking for me rather than against me?
How unexpected.
What does he want? A favor?
Beside her, Kailorien shifted his weight between his feet then raised his hand.
“If you would strip her of resources, do it in the open. Let the People see what their Council values. And what it discards. Let us see the People support your claims after you have failed their Temples.”
No one spoke, and Kailorien went on.
“Your righteousness is just a mask for cowardice. If you value the Shields, you will give Gleams to support their stabilization.”
Despite Kailorien’s word, however, no resolution could be reached. Draevan did not receive his funding, and the topic was shelved for another time.
A familiar hand rose into the air.
Sevrion again.
Even as he opened his mouth to speak, Auryn’s heart sank into her stomach.
She recognized the signs of another targeted attack on the Sokar in his body language.
The way his eyes gleamed with purpose beneath his hood.
The way his snake-like mouth curved with anticipation.
Not only that, but his hand no longer trembled.
Brace yourself, emberling. The blind fool is about to give a painting lesson.
“Proposal of new topic,” he announced. “In light of the recent outbreaks of illness in the city, the continued contraction of the Shields, lower Lifegiver breeding rates, and many other threats, I — as the Minister of Sacred Rites—have determined that additional measures must be taken to align the Sokar with the Doctrine of Flaeme.”
Hands flew up.
Too many for spontaneous agreement.
Auryn’s eyes narrowed.
This was planned before the session. Now began the performance.
“Per the votes, topic moved forward,” Lamari Dross said, scribbling, though Auryn didn’t miss his displeased frown.
“Good,” Sevrion smiled. “Allow me to explain in detail. What I speak of is a proving rite labeled in our Sacred Doctrine of Flaeme as the Rite of Judgment. The Sokar must demonstrate martial capacity to protect the People—should the Void ever fail to respond to prayer.”
Across the table, Councilors nodded. Not all. But enough.
Sevrion gestured, and two Attendants stepped forward carrying something wrapped in velvet between them. It was too heavy for one of them to carry alone. With dramatic ceremony, the two men unwrapped the object and laid it on the Circle of Rule. It nearly spanned the diameter of the entire table.
A bow.
No, a monstrosity.
The weapon was taller than Auryn by nearly a full head, carved from onyx aethersteel, and reinforced with gold-spun filament. Every inch of it shimmered with ceremonial carvings.
Beautiful.
Impractical.
Impossible for her to lift, let alone draw.
Auryn stared down at it, keeping her hands clasped and her face serene.
Inwardly, horror dawned quickly.
Understanding.
Not fear. Not yet. But the cold promise of failure lodged behind her ribs.
Well, well. They have found a new way to humiliate their savior. What do you think, little ember? Will this break you? Or will you break trying to lift it?
“The Council expects Us to wield this?” Auryn asked, tone even. “And where are We aiming Our shot?” Her eyes snapped to Sevrion, her brow arching. “The Office of Sacred Affairs?”
A few Councilors snorted, Lamari Dross included.
“The bow of the Divine Judgment has been used for millennia,” said Torven Rax, his tone gloating. “If the Sokar cannot draw it, it will speak volumes to the People.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t let them see the crack forming in her calm.
“Volumes have already been spoken,” she countered. “In the number of sick flooding temples with no cure in sight. In the Shields, and the Council’s lack of support towards their research.” She glanced at Draevan. He gave her a nod.
Sevrion Hale raised a hand again.
Should I bite off that limb? Would it please you?
“The Sokar speaks of the Shields. Perhaps the Council should be grateful that she bothers to grace the topic with her attention. We have had conversations at length about the need for the Sokar to prove legitimacy. This is not the first time, is it?”
He looked around, and several Councilors—the same ones who had voted his motion forward—nodded with looks of sage wisdom.
“The Council’s proposition is fair and simple. We are giving the Sokar a choice. Prove your divinity with the Rite of Judgment or attend the Vox Ring in the Altar Deep and perform Estar with the Resh’Agar before sanctioned witnesses to ensure that the Shields are kept safe.”
Kailorien stood still, arms folded over his chest. He hadn’t spoken yet. His jaw was tight, and his gaze unreadable.
She waited for him to say something. To challenge them. To defend her.
But he said nothing.
He’s waiting.
He’s angry.
But he knows there’s nothing he can say that won’t make this worse.
Auryn took a steadying breath through her nose. “Alright, then. When is the Rite?”
Sevrion waved his hand. “We are not without mercy, Sokar,” he drawled.
“We understand it may take some time for you to prepare yourself, considering your shortcomings. Therefore, the Rite will take place in one year during the Cycle of Fire. We will begin construction of the proper effigies needed for the public eye.”
Auryn tilted her head. “Effigies, Councilor? I see a striking lack of prioritization here. When the Master of Strategic Mana Flow is requesting funds for research and you vote against lightening your Gleamspurse, it seems odd that you would jump into construction of effigies merely to achieve public spectacle.”
Kailorien’s hand slowly lifted into the air.
“Supported. You will not be given any further funding for this, Sevrion. If you choose to build, it will be from your own plate. Not the Council’s, not the Sokar’s, and definitely not my own.”
More hands flew up.
Though the vote for the Rite of Judgment slid by with barely a majority, the vote to leave the Council’s funds untouched passed with unanimous approval. Auryn tried not to smile when Torven Rax voted to keep his Gleamspurse safe.
And so it was that the Council made their new demand. The Sokar would attend the Rite of Judgment in one year’s time. She would fire the ceremonial arrow through the Arms of the Destroyer—a stone effigy built in the Selen heights—and prove herself to the city.
The Council rose, the decree sealed.
Auryn stood frozen until the last of them filed out.
Shu’Khan left without another word. He hadn’t brought up the cessation of Estar, and even with the Rite of Judgement hanging over her head, that one thing was all she could think about now.
He didn’t look back. Not even once. That was the part that stung.
Something ached in the Bond, and Auryn stole a glance at Kailorien. His gaze bid for her to wait for him.
Only when the room fully emptied did he move.
He touched his hand to her shoulder.
I knew this was coming, but there was no safe way for me to silence them. I have a plan. Come to the sparring ring tonight. Bring Lu’ma.