Elon

It was with dreary spirits that King Azlyn and a couple dozen of his personal guard road down from Bartia. They were returning from a survey of the northern river-lands. Even years after the end of the war, the scars on the landscape and the hearts of the people of that region were deep and sobering. Amid flooded marshes and ruined roads, the burned out remains of old outposts and villages stood like black skeletons. The past two decades had been long and terrible for King Azlyn and though he was as strong and dashing as ever physically, inside he bore as many scars and burned out dreams as his country.

Azlyn still loved his country.

He always had and always would and it was that love more than anything else that had broken him down throughout the war. Every life lost, every village pillaged, every field flooded or burned had been like a knife to his soul, cutting away at him for twelve long years. His faith had been shaken and torn asunder to drift down it’s own path by the Veakirate excommunication against him. Oaths had been broken, friendships betrayed and though he’d done his best, Alzyn felt the weight of failure on his shoulders and the drip of red blood on his hands. He was king of his own nation now, no oaths binding him to Church or Imperial State, but he’d never actually wanted that. He’d wanted peace security and spiritual wellbeing for his people.

A cold winter mist drifted around them on the road, making the late afternoon light dim and directionless. Chill droplets formed in the curls of Azlyn’s dark hair and drip down the collar of his cloak, making him shiver. Glancing to aside, he looked at the rider beside him in the mist. Riley Connell was captain of his personal guard and also his bastard son. Azlyn had never officially acknowledged the young man’s parentage, but he’d always made efforts to provide for him and had kept him close as a squire and eventually a captain after Riley’s mother and sister had died in the early years of the war. At 24, Riley greatly resembled his father. His hair was blacker and he’d never gained Azlyn’s impressive height of 6 and a half feet, but he had the same strapping athletic build and the same green eyes and handsome features. Though he’d never claimed Riley as his son, the boy was probably closer to him than any of his legitimate children. Chello had kept Eloise and Chonny close to her throughout the war, safe in the, while Riley had been at his father’s side the whole time, through every battle and every dark and dreary month of the siege camps.

“There’s some kind of camp ahead,” Riley said, standing up in his stirrups and throwing back the hood of his cloak to peer down the road.

Azlyn looked as well. They’d been following the Ryn for most of the day and near a copse of trees by the bank, he could just make out a cluster of covered wagons and pitched tents through the mist. As he watched the wind picked up the tattered streamers hanging from a pole on the edge of the camp, causing a flutter of orange, red and blue.

“They’re Komari,” Azlyn said, sitting back in his saddle, “They must have camped just north of the city.”

Riley smiled. The Komari had aided the army greatly during the war, providing moral support, camp construction, and medical expertise, even if their vows kept them from participating in any actual fighting. Azlyn knew Riley also had made “friends” with one of the young women among the Komari and he watched his son’s face become aglow.

“Rose said they’d be in Dovwynn before the New Year. Shall we hurry on to meet them Sire?”

Azlyn leaned over the neck of his mustang, rubbing the dapped grey. It’d been a long day’s ride through cold, wet weather. Both the King and his horse were weary of it all. “Go ahead,” he told Riley, “Take Finn and six of the others with you. Tell Mira Hahn we will be resting with the camp, before moving on into Dovwynn tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Sire!” Riley turned his mount and gave a shrill whistle, waving for a group of men to follow him, before turning back to the road and kicking into a brisk gallop. Mud sprayed up behind him and Azlyn pulled out of the way, watching his son ride excitedly on down the road, hair and cloak streaming behind him with an energy and joy that defied the cold gray world and all cynical chains of life. It reminded Azlyn so strongly of himself that for a moment he was whisked back in time, to a winter day 24 years ago when he’d galloped through the lands carefree and blissfully in love to a mistress that had just given birth to his first son.

He could see it so clearly, a bundle of dark hair and chubby cheeks in his arms, Adessa close beside him, little Annali nearby peeling and orange - “Name him Riley then. And may Aed bless you both!”


By the time Azlyn got to the Komari camp, the clan matron, Mira Hahn, was waiting to greet him and extra stew pots had been placed over the campfires.

“My lord,” Mira said, bowing to him along with a handful of other camp elders. She was a stout, but strong woman, with brown skin, ample curves and curly black hair pulled back by a colorful scarf in the Komari fashion. A short sword was on her hip, but it was a stew ladle that she held in her hand.

“Mother Hahn,” Azlyn greeted, dismounting and giving the Komari leader a small bow. “It is good to see you again. I hope you and your people are fairing well. How are the children?”

“Numerous as ever,” Mira said waving her ladle around the camp. As always in Komari Camps there were several children of varying ages sitting on the wagons, helping the elders cook over the fires, or working at some craft at a makeshift worktable. “That little war left no shortage of orphans, Sire, but they’re all good kids and we expect to find plenty of work in Dovwynn. I understand you hope to rebuild the Great Bridge?”

Azlyn nodded, “As soon as we can obtain the stone for it. Trading routs are still just getting reestablished across the continent. Where’s Captain Connell?”

“Oh,” Mira gave a ruthful smile and put a hand on her hip. “That man! He’s already off flirting with Rose. Finn and the others are helping the men set up another temporary corral for your horses.”

Azlyn nodded. He couldn’t really blame his son for behaving the exact same way he had when he was young.

“By the way,” Mira added, “Collyn Raveryn is also in the camp this evening.”

“Oh?” Azlyn asked, handing the reins of his horse to one of his other men to be led with the rest to the corral.

“Yes, He is visiting us, before moving on to some mission north of here.”

Azlyn frowned. Just as he’d suddenly found himself King of his own independent nation with no Empire to direct him, Collyn had found himself head of a new and independent religion. A religion that wasn’t entirely sure of it’s identity or infrastructure. A broken branch cut from the parent tree of Orthidox Aedak, desperately looking for it’s own set of roots to hold it firm in history. Many of the common people still considered it just Aedak, the faith they’d always known and practiced, unaware that many of the deeper issues and theologies were being forged anew, molten gold trying to solid into something true and beautiful.

Before he’d left for Bartia, Colley had told Azlyn he intended to make a pilgrimage of spiritual learning across the north. A search for truth in hopes that Aed would lead him to a deeper understanding of what their new religion should teach and how it should be structured and conducted. However, he hadn’t expected the chief priest to leave so soon.

“Where is he now?” Azlyn asked.

“Meditating in a grove by the river,” Mira answered and pointed her ladle toward the copse of trees. “Dinner will be ready in about an hour, shall I tell everyone not to disturb you until then?”

“Yes, thank you, Mira.”

The clan matron nodded then moved off to scold two teenagers for letting the younger kids play too close to the fires.

At the edge of the camp, the trees were tall and gray moss hung from many high cypress branches. The dull green winter leaves of live oaks, kept the copse from being laid bare and amid the drifting winter mists and yellow stocks of tall grasses sheltered rose over roots and black river mud. The rushing sound of the Ryn rang nearby and the sent of wet earth and river algae filled the cold air.

Azlyn had to duck through some low branches and jerk his cloak free from some brambles, but eventually found his way to a clearing about forty feet from the river’s bank. He could just see the grey waters of the Ryn flowing by between the trees on the far side, but the clearing was still far enough away from the wide river to feel secluded and private. Collyn Raveryn was kneeling on his cloak, carefully placing gray stones around him in a circle that was just large enough for two.

“Sire,” he greeted looking up.

Azlyn nodded, “Sheppard,” he returned, using a colloquial title for priest that was common western Elon. Since the war against the Church, many preists in Elon had been moving away from the traditional titles and paraphernalia of Orthodox Aedak and Sheppard was the title Colley preferred. “I didn’t expect to find you leaving on mission so soon.”

“I decided to start with exploring more deeply our local traditions and orders,” Collyn explained turning his eyes back to the stones he was arranging, “I’ve studied the Orthodox teachings and the traditions of my own Hachiam monastery, but there is still a lot about the Komari and Trell that I am only vaguely familiar with.” Collyn placed the last stone and looked up at Azlyn. The chief priest was older than Azlyn by a half dozen years and gray amply salted his brown hair and beard. Of average height and build, Collyn had little about him that was physically remarkable. His brown eyes were sunken in a lined face, but still held the bright gleam of intelligence and interest in all things around him. He wore the brown habit of the Hachiam with only an embroidered sash over his shoulders to announce his rank as chief priest and head of the Elonese church.

Wordlessly, Azlyn took off his own traveling cloak and laid it on the wet ground across from Collyn, before taking a seat in the circle. Over the years this had become their way of personal worship. The chief priest would pray, meditate and listen to the spiritual concerns and confessions of his monarch, before giving what advice and teaching he could as both a friend and a priest.

For a minuet or two neither spoke. Azlyn just sat taking in the surroundings and peace of the grove, watching the water drip off the moss and the squirrels climb along the branches of the live oaks. A rabbit came out of a warren and hopped by, observing the two men warily, before beginning to graze the winter grass.

Finally Azlyn said. “I have just returned from the northern riverlands. It was hard seeing how much of that country still bares the scars of the war. I could see bitterness in the eyes of widows and those men who bare the injuries of brutal war. I let them down so much over the past years. Beside the lives taken in war, so many died in the floods, the famines that followed.” Azlyn hesitated, “I still doubt myself Collyn. For years Aed protected the Kerk, rebuffing all advances made by both Elon and the Empire and meanwhile my people along the Ryn died in a constant steam of raids and skirmishing war. When I stood outside those walls and saw the mages shooting down balls of fire, it was hard not to believe that Aed was truly on their side and that by refusing the commands of the Veakir and taking up arms against the Church I damned myself and all my nation with me.”

Collyn was quiet a moment. He knew this had been weighing on Azlyn through the whole of the war. He’d hoped the last few years of relative peace and revival would have put the King’s fears to rest, but evidently the doubt was as heavy as ever. “You stood by your duty, Sire, and remained true to the moral truths Aed planted in your heart.”

“The will of Aed is never clear,” Collyn continued, “Not to kings, not even to priests, prophets or the Veakirs of the south. The Orthodox church didn’t concern itself with finding Aed’s will, or seeking the relevant truths unique to ever man, every nation and every time in history. They simply repeated and enforced the rules and traditions of Messara everywhere they went, regardless of the damage they did, or the actual truth and righteousness of their actions. Aed’s cannot be written in stone, because true righteousness, true duty, honor and all things holy are relative to the circumstances his servants are placed in.”

“Saint Bartia knew this to be true. He forgave Prince Dann, who pursued him only out of duty and loyalty to his father, but slew Lord Ellash, who perused him not only from duty, but with malice and ruthless intent. Laws and even oaths must sometimes be broken, for the sake of one’s true duty to Aed and one’s duty to those who depend on them. You did your duty to both Aed and your people admirably.” Collyn placed a hand on Azlyn’s shoulder, “Do not take the scars of war to be signs of Aed’s disfavor. Every nation in the north suffered those scars.”

Azlyn took a deep breath. He’d assured himself of these facts many times before, but it was still difficult not to to blame himself for all that had happened.

Collyn took both Azlyn’s hands. “I shall pray for Aed to ease your spirit and grant you blessing. You have always been a man of great joy and faith, Alzyn. May that be returned to you with the fullness of wisdom given through the years and the peace of a life lived true to duty.”

“Thank you, Sheppard. I know you have told me this before and I know it to be true, but deep down my soul is hard to convince.”

“You are considering much and in these times, after all that has been done, it is good for a man to be troubled and consider well all his decisions both past, present and future, but do not let it tear down your faith or weaken the joy and boldness of your nature. Be at peace, Sire and I will pray for you.”

Azlyn nodded and bowed his head.

They sat together for another half hour, praying and talking together of all that had happened and all that they hoped to happen. When they were called to dinner Azlyn’s spirits had lifted. After dinner, Mira asked Azlyn to bring out his fiddle and he did so gladly. Choosing a song he knew the Children loved, he struck up a fast cherrful tune, with funny repeating verses that picked up tempo every time until the song was too fast to sing to and even Azlyn’s dexterous fingers fumbled on the notes. Laughter and music rang late into the evening and the King’s laugh was mixed in with all the rest.