1
In the Castle of the Yellow Rose, Lord Sebastian Hemman stood staring at his throne. Upon the wood of the chair he’d handsomely paid an artist to stencil in various lions, all roaring and clawing with sharpened teeth and claws. The cushions were red, and sewn in golden colors were two symbols. One was of the rose, his banner, the other another lion. His entire seat of power, the representation of his divine right to rule, was nothing but a declaration of his faith in Karak.
Except he felt no faith, only fury. His thin hand dug into the cloth as he entertained thoughts of tearing off the stitching with his bare fingers.
“Milord?” said a guard, stepping through the doors into the grand hall.
“Have they finally arrived?” Sebastian asked, not bothering to turn around.
“The priest has, if that is who you mean.”
“Who else would I mean? Leave me, and send the bastard in. Just him, and no others.”
Sebastian sighed and settled into the throne. It felt like the carved lions bit at his hands, and the stitching growled at his back. The guard hurried away, as if afraid of his master’s ire. Not that Sebastian blamed him. He’d hanged two men the day before, peasants stupid enough to be overheard speaking ill of him. It’d done nothing to improve his mood. Nothing would. Karak had betrayed him. Despite his loyalty, his devotion, and most importantly, his exorbitant tithes, the god of Order had sealed his doom in his war against his rebellious brother, Arthur.
The doors opened again, and in stepped the elderly priest, Luther. They’d met several times before, though never for long. Something about his manner made Sebastian feel like a child waiting to be exposed for the lies he’d told. Luther slowly approached, walking between the many empty tables. There’d be no feasting, not for several years. Most of the men who’d raised cups to Sebastian’s name were now dead, crushed by Luther’s army of mercenaries and paladins.
“I know I should greet you, Luther, but I fear I do not know how,” Sebastian said, standing. “Are you my friend, my enemy, or my conqueror?”
“I am none,” Luther said. “I come as your priest.”
“Then you are all three.”
Luther smiled.
“Your wit is sharp as ever. That is good. I expect you to listen well, and keep your pride in check as I speak.”
There’d been no spoken threat, but Sebastian felt it keenly, like a sudden chill sweeping through his hall. Taking a deep breath, he choked down his anger. Now was not the time, not when Luther’s army outnumbered his own two to one.
“Before you speak, I would ask two questions,” he said. “If you’ll permit them.”
“It is your hall, and I am but a guest,” Luther said. “Ask.”
“Is it true what I’ve heard? Did you attack my army when it was on the verge of crushing my brother in his Castle of Caves?”
Luther stood before the throne and crossed his arms. The directness of the question didn’t seem to bother him any. If anything, he looked bored.
“I did,” he said.
The words shoved a spike into Sebastian’s gut. His self-control was stretched to its limit as he asked his second question.
“Then pray tell me, why? I have loyally served you for years. It is my brother who speaks out against Karak, denouncing the mandatory services my people attend on the seventh. I have sent a fortune in tithes south, and yet when I fight a common enemy…”
“Silence,” Luther ordered, and Sebastian obeyed. The priest’s apathy was gone, if it had ever been. Instead he saw a terrible rage only barely contained. Sebastian tried to rise above it, to stand to his full height and deny a meddlesome priest, but could not, so great was that fury.
“The North is in shambles,” Luther said. “And the blame lies on your shoulders. In my travels I have talked to the people, and I have heard their faith. It is nothing, Sebastian, an idiot’s faith at best. There is no love for Karak in your lands. No devotion. You put faith as a yoke around their necks, then rip gold from their hands far beyond what we ask.”
“But…but I have done things this way for years, and your order…”
“Is full of men who thought you caused no wrong, and might foster a better way,” Luther said, disgust dripping from every word. “But we judge a farmer by the harvest, and this harvest is poor. Rebellion stirs in their hearts, and not just against you. The Citadel is crushed, and Ashhur’s paladins are nearly extinct. There is a chance to accomplish something here in the North, something great, but it will not be with you as its lord.”
Sebastian felt his blood pounding in his ears. So this was it? The priesthood would try to overthrow him at last? Years ago, when he first took rule of the North, Karak’s priests had come to him, whispering careful words about remaining respectful of their faith. Sebastian had known what it meant, and been a careful follower ever since.