The Daughter Of Stones

Chapter Twenty-Five. Traitor's Funeral

"Come on! We're gonna miss thems Reign Supreme's speeches, bottlehead!" a young girl hissed through her missing teeth, squeezing through a tiny arch leading to the basement of a stone building. She pulled her stained apron and grabbed a small boy's hand, pulling her companion to a clean street.

"We are not allowed, Martha!" The Boy whined, unwilling to follow his rebellious sister.

"No one's gonna notice, we'll be quiet," Martha whispered.

"Hey! You are not allowed into the city!" An angry bark came from one of the soldiers passing by. Beige capes made clapping swings, and three soldiers patrolling the street appeared next to Martha and her little brother. "Crawl back where you came from, rats!"

The boy took a step back, watching the soldiers close in on them. Martha grabbed him and tried to run for it but couldn't dodge a fist.

"I said, you scum from the Bazaar are not allowed into the city," the Soldier picked Martha up and threw her toward the alley leading to the Greystone Forest Bazaar. "Get back while you still can walk!"

Martha gave him a furious look and spat at his feet. Two soldiers laughed, while the third one took out a sword. Seeing the weapon, Martha grabbed her brother and rushed back into the alley, disappearing behind the corner.

The soldier slid his sword back into the scabbard, grinning, "That's better."

"Hey," yelled the other soldier, frantically searching for something on his belt. "Little shit nicked my wallet!"

#

The main square was unusually alive and resembled a peculiar pond of velvet and satin. Several thousand citizens of Greystone Forest, dressed in their finest garments, filled the circular space, anxiously rustling their expensive heels on clean, white marble tiles. All eyes were fixed on a small balcony on the third floor of the Royal Palace.

It wasn't often that the Reign Supreme himself addressed the citizens, and everyone knew it was something out of the ordinary. Rumors travel fast, especially among the high society. And by the middle of the day, most spectators knew for sure there would be a war declaration.

Everyone went quiet when those in the front rows noticed a movement behind the balcony's curtain. In a moment, the Reign Supreme stepped out into the light, followed by three High Wielders and a small group of generals and advisors. The crowd cheered, greeting their king in good health, although some of the visitors cheered out of pure tradition and politeness, and Harald Ikalot deserved no adulation and gratitude.

Those in the crowd who were dressed in blue and had their hair tamed to the back and tied in a knot - a sign of belonging to the Arcana wielders - couldn't help but notice the absence of a certain important guest among the party that filled the balcony. Sharing frowning gazes, arcanists in the crown began squinting in an attempt to get a better look at the presented group.

Harald Ikalot despised public appearances, nor was he any good at them. It was his father who bathed in the rays of peer love and appreciation. Harald, on the other hand, preferred closed doors and tightly sealed windows. However, calling oneself Reign Supreme came with royal duties, including informing the obedient citizens about the upcoming wars.

"People of Grailand!" Harald yelled, raising his hand up to mute the crowd. "Citizens of the mighty Greystone Forest. I now bear grave news from the South. While we were pleasing the Five Gods during the Harvest Festival, ruthless force came from the Islands. They call themselves free people - but all they want is to kill, murder, burn, and conquer!"

A round of gasps echoed through the square. Even hearing the rumors, people still were in shock hearing such terrible news from their Reign Supreme. Harald Ikalot continued, "But I will not give them such a pleasure. I ask you now, should we let them roam the South free? Or should we send them all to the Five Gods?"

The crowd let out a simultaneous and maniacal roar, supporting the proposed option.

"The king's army is now preparing to head South. It will be joined by all the Grailand vassals. We have a force yet unseen in its might! We shall crush those animals, who laid their feet on our land, who dared to raise a sword on our people! We will march South, and then we will turn east to clean the mountains and reclaim them once more. We will not stop, we will not rest, sleep, or taste the fruits of life until Grailand is in the United again!"

A blast of roars, hurrays, and ayes exploded, raising a wind strong enough to shake hair on Reign Supreme's head. Absorbing the power from a thousand voices, he raised his hands in the air.

"There is more, citizens of Greystone Forest. One that concerns me deeply. It has been known for centuries that Grailand is strong when ruled by the Council of Citadels - a divine unity of magic that blessed us all! But dark times came. Dark times. One of the Council members, known by the name Priam, turned his back on us all, craving power he made a deal with savages from the Islands. His mad and carefully planned attempt to take my life failed! Here, citizens of Grailand. I bring you all the traitor Priam!"

To hundreds of confused and terrified glances of arcanists in the crowd, three soldiers carried a breathless body of their High Wielder. In grave silence, the people watched the soldiers tip the body over the stone balustrade, letting it fall into the canal below the balcony.

"May the city gutters be the proper place for a traitor's funeral!" Harald Ikalot concluded the procession.

The crowd exploded with mad cheers once more. Only this time some spectators remained silent, their faces filled with pure terror.

"I now call to all the Arcana wielders. Pledge your allegiance to me, and the people of Grailand be forever grateful. The traitor will be forgotten, and you will be rewarded with glory. And those who should choose to sympathize with the rat will end up sharing his faith. I give you my word. Grailand shall see glory once more!"

Reign Supreme finished his speech, and the crowd began mindlessly chanting "Glory to Grailand" with oblivious eyes filled with pure fury. In the crowd, the price of your cape matters not, for in the joyful agony of collective madness, you will rip it apart shoulder to shoulder with the beggar, tearing his last shirt.

And so it was. The war on Free Islands and every other land that claimed its independence over the last century was declared under a happy chant of a sophisticated crowd turned a violent bloodlust mob.

And so it was. The Arcana wielders lost their High Wielder, and the Crying Tower its master.

And so it was. The balance was broken.