“Forgive me, lady,” he said. “Remnant? Is what Vohin Voran says true?”
Adayna stood tall and straight, through Voran sensed her exhaustion.
“It is. We are all that remains of Nebesta, Vohin Rogdai. I cannot speak for our outlying villages, though I fear the worst. I hope Vasyllia will remember her hospitality in this time of need.”
Rogdai looked down at the ground, unable to hold her gaze. He seemed embarrassed to continue speaking.
“I am… sorry, my lady. The Dumar has made it clear that all refugees must remain outside the city until further notice.”
“Apparently, the Dumar did not inform the first reach, Rogdai,” said Voran, pointing to the city.
A mass of first-reachers poured through the gates, bearing tents, blankets, pots, and sundry other daily necessities. They were led by the potter from the marketplace, the one who made the perfect clay urn. Voran was pleased to see Rogdai seething with impotent anger.
“Lady Adayna,” said Voran, “the poor of Vasyllia offer you hospitality, even though her leaders have forgotten what the word means. When you have settled your people, I invite you to lodge at my own home. I will speak to the Dar on your behalf, have no worry. Rogdai, the Lord Farlaav of Nebesta is lying wounded among the refugees. Lady Adayna will show you where he lies. Of course, you will want to accompany him to the Dar’s palace yourself.”
Rogdai looked like he wanted to bind Voran with chains on the spot, but he merely turned to Adayna and bowed his head in agreement.
“Oh,” said Voran, as though it were an afterthought, “and please arrange for my father’s wine to be served to the Nebesti. They have need of refreshment.”
Voran turned away, not waiting for a reply. He felt Rogdai’s hatred like a hot poker in his back. As he walked through the ranks of warriors, he expected to be stopped by one of them at any moment. But they let him pass.
As he approached the gates, tents were already springing up like mushrooms after an autumn thunderstorm. Voran saw not a single second or third-reacher among them. Only the poor of Vasyllia had come outside the city to help the Nebesti in their hour of need.
Voran spent most of the day arranging for food and more tents to be sent out to the Nebesti outside the city walls. As he feared, none of the rich wanted anything to do with the refugees. Even in the second reach—many second-reachers themselves had known poverty at some point in their lives—only a few families, most of them from the warrior caste, opened their doors to him.
That evening, he sat in his own kitchens enjoying the last of his father’s wine. He had only drunk half the chalice when the pounding on the doors threatened to splinter them.
Her lardship came into the kitchen, her face red with annoyance.
“Voran, it’s the palace guard.”
Voran smiled and nodded.
Four black-liveried warriors in full armor, led by Rogdai, stood outside the door.
“You will leave your sword here, Vohin Voran,” said Rogdai. “Accused traitors are not allowed arms in the palace.”
The Monarchia of Vasyllia is first concerned with the care and welfare of its citizens. Therefore, we have found it necessary to form a representative body, the Dumar.
I. Dumar representation will be based upon population density.
II. Twenty will come from the first reach, fifteen from the second, five from the third.
III. Let the reaches choose their own.
IV. The Dumar will assist the Monarchia in an advisory capacity.
V. According to the discretion of the Dar, the Dumar may also legislate certain internal matters.
VI. The Dumar may, in extreme cases of dynastic turmoil, call for a Council of the Reaches to choose a new Dar.
Official edict of Dar Aldermían II, year 734 of the Covenant
Chapter 10
The Dumar
The heavy double doors of the Chamber of Counsel opened inward to reveal a fresco of the Covenant Tree adorning the entire far wall. Just as the doors opened, sunlight pierced through the colored glass in the windows, and the flames danced on the painted tree. Gooseflesh prickled Voran’s arms at the sight. On either side of the rectangular room stood tiered wooden galleries filled to the brim. Every one of the forty representatives of the three reaches of Vasyllia, the full Dumar, looked at him with undisguised hatred. Of course, Voran thought, he had chosen to aid Nebesti over Vasylli. He understood their hatred, but he deplored it. It shocked him how deeply entrenched Vasyllia had become in its insularity.
In each of the four corners of the room stood a great stone likeness of a tree—a birch, an oak, a beech, and an aspen. For a moment, he thought he saw a Sirin in the branches of the birch, but he was mistaken. Even so, the flame in his heart surged, and he felt new strength blooming from his chest.
Dar Antomír sat in a simple throne of white marble under the fresco of the aspen sapling. Mirnían—his face an inscrutable mask—stood before a throne of malachite a step lower than the Dar. Sabíana sat on the Dar’s left on a throne of pink granite. She seemed to look at Voran, but as he approached, he realized her eyes were directed at a point beyond his left shoulder. He had hoped she had forgiven him; it appeared he was wrong.
“The Dumar may be seated,” said Mirnían. “Chosen speakers of the Dumar, step forward for counsel.”
These were two military men, the willowy chief cleric Otar Kalún, and a young courtier Voran did not know. He could smell lavender on him, even from this distance, and his silver cloak shimmered as he moved. Voran disliked him immediately. He knew the type—a social climber who would not hesitate to sell his own grandmother for advancement in the Dumar.
The chosen speakers stood on a step lower than Mirnían and Sabíana and faced Voran. At that moment, when even Sabíana looked at him with the eyes of a statue, Voran finally realized the full seriousness of his situation.
“Vohin Voran,” said Mirnían, “son of Otchigen, the former Voyevoda of Vasyllia, you are charged with dereliction of duty. Before you speak in your defense, know that it was the Dumar’s wish that you be clapped in irons upon your return to Vasyllia. Only the Dar’s clemency grants you the freedom you now enjoy.”
“Something you hardly deserve,” hissed Otar Kalún. His pupils were abysses in eyes of pale grey.
Dar Antomír tensed, as if he were about to rebuke the chief cleric. But he did not. Sabíana looked down at her hands, cupped on her knees. The tips of her mouth curled down, either in anger or in sorrow. Voran couldn’t decide which. He wanted her to look at him again. He was sure it would give him strength. But she did not.
“Highness and Dumar assembled,” Voran said, his voice shaking in spite of himself. “Nebesta is fallen. Your scouts doubtless spotted the refugees days ago. What they did not tell you is that the Second City is no more. Every male Nebesti has been slaughtered or captured.” He felt anger rising, his voice hardening. “The invader has sent their women and children ahead, doubtless to spread fear and to burden Vasyllia with their care.” This last phrase he spat out with contempt. Every face but the Dar’s twisted. In an upsurge of emotion, Voran went on the offensive.
