Welcome to Elakand

Welcome to Elakand. There is my life where I pay bills, check e-mail, visit with friends, read, watch movies, and snuggle my cat. Then there is the life of my life where I have adventures in the medieval kingdom of Elakand with my troubadour, Sir Loriano of Vayne, and his whitewood kitarra.

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Happy Solstice - Celebration in Elakand

Previously I posted a short piece about a solstice celebration in a village in Elakand. Here is an excerpt from an unpublishable novel about the celebration in the royal palace in Pareskon 10 years before The Dark Lady's Stone:

Brocar, god of Light and Fire, fights the Dark Lady Death for survival during the four long Holy Nights around the winter Solstice. The new year begins on the Day of Change after the longest night. Music, feasting, and merriment celebrate Brocar’s victory and the return of Light. That night an Elakanden Princess recites, by rote, prayers in the ancient religious tongue, which priests deem too difficult for women to master.  But 14-year-old Princess Licia loves scholarship...
 The Princess’s Prayers
Throughout Elakand, all lights and all fires were extinguished at sunset on the fourth Holy Night, save for one candle on each altar. Priests locked themselves in their sanctuaries to guard these last sparks from the Dark Lady Death’s wrath on this night of Her strength. Folk everywhere, high and low, huddled together in their beds, praying to endure the longest night.
As the servants extinguished the palace lights, Princess Licia’s dread grew. The Dark Lady wanted something from her. Her room seemed fearfully dark and very cold as she and her ladies groped, giggling and exclaiming while they donned their warmest night shifts and caps.
With sighs and a thud Lady Alys lowered her stout body to kneel beside the bed, and Lady Philida muffled groans about arthritic knees and cold floors. A rustle of fabric meant Lady Catina. They fumbled for one another’s hands.
“Brocar, protect us through this long night,” Licia prayed. “Forgive us our weaknesses and our temptations. May Thy light burn bright in our hearts, and guide our steps safely through the dark. Keep us safe. Keep us pure—”
Catina turned a giggle into a sneeze.
“Keep death and madness from us, and grant us Thy peace.” Licia disengaged her fingers and made the sacred sign. Movements indicated that the others did the same.
The bed shook and creaked while they crawled under layers of sleeping furs. Licia snuggled between her ladies, relishing their warmth. Only the tip of her nose was cold. Half dozing, lulled by their rhythmic breathing, she heard a distant whisper, “My power shall manifest and none shall prevail against Me!” Thunder rumbled. “All who abjure Me shall know My wrath.” Her limbs jerked and a fiery cloud of fear roiled through the dark as she dropped into the pit of sleep.
)o(
All Elakand rose and greeted the first light with a hymn of thanks for surviving the long night, joy at Brocar’s victory, and light returning to the world. Donning warm clothes, the palace inhabitants gathered in the great hall and attempted to keep the cold at bay. Tables were laid with spiced breads and cakes, cold meats, pitchers of ale and mulled wine. While the court ate, Countess Elisse’s troubadours took turns reciting heroic verse to the accompaniment of their round-backed kitarras. Then the courtiers danced to keep warm as musicians played flutes, vielles, harps, and shawms with the ratta-ta of tambours.
)o(
The last daylight filtered through the slit window of the small, stuffy robing room near the sanctuary choir. Queen Margari directed a confusion of ladies who fastened Licia’s shoes, tucked her hair into a white silk, pearl-bordered bordered cap, pinned her brooch—a little higher, no, more to the left— laced her sleeves, arranged her sapphire silk train and silver-embroidered robes, hung a sapphire on a silver chain around her neck...
King Rollard kept advising her to “Keep your hands still. Let your gaze wander about the sanctuary. Notice each face but don’t dwell on it. Speak slowly. Enunciate clearly—”
Maid Machel, released from her order of Handmaidens for the occasion, stood apart with her hands in the sleeves of her grey hooded robe. “Forget about the people. They will only confuse you. Think of Brocar. Hold a prayer to Him in your heart. Breathe deeply—”
Licia was almost in tears. Her feet hurt, her head ached, and her robes must weigh as much as armor. She could scarcely breathe at all, much less “deeply” for the knots tangling her stomach. If they’d all just ... just be quiet and leave her alone! It was bad enough she had to go out there and speak without this fussing. Her brother Stefan stood leaning against the wall, grinning and making flippant remarks.
“The High Priest is lighting the first fires.” An acolyte’s head was outlined in the glow from the nave.
“We’ll be ready in a moment,” King Rollard replied.
The acolyte withdrew. By the faint light outside the door, the members of the royal party lined up. The first fires ought to bring hope and joy, but the ruddy glow recalled to Licia her dreams of fire and fear.
“Ready for your monkey act?” Stefan kissed her cheek.
She glanced at him, surprised. Generally her piety bored him. “I ... I think so. I have to be.”
The king started into the nave. To the left of the first arch stood a pile of dead branches and twigs. To the right, charcoal glowed in a brazier. Each person picked up a branch, made Brocar’s sign, and cast it onto the coals. Flames leaped and sank as the dry wood burned.
In front of the altar, High Priest Osgaron, in golden robes and four-peaked orange hat, watched. Behind him, sacerdotes, priests, and acolytes sang a hymn. King Rollard and Queen Margari led Licia around the rail and guided her up the four steps. Leaving her standing by the altar, they found their chairs. Attendants seated themselves behind the royal family.
Licia’s stomach spasmed and she stared straight ahead to avoid seeing the golden casket that held the True Scroll. The whole sanctuary seemed to pulse as people crowded in, casting branches into the braziers. Fires sprang alive until the whole vast chamber glowed with light and warmth, dissipating the Dark Lady’s cold. Then Osgaron stepped behind the altar and opened the enormous Book of Wisdom.
Licia’s breath came and went in shallow gasps while his ringing bass proclaimed Brocar’s blessings on the new year. The sanctuary seemed to spin and dissolve in a red and black haze. Fearing to faint, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Brocar, help me!”
The room was silent. Had she missed her moment? No. Osgaron had just finished his reading. She took a step forward and put out a hand to steady herself on the altar. As her fingers touched the cool, smooth marble, a thrill vibrated through her. Her head exploded in a million colors of light. Her tension vanished, and each person stood out with extraordinary clarity.
Anamalé iterané sofalo—” rang through the arches, reverberated from the flagged floor to the high roof. Light stretched from her body to embrace a grieving widow, a proud mother, a restless child, an old man with illness eating his bones, a young couple glowing with passion ...
A sharp tug at her robes. Dreadful silence boomed and echoed. In blank terror Licia looked down at High Priest Osgaron’s fingers grasping her skirt. She looked up at his contorted features. “Silence! How dare you?” he hissed.
Beyond the altar rail, her mother and father looked worried. Maid Machel was very pale.
“Leave immediately!” Osgaron commanded under his breath.
What had she done? The world spun and heaved. Her knees almost gave way as she stumbled back to the antechamber to huddle, shivering and sobbing, on a bench.
Her family surrounded her; the attendants were ordered away. The door thudded shut, cutting off High Priest Osgaron’s ritual. Voices battered her.
“Yesterday you could scarcely whisper and tonight, you babble on, making a spectacle of yourself,” Queen Margari pronounced with icy precision.
“You know Osgaron is a stickler for form.” Armies trembled when King Rollard frowned like that. “What did you think you were doing?”
“But ... what happened? I don’t...” She looked from one to the other while tremors shuddered through her body.
“You spoke your Holy Night prayers quite well,” Maid Machel explained patiently, “then you continued on with Brocar only knows what.”
“I don’t remember,” she whispered, scanning the corners for help. Stefan stood, flipping the end of his scarlet belt, trying to look unconcerned. Bertran was here! She focused on him. “Oh, Frater Bertran, I failed!”
“You did not fail, Princess. I doubt that anyone noticed, except High Priest Osgaron—and these people here.” He bowed to each in turn.
“The High Priest is furious.” The queen’s glance demolished him.
Bertran inclined his head. “But she was speaking in the ancient tongue, Majesty, and only His Holiness, the Chief Sacerdote, and I understood.”
The ancient tongue! “What did I say?”
The tutor looked puzzled. “You added a few phrases. It was actually quite appropriate.” He squared his stance, clasped his hands behind his back, and raised his eyes: “‘Kani’esé ogret obriméo anagret: lo’anéo sajio montati actien.’ It means, ‘Take heed, oh My people, to this, My servant, who manifests My healing wisdom this day.’ You pronounced it superbly—a tribute to my teaching.”
Licia shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
“What do you remember?” King Rollard, thumbs in his belt, stood square in front of her.
“I was afraid, so I prayed for strength.” She stared at the floor. “When I started to speak, I suddenly felt calm. Then my mind went blank, and next thing I knew High Priest Osgaron stopped me. Please believe me, I didn’t mean to spoil the prayers.”
“You did not spoil them. I was standing amid the crowd,” Bertran said. “People were restless, shifting about, but when you began to speak, they grew silent. Many wept openly.”
“Really—it wasn’t as bad as all that!” Stefan looked around and tried to laugh. “Everyone’s taking this too seriously. It’s just another ceremony, after all.”
Poor Stefan, Licia thought, he hates ceremonies.
“But it is important!” Maid Machel protested. “Brocar gave His light and fire to the world on Holy Night, and the people need to hear the ancient prayers. Licia must have been over-drilled in the sacred tongue or she would not have been capable of such travesty.”
“Did you teach her this, Frater Bertran?” the king demanded.
The tutor looked stricken. “No, Sire, I did not. Your daughter is a fine scholar, and she was curious about the sacred texts, so I explained them to her, perhaps more fully than I ought.”
Rollard aimed his finger at the tutor. “The fact that Princess Licia cannot remember what she said is cause for grave concern, Frater. We can only pray that her studies have not harmed her or opened her to the Mother of Madness. You are not speak to my daughter again until I have discussed this with the High Priest.”
A knife cut Licia’s heart. “Father, it was not Bertran’s fault! It was my own—” Brocar! She dared not explain. The room spun again, her arms flailed, and she fainted.
)o(
Licia awoke the next morning recovered from her ordeal. Sunlight streamed into her room through leaded glass, and she looked forward to the new day.
Bertran, she remembered, poor Bertran—accused unjustly for her presumption. She rolled over and lay thinking. What had happened last night? Had the Dark Lady become strong enough to touch her, even as Brocar’s victory was celebrated? Or had anxiety and guilt provoked her imagination? Whatever the reason, Bertran must not suffer because of her.
She called for her ladies, had them dress her in the claret gown—the one everybody said became her—and cover her dark hair with a white cap embroidered with red winter berries. She pinched her cheeks to give them color and, putting on a cheerful face, she descended to the great hall. Tables were laden with sugared spice breads and sauced meats. Servants poured goblets of hot mulled wine and tankards of ale for the company, who stood about chatting while they broke their fast.
After speaking her prayers last night, Licia found all traces of her former shyness gone. She greeted all and sundry confidently. Courtiers and guests expressed pleasure at her recovery from "an attack of nerves" and praised her moving and meaningful recitation. Aging courtiers, who had witnessed Holy Night rites since childhood, had moisture in their eyes.
Queen Margari called her daughter aside. “I am glad to see you have regained your composure, Licia. It seems that your little mistake need not cause a scandal."
“And Frater Bertran? What of him?” Licia asked in a low voice.
“Your father, Stefan, and I are meeting with Osgaron to discuss the matter.”
Licia was pointedly excluded.
)o(

At the meeting, it came out that Frater Bertran had carelessly left passages from the Books of Wisdom in the ancient tongue where Princess Licia could pour over them. High Priest Osgaron ruled: “Princess Licia does not deserve a thoughtless a tutor, Frater Bertran. You will spend five years among the White Brothers in the north Karaskan Ice Fields. The silence and purity of the eternal snows provide an excellent discipline for the soul and a restraint on immoderate enthusiasms and incautious judgments.”

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