Although the last magician on the continent of Agoling was burned by the Inquisition eight hundred years ago, its inhabitants still encounter manifestations of supernatural powers from time to time.
For Deirdre Drien, the daughter of Baron Drien, th...
The 37th day of the year 879 from the Fall of the Triumvirate
The spacious coronation hall was flooded with bright, unusually warm sunlight, in which barely noticeable dust particles danced. It smelled of something heavy and sweet. The incense made dizzy.
Bodgart Adrandi was walking steadily along a wide corridor flanked by two groups of courtiers, nobles and clergymen. His heavy red robe rustled on the ancient stone floor slabs. The hall fell into a respectful silence, so piercing that the sound of his own heart was in his ears, quickening his pace. Hundreds of eyes, interested, but more often dissatisfied, ironic, sharp and outright angry, stared at the future King of Eldra. Gold, velvet, silk, fur, and precious stones reigned supreme, almost eclipsing their owners. And he, the only one walking, slipped through them like an icy, indifferent blade.
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The man forced his chin up a little higher, squared his shoulders until his back cracked. Each step sent a pulsation through his thighs and sternum.
Bodgart could not afford to make a mistake. To stutter, to sneeze, to hold his gaze on one person was almost to sign his own failure and uselessness. But he couldn't help himself. His eyes snatched a white-skinned woman's face from the crowd, frozen in an indifferent, icy grimace that resembled a mask rather than a living person, and framed by short white hair that made her dark eyebrows seem fake, marked by the sharp stroke of an angry quill pen. And next to it was another, much more unpleasant, cropped, with bright, almost transparent eyes and a bald skull glistening with oily sweat. The future King did not know the woman's name. He only knew that she was an official and authorised envoy of Archon Safir Faber. The man was Prelate Vidius, a representative of Archon Raoul Faber, the royal brother and co-ruler of Freeyed Dor. The prelate smiled, and his plump face sagged like badly kneaded dough.
Bodgart looked away. He walked past indifferently. Finally, he reached the pedestal and slowly knelt down on one knee, bowing his head. Time dragged on endlessly, like tart and thick honey, in which everyone present froze like a beetle in amber.
The Master of Ceremonies, a decrepit old man who looked a hundred years old, staggered towards the bowing. Bodgart could only see the lower edge of his motley, brown hem and the frayed tassel of coarse rope that traditionally girded his robe. He also noticed the exquisitely crafted boots of the young boy who presented the old man with the pillow on which the royal crown lay. Then the future King's gaze dropped down to the grey stone slabs of the floor.
The voice of the Master of Ceremonies suddenly rang out in a sonorous tenor through the ancient vaults of the hall. But Bodgart didn't hear the words, or rather, didn't distinguish them. His breathing became laboured, and his eyes began to darken. Sweat accumulated on his temples and slid down in light, tickling trickles. Trying to distract himself from his suffering, the man focused on the world around him. But the voice, the smell, the light, and the oppressive stuffiness only made his already unpleasant feelings worse.
