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Winds of Vesperia - The First Advisor
Another new Sela story, with everyone’s favorite recurring ex-lover! Because if there’s one thing that’s a shame to lose, it’s interpersonal tension.
Sela clutched the letter tightly in her hand. “Be sure he understands this is a request, not a summons,” she said. “He is not required to come.” Her eyes were full of intensity.
The liveried messenger nodded. “Of course, Skyness. I’ll make sure he understands.”
For a moment longer, Sela clutched the letter – the carefully-crafted missive that had gone through at least a dozen revisions until she was happy that the few lines it contained were phrased properly. Then she abandoned it to the hand of the messenger. She watched his back as he left her tent, then let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She closed her eyes. The waiting would be the hardest part.
A full day passed before she received an answer. A long day’s march for the army, a long day’s flight for the cavalry. Pelsari was not far now. Another two days, perhaps three. Sela could feel the familiar tension, the nervous energy that pervaded a fighting force on the verge of battle. From her aerial vantage, she had seen soldiers conducting the little rituals that they hoped would allow them to survive their next encounter. The officers met later and later into the evening, reviewing the intelligence that had become available over the course of the day through scrying and scouts and spies. The chaplains’ services drew more and more worshippers, each one hoping that a god or goddess’s favor would tip the balance in the upcoming clash.
Sela was in her tent. She knelt on the ground, her hands clasped around the haft of her lance, her eyes closed. Her mouth moved in the now-familiar words of praise to Elaurynt. Sela prayed. She prayed for her own life and for Therrion’s. She prayed for the lives of her friends and her troops. But most of all she prayed for victory, that the besieging army would have the strength to overcome the Devil King’s forces and remove the blight upon Falan and the Elven Kingdoms.
Someone cleared their throat from the entrance to her tent. “Wing Commander Jericho Corranik to see you, Skyness.”
Sela opened her eyes and rose. Carefully, she replaced Soul-Eater in the weapons’ rack. She adjusted her uniform, brushed the dust off her knees. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she should sit or stand. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She nodded, her throat suddenly parched. “Thank you. I’ll see him.”
The guard stepped out and a moment later was replaced by a senior officer in a custom-tailored uniform, the gold of his insignia bars and the embroidery of his unit’s winged emblem glinting in the low light of the continual flame. His back was perfectly straight. “You requested to see me, Skyness?” Even though the rasping hoarseness, his voice was tinged with amusement.
“Yes. Thank you for coming.”
Jericho stood in a comfortable parade rest, his eyes expectant.
Sela paused. All the elaborate speeches she had spent the last day preparing were nowhere in her mind. “I had the opportunity a few days ago to speak to Queen T’ainesa,” she said by way of introduction. “Her Majesty pointed out that there is much I don’t know about being a monarch, and that I don’t have much time to learn.”
Jericho watched her, still as a statue.
Sela began to pace. “Her Majesty suggested that, in an attempt to ensure that I don’t do anything monumentally stupid, I find advisors for myself, people who I trust to tell me the truth and counsel me in matters of state. I… thought of you.”
Sela stopped pacing and looked at her guest, searching for a reaction.
She did not need to look deeply. Jericho’s mouth twisted upward and he let loose a rasping laugh. “Me?” he asked with incredulity. “You thought of me?”
Sela held back a grimace. “I did,” she said. She wished there were a window in her tent she could look out of. Watching the sky would give her strength. She sighed. “I know we don’t have what we once did. I suspect we never will. Much of that is my fault, and I’m sorry. But I know you’ll still speak truth to me. I can trust you to give me honest answers, even if you know I won’t like them. If what Queen T’ainesa says is true, there are few enough people I can expect to do that these days.”
For a moment, Jericho merely watched her. She knew him well enough to see the ideas turning behind his eyes, calculating the situation, assessing his options. Then he sat down on one of the low seats near the front of the tent. “All right,” he said. “Why should I do it?”
Sela took the seat opposite him. “Because I trust you. Because you’ll give me good counsel.”
Jericho shook his head. “No, that’s why you want me to do it. We’ve established why you think I’m a good choice. The question is, why should I agree?”
Sela paused. She had not anticipated this. “Will you not do it for what we once had?”
Jericho looked bitter. “No,” he said. “Like you said, that’s gone. I have a command now, a good one. Why should I give that up to follow you?”
Sela’s brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t have to give up your command.”
Jericho stared at her as though she were a green recruit who had just been taken into his company. “Not yet,” he said. “But one day I would. If you intend to be a monarch, you intend to retake Phalaborwa. Would you expect your advisors to remain behind on the Third Tier while you wage war on the Fourth? Or when you set up your court?”
Sela had not even considered it. Everything was so new. She knew she wanted to retake the swamplands of the Fourth – indeed, she felt almost compelled by the song that rang in her blood – but the logistics of that campaign had never even entered her mind. “No,” she said at last. “I would have you with me.”
Jericho cocked his head, an acknowledgement of the point he had just scored. “Then make it worth my while.”
Sela stood and began pacing again. “I don’t know what I have to offer you,” she admitted. “My kingdom is currently a fetid swampland ruled by an ancient black dragon, one whom I won’t have any means of killing for at least a century, probably longer. You already have a title, land, money, command of the cream of Falan’s navy… I have none of these things. Not yet. I could make you promises for the future, but we both know there would be no guarantee I could follow through on them in my lifetime. The campaign might outlast us both.”
Jericho watched her impassively.
Sela spun on her heel in exasperation. “All right, fine! What do want, that I could offer you?”
Jericho watched her with his calculating gaze, unperturbed by her outburst. “All those things you just mentioned – titles, land, money, commands – you could offer me those.”
Sela shook her head. “You already have those.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I could always use more.”
“What if I died before I could give them to you?”
“You won’t,” said Jericho simply.
Sela raised an eyebrow.
“You intend to retake Phalaborwa. You have the will to do it. You say you have means to do it – in the future, if not now. And you have not one, but two factions willing to raise you from the dead should you fall in battle. Moreover, you’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. You’ll see it through.”
For a moment, Sela felt herself bolstered. Jericho the most calculating person she knew. If he believed she could do it, if he trusted her enough to offer her service on the condition that she succeed… She felt, for the first time, that her pledge to retake her homeland was more than just a boast.
She nodded slowly. “So, what precisely do you want?”
She could see the thoughts speeding through Jericho’s mind, considering what he could ask for, what would be sufficient, what would be too far. His back straightened even more than it already had been. “A duchy,” he said. “With the rights to the treasure found in any ruins on my land. And a permanent place on the advisory council of Phalaborwa, for myself and my descendants.”
Sela gave a low whistle. “You don’t think small, do you?”
Jericho’s eyes flashed. “If I thought small, I wouldn’t be where I am now.”
Sela took a deep breath and sat down, thinking it over. “Any treasure found in the ruins that originally belonged to the crown of Phalaborwa remains the property of the crown of Phalaborwa,” she said slowly.
“How would we know what originally belonged to the crown? The crown has not existed for thousands of years.”
Sela frowned. “Anything with the royal arms – once Jass figures out what those were. Belongings clearly designed for the monarch, like the tapestry that allowed us to do the ritual.” She shrugged. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Jericho considered. “And the rest of it?”
Sela tapped her hand against her leg. “You get a seat on the advisory council when I establish it. Your descendants will have to earn it themselves.”
Jericho pursed his lips. “But my seat is assured, until my final death?”
Sela shrugged. “Don’t go turning yourself into a vampire or a lich or something… but yes. Until you die and aren’t resurrected.” She paused. “But in exchange, I expect both your counsel and your aid. If you want a duchy, you’ll need to give me more than advice.”
The tips of Jericho’s lips turned up. He stood, and Sela stood a moment after. “I accept,” he said. “Counsel and aid, in exchange for a duchy and a seat on your council.” His eyes flashed. “And my first piece of counsel is this: try to survive the upcoming battle with Falan’s king. Just because your allies are willing to resurrect you doesn’t mean you should make a habit of it.”
Sela scoffed. “And to think, here I was planning on getting myself killed at the first opportunity, just to see if it would take.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy it,” said Jericho, “particularly if your friends don’t have another true resurrection handy. Trust me.”
Sela paused, for a moment acutely reminded of Jericho’s personal experience in the matter. “I’d say the same for you,” she pointed out. “Don’t go dying right after treating with me. I’d hate to have wasted my time.”
Jericho adjusted his cloak. “Believe me, Skyness, I have no intention of dying for a very long time. I’ve had quite enough of it to last me centuries.” He bowed, then turned and placed his hand on the flap of her tent.
“Jericho,” Sela called out.
The Wing Commander turned.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
Jericho stared at her intently. “Have I ever made you regret anything?” he asked.
Sela looked down. “Only at the very end,” she said softly.
She could feel his eyes boring into her, the focused stare she had once known so well. She mastered herself and looked up, holding his gaze. The mage set his jaw. “You won’t regret it,” he assured her. Then he pulled back the flap and stepped out into the coolness of eclipse, letting it drop back behind him.
Sela sat down heavily at her desk. She closed her eyes. “For your sake, I hope I don’t,” she whispered.
The First Advisor
Sela clutched the letter tightly in her hand. “Be sure he understands this is a request, not a summons,” she said. “He is not required to come.” Her eyes were full of intensity.
The liveried messenger nodded. “Of course, Skyness. I’ll make sure he understands.”
For a moment longer, Sela clutched the letter – the carefully-crafted missive that had gone through at least a dozen revisions until she was happy that the few lines it contained were phrased properly. Then she abandoned it to the hand of the messenger. She watched his back as he left her tent, then let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She closed her eyes. The waiting would be the hardest part.
A full day passed before she received an answer. A long day’s march for the army, a long day’s flight for the cavalry. Pelsari was not far now. Another two days, perhaps three. Sela could feel the familiar tension, the nervous energy that pervaded a fighting force on the verge of battle. From her aerial vantage, she had seen soldiers conducting the little rituals that they hoped would allow them to survive their next encounter. The officers met later and later into the evening, reviewing the intelligence that had become available over the course of the day through scrying and scouts and spies. The chaplains’ services drew more and more worshippers, each one hoping that a god or goddess’s favor would tip the balance in the upcoming clash.
Sela was in her tent. She knelt on the ground, her hands clasped around the haft of her lance, her eyes closed. Her mouth moved in the now-familiar words of praise to Elaurynt. Sela prayed. She prayed for her own life and for Therrion’s. She prayed for the lives of her friends and her troops. But most of all she prayed for victory, that the besieging army would have the strength to overcome the Devil King’s forces and remove the blight upon Falan and the Elven Kingdoms.
Someone cleared their throat from the entrance to her tent. “Wing Commander Jericho Corranik to see you, Skyness.”
Sela opened her eyes and rose. Carefully, she replaced Soul-Eater in the weapons’ rack. She adjusted her uniform, brushed the dust off her knees. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she should sit or stand. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She nodded, her throat suddenly parched. “Thank you. I’ll see him.”
The guard stepped out and a moment later was replaced by a senior officer in a custom-tailored uniform, the gold of his insignia bars and the embroidery of his unit’s winged emblem glinting in the low light of the continual flame. His back was perfectly straight. “You requested to see me, Skyness?” Even though the rasping hoarseness, his voice was tinged with amusement.
“Yes. Thank you for coming.”
Jericho stood in a comfortable parade rest, his eyes expectant.
Sela paused. All the elaborate speeches she had spent the last day preparing were nowhere in her mind. “I had the opportunity a few days ago to speak to Queen T’ainesa,” she said by way of introduction. “Her Majesty pointed out that there is much I don’t know about being a monarch, and that I don’t have much time to learn.”
Jericho watched her, still as a statue.
Sela began to pace. “Her Majesty suggested that, in an attempt to ensure that I don’t do anything monumentally stupid, I find advisors for myself, people who I trust to tell me the truth and counsel me in matters of state. I… thought of you.”
Sela stopped pacing and looked at her guest, searching for a reaction.
She did not need to look deeply. Jericho’s mouth twisted upward and he let loose a rasping laugh. “Me?” he asked with incredulity. “You thought of me?”
Sela held back a grimace. “I did,” she said. She wished there were a window in her tent she could look out of. Watching the sky would give her strength. She sighed. “I know we don’t have what we once did. I suspect we never will. Much of that is my fault, and I’m sorry. But I know you’ll still speak truth to me. I can trust you to give me honest answers, even if you know I won’t like them. If what Queen T’ainesa says is true, there are few enough people I can expect to do that these days.”
For a moment, Jericho merely watched her. She knew him well enough to see the ideas turning behind his eyes, calculating the situation, assessing his options. Then he sat down on one of the low seats near the front of the tent. “All right,” he said. “Why should I do it?”
Sela took the seat opposite him. “Because I trust you. Because you’ll give me good counsel.”
Jericho shook his head. “No, that’s why you want me to do it. We’ve established why you think I’m a good choice. The question is, why should I agree?”
Sela paused. She had not anticipated this. “Will you not do it for what we once had?”
Jericho looked bitter. “No,” he said. “Like you said, that’s gone. I have a command now, a good one. Why should I give that up to follow you?”
Sela’s brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t have to give up your command.”
Jericho stared at her as though she were a green recruit who had just been taken into his company. “Not yet,” he said. “But one day I would. If you intend to be a monarch, you intend to retake Phalaborwa. Would you expect your advisors to remain behind on the Third Tier while you wage war on the Fourth? Or when you set up your court?”
Sela had not even considered it. Everything was so new. She knew she wanted to retake the swamplands of the Fourth – indeed, she felt almost compelled by the song that rang in her blood – but the logistics of that campaign had never even entered her mind. “No,” she said at last. “I would have you with me.”
Jericho cocked his head, an acknowledgement of the point he had just scored. “Then make it worth my while.”
Sela stood and began pacing again. “I don’t know what I have to offer you,” she admitted. “My kingdom is currently a fetid swampland ruled by an ancient black dragon, one whom I won’t have any means of killing for at least a century, probably longer. You already have a title, land, money, command of the cream of Falan’s navy… I have none of these things. Not yet. I could make you promises for the future, but we both know there would be no guarantee I could follow through on them in my lifetime. The campaign might outlast us both.”
Jericho watched her impassively.
Sela spun on her heel in exasperation. “All right, fine! What do want, that I could offer you?”
Jericho watched her with his calculating gaze, unperturbed by her outburst. “All those things you just mentioned – titles, land, money, commands – you could offer me those.”
Sela shook her head. “You already have those.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I could always use more.”
“What if I died before I could give them to you?”
“You won’t,” said Jericho simply.
Sela raised an eyebrow.
“You intend to retake Phalaborwa. You have the will to do it. You say you have means to do it – in the future, if not now. And you have not one, but two factions willing to raise you from the dead should you fall in battle. Moreover, you’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. You’ll see it through.”
For a moment, Sela felt herself bolstered. Jericho the most calculating person she knew. If he believed she could do it, if he trusted her enough to offer her service on the condition that she succeed… She felt, for the first time, that her pledge to retake her homeland was more than just a boast.
She nodded slowly. “So, what precisely do you want?”
She could see the thoughts speeding through Jericho’s mind, considering what he could ask for, what would be sufficient, what would be too far. His back straightened even more than it already had been. “A duchy,” he said. “With the rights to the treasure found in any ruins on my land. And a permanent place on the advisory council of Phalaborwa, for myself and my descendants.”
Sela gave a low whistle. “You don’t think small, do you?”
Jericho’s eyes flashed. “If I thought small, I wouldn’t be where I am now.”
Sela took a deep breath and sat down, thinking it over. “Any treasure found in the ruins that originally belonged to the crown of Phalaborwa remains the property of the crown of Phalaborwa,” she said slowly.
“How would we know what originally belonged to the crown? The crown has not existed for thousands of years.”
Sela frowned. “Anything with the royal arms – once Jass figures out what those were. Belongings clearly designed for the monarch, like the tapestry that allowed us to do the ritual.” She shrugged. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Jericho considered. “And the rest of it?”
Sela tapped her hand against her leg. “You get a seat on the advisory council when I establish it. Your descendants will have to earn it themselves.”
Jericho pursed his lips. “But my seat is assured, until my final death?”
Sela shrugged. “Don’t go turning yourself into a vampire or a lich or something… but yes. Until you die and aren’t resurrected.” She paused. “But in exchange, I expect both your counsel and your aid. If you want a duchy, you’ll need to give me more than advice.”
The tips of Jericho’s lips turned up. He stood, and Sela stood a moment after. “I accept,” he said. “Counsel and aid, in exchange for a duchy and a seat on your council.” His eyes flashed. “And my first piece of counsel is this: try to survive the upcoming battle with Falan’s king. Just because your allies are willing to resurrect you doesn’t mean you should make a habit of it.”
Sela scoffed. “And to think, here I was planning on getting myself killed at the first opportunity, just to see if it would take.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy it,” said Jericho, “particularly if your friends don’t have another true resurrection handy. Trust me.”
Sela paused, for a moment acutely reminded of Jericho’s personal experience in the matter. “I’d say the same for you,” she pointed out. “Don’t go dying right after treating with me. I’d hate to have wasted my time.”
Jericho adjusted his cloak. “Believe me, Skyness, I have no intention of dying for a very long time. I’ve had quite enough of it to last me centuries.” He bowed, then turned and placed his hand on the flap of her tent.
“Jericho,” Sela called out.
The Wing Commander turned.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
Jericho stared at her intently. “Have I ever made you regret anything?” he asked.
Sela looked down. “Only at the very end,” she said softly.
She could feel his eyes boring into her, the focused stare she had once known so well. She mastered herself and looked up, holding his gaze. The mage set his jaw. “You won’t regret it,” he assured her. Then he pulled back the flap and stepped out into the coolness of eclipse, letting it drop back behind him.
Sela sat down heavily at her desk. She closed her eyes. “For your sake, I hope I don’t,” she whispered.