9 Chapter 8
"Darkness enshrouded his soul like the shadows consume the countenance of the moon, star of the night, in its fortnightly revolution."
~
Bureau of the Zephanian Arch-Eccleissor,
Auxiliary to the Imperial Castle,
Kingdom of Tristendyre,
Morning to the first Phriday of the Second month,
XXI Year of Regency
Arch-Eccleissorship Devland Zephaniah, the man who knew not the weight of what he wielded, had always stood in the shadow of the Regent. Though silent in the eyes of a naive kern, this man drew the reins of the prevailing regency.
There was a grand deal of ventures to be eased, beyond his mortal competence withal. Even so, all his graces crucially depended on the false portrayal of what he could not achieve.
He stroked his long grey beard as his mind considered various endeavours that could not see fulfilment and others that may come to pass against his will.
The stiff and upright purple collar of velvet had always been his pride and rank, but at ill-favoured times as these, it felt like a gyve that threatened his neck. He had never, in all his years, been so grateful for rain. He had oft regretted their invasion, for waylaying his schemes, but this present day, it was relieving deliverance, for if the Dragons had ruthlessly arrived, there was no means of bringing them to subjection.
The revered coat of arms that was the crest of his proud ancestry was embellished upon the cloak on his back. His dark eyes steadily gazed at the large Horn-shaped fang measuring about a half and five treads in length, lying peacefully in a great casket: the next and more superior artefact of his heritage.
He had always been honoured as the royal prophet of the Kingdom of Tristendyre, the Arch-Eccleissor, for being the one to predict Dragon Raids. It was, indeed, a title he cherished, for it had granted him all the opulent pleasures of this life.
Despite the hostile and unknown dominance that the Regent's reign boasted, it was their deeds in the dark that earned them the subjection of the people, and now, that power was in disguised jeopardy, for the princess had escaped.
The man fastened the buckle of his rustic belt made of Manila hemp to stiffen the houppelande against his waist. His flared sleeves were carved to scallops in the shape of a fire's burning flame.
The design thereof had never before invoked these maddening feelings of guilt that were now weighing against his head like an undeserved crown. But the intangible crown of being chief prophet was a pride handed down to him as a legacy's laurel from ancestral heritage.
Being born into a family that was known for generations and generations of prophets, Devland, stepping into the footsteps of tradition, was not without art. He knew in precision, what chords to strike for the tune of prophecy.
However, in his age, the interference of a certain young man vested with powers, Nathan Jehu, was of unbearable command and offense. Although Jehu was merely a dilettante in his gaze, the man had not folded to negotiation and had proceeded against the orbit of the authoritarian regime.
When hunting such immaculate skill proved futile, the lad's own righteous passion of writing against the Regency had forged a convenient trail for his extermination.
This present circumstance, however, was an odd occurrence, besides the twists instituted by Devland Zephaniah himself, in consensus with the Regent. With Nathan's sentence of ten days to the pillory at the end of which the Dragons were foretold to arrive, in due order to align with his execution of burning in their flames, the Princess' unprecedented levant was a quake to his Rule's foundation.
They had been forced to close St. Erdenguar, where the monstrous Beasts would infallibly alight at bid and the "criminals" burnt.
Strangely, it was unanticipated that the Dragons had failed to arrive at expected day. Howbeit, there were several other emerging events that caused him relief that the rains that day would defer any potential dragon raid, such as the lack of subduing power and the like.
Indiscernibly, there was no evident reason for why the Dragons had not arrived as per his claim.
That was, however, only a portion of his concerns. On the other part, there were the people. With Dragon Raids proclaimed to strike, what faith would the people bear to his prophecy if the Dragons did not arrive? Such was a predicament even though, at present hour, Devland knew it would profit for no such advent to be excited.
But there was a greater agitation: What would betide if the Dragons did, in fact, arrive after the rains? How would that be dealt with, when he was as crippled?
There was much truth left to be covered and further, there was the curious inscription upon the Pillory left to be deciphered, which questioned the murder of Jehu that the Regent had claimed to achieve through Jaycob Oreius.
~
Northern Provinces,
Kingdom of Tristendyre,
Morning to the first Phriday of the Second month,
XXI Year of Regency
The heavens were merciless when their generation of clouds poured down upon the earth as rain. Imogen was led out the castle and down the streets.
The cuffs that had her wrists seized were heavy and cold yet compelling her weak being to keep pace. The showers descended in a ferocious deluge, but that had not deterred the people from attending the procedure of her unjust execution.
Warm tears and cold rain drops ran down her flushed face, as she lifted her gaze to the heavens, prayers for mercy ascending.
The chief leading the troop stopped and turned, unfastening his cape and donning it over her countenance. It wasn't a motion fulfilled to keep the rainfall from afflicting her, but to cover the identity of her staggering honour from the observation of the people.
Her eyes were trained on the wet stone floor of the street, as the assemblage proceeded with its long procession. They marched down passing the Mount of St. Erdengaur with the Blade of Erdengaur rested therein, the city of Shillingston and finally reaching the town of Hazenvale: onward to the square thereof.
The column leading Imogen, followed by the masses of people halted before the pillory. The torrent continued ceaselessly and Imogen's veil slid down her face.
She could feel the pain in her feet rising as she stood, shivering, without even her hands to her aid. Her head was throbbing and her body felt numb whilst she looked up to behold: the stone pillory was broken, its prisoner gone and a curious inscription was written upon the surface thereof.
"ஏசாயா ௨௰௮: ௰௭"
~
