The Consuls of the Vicariate by Brian Kittrell

people milling around in front of it. The building stood taller than most of the others in the city, the golden dome atop the perfect cylinder extending nearly ten stories into the air. Massive marble columns with gold and silver inlays ringed the chamber, the arches between them adorned with gold and silver banners. A huge censer hung by a thick chain from the ceiling, the incense burning within filling the room with a pleasant scent like roasted lemons mixed with fresh pine needles. Though Valyrie had seen the consul chamber many times before, she always stood in awe of it.
    Seeming to recognize Jurgen, the commoners stopped and whispered to each other. They were apparently filled with warmth and excitement at his approach because the words spoken under their breaths changed to a dull chant, then mixed with applause until the entire square cheered his every step.
    “It would seem the people are joyous at your return, Vicar,” she whispered.
    Jurgen gave her a smile, then turned and waved at the crowd. “Thank you. Azura bless you.” Entering the arched hall to the central chamber, he whispered, “And may she watch over me here, too.”
    Valyrie felt small and miniscule, more so than usual, and not because she was thin; the size and grandeur of the assembly room filled her with angst. So many eyes watching us enter already, and the place is but half full . Long, sturdy desks made rings around the room, each set atop a terrace of steps extending high above in every direction. The rings terminated opposite the entrance at a wide platform with a throne glimmering with gold, silver, and jewels. That must be where the Grand Vicar sits. Only the highest would be placed on such a chair .
    A man rushed over. “Vicar Jurgen? We didn’t expect you. Can we help you?”
    Jurgen removed his fine overcoat and draped it across the man’s arm. “I’ve come to sit at the consulship, of course.”
    “Y-yes, as you wish,” the man said.
    “Can you point me to an empty seat, Chamberlain? Or have things changed since I’ve been gone?”
    “No, of course. Please, this way.” The chamberlain escorted Jurgen to a desk on the floor, and Valyrie followed, her footsteps echoing no matter how lightly she walked. “I hope this is fitting, Your Grace, on such short notice.”
    “Fine, worry not. When arriving without warning, a traveler must take whatever he can get.”
    “Your Grace is kind.” The chamberlain bowed, then scurried away to attend the other vicars.
    Sitting, Jurgen extended his hand to offer Valyrie a chair at his side. “The chamber is different since last I sat within these walls.”
    “How so?”
    He studied the walls as if they had an answer scrolled across them. “The priests are anxious and uncertain. You can tell by the looks on their faces and the trembling of their hands.”
    Sudden drumming startled her. She scanned the circular balcony lining the wall high above. The drummers beat the solemn tune for the Grand Vicar’s approach, a rendition she remembered well. Then she saw him on the raised platform, a platform which extended all the way to the Grand Vicar’s palace to the east. His silken robes shined with dyes of silver, gold, and purple. Atop his head sat a thin golden circlet—a mark of his office and the least impressive of the jewelry he wore. The magnificent onyx ring on his hand caught her attention as it seemed to shimmer with an artificial vibrancy. Beneath the pomp and pageantry, his pale skin and blue eyes were a stark contrast to his jet-black hair.
    Sitting on the ornate throne, Grand Vicar Tristan IV gazed over the crowd until the drums stopped. “Vicars,” he said, then didn’t speak again until the room grew quiet. “We are at the precipice. All that we have worked toward is under threat of being undone. The Albiadines will not join us, and the Lasoronian claim they are stretched too thin across the swamps.”
    The Almatheren Swamp? She recalled the tales told by her father and