The Right of Blood

Chapter Two

         House of Nobles: Part of a two-part legislature of Tiramour.  A figure head for three centuries; responsible for the day-to-day laws and government of Tiramour, it is often over-ruled by the Royal family. 





Spring of the Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand and Nine came early to the magical nation of Tiramour.  Wondrously mild days and cool evening supplanted the colder weather of the harsh winter the nation had endured.  In the coastal plains, and the fertile mountain valleys, the nation was alive with verdant fields, vibrant orchards, and stunning wildflowers.  Farmers tended their crops, tradeswizards readied their wares, and the nations army marched in rank and file on parade grounds, and through streets ready to keep the peace should anything ever get out of hand.


         To most, life in Tiramour could be considered good.  The nation had not known open war in over six centuries.  To an outsider, observing for mere moments, the nation would seem quite the place to retire.  A small continent, in the middle of the wide Pacific Ocean, with glistening tropical beaches on its southern shores, and stunning rocky cliffs on its north.  There were only a few problems, that one would notice if proper care was taken to observe in detail.


         Firstly, one had to find Tiramour in order to retire there.  The entire magical nation was totally and utterly concealed from discovery by the Bards.  The whole continent, shielded from prying eyes and wandering feet.  And while a few Bards did stumble across the nation—usually the result of shipwreck or other accidents—the soon found it was indeed not an ideal place to retire, nor even to visit.


         Secondly, Tiramour was a nation of oppression.  It’s magical populace living in quiet fear of the tyrannical Royal Family.  The government of Tiramour was largely just figurative, and Royal Family constantly overruled it; running the nation with an iron fist, enforced by the might of the sizable army of highly skilled, combat trained witches and wizards.


         Thirdly, Tiramour’s oppression did not extend only to its own magical populace; but beyond to the utter and total enslavement of any Bard that happened to live and breathe within the nation’s borders.


         Long ago, when wizards first came to Tiramour, escaping the persecution of Bards in their former homelands, they found a people that knew nothing of magic.  The original non-magic population of the small continent, had lived cut off from all other lands for more than a thousand years, and had never seen or heard of a witch or wizard.  Indeed, they were not a superstitious or religious people in their own right.  Hardly be-lieving their luck, the witches and wizards quickly gained control of the land, and began to subjugate the Bards, telling themselves it was justice for all the persecution and prejudice they’d endured.  Within a century, not a single Bard was free, all either having been killed or enslaved.  What may have started as “justice” quickly became tyranny.


         Over the years since the Foundation— the conquering of the lands that formed Tiramour, and their consolidation into a magical nation built on enslavement of non-magical peoples—many more Bards stumbled unwittingly on the nation, and had found themselves forced into slavery to the witches and wizards that ruled.


         While spring had come early that year, and while the nation looked peaceful; if one really looked closely, they would notice Bard slaves working laboriously in the fields, or the mills; or hauling crates, goods, produce, and even mucking out the various streets and alleys of a nation that had never seen an automobile.


         Sargin Ren, son of Duke Amad Ren of Tael Cirinth, strode through the red marble corridors of the House of Nobles.  The large government building sat deep in the center of Evangaer—the great sprawling capital of Triamour.  Located on Tiramour’s southern coast, along the eastern side of the Raer Evan (River Evan), the city was a balmy seventy-five degrees already early on the twelfth of March.  Sargin was tall, and thin.  He had black, close-shorn hair; with brown eyes set in his narrow face; his family’s Japanese heritage quite well defined in the forty-two-year-old’s features.  Dark blue robes, nearly reaching the floor, billowed slightly at his faster-than-average pace.


         As Sargin walked, Bard slaves hurried about various tasks.  They were sweeping and mopping, dusting, moving various pots and plants, vases and statues.  Each was dressed in similarly depressing garments.  Males wore only a pair of loose legged grey shorts and sandals, while the females wore knee-length grey dresses.  Each short or dress was emblazoned at about thigh height, on the right side, with a scarlet wand, crossed over a golden ring: the symbol of the House of Nobles.


         As he marched along the corridor, Sargin frowned.  The sight of the slaves leaving a sour feeling in his stomach.  He was not fond of the enforced enslavement of the Bards living in Tiramour.  He had no problem with someone being a servant; but only if that person chose such a profession, and were properly compensated.  As a son of a Duke, however, he could not go about openly declaring his disgust of the traditions of his homeland.  Indeed, his family made use of Bard slaves—as a noble house, it would be taboo for them not to do so—but they took as much care of the slaves as they could.


         Indeed, the House of Ren, treated all their slaves as freely as possible.  They were never overworked, always had time to rest, full meals and warm housing with comfort-able beds.  They were treated with respect, and given completely equitable hearings should grievances occur.  Though, if anyone ever did an absolutely honest survey of the Ren estates, they would actually find that the only slaves there, were slaves that chose to remain enslaved.


         Reaching the end of the corridor, Sargin turned right, and marched down the next hall; musing to himself about the fact that the slaves on his family estates had chosen that life.


         It wasn’t a matter of the fact that they wanted to be slaves.  No, each of them had been bought at market, already enslaved.  Many had been born in Tiramour, and others had been unfortunate enough to have stumbled upon the nation.  Yet, each of the ones that worked on the estates was there by choice.  Once purchased, each slave was given the chance to go free…to be conveyed in secret to the Covenant; there to be either smuggled out of the country to one of the many free wizard nations around the globe, or to work along side the witches and wizards of the Covenant to help free other Bard slaves.  Most took the offer, but others—quite a few—opted to remain officially slaves to the Ren family, in order to keep up appearances.  For over two centuries, the House of Ren had worked in support of the Covenant, secretly fighting to bring an end to the oppression of the Bards.


         Today, however, even the though that his family worked tirelessly against this tradition, the sight of the Bard slaves in the corridors left him decidedly ill at ease.  Perhaps it was just the sight of so many dejected and abused persons; or perhaps the knowledge that there was still so much work to do.  Perhaps it was even that this was his first day in this building as an actual member of the House of Nobels; representing Tael Cirinth in his father’s stead; he couldn’t say for sure.


         Duke Amad Ren had taken ill two weeks previously, and had missed one meeting of the House already.  As Duke Ren’s health had not improved, Amad had appointed his son, that morning, as representative of Tael Cirith in the House.  It was an honor that Sargin had not expected to receive until after his father’s death; and it was one that now weighed heavily on his shoulders.


         Six minutes ago, only an hour after arriving at his father’s office in the building, a summons from the Crown had arrived.  The Bard slave, wearing black shorts and sandals with the emblem of the Royal House (a red crown over crossed black wands on a field of white), who had presented the summons personally, trembled visibly as he did so.  When questioned, the slave had barely managed to squeak out that he’d been threat-ened with severe punishment if he failed in his assigned delivery.


         After dismissing the slave, Sargin had red the notice carefully.  It read only: All Representatives of the House of Nobles, are to join the Senate of the Crown in Calisum at two hours before midday.  And was signed: By order of Ahava, Queen of Tiramour, Light of the Realm; holder of the Sceptre of Stars and the Ring of Falcier.


         Troubled by the unexpected meeting of the House and the Senate in joint council, Sargin picked up his satchel from the beside the desk he’d barely had time to use, and had marched out the door.


         As he finally came to the main exit of the House of Nobles, Sargin finally let his mind slip past the plight of the Bard slaves long enough to worry about why Calisum had been called.


Calisum, the joint council of the House and the Senate, was only called when resolutions or laws needed passing that required joint consent of both the bodies of the Tiramourin legislature: Such things were bound in the laws enforced by magic at the very Foundation.  However, there were several different types of voting require-ments.  Since the majority of the resolutions or laws needing Calisum consent were of grave impact on Tiramour and its people, the most common voting requirement was that each Body would vote, and majority vote in the Body would be added to majority vote in the other.  If the total “yes” votes from both Bodies was in majority over the total “no” votes by a total of sixty-six percent to thirty-three percent, the resolution would pass.  Though for many lesser resolutions, a simple general small majority of fifty-one percent was needed.


What is Ahava playing at? Sargin wondered.  Calisum was rarely called by the King or Queen themselves.  It was not unheard of, but was rare.  Especially since Tiramour had never actually gone to war, and that was one of the few reasons the Mon-arch could actually call Calisum.


Sargin moved through the fountain filled park surrounded by the Senate build-ing, the House of Nobles, and  the Great Court of Tiramour; crossing the small court-yard toward the great white edifice of the Calisum.  Minutes later, entering the House side of the Council Chamber, Sargin sat himself at the small desk labeled: Tael Cirinth – Rep. Sargin Ren.


The Council Chamber of the Calisum was a semi-circular room.  At the front of the room, along the flat edge of the semi-circle, stood the raised speakers platform, and the scribe’s box, where all goings-on in Calisum were recorded.  Bard slaves, wearing both the emblems of the House and of the Senate carried out minor tasks assisting either the scribes, or the various Representatives and Senators now filling the room.  The rest of the room rose in semi-circular terraces.  Divided down the middle, separating the House from the Senate, by a thin golden rail, each level held five desks on either side of the rail.  Thirteen levels in all, sixty-five desks on each side, one for each of the sixty-five Noble houses, and one for each of the sixty-four Senators elected from each of the thirty-two provinces, and one the Senator elected from Evangaer itself.  Unlike the House of Nobles, who always elected a Speaker from within their ranks, the Senate’s leader was always from Evangaer.


As the room filled, Sargin looked across a the Senator from Tael Cirinth.  Hitho Drana, a short wizard with thinning black hair and narrow, hawk-like face, looked decidedly ill.  He appeared to have no more knowledge of why Calisum had been called, but it seemed from observing him that he had as equally a bad feeling about it as Sargin himself.


The room about them steadily filled, and at exactly two hours before midday, a chime sounded signaling the beginning of Calisum.  Unlike previous meetings of the Calisum—which Sargin had both observed in preparation for taking his father’s place; and had studied all his life in records—neither the Speaker for the House of Nobles or the High Senator got up to speak.  Instead, the door at the back of the plat-form opened and the recently enthroned Queen herself marched in; followed by, Sargin was shocked to see, High General Kalus, who smiled momentarily.


Queen Ahava Evahnos was tall, thin, and pale.  She had a rather sculpture-like face, with a narrow nose, and high cheekbones.  Her hair was deepest auburn, and her eyes so cerulean blue that they sparkled like jewels in the light of the chamber; despite the decided lack of warmth they held.  Her long auburn hair was pulled back and bound in an elegant tail with thin golden wire, and she wore a flowing green gown, with the blood-red cape of the Royal family trailing from her rather squared shoulders.


High General Kalus, was a different figure.  He was, Sargin knew, head of the entire army of Tiramour, and a close friend of the Queen.  He was black skinned: Not the deep chocolate, or dark tones of people of African decent, as some of Sargin’s friends were; Kalus was blacker than black, darker than the night itself.  His skin appeared to be as living Jet in color, though flat in tone.  There was no glossiness of the dark jewel in his features.  His eyes, however, were pure obsidian, filled only with silver cornea surrounding equally obsidian pupils.  When he smiled, sharpened, blood-red teeth became momentarily visible.  He was a man of just above average height; and was well muscled, as evidenced by the ripples of flesh beneath his onyx colored robes.  A thin red tribal looking tattoo curled up the right side of his face, dis-appearing into his long, silver hair.  Sargin forced himself to suppress a shudder at the sight of the High General.


Everyone in the room stood as the pair entered.  The Queen looked quite pleased with this, even as Kalus’s smile was replaced by a slightly cynical expression.  “Sit,” said Ahava; and with no words spoken amongst them, they sat as one, some plainly relieved to be allowed to resume their seats.


Moving to the center of the platform, the Queen looked out at them a moment longer, then began to properly address the crowd.  “I have called Calisum to hear a proposal.”  There was not murmur, but a silent ripple ran through the crowd at this.  She went on, “As this assembly is aware, my father, and last surviving brother were both murdered by bards ten years ago: The King, by his own slave; and my brother by a bard in the country in which he took up residence.


“Proven long ago that these murders were on the order of the Covenant, we sought out and destroyed them with the High General’s strategies.  But, the Covenant is not the only threat to our way of life,” she paused dramatically.  “There are a great many Bards in the world, not under the rightful control of Magic-kind.  This despicable state of things, has never once corrected by our brethren since witches and wizards were driven into hiding.  Our brethren seem not to have learned that the place of the non-magical, is to submit and to serve the magical.


“The Bards, with all their science have, time and again, come close to destroying not only witches and wizards, but the every world in which we all inhabit.  Left to their own devices, sooner or later the Bards will destroy the world.


“Further, the isolation of the magical community from the rest of the world, is outmoded, a relic of the past.  We possess power beyond the Bards.  Why should we be afraid of them?  Why should we be in hiding?”


Sargin listened as the Queen’s voice began to take on a manic quality.  It was very well done, he felt;  he knew where this was leading, the only place it could lead.  She had evoked sympathy, with her lies about the Covenant and her family’s mur-ders.  She had evoked the long dormant resentment witches and wizards felt at being made second class in the world as a whole.  She had pricked their anger at Bard his-tory, dangerous and bloody as it had been for millennia.  She had even roused the old thoughts of coming out of hiding.  It will be a disaster, thought Sargin.  The Queen was still speaking….


“The time is right for all Magic-kind to leave hiding for good.  We must move now to wrest control of the world from Bard hands, before they destroy the very world we all share.  The free Bards in the world must be made to bow to Magic-kind, as those here have been subjugated…or else they must be eliminated.


“The High General has time and again given evidence of this need; to you, to the people and to the Crown.  Therefore, I petition this body for open war against the Bards, and any Magical nations that stand in our way.”


There, thought Sargin, she’s done it.  Open war—of any kind, against any foe—Sargin knew, would require the Great-Majority.  Unfortunately, he knew also that the majority of the Senators would side with the Queen and the High General.  He was unsure how many in the House of Nobles would agree, but he had his suspicions.


“The vote of the Calisum is called!” roared the High General.  “Do your duty to the Crown.  For Tiramour.  E Tiramour aulie, doum nosse!”


Sargin suppressed another shudder as Kalus intoned the ritual words to call the vote.  It was close to a breach of protocol; Kalus had no real authority to call the vote to order, but no one questioned the General.  The Queen, after all, had put a motion before them.  Instead of shuddering, he forced himself to turn to the other Representatives and begin the House’s portion of the vote.





An hour later, a portal opened at the top of a wide canyon deep in the heart of Tiramour.  The land around the canyon was green and fertile, a river flowing nearby provided for the grass and plant life.  Stepping out of the portal, Sargin quickly located the steep slope that led down into the slit in the earth.


         Long minute stretched by as he slowly descended to the bottom of the fissure.  An ancient tributary of the river above, now long cut off from it, ebbed and flowed along the center of the canyon.  Turning to the east, Sargin increased his speed.  Ten minutes later, rounding a bend, he found himself face to face with the solid rock wall of canyon’s terminus.


         “That’s far enough, Noble,” called a harsh voice.


         Sargin’s wand was in his hand, even as he turn back the way he’d come, annoyed that he’d allowed himself to be snuck up on; or possibly followed…a worse possibility.  A moment later, he lowered his wand as two wizards stepped from the shadow of a large boulder, which had shielded them from view.  They’d been on guard, he assumed.


         Sargin recognized both immediately, and recognition did little to ease his racing heart.  The one who had spoke, for Sargin knew the voice well, was tall, with white hair and heavily scared face.  The right ear was missing, and the left eye, once green was clouded milky white.  He was Caius Gregen; born in AD 1882.


         Old as Gregen was, however, it was nothing on his companion.  Tanin Faust, also very familiar to Sargin, was a stooped figure in black robes; bowed down with age that no man should have endured.  He was short because of his stoop, but if he could have stood tall, he would have been as tall as Gregen.  His hair was oddly transparent, as if it had forgotten how to hold color, even white, long ago.  His face was not scarred like Gregen’s, but it was so wrinkled that it as hard to make out any-thing distinct, other than its rounded shape and the still brilliantly sparkling lavender eyes.  No living witch or wizard knew how old Faust was; but it was rumored he had been born before the Foundation.  That he was around a thousand years in age, wasn’t hard to believe from looking at him, but no wizard had ever been recorded as living that long.


         “Gregen,” said Sargin in terse greeting.  Looking at Faust, he greeted him more kindly, “Hello Tanin, my old friend.”


         Faust bowed, shrinking his height even more alarmingly.  For a second Sargin feared the wizard would not be able to straighten, but Faust rose back to his previous height with seeming ease.  “Welcome Sargin, son of Amad.”


         Gregen glared.  “Why are you here Noble?” he growled.


         Ignoring the old soldier, Sargin looked directly at Faust.  “We have a problem.  Ahava called a vote of the Calisum an hour ago.”


         The old wizard nodded.  “I assume it was more the usual ‘The Covenant was just the beginning of the threat,’ and “We must eliminate or enslave all the Bards in the world’?”


         Sargin nodded.  “Yes,” he paused.  “Tanin, the Calisum passed the Great Ma-jority.  She got what she wanted.  Tiramour is to go to war against the Bards, and any magical nation that stand in it’s way.”


         No alarm spread across Faust’s face, the old wizard looked thoughtful.  Gregen however, looked momentarily taken aback.  “She can’t be serious?  Is she mad?  Open war against the entire world will be the end of Tiramour.”


         Sargin nodded.  “She may not be, but the High General certainly is.  I suspect he’s been playing her, plotting something.  It hardly matters now though.  Everything the Covenant has worked for; died for…ruined.”


         “Perhaps not,” whispered Faust.  “Perhaps the Covenant has one more hand we can play.  If Mahiohri will agree.  If not…then much will be lost.”


         Sargin thought a moment.  “She’ll never agree.  Ahava had her son killed, just to be sure of a claim to the throne.  Tried to kill her, and even her grandson.  She swore after that not to lose any more family to this cursed nation.  She took steps that very day to limit her grandson’s risks in regard to us.”


         Faust shook his head.  “Even if that charm is irreversible, it doesn’t matter.  We must try to convince her.  Her grandson must stand on the Covenant’s side.  His father would have, his father was one of us, as Mahiohri is.”


         Sargin still looked troubled.  “How can you be sure Tristan is anything like Iahn?”


The only answer he got, was a grim smile playing on Faust’s lips as the old wizard moved past him, walking straight into the rock wall and disappearing from sight.











NOTE: E Tiramour aulie, doum nosse! This is a Tiramourin exclamation, meaning, O glorious Tiramour, our home!