Chapter 119: ' The Tributes '
If audio player doesn't work, press Stop then Play button again
Chapter 119: ' The Tributes '
POV: Qyburn;
Castle Dungeon, Torrhen's Square.
A few days after Ronan left for the Barrowlands ...
It was late in the evening in the private rooms of the Master of Knowledge. The evening was accompanied by one of the last spring snowfalls in the North.
Soon those snows would turn to rain. But unfortunately, it rarely snowed between late spring and summer in the Tallhart lands.
The melted candles signalled to the man that perhaps it was time to lie down in bed. Qyburn could have indulged in luxury that evening. The hardworking man had recently finished scanning and drafting instructions for all the documents in the 'High Urgency Level' section.
No 'Highest Level Urgency' came in the last few days. Tomorrow night he would move on to the 'Medium Urgency' section.
In the early morning, the Maester would teach a lesson to Benfred, Eddara, and little Elminster--then it would be up to the advanced class for the new apprentice healers.
The guinea pigs gathered in the Frey lands continued to moan desperately for safety in the Knight of the Mind's personal cells.
Three bastard sons and a grandson of Walder Frey, along with two 'knights' of the Twin Towers. Rapists, thieves, and murderers took to brigandage by assaulting Northern wagon trains in isolated spots near the Green Forks just outside the Frey borders.
Tomorrow Qyburn would teach his would-be healers how to properly stop a bleed on the battlefield...
The experienced healer wondered how many would fall unconscious tomorrow and how many would sully his temple of learning.
Those young men and women were willing and able, but youth was often accompanied by arrogance. Many of them still did not heed his warm recommendation to 'show up for the class on an empty stomach.'
Ser Qyburn finished sorting out the papers that had required more urgent attention.
At last, the Knight of the Mind could delegate the spy network to competent and trustworthy minds.
There was so much study and research that Qyburn wished he could have invested time in. But that ephemeral, relative and irrepressible notion called 'Time' was never enough...
'An assistant, I need a trusted assistant... Soon the Tower of Babylon and The Philosopher's Stone Tower will be finished and ready for operation.' Pinned the man in his mental mnemonic file.
Qyburn should have dared more and given other talented individuals a chance to prove themselves.
House Tallhart, the North ... no ... 'The whole Continent' could wait no longer. It was time for action.
The Wizards of the Magical Confederation would soon arrive.
His Lord Master had even promised him a private one-hour meeting with Chief Sorcerer Supreme. So naturally, Qyburn was looking forward to it.
If Marwyn had known, he would have been green with envy.
The maester allowed himself a little gloating laugh.
"What do you think of my collection, Martyn? What about you, Erret? An honest opinion about the wall?" Asked the man of science, turning his gaze to the wall decorated with dozens of transparent glass frames with thank-you letters inside.
*Ungh! Muuuhgh!*, *Hiihm! Uamm!* the tongue-less brigands bound by dozens of boiled leather straps shed bitter tears in their helplessness.
"I hope this doesn't sound too lofty... But, look...This is one of my favourites. A letter of gratitude from Lord Eddard Stark himself.
Oh...Forgive me; it would be better to say, 'King Eddard,' now. One of the crown jewels, if we may say so.
However, my favourite piece remains the letter from young Robin." Qyburn carefully set the frame back in its predetermined place, replacing it with the larger one in the centre.
"A humble son of a former potato farmer. The poor boy had severe respiratory problems.
It broke my heart when I learned what bleak and forbidding conditions he had lived in for much of his boyhood.
A child of that age should be able to run, play and have fun with other children. Not being chained to blankets and hearths that are constantly burning." Qyburn looked at the acerbic handwriting stained with dozens of minor spelling and grammatical errors.
It was undoubtedly one of the boy's first attempts at writing.
The text itself foreshadowed it.
As soon as Commander Gellert's little brother learned to write, he decided to thank the healer who allowed him to go to school like a normal child.
"Unfortunately, I could not reveal to the young man that the credit was not only mine. The contribution of Septon Utt, an old friend of mine from Brave Companios, was indeed considerable...
Rejoice, my friends. You too will have a chance to be mentioned in my forthcoming new book, 'The Bulwarks in the Art of Healing.'" The only responses were desperate whimpers and sounds of light headbanging on wood.
"Today was also a significantly productive day.
Rest, my friends... Tomorrow we have a long and busy day ahead of us.
I will be with you at dawn, I promise. Goodnight...
Oops...how careless of me. I was about to leave some papers out of place." Qyburn detested clutter. Every instrument, text, ampoule, or document was always arranged in proper order in his laboratory.
The folder with six mismatched pages under the desk was like a giant inkblot in a harmonious painting.
The maester noticed that the documents must have slipped out of the 'Medium Urgency' section.
It was a report written by Ronan... Qyburn's eye could not help but catch at least the gist of the topic at hand.
'Statistical inconsistency on % orphans in Oldtown?' The maester decided it was worth lighting another candle before dismissal time.
He whispered a little chant in Draconic, and the candlestick tapers were lit again in a moment. Now Qyburn had officially become a wizard by the standards of the Confederation. He did not yet know any spells above the 2nd circle, but soon the North would get its hands on invaluable and unknown magical texts.
He looked forward to learning all the knowledge considered 'forbidden' by the Citadel.
Although he possessed only Rare blood in his veins, the enchanter was confident that he could attain the rank of Grand Mage.
It was not just a matter of blood but of talent for understanding the world's truth. If a clueless person with a hint of magical gift in his veins had recklessly cast spells above 1st level without studying their nature, he would most likely have blown his brains out.
Only spells with Royal Blood tribute could compensate for such harmfulness...
For Qyburn's mind, cantrips (0) and spells of the 1st were trivial.
The Knight of the Mind scrutinized the document in detail, internally praising his Former Student for the meticulousness of each mathematical demonstration.
Reading the last line, Qyburn could not help but agree that there was a glaring but, at the same time, invisible inconsistency.
Braavos had the highest average of economically well-off and productive families. A good census system. However, taking away the 'hardened Braavosi duelists' factor, the registered orphan children were ten times fewer than those in King's Landing.
And Oldtown, a town heavily focused on naval and overland trade, had a percentage almost eight times lower than that of Braavos?
'Hihi! Ehehehe! The Black Knight is mine! I might even order Ser Murdor to pay a little visit to sweet Lynesse!
After all, my dear little sister loves brave and heroic knights! Ahahaha! Hihihi... No... I must restrain myself.' Malora maintained control by suppressing the exhilaration of the moment.
She was so excited to meet her mother, the enchantress secretly feared by the most powerful man in Oldtown! The Mad Maid deemed the Black Knight a more than apt Paladin for The Astra Wisdom of the Strangers.
Ser Murdor never uttered a breath unless explicitly called upon by those who had the authority and the right to impose it upon him. The man's voice with the face perpetually covered by the dark steel helmet of Valyria was dark and deep... All the servants of the knight were sisters of silence, and the only squire was a boy who was blind but not by birth or by any disease...
A voice that was more awe-inspiring than the massive two-handed broadsword of the same steel, serrated by razor-sharp spikes at the base of the blade.
Who knows how many lives that sword, called precisely 'Soul Devourer,' had claimed.
"Father ... so it is thanks to this island that magic in Westeros is so refractory?" asked the Mad Maid.
"Basically, that island feeds on the Magic of the Great World Tree, commonly known as Druidic Magic. It does not influence other kinds of Magic...
Before the Andal invasion, Westeros was filled with Heart-Trees from the Red Mountains of Dorne to The Wall. Beyond the Five Forts, between the lands of the Shrykes to the borders of Mossovy, were expanses of forests filled with Black-barked trees. They maintained a delicate balance with Weirdwood Trees of the Sons of the Forest.
Should a tree at either end of the world perish, the Guardians of Beauty and Magic would provide by working together so that the balance would persist.
Today, all that remains of those forests is a desolate heath called the Grey Desert.
The fall of the Valyrian Empire was the most brutal blow that almost paralyzed the Magic of the Great Dragon God. Nevertheless, draconic Magic still persists thanks to the descendants of Fire and Ice.
The Guardian of Magic should guard in some remote place in the Shadow Lands one or two dozen dragons, and in the lands of eternal winter, there should still exist ancient populations of Ice Dragons." Leyton.
"What about the Great Mother Phoenix? Do Phoenixes of Light and Shadow still exist in the world?" asked Malora with ardent curiosity.
"Phoenixes are the rarest and oldest creatures in this world. Although, in the Empire of Yi Ti, they are revered as 'Messengers of the Gods,' legend has it that The God-on-Earth, the legendary first ruler of the Empire of Dawn, received two eggs of the Phoenix Goddess as gifts from his parents, The Lion of Night and The Maiden-Made-of-Light.
Phoenixes do not reproduce as 'normal Dragons'. Instead, they die and are reborn from their own ashes. When the God-on-Earth left the mortal world to rise into the realm of deities, he left behind the two now-adult Legendary Phoenixes, 'Song of Sunset & Song of Dawn.'
They want to protect all the hundred sons and daughters born of the emperor's hundred wives, burned in the heavens fragmenting their ashes into fifty eggs dark as night and fifty brights as the sun.
Two ancient cities arose in the respective nests of the creatures. I guess you can already deduce which ones they were..." Leyton.
"Asshai 'The City of Shadows' and Carcosa 'The Starry City'... Do they exist? There are a hundred Phoenicians in the World?" Malora.
"They existed... Many were lost during The Long Night and their respective protectors, turning into sleeping stone eggs.
No one has seen a Phoenix of Light since before the Age of Heroes, but even now, there persists a Phoenix of Shadow still known in the World.
Clarsurix 'Root of the Night,' a creature far more powerful and ancient than Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar. She answers only to the current Guardian of Magic." The wonder and terror in Malora's bluish eyes created a contrast that caught Leyton's attention.
"Soon, we will dock... Do you see that tree towering over the others? That's where your mother is waiting for you." So explained the father with a concealed hint of revulsion in his voice.
"You will not come with me, father?" asked The Mad Maid in a worried and disappointed tone.
"No... Whatever countermeasures you have devised regarding the problems of the High Council, it will be to your mother that you will have to reveal them. I cannot conceal anything from the Guardian of Love.
I would be an open book for any suspicion... But if I don't know, I won't have to sing scandalous lies to The Watcher." Leyton.
"Sly move. So ... not even the Guardians are aware of my mother's existence?" Leyton gave no answer to that question.
The ship docked at that exact moment at a small port used for a couple of boats at most.
"Ser Murdor, gather the 'tributes' so that they are ready to follow my daughter." The Black Knight bowed, taking his leave toward the hold.
Malora knew what tributes her father was talking about. There was more than one reason for that enchanted ship to moor in a secret harbour in a cave at the base of the High Tower.
Leyton's gaze lowered to conceal the twinge of regret that haunted him.
"Always remember, Malora-whatever entity you ask favours from, sooner or later, will always demand a price in return for them.
This is the tribute our dynasty must pay to repay the favours of the past, present, and future."
*****
A few minutes later.
The Mad Maid was not entirely unmoved by the cruelty of the moment.
A dozen stern overseers lashed blows toward a few tributes intent on disobeying the commands.
The march of the procession had just begun, and already the suffering in the air was palpable. So many of the tributes' gazes were lost, others desperate, and the remainder full of hatred and pain.
'The price of magic... Any magic requires a blood tribute.' He chanted Malora in his head to cover the cries and laments of those innocents.
It was what had to be done to gain the longed-for power.
It was the only way to gain the love of her mother and father.
Wars claimed far worse blood tolls than this.
No general had any qualms about giving orders to attack villages and towns well aware of the genocide and destruction.
Good and Evil were foreign concepts to war. Oldtown and Hightower House had been at war for millennia against forces that would not hesitate an instant to burn the foundations of their homes.
These convictions spurred Peremore's heir to not look back and continue on his chosen path.
Malora and Ser Murdor were at the head of the procession. Finally, after a few hundred feet, they reached the beginning of the path that led into the forest's interior. There they met the island's welcoming committee.
One hundred and forty-one hooded women in black bowed to the island's guests. Afterwards...without asking anyone's permission, the servant followers of the island ruler prepared to collect every single boy and girl of the same number.
The crying and wailing of the bound creatures suddenly ceased. The songs of the enchantresses whispered in the tiny ears of the four- to nine-year-olds dozed the fears and pains felt by the victims.
Bright blue lips and smooth pale chins were all Malora could glimpse from the faces of the island witches.
The servants wandered into the forest, cradling and carrying in their arms the sleeping tribute that would soon be offered to their Goddess...
End Chapter.
----------------------------
****If you have a chance and desire to support me.
Here's my Ko-fy link for you: /duncanrandargotpaladin
Thanks everyone and leave a comment! See you next time!****
Please report us if you find any errors so we can fix it asap!
Chapter 119: ' The Tributes '
POV: Qyburn;
Castle Dungeon, Torrhen's Square.
A few days after Ronan left for the Barrowlands ...
It was late in the evening in the private rooms of the Master of Knowledge. The evening was accompanied by one of the last spring snowfalls in the North.
Soon those snows would turn to rain. But unfortunately, it rarely snowed between late spring and summer in the Tallhart lands.
The melted candles signalled to the man that perhaps it was time to lie down in bed. Qyburn could have indulged in luxury that evening. The hardworking man had recently finished scanning and drafting instructions for all the documents in the 'High Urgency Level' section.
No 'Highest Level Urgency' came in the last few days. Tomorrow night he would move on to the 'Medium Urgency' section.
In the early morning, the Maester would teach a lesson to Benfred, Eddara, and little Elminster--then it would be up to the advanced class for the new apprentice healers.
The guinea pigs gathered in the Frey lands continued to moan desperately for safety in the Knight of the Mind's personal cells.
Three bastard sons and a grandson of Walder Frey, along with two 'knights' of the Twin Towers. Rapists, thieves, and murderers took to brigandage by assaulting Northern wagon trains in isolated spots near the Green Forks just outside the Frey borders.
Tomorrow Qyburn would teach his would-be healers how to properly stop a bleed on the battlefield...
The experienced healer wondered how many would fall unconscious tomorrow and how many would sully his temple of learning.
Those young men and women were willing and able, but youth was often accompanied by arrogance. Many of them still did not heed his warm recommendation to 'show up for the class on an empty stomach.'
Ser Qyburn finished sorting out the papers that had required more urgent attention.
At last, the Knight of the Mind could delegate the spy network to competent and trustworthy minds.
There was so much study and research that Qyburn wished he could have invested time in. But that ephemeral, relative and irrepressible notion called 'Time' was never enough...
'An assistant, I need a trusted assistant... Soon the Tower of Babylon and The Philosopher's Stone Tower will be finished and ready for operation.' Pinned the man in his mental mnemonic file.
Qyburn should have dared more and given other talented individuals a chance to prove themselves.
House Tallhart, the North ... no ... 'The whole Continent' could wait no longer. It was time for action.
The Wizards of the Magical Confederation would soon arrive.
His Lord Master had even promised him a private one-hour meeting with Chief Sorcerer Supreme. So naturally, Qyburn was looking forward to it.
If Marwyn had known, he would have been green with envy.
The maester allowed himself a little gloating laugh.
"What do you think of my collection, Martyn? What about you, Erret? An honest opinion about the wall?" Asked the man of science, turning his gaze to the wall decorated with dozens of transparent glass frames with thank-you letters inside.
*Ungh! Muuuhgh!*, *Hiihm! Uamm!* the tongue-less brigands bound by dozens of boiled leather straps shed bitter tears in their helplessness.
"I hope this doesn't sound too lofty... But, look...This is one of my favourites. A letter of gratitude from Lord Eddard Stark himself.
Oh...Forgive me; it would be better to say, 'King Eddard,' now. One of the crown jewels, if we may say so.
However, my favourite piece remains the letter from young Robin." Qyburn carefully set the frame back in its predetermined place, replacing it with the larger one in the centre.
"A humble son of a former potato farmer. The poor boy had severe respiratory problems.
It broke my heart when I learned what bleak and forbidding conditions he had lived in for much of his boyhood.
A child of that age should be able to run, play and have fun with other children. Not being chained to blankets and hearths that are constantly burning." Qyburn looked at the acerbic handwriting stained with dozens of minor spelling and grammatical errors.
It was undoubtedly one of the boy's first attempts at writing.
The text itself foreshadowed it.
As soon as Commander Gellert's little brother learned to write, he decided to thank the healer who allowed him to go to school like a normal child.
"Unfortunately, I could not reveal to the young man that the credit was not only mine. The contribution of Septon Utt, an old friend of mine from Brave Companios, was indeed considerable...
Rejoice, my friends. You too will have a chance to be mentioned in my forthcoming new book, 'The Bulwarks in the Art of Healing.'" The only responses were desperate whimpers and sounds of light headbanging on wood.
"Today was also a significantly productive day.
Rest, my friends... Tomorrow we have a long and busy day ahead of us.
I will be with you at dawn, I promise. Goodnight...
Oops...how careless of me. I was about to leave some papers out of place." Qyburn detested clutter. Every instrument, text, ampoule, or document was always arranged in proper order in his laboratory.
The folder with six mismatched pages under the desk was like a giant inkblot in a harmonious painting.
The maester noticed that the documents must have slipped out of the 'Medium Urgency' section.
It was a report written by Ronan... Qyburn's eye could not help but catch at least the gist of the topic at hand.
'Statistical inconsistency on % orphans in Oldtown?' The maester decided it was worth lighting another candle before dismissal time.
He whispered a little chant in Draconic, and the candlestick tapers were lit again in a moment. Now Qyburn had officially become a wizard by the standards of the Confederation. He did not yet know any spells above the 2nd circle, but soon the North would get its hands on invaluable and unknown magical texts.
He looked forward to learning all the knowledge considered 'forbidden' by the Citadel.
Although he possessed only Rare blood in his veins, the enchanter was confident that he could attain the rank of Grand Mage.
It was not just a matter of blood but of talent for understanding the world's truth. If a clueless person with a hint of magical gift in his veins had recklessly cast spells above 1st level without studying their nature, he would most likely have blown his brains out.
Only spells with Royal Blood tribute could compensate for such harmfulness...
For Qyburn's mind, cantrips (0) and spells of the 1st were trivial.
The Knight of the Mind scrutinized the document in detail, internally praising his Former Student for the meticulousness of each mathematical demonstration.
Reading the last line, Qyburn could not help but agree that there was a glaring but, at the same time, invisible inconsistency.
Braavos had the highest average of economically well-off and productive families. A good census system. However, taking away the 'hardened Braavosi duelists' factor, the registered orphan children were ten times fewer than those in King's Landing.
And Oldtown, a town heavily focused on naval and overland trade, had a percentage almost eight times lower than that of Braavos?
'Hihi! Ehehehe! The Black Knight is mine! I might even order Ser Murdor to pay a little visit to sweet Lynesse!
After all, my dear little sister loves brave and heroic knights! Ahahaha! Hihihi... No... I must restrain myself.' Malora maintained control by suppressing the exhilaration of the moment.
She was so excited to meet her mother, the enchantress secretly feared by the most powerful man in Oldtown! The Mad Maid deemed the Black Knight a more than apt Paladin for The Astra Wisdom of the Strangers.
Ser Murdor never uttered a breath unless explicitly called upon by those who had the authority and the right to impose it upon him. The man's voice with the face perpetually covered by the dark steel helmet of Valyria was dark and deep... All the servants of the knight were sisters of silence, and the only squire was a boy who was blind but not by birth or by any disease...
A voice that was more awe-inspiring than the massive two-handed broadsword of the same steel, serrated by razor-sharp spikes at the base of the blade.
Who knows how many lives that sword, called precisely 'Soul Devourer,' had claimed.
"Father ... so it is thanks to this island that magic in Westeros is so refractory?" asked the Mad Maid.
"Basically, that island feeds on the Magic of the Great World Tree, commonly known as Druidic Magic. It does not influence other kinds of Magic...
Before the Andal invasion, Westeros was filled with Heart-Trees from the Red Mountains of Dorne to The Wall. Beyond the Five Forts, between the lands of the Shrykes to the borders of Mossovy, were expanses of forests filled with Black-barked trees. They maintained a delicate balance with Weirdwood Trees of the Sons of the Forest.
Should a tree at either end of the world perish, the Guardians of Beauty and Magic would provide by working together so that the balance would persist.
Today, all that remains of those forests is a desolate heath called the Grey Desert.
The fall of the Valyrian Empire was the most brutal blow that almost paralyzed the Magic of the Great Dragon God. Nevertheless, draconic Magic still persists thanks to the descendants of Fire and Ice.
The Guardian of Magic should guard in some remote place in the Shadow Lands one or two dozen dragons, and in the lands of eternal winter, there should still exist ancient populations of Ice Dragons." Leyton.
"What about the Great Mother Phoenix? Do Phoenixes of Light and Shadow still exist in the world?" asked Malora with ardent curiosity.
"Phoenixes are the rarest and oldest creatures in this world. Although, in the Empire of Yi Ti, they are revered as 'Messengers of the Gods,' legend has it that The God-on-Earth, the legendary first ruler of the Empire of Dawn, received two eggs of the Phoenix Goddess as gifts from his parents, The Lion of Night and The Maiden-Made-of-Light.
Phoenixes do not reproduce as 'normal Dragons'. Instead, they die and are reborn from their own ashes. When the God-on-Earth left the mortal world to rise into the realm of deities, he left behind the two now-adult Legendary Phoenixes, 'Song of Sunset & Song of Dawn.'
They want to protect all the hundred sons and daughters born of the emperor's hundred wives, burned in the heavens fragmenting their ashes into fifty eggs dark as night and fifty brights as the sun.
Two ancient cities arose in the respective nests of the creatures. I guess you can already deduce which ones they were..." Leyton.
"Asshai 'The City of Shadows' and Carcosa 'The Starry City'... Do they exist? There are a hundred Phoenicians in the World?" Malora.
"They existed... Many were lost during The Long Night and their respective protectors, turning into sleeping stone eggs.
No one has seen a Phoenix of Light since before the Age of Heroes, but even now, there persists a Phoenix of Shadow still known in the World.
Clarsurix 'Root of the Night,' a creature far more powerful and ancient than Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar. She answers only to the current Guardian of Magic." The wonder and terror in Malora's bluish eyes created a contrast that caught Leyton's attention.
"Soon, we will dock... Do you see that tree towering over the others? That's where your mother is waiting for you." So explained the father with a concealed hint of revulsion in his voice.
"You will not come with me, father?" asked The Mad Maid in a worried and disappointed tone.
"No... Whatever countermeasures you have devised regarding the problems of the High Council, it will be to your mother that you will have to reveal them. I cannot conceal anything from the Guardian of Love.
I would be an open book for any suspicion... But if I don't know, I won't have to sing scandalous lies to The Watcher." Leyton.
"Sly move. So ... not even the Guardians are aware of my mother's existence?" Leyton gave no answer to that question.
The ship docked at that exact moment at a small port used for a couple of boats at most.
"Ser Murdor, gather the 'tributes' so that they are ready to follow my daughter." The Black Knight bowed, taking his leave toward the hold.
Malora knew what tributes her father was talking about. There was more than one reason for that enchanted ship to moor in a secret harbour in a cave at the base of the High Tower.
Leyton's gaze lowered to conceal the twinge of regret that haunted him.
"Always remember, Malora-whatever entity you ask favours from, sooner or later, will always demand a price in return for them.
This is the tribute our dynasty must pay to repay the favours of the past, present, and future."
*****
A few minutes later.
The Mad Maid was not entirely unmoved by the cruelty of the moment.
A dozen stern overseers lashed blows toward a few tributes intent on disobeying the commands.
The march of the procession had just begun, and already the suffering in the air was palpable. So many of the tributes' gazes were lost, others desperate, and the remainder full of hatred and pain.
'The price of magic... Any magic requires a blood tribute.' He chanted Malora in his head to cover the cries and laments of those innocents.
It was what had to be done to gain the longed-for power.
It was the only way to gain the love of her mother and father.
Wars claimed far worse blood tolls than this.
No general had any qualms about giving orders to attack villages and towns well aware of the genocide and destruction.
Good and Evil were foreign concepts to war. Oldtown and Hightower House had been at war for millennia against forces that would not hesitate an instant to burn the foundations of their homes.
These convictions spurred Peremore's heir to not look back and continue on his chosen path.
Malora and Ser Murdor were at the head of the procession. Finally, after a few hundred feet, they reached the beginning of the path that led into the forest's interior. There they met the island's welcoming committee.
One hundred and forty-one hooded women in black bowed to the island's guests. Afterwards...without asking anyone's permission, the servant followers of the island ruler prepared to collect every single boy and girl of the same number.
The crying and wailing of the bound creatures suddenly ceased. The songs of the enchantresses whispered in the tiny ears of the four- to nine-year-olds dozed the fears and pains felt by the victims.
Bright blue lips and smooth pale chins were all Malora could glimpse from the faces of the island witches.
The servants wandered into the forest, cradling and carrying in their arms the sleeping tribute that would soon be offered to their Goddess...
End Chapter.
----------------------------
****If you have a chance and desire to support me.
Here's my Ko-fy link for you: /duncanrandargotpaladin
Thanks everyone and leave a comment! See you next time!****
Chapter 119: ' The Tributes 'POV: Qyburn; Castle Dungeon, Torrhen's Square. A few days after Ronan left for the Barrowlands ... It was late in the evening in the private rooms of the Master of Knowledge. The evening was accompanied by one of the last spring snowfalls in the North. Soon those snows would turn to rain. But unfortunately, it rarely snowed between late spring and summer in the Tallhart lands. The melted candles signalled to the man that perhaps it was time to lie down in bed. Qyburn could have indulged in luxury that evening. The hardworking man had recently finished scanning and drafting instructions for all the documents in the 'High Urgency Level' section. No 'Highest Level Urgency' came in the last few days. Tomorrow night he would move on to the 'Medium Urgency' section. In the early morning, the Maester would teach a lesson to Benfred, Eddara, and little Elminster--then it would be up to the advanced class for the new apprentice healers. The guinea pigs gathered in the Frey lands continued to moan desperately for safety in the Knight of the Mind's personal cells. Three bastard sons and a grandson of Walder Frey, along with two 'knights' of the Twin Towers. Rapists, thieves, and murderers took to brigandage by assaulting Northern wagon trains in isolated spots near the Green Forks just outside the Frey borders. Tomorrow Qyburn would teach his would-be healers how to properly stop a bleed on the battlefield... The experienced healer wondered how many would fall unconscious tomorrow and how many would sully his temple of learning. Those young men and women were willing and able, but youth was often accompanied by arrogance. Many of them still did not heed his warm recommendation to 'show up for the class on an empty stomach.' Ser Qyburn finished sorting out the papers that had required more urgent attention. At last, the Knight of the Mind could delegate the spy network to competent and trustworthy minds. There was so much study and research that Qyburn wished he could have invested time in. But that ephemeral, relative and irrepressible notion called 'Time' was never enough... 'An assistant, I need a trusted assistant... Soon the Tower of Babylon and The Philosopher's Stone Tower will be finished and ready for operation.' Pinned the man in his mental mnemonic file. Qyburn should have dared more and given other talented individuals a chance to prove themselves. House Tallhart, the North ... no ... 'The whole Continent' could wait no longer. It was time for action. The Wizards of the Magical Confederation would soon arrive. His Lord Master had even promised him a private one-hour meeting with Chief Sorcerer Supreme. So naturally, Qyburn was looking forward to it. If Marwyn had known, he would have been green with envy. The maester allowed himself a little gloating laugh. "What do you think of my collection, Martyn? What about you, Erret? An honest opinion about the wall?" Asked the man of science, turning his gaze to the wall decorated with dozens of transparent glass frames with thank-you letters inside. *Ungh! Muuuhgh!*, *Hiihm! Uamm!* the tongue-less brigands bound by dozens of boiled leather straps shed bitter tears in their helplessness. "I hope this doesn't sound too lofty... But, look...This is one of my favourites. A letter of gratitude from Lord Eddard Stark himself. Oh...Forgive me; it would be better to say, 'King Eddard,' now. One of the crown jewels, if we may say so. However, my favourite piece remains the letter from young Robin." Qyburn carefully set the frame back in its predetermined place, replacing it with the larger one in the centre. "A humble son of a former potato farmer. The poor boy had severe respiratory problems. It broke my heart when I learned what bleak and forbidding conditions he had lived in for much of his boyhood. A child of that age should be able to run, play and have fun with other children. Not being chained to blankets and hearths that are constantly burning." Qyburn looked at the acerbic handwriting stained with dozens of minor spelling and grammatical errors. It was undoubtedly one of the boy's first attempts at writing. The text itself foreshadowed it. As soon as Commander Gellert's little brother learned to write, he decided to thank the healer who allowed him to go to school like a normal child. "Unfortunately, I could not reveal to the young man that the credit was not only mine. The contribution of Septon Utt, an old friend of mine from Brave Companios, was indeed considerable... Rejoice, my friends. You too will have a chance to be mentioned in my forthcoming new book, 'The Bulwarks in the Art of Healing.'" The only responses were desperate whimpers and sounds of light headbanging on wood. "Today was also a significantly productive day. Rest, my friends... Tomorrow we have a long and busy day ahead of us. I will be with you at dawn, I promise. Goodnight... Oops...how careless of me. I was about to leave some papers out of place." Qyburn detested clutter. Every instrument, text, ampoule, or document was always arranged in proper order in his laboratory. The folder with six mismatched pages under the desk was like a giant inkblot in a harmonious painting. The maester noticed that the documents must have slipped out of the 'Medium Urgency' section. It was a report written by Ronan... Qyburn's eye could not help but catch at least the gist of the topic at hand. 'Statistical inconsistency on % orphans in Oldtown?' The maester decided it was worth lighting another candle before dismissal time. He whispered a little chant in Draconic, and the candlestick tapers were lit again in a moment. Now Qyburn had officially become a wizard by the standards of the Confederation. He did not yet know any spells above the 2nd circle, but soon the North would get its hands on invaluable and unknown magical texts. He looked forward to learning all the knowledge considered 'forbidden' by the Citadel. Although he possessed only Rare blood in his veins, the enchanter was confident that he could attain the rank of Grand Mage. It was not just a matter of blood but of talent for understanding the world's truth. If a clueless person with a hint of magical gift in his veins had recklessly cast spells above 1st level without studying their nature, he would most likely have blown his brains out. Only spells with Royal Blood tribute could compensate for such harmfulness... For Qyburn's mind, cantrips 0 and spells of the 1st were trivial. The Knight of the Mind scrutinized the document in detail, internally praising his Former Student for the meticulousness of each mathematical demonstration. Reading the last line, Qyburn could not help but agree that there was a glaring but, at the same time, invisible inconsistency. Braavos had the highest average of economically well-off and productive families. A good census system. However, taking away the 'hardened Braavosi duelists' factor, the registered orphan children were ten times fewer than those in King's Landing. And Oldtown, a town heavily focused on naval and overland trade, had a percentage almost eight times lower than that of Braavos? 'Hihi! Ehehehe! The Black Knight is mine! I might even order Ser Murdor to pay a little visit to sweet Lynesse! After all, my dear little sister loves brave and heroic knights! Ahahaha! Hihihi... No... I must restrain myself.' Malora maintained control by suppressing the exhilaration of the moment. She was so excited to meet her mother, the enchantress secretly feared by the most powerful man in Oldtown! The Mad Maid deemed the Black Knight a more than apt Paladin for The Astra Wisdom of the Strangers. Ser Murdor never uttered a breath unless explicitly called upon by those who had the authority and the right to impose it upon him. The man's voice with the face perpetually covered by the dark steel helmet of Valyria was dark and deep... All the servants of the knight were sisters of silence, and the only squire was a boy who was blind but not by birth or by any disease... A voice that was more awe-inspiring than the massive two-handed broadsword of the same steel, serrated by razor-sharp spikes at the base of the blade. Who knows how many lives that sword, called precisely 'Soul Devourer,' had claimed. "Father ... so it is thanks to this island that magic in Westeros is so refractory?" asked the Mad Maid. "Basically, that island feeds on the Magic of the Great World Tree, commonly known as Druidic Magic. It does not influence other kinds of Magic... Before the Andal invasion, Westeros was filled with Heart-Trees from the Red Mountains of Dorne to The Wall. Beyond the Five Forts, between the lands of the Shrykes to the borders of Mossovy, were expanses of forests filled with Black-barked trees. They maintained a delicate balance with Weirdwood Trees of the Sons of the Forest. Should a tree at either end of the world perish, the Guardians of Beauty and Magic would provide by working together so that the balance would persist. Today, all that remains of those forests is a desolate heath called the Grey Desert. The fall of the Valyrian Empire was the most brutal blow that almost paralyzed the Magic of the Great Dragon God. Nevertheless, draconic Magic still persists thanks to the descendants of Fire and Ice. The Guardian of Magic should guard in some remote place in the Shadow Lands one or two dozen dragons, and in the lands of eternal winter, there should still exist ancient populations of Ice Dragons." Leyton. "What about the Great Mother Phoenix? Do Phoenixes of Light and Shadow still exist in the world?" asked Malora with ardent curiosity. "Phoenixes are the rarest and oldest creatures in this world. Although, in the Empire of Yi Ti, they are revered as 'Messengers of the Gods,' legend has it that The God-on-Earth, the legendary first ruler of the Empire of Dawn, received two eggs of the Phoenix Goddess as gifts from his parents, The Lion of Night and The Maiden-Made-of-Light. Phoenixes do not reproduce as 'normal Dragons'. Instead, they die and are reborn from their own ashes. When the God-on-Earth left the mortal world to rise into the realm of deities, he left behind the two now-adult Legendary Phoenixes, 'Song of Sunset & Song of Dawn.' They want to protect all the hundred sons and daughters born of the emperor's hundred wives, burned in the heavens fragmenting their ashes into fifty eggs dark as night and fifty brights as the sun. Two ancient cities arose in the respective nests of the creatures. I guess you can already deduce which ones they were..." Leyton. "Asshai 'The City of Shadows' and Carcosa 'The Starry City'... Do they exist? There are a hundred Phoenicians in the World?" Malora. "They existed... Many were lost during The Long Night and their respective protectors, turning into sleeping stone eggs. No one has seen a Phoenix of Light since before the Age of Heroes, but even now, there persists a Phoenix of Shadow still known in the World. Clarsurix 'Root of the Night,' a creature far more powerful and ancient than Balerion, Meraxes and Vhagar. She answers only to the current Guardian of Magic." The wonder and terror in Malora's bluish eyes created a contrast that caught Leyton's attention. "Soon, we will dock... Do you see that tree towering over the others? That's where your mother is waiting for you." So explained the father with a concealed hint of revulsion in his voice. "You will not come with me, father?" asked The Mad Maid in a worried and disappointed tone. "No... Whatever countermeasures you have devised regarding the problems of the High Council, it will be to your mother that you will have to reveal them. I cannot conceal anything from the Guardian of Love. I would be an open book for any suspicion... But if I don't know, I won't have to sing scandalous lies to The Watcher." Leyton. "Sly move. So ... not even the Guardians are aware of my mother's existence?" Leyton gave no answer to that question. The ship docked at that exact moment at a small port used for a couple of boats at most. "Ser Murdor, gather the 'tributes' so that they are ready to follow my daughter." The Black Knight bowed, taking his leave toward the hold. Malora knew what tributes her father was talking about. There was more than one reason for that enchanted ship to moor in a secret harbour in a cave at the base of the High Tower. Leyton's gaze lowered to conceal the twinge of regret that haunted him. "Always remember, Malora-whatever entity you ask favours from, sooner or later, will always demand a price in return for them. This is the tribute our dynasty must pay to repay the favours of the past, present, and future." ***** A few minutes later. The Mad Maid was not entirely unmoved by the cruelty of the moment. A dozen stern overseers lashed blows toward a few tributes intent on disobeying the commands. The march of the procession had just begun, and already the suffering in the air was palpable. So many of the tributes' gazes were lost, others desperate, and the remainder full of hatred and pain. 'The price of magic... Any magic requires a blood tribute.' He chanted Malora in his head to cover the cries and laments of those innocents. It was what had to be done to gain the longed-for power. It was the only way to gain the love of her mother and father. Wars claimed far worse blood tolls than this. No general had any qualms about giving orders to attack villages and towns well aware of the genocide and destruction. Good and Evil were foreign concepts to war. Oldtown and Hightower House had been at war for millennia against forces that would not hesitate an instant to burn the foundations of their homes. These convictions spurred Peremore's heir to not look back and continue on his chosen path. Malora and Ser Murdor were at the head of the procession. Finally, after a few hundred feet, they reached the beginning of the path that led into the forest's interior. There they met the island's welcoming committee. One hundred and forty-one hooded women in black bowed to the island's guests. Afterwards...without asking anyone's permission, the servant followers of the island ruler prepared to collect every single boy and girl of the same number. The crying and wailing of the bound creatures suddenly ceased. The songs of the enchantresses whispered in the tiny ears of the four- to nine-year-olds dozed the fears and pains felt by the victims. Bright blue lips and smooth pale chins were all Malora could glimpse from the faces of the island witches. The servants wandered into the forest, cradling and carrying in their arms the sleeping tribute that would soon be offered to their Goddess... End Chapter. ---------------------------- ****If you have a chance and desire to support me. Here's my Ko-fy link for you: /duncanrandargotpaladin Thanks everyone and leave a comment! See you next time!****
