“Leave it to the God of Civilization to make his followers stand in damned lines all day,” Petra snarled as she stood between Sam and Wesley. They were in front of the looming structure of The Throne, the main entrances ahead. The entrances had been secured even further in the wake of Matthew’s assault. Which meant even longer lines to wait in for entry.

  “I told you it would be faster to go through Back City,” Sam grumbled. “But you insisted we take the front.”

  “Of course!” Petra replied. “I am a goddess who deserves respect. I’m not going to sneak in the back door, Samson.”

  “But Sam’s friends would have been back there,” Wesley added. “We could have made some more friends. See how the Bleedingheart lives his normal days.”

  “I don’t care how he spends his days.”

  “I do,” Wesley said, craning to look at the crowd and the mountain. “I’ve never seen this many people before.”

  “I have,” Petra snorted. “They were fighting a war and they were murdering each other. Not just standing around waiting to go in a damned city.”

  “Petra.” Sam shot her a cold glance. “Just relax.”

  “Easy for you to say, Sam. You’re used to just wasting your days smelling the body odor of some random farmer.”

  The man in front of Petra in the line looked over his shoulder and scowled. Petra flared.

  “You eye me, mortal? Do you have a problem with my words? I will back them up if need be.”

  “Petra, please,” Sam scolded.

  “I don’t smell anything,” Wesley told the man while Petra growled behind him. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Don’t apologize on my behalf, Wesley.”

  “He didn’t. He apologized on our behalf.” Sam was holding his head in his hands. “Now please, calm down. Your outbursts are not moving the line.”

  “Clearly,” Petra said, smoldering. “So, once we get inside, you will be taking me to the church leadership, correct?”

  “We will submit our names for an audience.”

  “The church doesn’t accept audience? You have to sign up for it?” Wesley asked, incredulous.

  “The Council is very busy,” Sam explained. “If they let everyone who wanted an audience just come in, they would never get anything done.”

  “I’m not sure,” Wesley thought. “Talnorel is open to us at all times. Anywhere in the world. I can reach out to her whenever I want.”

  “I never turn my people away,” Petra added.

  “Well, sorry, we do things differently,” Sam said.

  “Some civilization,” Petra mocked.

  Hours later, the trio was finally approaching the security check. A paladin in gleaming white and silver armor with his helmet nodded for them to approach.

  “Identities, please,” the paladin commanded, holding out a hand.

  Sam moved between Petra and the paladin and pushed forward his identification and leave paperwork. “Corporal Bleedingheart. I’m here with Wesley Maplegrove and Petra Ymirstottir.”

  The Paladin was unflappable as he looked over the paperwork. “Identification for the other two?”

  “I have no-” Wesley began to say, but Petra cut him off.

  “Did you not hear what the paladin just said to you? I am Petra Ymirstottir and I have spent my entire morning standing in your line. I am a goddess of the Frozen Wastes and I have followed your customs as well as I was able, but to disregard my status as you just did is an affront!”

  The paladin was suddenly flabbergasted, visibly uncomfortable, and unsure of how to handle the angry goddess.

  “I have no identification,” Wesley said, finishing his thought.

  “I demand to see your…” Petra began, looking at a very upset Sam. “What are they called?”

  “Petra, please.”

  “Sam! What are they called!?”

  “The High Council,” Wesley answered for Sam.

  “I demand to see your High Council.”

  “Petra, come on.”

  “Samson,” she barked. “I stood in your line. I was bored. And I feel very disrespected.” The final word, Petra aimed right at the door guard of the city. “So now I want to do things my way.”

  The paladin, beginning to tremble, looked around to the other guard. The guards in the immediate area were still dealing with guests to the city, not noticing the unfurling situation.

  “I, um,” the paladin began nervously.

  “What is your rank and name?” Sam asked, hoping to politely diffuse the situation. The request, instead, sounded challenging.

  Being only a private, fresh from the academy, the guard’s stomach turned as a corporal demanded his name and rank and a frustrated goddess began yelling at him.

  “I-i-i,” he stuttered.

  “What is happening here?” asked another paladin approaching the guard from behind. The guard let out a sigh of relief.

  “Your guardsman does not give me a proper welcome.”

  “And who are you to demand one, ma’am?” the paladin asked, sternly, but not unfriendly.

  “The Daughter of Winter.”

  The paladin’s face froze.

  “And I demand to see,” she paused again, having forgotten the name of her goal once more.

  “The High Council,” Sam groaned.

  “And these two?” the paladin asked.

  “My consorts.”

  “Petra!” Sam was despondent.

  “Hey,” Wesley said to Sam. “It’s flattering, right?”

  “Well, Petra Ymirstottir and her consorts, we welcome you to The Throne. Please, follow me.”

  Petra looked at Sam and smiled widely. “Civilization, hmm?”

  The trio was led to a series of offices, introduced to a parade of paladins and priests of increasing importance, and moved from building to building for hours. Sam would cringe as Petra sidestepped courtesy to get what she wanted, and groaned when they would lose track of Wesley, who had become distracted by a massive storefront or a crystalline glyph chandelier within the tunnels of The Throne. Lady, additionally, had become a liability, as her animalian instincts sent her bounding into crowds with her druid chasing after her.

  Sam felt he was guiding children. But the worst part was that the Church was giving in to Petra’s demands, and guides would purposely redirect their walking paths to show Wesley interesting sights. Sam was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to get back to work.

  They had eventually gathered at the gilded lift at the back of the main welcome hall of the throne. Wesley was staring wide-eyed at the vaulted ceilings, balconies, stores, and restaurants, all spilling over with bustling crowds of all different peoples and cultures. Petra, was standing, arms akimbo, at the lift’s golden gate.

  “What are we waiting for?” she asked.

  “This is the lift to the High Council’s lobby. You just have to wait for it,” Sam urged. “You can’t just bully this one. It’s a machine.”

  “Oh, whatever, Samson,” Petra said, waving him away. “If I weren’t here ‘bullying’ your vaunted co-workers, we’d still be out in that ridiculous line.”

  “The way it is supposed to work.”

  “It works slowly. Poorly.”

  “It was designed that way for a reason.”

  “Yeah, to slow people down and make them buy stuff. Look at poor Wesley! If he had Geld, he'd be crushed under souvenirs.”

  Sam frowned and looked at Wesley. “So, you like it?”

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  “Oh, it’s fascinating, Sam. It must have been amazing to grow up here. How do they keep these plants alive?” he asked, gesturing to massive planters outside of the store fronts, spilling over with small greenery and flowering still, despite the lack of sunlight.

  “There is a population of druids. Part of the Talnorel Alliance. They live here, and as a sign of good faith, they keep the greenery green.”

  “Wow! I never knew. I want to talk to them.”

  “The druids?”

  “The plants,” Wesley corrected. The druid began to walk toward one of the planters, but there was a metallic clicking that stopped him.

  The golden lift to the High Council was descending the cylindrical shaft. Standing on it, visible through the gilded fencework, was a paladin in immense decorative armor. He wore a full helm with an extravagant pair of pearly horns. When the lift stopped, the paladin opened the gate and stepped back.

  “Petra Ymirstottir, Daughter of Winter, and her Consorts. Your audience with the High Council has been approved. Please step into the lift.”

  “‘Bout time,” Petra jabbed as she stepped on board.

  “Let’s go Wesley,” Sam muttered.

  The paladin in the back gave a safety brief about keeping one’s fingers safe with an extra warning about Lady’s tail before pulling a lever. The lift jolted upward before finding a comfortable pace and raising skyward.

  Wesley could not contain his exclamations as the lift went up past floor after floor or Church of the Will society. Meanwhile, Petra just stood, tapping her foot, caring less about the scenery.

  Sam, himself, tried to act calm, but had never been on this lift before. And so, he could not help but stare out at the familiar locations in an unfamiliar context. Above the main entrance hall was the bureaucratic district, rows of offices, some were in storefronts while others were “open air” desks clustered around lamps and torches in the chambers. People of all walks of society drifted amongst the work.

  And above that were the residential areas, starting with cheaper homes and becoming more and more affluent the higher the lift went. The homes were houses you could expect outside, illuminated in the dark of the mountain tunnels with magical glyph-work lamps or gaslights. Yards of decorative stone and gravel, or grasses, courtesy of the druid attendants, gave an aesthetic flair.

  In a moment, Sam knew they would be entering the backrest portion of The Throne. The part of the mountain that Gessel’s avatar leaned his back against, and was the first portion of the city to get artisanal attention. It was the most decorated and wealthy portion of the city, but also the most secure, with entry being heavily restricted. Despite living in The Throne, and his father representing the lay people on the High Council, Sam had never been to this portion of the city.

  The passengers’ ears popped with a sudden change in air pressure as the lift moved from open chambers to a thinner tunnel. Inside, magically illuminated mosaics and murals depict various scenes of the artist working to turn Gessel’s final resting place into a city befitting the god of civilization.

  Wesley was chuckling with impressed joy while Sam grinned, pleasantly surprised by the displays. He looked to Petra, hoping she would find some pleasure in this. But she looked grumpy as ever.

  “How much longer, sir?” she asked the attendant by the lever.

  “Just a moment more, your glory,” he responded.

  “Good.”

  Disappointed, Sam continued to study the pictures for as much more time as he could before the lift began to slow. A bright light above them gave a sudden impression of ascension as the lift rose into the council’s lobby.

  The chamber was surprisingly large, with the lift at one end and a large set of gleaming wooden doors at the far end. Two paladins wearing the same porcelain horns as the lift attendant stood on either side, massive, gleaming greatswords stabbed into stone pedestals at their feet.

  To Sam’s surprise, there were other doors and hallways between the lift and the council’s chamber. It made sense that there would be private offices for the priests on the council, and other administrative functions, but it was something he had never given any thought to at all.

  “Continue down this hall please. The chamber of the Council is at those double doors before us. Your arrival will be announced.”

  Sam waited for Petra to do the right thing, but when she silently stepped off of the lift with Wesley cheerfully following, Sam looked to the paladin. “Thank you very much.”

  “My pleasure, Corporal.” The attendant pulled the lever again and the lift descended out of sight.

  The three walked down the hall, empty aside from the two guards, and found the echoes of their footsteps on the marble floor somewhat disquieting.

  “There’s no one here,” Wesley said, finding that the silence of the chamber was forcing him to whisper.

  “Just a goddess,” Petra corrected, at full volume.

  At the far end, the guards moved to action. They turned inward simultaneously, gripping the massive hand holds for the door, and pulling them open until the doors were stopped by the swords in the pedestals. Through the open doors, the trio could see the high bench that the council was sitting behind.

  The left guard cleared his throat. “Be it for the pleasure of the Pontiff and Cardinals of the Church of the Will. Before the High Council stands the physical plane avatar of Petra Ymirstottir, Daughter of the Winter, Corporal Samson Bleedingheart, and Wesley Maplegrove, Son of the Mortal Chief of Talnorel’s Grove.”

  “They may enter,” the Pontiff declared as the trio crossed the threshold into the brilliant council chamber.

  The bench was glistening, polished wood. High backed chairs launched high over the councilors heads, topped with high arches. Behind the chairs, mimicking the arches of the chair backs were huge stained glass windows. The white marble floors and walls were perfect canvases for the explosions of color from the windows.

  Sam quickly glanced at the councilors. The Pontiff, with his high, pointed hat sat in the center. Three cardinals were on either side. All of them were glittering with ostentatious robes and accessories. Surprisingly absent was his father.

  “Welcome, Daughter of Winter,” the Pontiff said, his calm, low voice washing through the room.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” she replied, bowing lightly.

  “These two men are your consorts? What equals a prince in the eyes of the druidic cultures and a Paladin of the Church of the Will? How far these men must have fallen to be reduced to consorts.”

  “It is their honor,” Petra said.

  “Ah,” the Pontiff said, catching himself. “I mean no offense. I’m sure it is an honor to be a consort to a goddess. And yet, I find it troubling that a man of faith and a man with the blood of leadership in his veins would hold the title. A potential waste of… well, potential.”

  “The title is a misunderstanding, Father,” Sam chimed.

  “A lie.” The Pontiff grinned, his trap sprung.

  Sam looked to Petra, who looked back. Her eyes twinkled, and brow furrowed. She was noticing things may not be going her way.

  “It caused quite a bit of discomfort to allow your audience today, Winter’s Daughter,” the Pontiff said, leaning back in his chair. “So many systems were forced to strain to bring you to our chamber today.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I have a dire question for this council.”

  “All of that uncivilized lying, rudeness, and strain on our office to ask a question? Why not simply write to the Office of Inquiry?”

  “It is an emergency, Pontiff.”

  “You will refer to me as ‘Father,’ Winter’s Daughter.”

  Petra squinted. She wanted to accost the man. He was not her father. She looked sideways at Sam, who appeared confused. This was going poorly. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Your apology is accepted. Now, what is your question, Winter’s Daughter?”

  “I have recently traveled here from Bridgefort. While there, my father, Yimir, and I noticed that some of your forces had been killed by barbarian slavers of the Northern Wastes. And, even more troubling, the bulk of the forces had abandoned the fortress.”

  “Ah, yes,” the Pontiff looked to the cardinals, their elderly faces unreadable. “Bridgefort’s drawdown was a result of a renewed focus on the internal security of our society.”

  “Your drawdown allowed the fortress to fall, Father. As a result, the slavers, who are often too nomadic to cause any true danger to my people, were able to find a foothold. Lives were lost and children were stolen.”

  “That is a tragedy. We will need to send agents to identify the lives lost at the fort.”

  “Father?” Petra asked, her face twisting. “I mean the lives of my people. They used your weapons to harm my people.”

  The Pontiff looked around, concerned. “We left behind armaments when we withdrew? This requires some investigation.”

  “Yes, and the slavers utilized them and did irreparable damage to northern society,” Petra urged, trying her best to match the room’s lofty register.

  Sam looked at Petra with sorrow. Why was his father missing from this meeting?

  Petra looked to the Cardinals in desperation. “Do you all see the injustice here? You all doomed so many when you withdrew with no warning. Just a warning would have saved lives. But you abandoned us.”

  The Pontiff sighed. “Winter’s Daughter, calm yourself please. I am the sovereign voice of this council while at audience. And my sovereign voice is plenty to express our condolences. But the withdrawal was necessary. I would express my intent to not let it happen again, but seeing as we have withdrawn from the Northern Wastes, I feel my words would be meaningless.”

  “You think they have meaning otherwise?” Petra bellowed.

  “Watch your temper, small goddess. You are freshly ascended and still have much to learn. I mean no offense when I urge you to remember that your society does not exist in a vacuum. We are all here together. Imagine the damage you may be doing to Talnorel’s Grove having kidnapped their prince as a consort?”

  Petra looked to Wesley, who was frowning at the tone of the conversation.

  “I simply seek reparations for damages done.”

  “Reparations,” the Pontiff repeated tonelessly. “I can not see what we must repair. It was the slaver tribe that committed the atrocities, no?”

  “What?”

  “We shall provide for your lodging this evening, however, to show you our good faith and hospitality to an avatar. All in favor?”

  The Cardinals each raised their hands in silence.

  “It is to be.”

  “That’s it?” Petra asked, her voice cracking.

  “Are there any other concerns?” the Pontiff asked.

  Petra took a deep breath, preparing to explode in the room, when Sam interrupted.

  “Actually, Father,” Sam said, stepping forward calmly. “I have something here I would like to submit for the consultation of the High Council.” Sam removed a cloth folder from his breastplate.

  “Let me begin by complimenting the breast plate, Corporal. I truly thought your story tragic, but I am glad to see you have come to make something of yourself. Now what is it you wish to submit?”

  “It is my knight errant license application.”

  The Pontiff grinned and looked around the council. “Well, we have not seen one of those in many years, Corporal. Tell me, though, why did not use the standard correspondence submission methodology of the organizations?”

  “Frankly, Father,” Sam said, unflapped by the circumstances. “I figured that I was here, and I felt that Winter Daughter’s conversation had gone rather poorly. I felt it would be appropriate to change the subject.”

  The Pontiff guffawed at the response. “Leave it to an Estin to lighten the mood! Very well, Corporal Bleedingheart. We will receive your correspondence and review it for approval or disapproval. Return to your current place of duty and we will inform you of our decision in due time.

  “But, please let the record reflect, Corporal, that your disrespect for the normal system will be taken into account. The knight errant is someone that we can trust to operate within, but independent of the system. But here you stand, part of the system, and unwilling to follow its most basic rules of correspondence.”

  “I apologize, Father. If you would like, I will withdraw the submission and do it properly from the beginning.”

  “There is no need for that, Corporal. You brought the application here, and here it shall remain. Just know that we are further informed by your behavior and the behavior of the company you keep.” The Pontiff narrowed his eyes on Petra.

  “Thank you Fath-” Sam began to say.

  “Oh, you pompous ass!”