Глава 11

The Year 1098

1:03 P.M. \ Overcast

Palace of Westhaleg, Londinium

Even before Londinium was a nomadic city, the Palace of Westhaleg stood here.

Its name was originally plain Westhaleg. The Draco royal family convened its ministers here in this palace, and used their beloved gold and ruby to decorate the outer walls.

Said decorations went up in flames during the Great Fire three hundred years ago. Still, the building's skeleton remained, and it bore witness to the first Aslan king's coronation.

Thereafter, Westhaleg formally became the Palace of Westhaleg, to commemorate the age of peace and prosperity founded by the Draco and Aslan kings in joint.

Twenty-six years ago, the last Aslan king was captured in the same place by Parliament's standing forces.

And now, this is no longer the building where the Victorian Parliament assembles.

Sat at the conference table is but one person, not Draco, nor Aslan, but Sarkaz.

...still no sign of movement from the Duke of Gododdin... ever since the Viscount's life was attempted, our activity in the demesne has been greatly restricted...

...lavish salons held every night at the Duke of Normandy's residence, but the flow of raw steel is extremely suspect, and all intelligence personnel have turned up empty-handed...

...any sound from Dublinn is drowned out by the Duke of Wellington's high-speed battleships roaring. We've as of yet been unable to penetrate into the Iron Duke's duchy, but no other duke would be able to impede the veteran, without a doubt.

...the Marquess and co. have finally given up on the Duke of Stafford's inheritance... the Duke of Caster admitted envoys and gifts on New Year's Eve...

...activity from all dukes has been growing increasingly frequent since last winter. It may be a sign they're about to 'reach a conclusion.' Preparations for Londinium remain at the same pace as... hold for a moment, sorry.

What? You're sure... Leithanien? Three days ago? This is too slow! ...Yes, it looks like they've finally found results after their diplomatic peacemaking...

Er. New cipher's just been decoded. It's word from the frontline, General. Yes, I need to... notify you ASAP...

Three days ago, the Empresses' Voice grandiloquently left the Duke of Windermere's demesne... er...

(Gulps) We didn't discover contact between the two sides in time, but, just today...

A city... a fortress changed course, and is sailing straight for Londinium. The one that's been nearest us over the past two years... er...

It's pushing directly from Leithanien into the Victorian border, nearing the ravine. Er, yes, it's the Kurfürst's archenemy... Duke Windermere's army.

Duke Windermere announces internationally... this is to 'avoid Catastrophe.'

Silence once again hangs over the hall. But at this moment, with his eyes shut tight, Theresis sees the thick fog outside of Londinium.

Once it clears, the battle will come, right on schedule.

Footsteps break through Theresis's train of thought.

He is forced to open his eyes.

Ther...

Theresis.

It's you.

Were you asleep?

...Perhaps.

The Victorian dukes are a cunning lot. They meticulously sift through every word of intel that flows into Londinium, making the Sarkaz lose their heads.

The advantage isn't ours in this gamble. Yet neither have we been at a disadvantage.

The Military Commission's business is always endless. Such is our history's fragility... even a single comment on a piece of information awry would suffice to forever damn Kazdel.

But even now... now as we stand in Londinium, things have hardly changed much. You're still as weary as ever.

No, one thing has changed.

You're here.

...Ah.

Yes, I am.

The breadth of possibilities has crossed my mind, if you were to take my head. Perhaps you would make a much cleaner job of it than I.

You would never think that way yourself. That was a hypothetical put forth by Manfred.

I am always in need of some differing voices.

What's on your mind now?

A dream.

Oh?

I saw us still in Londinium, yet unarmed.

Clouds enveloping this city, black stones growing everywhere, and the Sarkaz... the Sarkaz there in the way, between Catastrophe and the crowd.

Once the disaster lifted, Londinium's city gates were wide open to us, and the Victorians stood flanking the streets, cheering and welcoming us in.

We entered this palace, and the one sat on the throne no longer feared the black stones that grew from us, and took our hands.

He called the Sarkaz—

'Friends.'

It sounds unfathomable.

There was more.

I saw Vampire, Nachzehrer and Wendigo set foot together into reaches more northern than even Ursus, casting fragments of strange monsters back unto the frigid sky.

And I saw Banshee and Damazti venture to parts more southern than even Iberia, walls against the ocean's dissent within the boundless water.

Countless Sarkaz giving their lives for this land—

And Aslan, Draco, Feline, Caprinae, Liberi... stood together with them.

Stood together?

Yes. The Sarkaz were no longer the nomads excluded. The land embraced us, and we had roots anew.

This dream...

This dream was not mine.

This scenario all originates from what you once described to me... a future the Sarkaz could have.

I remember.

But you told me, then, that my ideals were too distant, that it was not only our enemies who could never comprehend me, but neither could the Sarkaz.

A myriad years of grievances became our weapons one and all, and all imposed upon me.

You also told me that the flames of war within the Sarkaz would tear them apart before I led them to that future, that was more likely in all respects.

But you begrudge giving up any possibility, even if it may be but a nascent spark.

You've also said...

That this world once was only the Sarkaz's. That the Ancients and Elders wrested our homeland from our forebears' hands.

Their souls in death still murmur the Sankta's betrayal, how the Royal Court withers like autumn leaves, how our bloodline is lost in howls of grief, how ridiculous the sinners are in forgetting history, and how Kazdel's ruins strew all across Terra.

And then, they—cry out—

—'The Sarkaz have invaded our homeland.'

So better that the Sarkaz believe in the fight. The fight can herd our destinies together as one. Better that than...

...Peace.

This isn't fair. To rule is a method of coexistence too.

Terra will perish by its own hand before it confronts those time-old questions.

But our homeland would be more magnificent than the many of the Seaborn. Our hexcrafters would hold the northern menace at bay. Our knowledge, all-encompassing, would dispel Originium, end the Catastrophes...

Before all that, the Sarkaz must reach an answer.

You're right... they must.

This is a conversation we've had countless times, but now, you can hear their voices clearly. You can make real contact with their ancient souls' tendrils. So tell me, Theresa—

—Did this myriad of years of all the Teekaz souls that lived and breathed, and passed from life to the other shore in death—did they ever receive a momentary respite?

I've already failed, Theresis.

Because you're a move behind.

Because at this moment, it is we that stand here.

Here...

Londinium.

Tell me, Theresa.

When you stand atop The Shard and look at this city, what is it you see?

That Victoria is a nation lush with ingenuity.

Without a doubt. In a few short centuries, they've built nomadic cities, withstood Catastrophe, even attempted to control the storm—

Not to mention those knights of white steam. The valiance of those steel suits of armor that ventured into Kazdel, two hundred years ago, falls far short of that which I saw in the years to follow.

Ah... perhaps it's the fault of our unique blood, for granting so many of us lives far too long.

So long that in the intervals between one war and the next, we lift our heads, only to realize that, excepting the Sarkaz, everyone is progressing on.

No, it's nothing to do with the length of an individual's life.

They have the opportunity to progress, simply because in the past they monopolized the freedom to choose between peace and war.

Theresa, when I look at Londinium, I see the number of times this nation has gone wrong.

The Victorians scorn how primitive the Sarkaz are, yet in essence they simply use the rules of the culture they founded to gild the greed and violence that runs in their deepest marrow.

They tear at each other, incessantly. Ultimately, everything they've made will be ruined by their own hands.

<i>That</i> is why we could win this chance at freedom.

Even if hope is still as remote?