Gala Day

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

His Great-Baba would often speak of the old country, and tell stories of arriving in Oxley Vale— when it was nothing more than a ditch-water settlement— of millers and shepherds. “We escaped persecution of the dust scampers of Essia and for what? To be tossed on the stove stoked by dragons flame? Aye Horva!” she would say, her unmistakable Essian accent thick and honeyed. “Dust scampers” was an antiquated term used to describe anti-Essain types, this was the term she used to describe the Sossian farmers of old Essia, she liked to conflate the two, in her mind they were one and the same. But he sometimes worried that the gangs, colloquially known as “dragons”, were somehow worse than the Sossian bigots of the old country, dragons were organised.

Dragon triads were becoming more common, you’d nary need to swing open a tavern door in town with out finding it bump into a dragon. The triads were gaining more influence with each new moon, it seemed.

Alaric eyed the commotion building across the street warily. Passersby were swerving and altering their paths to avoid it. Some poor sod had found themselves on the wrong curb at the wrong time, clearly. Two burly looking dragons were lowering over the young man. He looked to be no more than two and twenty, an artificers apprentice by the looks of him, a leather apron, well scuffed and well worn boots, and a sooty countenance. His curly locks were the vivid auburn hue common among the northern clans of the Gold Glade Highlands his nose was speckled, and dripping faintly with blood. They were evidently not getting what they wanted from him, blood serving as their consolation payment.

‘I work for a blacksmith, we don’t smith in gold I swear!’, the young man pleaded with them.

His furrow was damp with sweat, and possibly water from the dank horses troff beside them. One of the dragons scowled through gritted teeth, then yanked him by the head to the troff. He dunked the apprentice for a long while, confirming Alarics suspicion. The apprentice spluttered and gasped raggedly when he was finally jerked free.

‘Empty your pockets, wretch’, snarled the other dragon—who was nonchalantly reclined against a verandah post, inspecting his nail beds absently.

Finally satisfied the blacksmiths apprentice had no gold, the contents of his person consisting of nothing more than a few pocket size family photographs, a few lumps of cured meat, berries, and bread— wrapped in a small bundle of cloth, and a couple of stray copper florins, with a parting shove the dragons lumbered away, making a short left into the Barrel and Boar Inn.

Dragons had garnered their name for the gold they procured, or pillaged rather, with it they wielded burnished fire power—artificer enchantments, they had a particular interest in the stuff, fire—their element of choice. Pyromaniacs.

The Blacksmiths apprentice was fighting back tears, as he gathered up his strewn things, knelt in the muddy gutter. Alaric was ready to stride over and assist him, taking a determined first step to cross the street, when a horse and carriage came walloping past intersecting him. When the carriage cleared, Alaric could see the young red faced man slip down an adjacent laneway— then he was gone.

‘Damn dragons’ he muttered vehemently.

The larger groups of them were known as firebands. Though they used to be more commonly reared to as fire-bandits, the favoured moniker these days was “dragon”—ever since it started to inspire both fear and infamy. The firebands brandished their adopted new title proudly. Fickle cretins.

There was even a growing industry that was emboldening them. It had started as a back alley enterprise, an underground market place only found in scarcity, specialising in dragons gold—they were calling it. The fireband insignia was starting to show up everywhere, in plain daylight, brazenly conspicuous on street corners, emblazoned menacingly on hanging shoppe signs. It would take a certain kind of goldsmith to trade and work in dragons gold. A cad with no remorse, most likely. For a guild that had always been dripping with inflated majesty and pride, dragons gold seemed an uncharacteristically disgraceful and lowly business. It was plague time after all, he reasoned with himself. Times were tough, even for the mightiest of guilds it would appear.

Alaric quickened his step, if he was going to make it to the town square in time for the ceremony, and secure a half way decent spot, he would have to keep moving. As he hastened, the warm cinnamon waft of stroompets snared him like a bass in a net. What was Gala Day, if not an excuse to indulge in a stroompet. He halted at the street vendors cart, who had strung up a bunting, and all, for the days festivities, she no doubt was taking home a treasure galleons worth of earnings today.

‘One, with ice-cream, please.’ Alaric handed her the two coppers and a brass farthing.

The friendly vendor drizzled the traditional toffee sauce over the top, and handed it to him with a few simple paper napkins wrap around the base. The cinnamon sugar dusting was fresh, and the lightly crisp pastry still warm and fragrant. Apple stroompets were a regional speciality in Oxley Vale, and a very popular street food. Every table in the entire province had been laden with the dessert at one time or another, it was especially popular on holidays, and preferably, though not exclusively, sourced from a street cart, such as this one Alaric found himself afore.

The ice cream threatened to dribble, so Alaric quickly tidy it up with a few laps of his tongue. A traditional apple stroompet, Alarics favourite, was made with a soft pastry dough, deep fried to a golden crunch on the outside, with a gooey spiced apple filling, rimmed with crushed almonds and hazelnut chocolate sauce, and moulded into a curved horn shape— that much resembled a medieval drinking horn, then dusted with sugar and cinnamon, and always served with a creamy toffee drizzle, with ice cream to fill the end of the horn. A more recent trend had seen the stroompet filled with whipped toffee mascarpone, or flame torched meringue, with spun toffee shards that resembled sugary birds nests. But Alaraic was a purest. Hazelnut or vanilla ice cream was the only appropriate choice for filling a stroompet.

Gala Day treat in hand, he jostled with the growing crowds down High Street towards the central town square.

Oaksbridge could only boast a rough population of just under five thousand, though it was the largest town in the valley. Hence, when it was announced the annual Guilds Unity Tour was coming through the nation, the province of Oxely Vale, and the town of Oaksbridge, were chosen as its hosts for this years Gala Day. There was effectively no other choice, as no other municipality in the province had the facilities required to host the event. His hometown, the neighbouring village of Yaebridge, certainly couldn’t accommodate the reception of the entire country, nay the entire kingdom, who inevitably flocked to witness the ceremony. Whenever it did come time for Oxley Vale to take on the mantle, which usually happened every third or fourth year, Oaksbridge was always the natural— and only choice. There was a ceremonial bell tower in every city, town, or village in all of Oren, and the towns that didn’t host the tour, would always have a smaller commemorative ceremony of their own on Gala Day, with local representatives residing over the proceedings. And usually Alaric was content to attend the local Gala Day bell ringing, but this year, he had to witness the real thing. This year was different.

The Guilds Unity Tour was meant to symbolise the harmony of the six nations, and celebrate the formal federation of the kingdom. The day was meant to instill national pride for each nation, and commemorated their respective guilds, coming together on the anniversary of the Annexing Treaty, of The Federate Kingdom of Oren. The story of the treaty, of 1731, was taught in every history class in every schoolroom, nursery, or parlour across the kingdom, for as long as anyone could remember. Oren was once divided into six independencies, each with their own seperate governments and heads of state. A great famine swept through the land, trade and economies started collapsing, and civil war began to erupt among the neighbours. The smallest of the six, the sovereign city state of Lavien, saw an opportunity that swept in from the sands of the far north. A trade route that would connect all six lands, and usher in wealth and growth to sustain them all.

With this collation, using their regional skills and trades, together they built a mighty passage, that channeled in a lifeblood, like a vein connecting the Auzuran Sea from the north, to the ports and oceans in the west. The great Pearl Road and the Azu Canal, formed the thriving Orenian Trail. The then newly established trade route, became the basis for the unifying kingdom that ensued, the five other nations pledged their fidelity to Lavien, and together they shared in the prosperity of the Orenian Trail. Before the Annexation Treaty, the five states and their artificers guilds were remote and centralised, the federation allowed the market to open up to all, and facilitated the formation of the Royal Artificers Council, with a representative head from each of the five guilds, and nations.

Every four years when the governmental leaders were elected by the people, the Royal Artificers Council, and the crowns representative heads of state, would go on a splendid grand tour with their newly appointed leaders. Every Gala Day in each nation would signify the first day of a national holiday, the Guilds United Tour would come to town, with the bell ringing ceremony, there were markets, and a splendid parade, marking the first day of the five day festival of the Orenian federation— one for each nation. Traditionally, in honour of the festival, family’s would erect a potted honey combe almond tree, in their homes, this species of almond tree had been cultivated especially for the festival, it bloomed in the autumn with warm peachy orange, or yellow coloured blossoms, and produced nuts ready to harvest by the end of the season. People would decorate the almond tree with handmade nests of pine or desert sage, rosemary, lavender, and palo santo twigs. Then on Repast-Eve, you would place a Filiforge Egg— the traditional box for an artificers trinket, or totem, or — if you were poor—sweetmeats and candied violets, in the nests. Some family’s even exchanged precious spices or oils like saffron, nutmeg, cocoa or tonka, agar wood, and sap crystals from various sacred trees in their Filiforge Eggs. Traditions across the nations varied, but the premise was universal. Then, on Repast-Tide, the final day of the Orenian Federation Festival, family’s would gather round their tables and feast, and open their eggs, then usually the local guild hall would hold a ball, for all to attend, and was always the highlight of the festival, the evening— and the festivities would be officially concluded with a fireworks display.

In recent years, much to everyone’s pleasure, the government added an additional public holiday the day after Repast-Tide, so people could recover from the revelry and merriment of the nights previous, before they opened the forges, schoolhouses, and factories. This day was being called ‘Resting Day’, and for now it was a standard bank holiday, born of convenience, but Alaric enjoyed pondering what tropes and traditions the holiday might accumulate in the coming years.

Shoppe fronts had already started incorporating ‘Resting Day’ specials into their marketing ploys.

The end of Orenian Federation Festival and Repast-Tide also unofficially marked the dawning of the autumnal harvest season, with the Harvest Festival, and sacred Equinox Eve, taking place only a few weeks later. Repast-Tide and the Orenian Federation Festival, placed as it was— just shy of the start of the season, always felt a befitting way to welcome in the cooler months.

For this years Repast-Tide ball, he was invited to the Svarmiski Viceregal Palace in the capital city of Burrowglen. This event was the envy of all, and unlike all other Repast-Tide balls, was invitation only, for state officials and such, and promised to be a lavish and glittering evening.

Alaric shouldered his way through the throng, along the cobbled avenue towards the town square— festooned with autumnal garlands and buntings proudly flapping on the crisp breeze, in the national colours of Svarmiski, periwinkle, saffron orange, and ivory, on a rich teal-green backdrop, mixed in with the earthy and metallic hues of the five artificer guild banners.

Alaric curled his arm around the viridescent bronze lamppost, perched up on its base he could see clearly over the crowds, to the main stage.

He dusted off the stray cinnamon sugar fastidiously, from his favourite buttermilk three piece he had donned for the occasion. He had chosen a peachy silk orange neck scarf today, and his best pressed lavender shirt, and although his brown leather boots were starting to look tired, and out of fashion, he had spent an hour polishing them to a lustre they hadn’t seen in years. He curated a consciously patriotic palette for the day, if he was spotted in the crowd, he wanted the effort to be noticed. If only he had a new slouch hat, then he’d look properly dandy, alas. He had spent all morning fussing with his hair, as best he could, to make up for it.

While they waited for the ceremony to start there was any uneasy sort of feeling permeating through the crowd. The mandatory obligation of wearing face scarves in public had been lifted, but the number of those still afflicted with the plague was high, with steady cases daily. People were enjoying the opportunity to gather and celebrate, but while the masses were once again allowed to gather, the unsteady wariness that came with it hadn’t fully been shaken collectively. Even just rubbing elbows with strangers felt odd and somehow dangerously defiant, so soon after the ravages of the last few outbreaks. Alaric forced a smile and tried to rid the worry from his mind. Today was special, he had vowed to enjoy himself.

He cast his eyes to the main stage once more, which had been erected afore the handsome red brick, and beige sandstone edifice— of the bronze capped bell tower, in the very centre of the grey cobbled square. A brass band played a jolly tune on the bandstand beside it. The towers large oak doors were splayed proudly open, waiting for the Svarmiskian First Ministers reception. An illuminated commemorative programme was thrust towards him, by a volunteer who had been weaving through the crowd.

‘Three silver florins and six bronze farthings’ he proffered, with a gravelly bark over the band and the hullabaloo of the people.

Alaric smiled warmly with a nod, and handed him the coins. That was pricey, but worth it today. The little booklet sported the florid national coat of arms on the cover, with a border of each of the guilds crests framing it, the guild of his homeland stood out to him, with the gold, garnet, and pearlescent rings of the Artisans Guild.

He gave a quick glance at the order of proceedings. The mayor of Oaksbridge would give the welcoming address, then the newly appointed First Minster of Svarmiski would give their commencement speech. Followed but the official opening of the festival with the ceremonial torch lighting, by the Viceroy of Svarmiski. Then the segment he’d been anticipating with pride and excitement all day, the viceroys personal ritualist would perform the bell ringing ceremony, and bestow the valley with a bountiful harvest for the coming months. To finish, the First Minister of Svarmiski would ring the bell to conclude the ceremony.

Mumma had been interviewing for the position for months, and was given the good news a fortnight ago. This was her first official duty as the viceroys ritualist.

He beamed with pride when the guild procession filed onto the temporary cedar stage, consisting of the Grand Masters representing each of their guilds, in their opulent ceremonial dress robes, in the main colours of the guilds. Ebony for the Kitsmiths, sapphire for the the Makers, gold for the Artisans, emerald for the Herbalists, and mustard yellow for the Gatherers.

The crowd and the band swelled loudly with excitement. The rest of the government officials, and heads of state, were dressed in the customary pearly white dress robes of the kingdom, with a velvet sash in the colour of their nations guild, so Mumma was sporting the artisans gold sash of Svarmiski.

Alaric waved and cheered, and could have sworn he saw her wink back at him mischievously, through her very serious ceremony face. He smirked. Along with the Viceroy, and First Minister of Svarmiski, the other heads of state representatives, and governmental leaders were present also. There was the brooding Shaman and the Premier from Tippland, standing in hushed conversation with the Grand Master of their nations Herbalists Guild. The stoic pairing representing the Kitsmith nation, of Gold Glade— the Chieftain Alder Corin and Chief Minister Barnaby Holt. The unmistakable sharp russet jawline of the proud Sheikh Rian Taska and the stern frown of the Chancellor Maude Mayberry from the Makers nation— the Bellington Peninsula. And lastly, tacked on the end, in an all too blatant slight, the Governor Hogarth Stork and his First Minister, Percival Pennley, from the Gatherers nation— Dawn Hill. They wore their snub with humble dignity, and the famous graciousness associated with northern deserts, and vast farm lands, of their nation. Both waved with friendly grins to the crowd.

The noticeably absent attendee this year was the Empress Of Oren, she had limited her engagements since the plague broke out, held up in the palace in Lavien, and was rarely seen in public of late. The crowd shared a collective sigh of disappointment, when the trumpets didn’t sound, and she didn’t make her regal entrance.

She was after all, beloved, and the main attraction of events such as these. The Prime Minster of the kingdoms capital city sate, was in attendance however, in his customary pastel pink robes of Lavien, and the empress had obviously deployed one of her younger sons, as her emissary of the crown for the occasion, because the dashingly handsome Felix Battenbourke-Van Hesse, was on bended knee at the edge of the stage, charmingly accepting some bouquets from some adoring young labourers, who had managed to evade the guards up front, long enough, to shower the Prince with their gifts and eager affections. They were soon whisked off. One of the young men cried loudly, as he was being ushered away form the stage,

‘Your Highness! I’m no noblemen Prince felix, but I can ride horseback like one I swear!’

The first few rows near the front of the stage gasped, or laughed, at the salacious remark, and the Prince blushed visibly, nearly a perfect match to his robes. The Prince fiddled with a loose raven curl that had fallen onto his brow, from the ruckus of the exchange, and with a swift glide of his fingers his hair was perfectly quaffed once more. He fell back into the centre of the line with the others.

‘Such rabble rousers. So distasteful’ Alaric muttered to the woman balancing on the walls ledge beside him— who nodded emphatically. They shared the brief friendly smile of strangers who were in agreeance.

Secretly though, Alaric imagined the scenario again in his mind, only this time he was down the front near the stage, handing the Prince flowers, he imagined the Prince smelt of rosemary and honeysuckle, and for a moment he was intoxicated, lost in the daydream, and the Princes shy smile filled his mind like sweet, smooth, barley syrup. Then he realised what a dumb lollygagging expression he was sporting, and tried to cover it with a cough— to only instantly regret the decision, after the concerned scowls it elicited from those around him. He winced a little, embarrassed.

This leg of the tour was for the benefit Svarmiski namely, so the guild Grand Masters and other nations representatives weren’t required to do much, beyond the obligatory hand holding and waving they were doing presently, to express a happy untied front.

Alaric narrowed his eyes a little, as he considered the idea, “all smiles and waving, for now, but what happens when the economic impact of the plague crosses their chamber table? will they still be holding hands then?”

Alaric shook the worry from his mind. Not today, he reminded himself, today is Mummas big triumph. He told himself silently over and over again, like a mantra.

Once the crowds applause started to settle, the rest of the officials from the other nations took their seats, while the Svarmiski representatives stepped forward to surround the podium, in what looked to be like a well rehearsed tableau. Mayor Thistlewick of Oaksbridge took to the podium, only just clearing the top of it. What the mayor lacked in height she made up for in command and conviction. She was a no nonsense and stalwart individual. He had met her once, when Mumma had worked for the local Pineford County Council. She had offered him a full plate of biscuits, and told him,

“You possess a promising glint in your eye, surely destined for lifes adventures” then promptly told him to— “stop slouching, it would ruin your posture”.

He chuckled to himself as the memory percolated.

‘Dear Svarmiskians, what better day to celebrate our enduring spirits, ingenuity, and pride, then this crisp and bright Gala Day!’ She bellowed, Demonstrating how little she required the artificers brass megaphone she had been provided.

‘ I am honoured to welcome you all here today…’

As mayor Thistlewick rambled on about strength and duty, Alaric thought to himself, about the viceregal ball in four days times. What was he going to wear? He was sure his wardrobe had nothing fancy enough. He thought of what an achievement this day was for his dear Mumma, what it meant for their family. A Ritualist was a highly sought after individual, the skill was rare and proficient practitioners rarer still.

Ritualist were always appointed to the highest offices in the land, they were advisors to statesmen, royal courts, and the elite, as they alone had the artificers ability to create binding and enchanted contracts, with near endless applications.

A ritualist ceremony could guarantee a promise would be kept, or a fatal wound repaired. They could ensure deals be brokered or broken, or devise a ritual to ensure rainfall. Their rites were the framework for every union, naming, and law in the kingdom. They were arguably the most powerful Artificers in the land, and the principle force of the judiciary system. They made up only 4 percent of the kingdoms total population, and had never formally belonged to any guild, which was why Mumma’s appointment was so exceptional, and she was the personal Ritualist to the Viceroy, of all Svarmiski no less.

The proceedings had well and truly progressed by the time Alaric ceased his musings, and focused back in on the stage. Their new First Minister, Lucile Pont, was finishing up her speech.

‘—And I know with the dedication of the cabinet, and my fellow ministers here today, not to mention the might of you all—the people, with the strength we share in this— our Federate Kingdom Of Oren, the harvest season this year will prove to be one of our best yet!’ She cried with a triumphant fist in the air.

The crowd erupted in rapturous applause. First Minister Pont had won by a landslide, and was clever to target her speech towards the interests of the orchard growers of Oxley Vale, she new how to please, and she knew her audience well.

Her silver hair glimmered in the fading light, as the sky started to mellow into a warm blush, and after adjusting the cameo brooch at her starched white collar, she presented a hand beside her proudly,

‘—it’s my great pleasure to now introduce to you, His Excellency the Viceroy Aleksander Hunziker-Roth of Svarmiski, and the Viceregal Ritualist, Gilda Vess, for the ceremonial torch lighting, and the Unity Bell Ringing Ceremony’. She encouraged the crowd to clap as she stepped aside to allow Mumma up to the podium. This was it. The big moment she had been practicing in their kitchen for the past month.

‘Good evening fair town of Oaksbridge, my lords, ladies, gentle-persons, and of all Oren’.

Mummas voice was clear, sure, and strong. The relief he felt was near tangible. He knew she was nervous, but she didn’t sound it, or look it.

‘— it is my great honour, and duty, this evening to enact the rites of fruitful harvest upon this valley, and all its neighbouring counties, shires, and regions. And throughout the nation, in all our beautiful towns, cities, villages, and hamlets alike, the same ceremony is being performed, showering this nation with the well earned prosperity it deserves.’

Alaric felt the salty tang of tears touch his lip. Why was he crying already? She hadn’t even started the ritual yet. What a gushy mess. He rolled his eyes at himself.

‘So now, let us begin’. She announced.

Her Riting book was then brought to her on a burgundy velvet pillow, by a neatly suited valet. She placed the hulking navy leather bound volume onto the podium, and heaved the book open to the desired pages. Raising her hands up outstretched, palms skyward, she began to recite the incantations. An unearthly breeze picked up fluttering her mousy brown hair, and nipped at the noses of everyone present— with the fresh aroma of mint and tulips. The townspeople “oohed”. There was nothing quite like seeing a Ritulast at work.

After her voice echoed with the initial incantations, which were recited in ancient Svarsik, as was customary for this occasion, she invited the Viceroy Hunziker-Roth to light the torch. Another smart looking— identical attired valet, presented him with a torch, then bowed, and exited the stage again. He took the lit torch in hand. Raised it high above his head, with the usually pageantry the viceroy displayed, and slowly lowered it to the awaiting ceremonial torch dome—which was impressively large, and raised on its own podium just left of the bell tower.

‘With this flame we light the way for hope, knowledge, inspiration, and endurance’ Gilda cried.

With perfect timing the Viceroy lowered the flame to the torch, and it ignited flamboyantly, with curling lashes of scarlet and orange, and dancing embers. Soon after it steadied to a flutter of radiant and ambient flame. With the torch ignited, the trail of gunpowder that had been preemptively set— was lit, and the four runes that had been laid out around the bell tower, burst to light in a dazzling trail of flickering fire.

He couldn’t hide his smug smirk when the crowd all gasped in awe and surprise— he had held his mothers Riting book, while she had drawn out the runes hours earlier that day.

The Ristulaists breeze picked up again, as she began the final passages of the ceremony. He listened intently to the flowery Svarsik words, the words that would ensure a bountiful harvest for the growers of the valley. The words that imbued the bell with the power, and in a moments time the bell would be rung, buy the First Minister, and the echo would sweep across the hills and burrow deep into the earth enriching everything it touched. As Gilda’s phrase was drawing to a close, he could feel the tension rising in the square, the kind of tension laced with giddy delight.

A blinding blood red light suddenly exploded from the ceremonial torch, sending everyone in the square to stumble and rub their eyes. It was accompanied by a loud crack. That wasn’t a part of the ceremony. Alaric panicked. That wasn’t part of the plan. Alaric felt his pulse race as he tried to focus on the stage through the blurred haze.

While everyone else thought it was just perhaps a part of the show, he frantically tried to locate Mumma. She had been toppled over by the blast, as had most of the occupants of the stage. But she was there, shaken, but there, and hopefully ok. He felt relief wash over him, and his shoulder relaxed a little. Someone in the far right recesses of square squealed. At first he couldn’t make out what they were saying, but as it started to filter through the rows of townspeople, it became all too clear. He shot a his eyes back to the stage. His stomach gave way. The woman beside him cried the words that he, and everyone must have been thinking.

‘The prince! The prince is gone!’