A Journey Derived

Prologue

The night sky was bleak and starless and the rain that fell over the Citadel was cool despite the summer’s heat. Maryn de’Garisette dismounted, leaving her horse, Whisper, by the large but unguarded gate of stone and wrought iron, entering the estate grounds. The place was one of perpetual decay, carrying a depressive nature that spoke volumes of a history that it could not undo. Yet that had seldom bothered her, for she had been able, on previous visits, to find some bit of light in the dimness. Tonight though, she could not shake the foreboding feelings of gloom and wondered if they were at not at least in part her own making. 
With a sigh, she stepped off of the crumbling walkway and began the short trek across what had once been a well-tended front courtyard. She found herself focusing on the few points of dim light escaping the untidy windows of the second level, but her ears were intent on the surrounding darkness.
Why the councilors wished to continue meeting in this place was a mystery to her. At the least, they could see to it that it was properly maintained, if not refurbished. But it was here, to the Citadel, that she had been summoned.
The place had not always been known as such, and its state had not always been one of such dilapidation. The grounds over which she now walked were once part of the Peruvian emperor’s domain—a summer haven and meeting place. One of many of the noble family’s palaces, it had grown to be the hub of the Peruvian government due to its central location. And it was here that Stavros Aevincort, emperor of the great Peruvia, had spent his last days before death took him and thrust the nation into a tumultuous civil war.
She stepped around a few unruly ground shrubs and started carefully up the depleting front stair. The war that had split the nation began in this very place, for the councilors of the emperor were present, serving as statesmen in his illness. Absent was an heir to the empire’s throne; the Aevincort name ended with the dying emperor. He was not an aged man, barely past forty summers, but his wife, a youthful nineteen had yet to bear him children.
The bloodshed began almost before the body of Stavros had cooled. Peruvia had never known an empress, and there were those who were unwilling to answer to one, due in some parts to her gender and other parts her age. Still, those same councilors who had called the emperor sovereign failed to agree on any one man’s claim to the throne, and so the palace became a battleground. Natalia, the emperor’s wife, was murdered in the same room where the body of Stavros still lay, and many others met the same fate or were forced to flee to escape it.
One councilor to the emperor, a man from the southlands by the name of Tavin Luveneaux emerged that day to seize command of the palace proper and the surrounding area. The once serene and elegant summer home was quickly warped into a fortress of war and armies flocked to it, both to join the risen southland commander and to raise arms against him. Few had escaped the bloodletting immediately following the emperor’s death, but their response was swift and thus the civil war began. Hence the new name, the Citadel, for it was by the gates of this fortress and the surrounding countryside that many a Peruvian found death all in the name of a new emperor—one who would never be.
Moving forward several generations, Maryn stood before the entrance and sighed. The aged, great wooden door shined with rain in what little light the night sky offered. New emperor indeed, she thought, raising her fist to knock at the door. Peruvia had known no emperor since Stavros’ death, but at least the war had ceased, albeit splitting the nation into several smaller provinces that now dealt with one another hesitantly through the words and deeds of councilors.
Perhaps the broken and mostly abandoned palace served as a better representation of the Peruvia’s new era, humbled as it was by the war. Who would have thought that out of the wreckage of war, no emperor would have arisen.  Instead, the country was governed by councilmen, and it was they who broke the country first.
The Citadel’s door was opened wide and four men beckoned her inside. They were dressed alike in the livery of the southern province of Teiru and its councilor, Davion Armon.
One of them spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper in the silence of the Citadel. “Councilor Armon will see you now.”
Of course he would, she thought, but held her tongue in check; he had, after all summoned her here. The one who had spoken beckoned again with his free hand; the other was burdened by a small candlestick, the only light in the palace foyer. She followed him and one of his comrades farther into the Citadel, her gaze fixed on their backs which were little more than deeper shadows among so many. Were there no other lights to spare in the place, she thought.
Their footfalls echoed loudly on the marbled floors, muffled only slightly by the dust that had gathered.  Walls that had once shone almost to brilliance with their whiteness were now yellowed and stained with things other than age alone. They made their way slowly up a winding stair to the second level, her mind wandering to envision the place as it had once been: the walls clean and accented with the pinpoint lights of sconces; the floors and staircase railings polished to a sheen that could only be outdone by the brightness of a crystalline chandelier high above. Then again, as was its history, the place held another, less kindly vision. For what once had been immaculate had also been bathed in the blood of those who had built it. They traversed a broad corridor, coming to a stop just outside an opened doorway on the right. 
“Councilor, the Lady de’ Garisette has arrived per your request,” announced one of the guardsmen.
She could not see the councilor yet, but his voice spoke from inside the room, “Please, show her in.”
She followed the guardsmen into the room, her eyes adjusting to the light from several candles and a small heatless fire at the far end of the large chamber. An oval table stood near the hearth, empty but for a few of those candles, fewer papers and some lingering dust that had refused to give way to cleaning hands. Despite it, the place looked as if someone had kept up at least the pretense of tidiness.
She found Davion behind a large mahogany desk, but not seated. He stood with his back to them with his hands folded behind his back and his eyes fixed on something beyond the Citadel through the opened curtains of a floor to ceiling, paned window. He too was dressed in black and silver, the soft light of candles changing the tone of the latter to something nearer to gold.
Her two escorts had taken posted themselves on either side of the room’s entrance; she knew their stance with their hands relaxed on the pommels of their swords, a pose most guardsmen seemed to adopt. She crossed the room, stopping several feet from the desk.  He stood still and silent for several moments more before finally turning to acknowledge her.