Wearing my white miracleman’s robes (ha! the miracles I most hoped for were refused), I stumbled to the middle of our cottage and played the wedding song I wrote six years ago. Three candles flickered, casting waltzing shadows onto the wooden walls.
My back was to the door, so I heard it open and the soft but dull footsteps of my friend, Sir Manegold Osias. The breeze blew in with him and ruffled my robes. I didn’t have to look to see the sun shining in his red-gold hair and beard. I also knew he would be wearing his armor. He always surprised me with how quietly he could move in it. He surprised most other people with his intellect. They mistakenly assumed his brawn meant he had no brains. How untrue.
After the wedding song, I played a song I wrote for Ruth’s first birthday and then Isaac’s song. The melodies were completely wrong for the occasion, but the lively notes matched the children so well.
Manegold stood silently while I played. He stopped to visit us on the way back to his home on the far north of the continent. I used to live there before I met Kelestria.
I met her in my first journey as a struggling miracleman. I knew my calling, but was unsure of myself. She changed me. Before, I never felt the Father beyond the simplest prayers. Once I met her, my effectiveness grew dramatically.
I knew I wanted to marry her the first day we met. To my amazement, several months later, she agreed. We were wed and built our home near the borders of both Gunther and Fremora. She died in the same village she lived in almost her entire life. Her father was a spice trader in a nearby city when she and her sisters were born. They moved here when the family fell on hard times.
When I finished Isaac’s song, I lowered the flute and turned to Manegold. Even his strong jaw quivered in grief, and tears ran down into his beard from his blue eyes. He stayed awake all last night, praying with me—”storming the Kingdom” he called it.
He was a Knight Luminar, and I’d ridden into battle with him before. His sword and my prayers combined to stop the most determined heretics and mages. He held his helmet under his arm against the breastplate of his armor. Like all knights, he wore his surcoat over his armor to show his family crest. Every knight and most of the populace would recognize his—black on the right and blue on the left, a seated golden lion, and two small, silver crosses in the top third.
He was the last male descendant of one of the Luminar’s founders, Sir Bernard Osias. As he was a firstborn son of firstborn sons all the way back to Sir Osias, he wore the same blazon as Bernard.
Manegold always knew what to say—in this case, nothing. He merely walked over to me, and put his arms around me. I collapsed against my cousin, and we cried like children.