Vala's emerald eyes were red and puffy, but there were no more tears flowing from them. Wystan was cremated days ago, yet the dagger that had been thrust into her heart at the sight of his corpse hadn't stopped burrowing deeper. She stared up at the ornate ceiling, a kaleidoscope of oranges, reds, blues, and blacks, her bedsheets bunched in her fists. More infuriating than anything else, though, was the waiting.
“Whoever did this to my beloved Wystan, I want his head!” She had ordered her father. It was her idea to set the price of compensation so high. She knew full well that King Alaric would never consider such a ludicrous request. She huffed and crawled out of bed, restlessly pacing her room, her face contorting with fury and her hands shaking more and more with every step. She remembered the somber face her father wore as he wrote his message to Alaric. What use is it being a king if my father is going to be a coward? What kind of king bows his head with his tail tucked between his legs when he has personal grievances to resolve? She thought before throwing herself back onto her bed.
Vala lay there for what felt like years, but was likely no more than several minutes before she slid off of her bed and crouched down, retrieving the sheathed blade Wystan had given her. She carefully set it down on the bed, staring at it with a meditative gaze, as she tied back her wavy golden hair. She grasped the hilt of the sword and gently drew it. It was a blade of masterful craftsmanship. Perfectly balanced, sharper than a dire wolf's claws, and embroidered with emeralds. Vala stared at the engraving on the pommel, an elegantly carved “W.” Wystan had this sword made for her without her father's knowledge, and even went so far as to teach her some of what he knew. “Have this, my beloved princess. May it guard your life even if I'm gone. I shall never leave you so long as you keep the blade,” he'd told her on her twentieth summer.
Vala swung the blade in a few arcs, the metal singing through the air. She never imagined she'd ever have use for a sword, but now all she could think of was to bathe it in the blood of Wystan's murderer. It had to have been murder. Nobody could have killed my Wystan in a fair battle. Not so easily. She swung horizontally over and over, imagining herself beheading her target.
She jumped slightly as she heard a knock on her door, scrambling to sheathed the sword and stuff it underneath her bed once again. “One moment!” She called as she let down her hair and ruffled it to make it appear as it had before she'd tied it. She took one last moment to check herself before opening the door.
King Varden would have had a scholarly look about him, were it not for the royal black garments he wore and the short sword at his belt. He wore two rings, one on each hand. One had an emerald on it, the other a ruby. “Come, my dear. Dine with your mother and I,” he spoke tenderly as he placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. His eyes were swollen slightly and dark circles painted his eyelids. “It would do you well to leave your bedchambers every now and again.”
Vala looked down slightly, feeling a pang of guilt at her father's weary state, and merely shrugged. “I suppose…”
Varden's expression softened as he slowly embraced her, his hand lovingly patting the back of her head. “Wystan's passing has been difficult, for you most of all.” Varden paused, taking a shaky breath before continuing, “My greatest regret is being so blind by my duty to Fosilux as its king that I ignored my duty to you as your father. I should not have sent him away from Edenbury. If I hadn't, maybe…” His voice choked, though Vala understood his meaning.
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She tightened her arms around her father, shaking her head, “Don't blame yourself, father. You are not the cause of my grief.” Vala felt her heart sink, somehow shattering despite already being in pieces. Something about seeing her father so vulnerable seemed so alien to her. Varden had always seemed like a stone pillar in the wind, yet also a ray of sunshine. He was seldom seen without a smile on his face.
Varden pulled away from her and she could see his usual strength returning to his eyes. “Come, your mother has been waiting for long enough now. She'll have my head if we do not dine on time!” He chuckled and escorted Vala down the spiral staircase and past the great dining hall to a smaller chamber behind it that was used for smaller, more private groups.
Queen Gytha sat at the table, her arms crossed as she looked downwards, her brow furrowed and her forehead creased. Her red hair, tucked neatly behind her ears, shone brilliantly in the light of the candles. She jolted to attention as Varden sat beside her and Vala sat across from her parents. Gytha smiled warmly, “Welcome, Vala. It's good to see you up and about.” She took her daughter's hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Vala forced a smile, “It does feel good to see a different set of walls for once.” Her smile faded quickly though, the facade of joy too difficult for her to maintain.
Gytha sighed, her voice as smooth as silk, “How I long to see you smile again. Alas, we live in dark times. And, I fear, they will only grow darker.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “There is much to discuss.” She clapped her hands twice and soon after, servants brought platters of food from the kitchens, laying them out before the royal family. Perfectly sliced pieces of roasted pork, warm bread, and fresh cheese decorated the table and servants poured each of the three a glass of wine to compliment their meal.
Vala bit into the warm bread, the softness making her mouth water. I haven't eaten properly since Wystan… she thought to herself as she began scarfing down her food, pausing a moment after remembering her manners. She took a sip of wine and cleared her throat, “My apologies.”
“No need for that, my dear.” Varden replied, his expression understanding. He turned to Gytha, “Now, as you mentioned, there is much to discuss. I fear the message we sent to King Alaric will not sit well with him.”
Gytha nodded, “Quite. In my mind, there's no mistaking it. War is coming to our doorstep. I do not think King Alaric is the type of man to just give up one of his own just like that. And certainly never one of his precious Lionsguard.” Gytha swirled her wine before taking a sip of it, “And we must face the honest truth. Varden, I know you will never admit this, but if those Lionsguard meet our Black Boars on the battlefield, we will lose. It's as simple as that.”
“If we lose, then we'll take as many of them to hell with us as we can,” Varden grumbled. “And what makes you so sure that we'd lose outright? Our men have greater reason to fight. We fight for vengeance, for justice. They fight at the behest of a boy!”
Gytha countered, “His youth does not undermine his mind for battle. I wager he's more dangerous. He's young, and young folk are so often driven by grand ambition.”
Vala listened to the two debate back and forth as she ate in silence. Let them come. I'll kill every one of those bastards till I find the one who took Wystan from me. If Alaric wants to send more men to die with him, so be it! Vala balled her fist, resolving to do whatever it took to get her revenge. Even if it means something as tiresome as learning Iorba from old Berta, she scoffed internally. She never liked the “old hag” as she and Wystan always called her, but she was the only one in Fosilux that she knew of who could teach her the divine tongue.
“I think I want to go up to bed,” Vala said. Her parents nodded and said a quick “goodnight” to her before continuing with their conversation. As Vala made her way up, she took a quick detour to the raven coup, writing a small message, before offering a fistful of seeds to one of the messenger birds and tucking the piece of parchment neatly into the small leather pouch on its back. No turning back now, or the old hag'll never let me hear the end of it.