PART III - MASS CONDOLENCES
Any final traces of momentum for demonstrating skills to the Arkan had completely faded with the news called out by the Sergeant-Major, and now most everyone was just sort of milling around in small groups. The majority were sitting in the bleachers, the awning having been extended to help ward off the sun, while others were standing. Someone had seen Vanis coming up the hill, and that information spread like wildfire through everyone before he even made it to the top. They all looked, seeing the stoic Warlock they were all used to, but now wearing the black sash and surrounded in something else. It wasn’t magical, but the Prince seemed to give off an aura of regalness that he’d never demonstrated in the time he’d been here, except maybe just a touch of it that second evening at the feast, when he’d been awarded a medal and new rank.
Callie, still holding a lightly sniffling Pixyl in her arms, resisted the urge to run to Vanis to help fend off the people that were beginning to descend on him. But she then saw Lena appear behind her cabinmate, and relaxed. She’d be a good bodyguard, if it was needed.
“How long did you know?” Jesca asked.
“That Imperial Guard guy brought a note for Vanis, so since last Homeday,” Callie replied. “I was sworn to secrecy, though, until it was formally announced.”
“You could have told me,” Pixyl said, her breathing still a little ragged. “I would have kept it secret, too.”
“I know, but this was his call.”
The Pixie seemed to accept that, but her look was vacant. “I should say something.”
Callie looked and saw increasing throngs of people now generally moving towards the Prince, all likely with the same idea. “Maybe later,” she said simply, before looking down at her girlfriend. “There’s time.”
True to Lena’s warning, the Commandant and Arkan were among the first to approach Vanis, their presence seeming to push aside or push back the crowd to make sure they got to the front. Xera seemed to wince in apology as they forced the introduction. “Your Majesty, if I may present Arkan Pelidri of the Cillisine Army. Arkan, Prince Vanis del Montano, corporal, Warlock and recruit.”
Pelidri bowed. In fact, he bowed formally and deeply, per Cillisine custom. “Sire,” he said sharply.
Vanis wasn’t phased though, and simply returned the more-informal Imorian head-bow. “Arkan,” he acknowledged. Inwardly he groaned, worried the other recruits and staff, seeing the deep bow, would think they were supposed to do the same. Cillisant seemed to love their protocols and theatrics, but this was Imoria, and the only expectation was being polite and a nod of the head.
“I wish our first meeting were under happier circumstances,” Pelidri began, standing himself rigidly and at attention, as he tried too hard to be proper. “On behalf of the Army of Cillisant, and from myself and my House, I wish to extend our sincerest sympathies for your loss, and for the loss to Imoria.”
“I and my family thank you for your condolences, Arkan,” Vanis said, his brain flipping through his pre-arranged selection of responses. “Their loss will be felt by many.” It was a nothing reply, barely even sincere, in a way. He added an appropriately-forced smile of gratitude.
“I understand you are quite the young Warlock,” Pelidri continued, apparently wanting to chit-chat rather than simply move on. “I had been hoping to see your skills in action.”
Vanis silently snarled, while keeping his face warm. He hated when people did this. Receiving lines, which this effectively was becoming given the queue of people now rapidly forming, were not the appropriate place for a conversation. And while, from a rank standpoint at least, he was completely out of line, Vanis was not afraid to put his royal foot down. “Not today, Arkan,” he said, just the perfect amount of icey superiority in his voice. “Perhaps on Firstday, after the main festivities have concluded.” He worded and toned it as a statement, not a suggestion.
Pelidri verbally stumbled, just for a moment. He wasn’t used to having his authority slapped down so hard and so publicly. “Of … of course, Your Highness.” He wasn’t done though, somehow thinking continuing was a good idea. “I met your great-grandfather a few times,” Pelidri continued. “A good king, and good regent.”
“That he was,” Vanis said sharply, trying harder to stop any ongoing conversation. He considered adding a firm ‘duwana’ to cut the Arkan off, but that would be considered as an absolute last resort. He instead shot a slightly-pleading look towards Xera.
In turn, Xera looked up at Pelidri, caught his attention with a cough, and made a polite yet firm ‘move along’ gesture with their eyes. It took a moment, but after seeing the line behind him, Pelidri finally got the hint, bowed Imorian-style this time, and stepped aside, adding a quick ‘Again, my condolences’. Xera had already passed their sympathies earlier in the week, and simply gave Vanis the slightest of nods in acknowledgement. They could talk another time if needed, and Xera firmly led the Arkan away.
Vanis held up his hand in a ‘wait just a moment’ gesture, stopping the next person from approaching. He waved Lena over, and whispered into her ear. “I need you to help keep the line moving. No back and forth conversation.” Back home, there would be a half-dozen guards that would quickly intercept and politely, but firmly, lead people onwards if needed. He looked and saw Trainer Olin was third in the line. “When Olin gets here, have him help. They say something, I reply, they may say one thing more, and then on to the next person. We’ll be here the rest of the day, otherwise, and I can’t deal with that.” He had hoped to avoid protocol, but lines of staff were now flooding up the hill to join the queue, all of them apparently feeling the need to say something as the word spread through the camp of what had happened, and that others were doing exactly that.
And so it went, Vanis standing in the hot sun wearing a false smile of gratitude as one after the next, people stepped up to express their own personal words. A few gave him hugs along with their sympathies, which would normally be completely inappropriate, but he decided to let it pass given the closeness of everyone in the camp. Touch was important to many, especially the Beastkin, and he wasn’t worried about a knife in the back. Lena and Olin played their parts, adding Celeste to the makeshift guard detail when she made the mistake of wandering too close. One of them would take the arm of each person, guiding them forward to say their words, but then leading them away after a brief few exchanges to keep them from getting chatty.
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Slowly, the line of people moved forward, each person getting perhaps fifteen to twenty seconds before being ushered on. But with nearly three-hundred people in camp, inclusive of the staff and visitors, everything dragged. The queue did eventually move to another spot, so that both Vanis and the line were in the shade, but Vanis was soon mentally exhausted by the need to be sociable. Still, he continued on, showing just the right amount of wistful smile to each well-wisher, thanking them for said condolences, and forcing a humbled sense of appreciation that was bigger than himself.
The Prince made exactly one exception to the hurried pace of the line, and that was when a dark-skinned Elf boy with green hair stepped forward, holding his father’s paw and shaking with fright. ‘Always talk to the children’ his father had once told him. ‘Talk to them for as long as they need you to. You’ll make a friend of the child and everyone that sees.’
Nevikk let go of Thorn and took a couple more steps forward. He looked back at his father, and then at a Dwarf Vanis didn’t recognize with a white cloth tied on his arm, which meant he was a visitor. The boy scrunched up his face, and started to bow, like a Cillisine, but stopped. He stood straight again, this time nodding in greeting like an Imorian and then got even more confused. “I don’t know which to do,” he said, looking back at his dad with growing panic.
Vanis got down on one knee to get to eye level. “Whatever do you mean, young Sir?” he asked, trying to be warm and inviting.
Nevikk looked wide-eyed back at Vanis, at the Prince who had just asked him a question, and he didn’t have an answer! He was just supposed to say the words and walk away, and now he had been asked a question. His eyes were huge as he finally managed to say, “I … I have Cillisine skin, but I don’t live there. I live here in Imoria. Which do I do?”
Smiling, Vanis tilted his head, as if deep in thought. “That can be a complicated question,” Vanis finally said. He glanced up at Thorn, who was covering his face in embarrassment. “Tell me young one, what is your name?”
“Nevikk. Nevikk Thorn.” Then, he caught himself, adding a quick, “Your Majesty.”
Vanis put on a hard thinking face, pretending to carefully mull over the problem. Callie had passed along the night before what had happened with Thorn’s wife, and why there was a ten-year-old in camp now, so seeing Nevikk wasn’t a shock. “Thorn… Thorn…” Vanis mumbled, as if trying hard to recall where he’d heard that name before. “You don’t happen to know the camp’s great Topaz Martialist with that name, do you?”
“I do! He’s my father!” Nevikk nodded, pointing up to a now even more-embarrassed Thorn.
“He is? But, you don’t look anything like him. Are you sure he’s your father? Do I need to ask him?”
“He is! He adopted me. My mother is like me, though. She's a Cillisine Elf, so I don’t know what to do.”
“That does indeed sound very, very confusing,” Vanis said, nodding his head in exaggerated agreement with Nevikk’s predicament. He glanced up at the horrified Master Trainer, and gave him a wink, which seemed to help a little. “Well, tell me this, Nevikk Thorn, have you ever lived in Cillisant?”
The boy simply shook his head rapidly.
“I see. Have you ever sworn yourself to the Crown of Cillisant?”
Nevikk shook his head again.
Vanis made a considering humming noise and then attempted to sum up the situation, carefully counting the points on his hand. “So as I understand, you have never lived in Cillisant, owe them no allegiance, your father is Imorian, and you live here in Imoria. Why would you wonder what to do?”
“Because …” Nevikk gestured to Vanis, and then up to Lena and Celeste, who were both standing next to him, and then he pointed to his own arm.
Except for the color of their skin, and the white hair, there was no biological difference between the dark-skinned Cillisine Elves and those with fairer-colors prevalent in Imoria and Valdain, although children of mixed couples were always dark-skinned with white hair. It was simply based on the origins of each centuries ago. For Imoria, the Elves originally ranged from the forests east towards and into the Fae lands, and in Valdain, from the deserts and plains to the south and west. In Cillisant, nearly all the Elves traced their lineage back to great cities under the mountains far to the north of the capitals, where they worked side-by-side with Dwarves and Gnomes to mine mithril and manastones. It was said the lack of natural light, coupled with the intensity of the metal and magic in the ores, is what ultimately darkened their skin and made their hair white.
Honestly, nobody cared. Sure, Cillisine Elves weren’t common in Imoria and Valdain, and might get a second look if seen in some rural areas, but the world was slowly becoming mixed as people migrated around. In the capitals, it was even more integrated. But there were so many different races, especially when you included all the sub-types of Beastkin, that something as mundane as skin or hair color simply wasn’t an issue to consider.
Except for the nobility of Cillisant, that was. Despite the cultural and racial blending, they worked to keep some of the kingdom’s long-past customs alive. Nearly all the nobility was Elven, and Cillisant was a much more formal land quite focused on status, unlike the other two kingdoms. Titles were of utmost importance, occasionally having land rights attached to them, and could in some cases even be sold, although it wasn’t common. There was a bureaucracy that pervaded society, and the Cillisines loved keeping records of everything, especially when it came to high-valued trade or legal matters. Protocol and formality were paramount if taking an audience with someone of importance, and children were taught said protocols at a young age. As a result, Imoria and Valdain considered the Cillisines a little ‘stuffy’, while Cillisant considered the others ‘uncouth’.
“Young master Nevikk,” Vanis said, trying hard not to sound scolding, but at the same time trying to make a point, “it does not matter the color of your skin.” He shook his head to further emphasize the lesson. “No, Nevikk, home is where you believe it to be in here.” Vanis patted his chest. “It’s where your family is and where you dream about returning when on a long journey, and where you climb into bed when that journey ends.” Vanis stood, looking down and speaking with a little commanding formality. “So tell me, young son of Thorn the Martialist, where do you hail from.”
Nevikk grinned, straightening his posture. “I’m from Imoria.”
“Then, greet me as an Imorian,” Vanis commanded, giving the boy a sharp nod.
Nevikk nodded in return, swallowed and tried again. He bowed his head as he had seen others do, quite properly in fact, and looked up into the warm eyes of Prince Vanis. “I come to express to you my great sadness and sympathies,” he began, a little monotone as he tried to recall what he’d been told and practiced saying. “The world is a dimmer light for Imoria’s loss.”
“That it is, young master Nevikk,” Vanis said, returning the gesture. “I and my family and the kingdom itself all thank you for your condolences.”
“The House of Thorn is…” Nevikk continued, still trying to recite the words but apparently losing his place. After a moment he found it again. “The House of Thorn stands at your service. You need only ask. May the stars shine upon the King.”
“May the stars shine upon us all, Son of Imoria. May they shine upon us all.”