Silence fell but for the distant chirp of crickets and faint echoes of music and chatter from the faraway feast, as the old knight and erstwhile squire locked eyes for the first time in half a decade. In a surprising turn, it was the elder who yielded first.
“Goodly Freda, why must you fear me so?” Baron Graye frowned, shaking his head, “It was a tragic accident. I don’t curse Hadrian for the fire that took little Agnes. You must know that.”
“Oh, I’m sure you wish that fire upon us. Only then can you set your rivers of iron alight,” retorted Coris through teeth still grinding.
“You are sorely mistaken.” Baron Graye tilted his head with a sigh, still magnanimous. “Your father and I have our differences, Corien, but we are both humble knights of the Council, serving our one king for the good of Latakia. So long as that appears to be the case, you have nothing to fear.”
Tension emanated from Coris, so thick in the air Meya felt the flesh in his arms clenching as he raised them ever higher to shield her. Baron Graye must have caught a nose-full as well, for his sigh fell heavy, knowing the time to abandon a lost cause. He glanced at Meya, his ocean-blue eyes hollow.
“You’ve found yourself an enchanting young lady, Coris.” He said softly, his eyes still studying Meya, “You should enjoy your evening while it lasts.”
With that simple, yet inexplicably ominous remark, he swept away, his white cloak rippling after him like a rain-stream through a maze of grass. Meya followed his receding white silhouette until he vanished behind a left in the hallway, then turned around at Mum’s stern voice.
“My lord, if I may. He may have his feuds with your father, but he seems nothing but gracious to you. He’s clearly fond of you, and that is not how one treats one’s old mentor.”
“Mum!” Meya moaned. There she went again, mothering every youngster in sight, hers or not. Yet, Coris seemed too baffled to be offended. He spun around and gawked at Mum, gray eyes like blinking moons, then shook his head in horrified awe, torn halfway between laughing and cradling his forehead.
“Alanna, you’re worse than your daughter.” (“Oi!” snapped Meya.) Mum huffed and rolled her eyes, no doubt taking him for the arrogant prodigy she’d heard he was. Coris leaned in, desperate now as he pleaded his case,
“Grimthel Graye may appear to anyone as anything—because he isn’t anything. He sees nothing but uses, even for his own daughters. He used them both, and he’ll do the same to Meya—”
Meya seethed in mounting frustration. Would everyone stop with all this smothering protecting-the-fair-maiden? She wasn’t that gullible!
“—Then perhaps you shouldn’t have declared open war,” Mum’s soft voice was grave as a cornered viper’s hiss, taking the threat seriously now. She cocked her head at Meya. “She’s your wife. That is your child. You choose the battle they suffer. If he doesn’t wear his colors yet, why should you?”
Coris closed his mouth and swallowed his words, his cheeks coloring. But then, Mum froze. She peered at Coris, then her eyes widened.
“But of course, you must know that.” She muttered, her hand absently straying to her lips as she leaned in, her voice disappearing. “Poor thing. He used you, too, didn’t he?”
Coris paled to match the moonlight on his face. He averted his eyes, his short bursts of breath jarring in the quiet. Mum raised her eyebrows at Meya, and she nodded slightly, even as vapors of doubt swirled deep within her.
From the tales of Agnes and Coris himself, she’d long imagined Baron Graye as a conniving, ruthless, cold man incomprehensible in his ways due to the lack of a human soul behind his choices.
So, meeting him in the flesh, she couldn’t reconcile the real Baron Graye to that twisted portrait she’d drawn. He seemed a kind gentleman. A wee unnerving with his empty eyes, yes, but then it was probably necessary for court intrigue. Even the Clardarths weren’t so honest.
Agnes and Coris’s accounts were filtered through their eyes, colored by the ordeal they suffered. And Freda knew how paranoid the Hadrians have become from two centuries of secret-keeping. And as Baron Hadrian himself admitted, they hadn’t always acted in the interest of Latakia, either.
Baron Graye spied on Hadrian on orders from the King, who had full right to be suspicious of the old guard that had supported his demented predecessor he overthrew. He may not have expected Agnes and Persephia would be harmed. Or, like Coris often did, may have sacrificed them for his duty to Latakia.
There must be more to him than the rumors that precede him. She should trust what she saw with her own eyes than what others told her they saw, shouldn’t she? But then again, Meya didn’t fare well so far as judge of character. Especially when it came to men…
Meya’s eyes strayed to the only man in the vicinity. Mum looked mournfully at Coris, who squirmed under her scrutiny. He turned to Meya,
“Are you feeling better? Shall we head back?”
“I doubt it’d be long before we find ourselves rushing back here,” sighed Mum, eyeing Meya who jolted out of her head. Coris peered at the faraway window of light, nodding.
“It’ll be downright chaos soon. Just you wait for the dance.”
Dance?
Meya’s eyes widened, appetite for novelty restored now that her stomach was a growling void. Her eyes must have glowed twice as bright—Mum caught the spark with the corner of her eye, frowning as she always did when smelling oncoming unruly Meya.
“Either way,” she drawled as she puttered about gathering spent rags, “you won’t be singing tonight, Mama Bird.”
Having retrieved Baron Graye’s abandoned cloth and tossing it into the basin, she straightened with a haughty ultimatum, “I’ll fetch your father.”
Basin on her hip, Mum strode off. Meya shot Coris an incredulous look. He stood, arms crossed, the look in his eyes not unlike Morel gloating over Meya’s torture. Growling, she stomped after Mum.
“Mum, I’m fine! Give me one glimpse of the King and you’ll have me blessed silence!”
“I’m not sure His Majesty would be as gracious if you spewed on him!” Mum snapped.
“I spewed it all already! I dun have nothing left to spew!”
“Again, Meya—the Fest ends with the month. You’ll have your chance.”
Coris’s voice blew in from behind, sounding weary—and hurt. Meya caught herself. Still, she couldn’t help but grumble shamefacedly,
“But you haven’t eaten. You haven’t got to dance.”
Mum’s face unwound, softened in the moonlight. She drew close and grasped her hand.
“Meya, it’s all right.”
Clear blue eyes bore deep into hers. Meya hung her head in defeat, although she still couldn’t believe it truly was. Mum ran the back of her fingers down her cheek, then turned to Coris.
“My lord, do you think I can trust you alone with my daughter for a quarter-hour?”
At her raised eyebrow of suspicion, Coris heaved a dramatic sigh and shrugged.
“She’s pregnant. I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can do. Ow!”
Coris must’ve known the consequences by heart, so either he yearned for pain, or he’d mistimed how fast her fist was. Meya concluded it was the former, for he chuckled with pride as Mum glowered at him as if debating whether she could splash him with sick-water from the basin and get away with it.
At long last, Mum melted into a smile. She mussed his hair as any mother would for her boy, then went on her way.
A string of apologies bursting at her lips, Meya counted the steps until Mum was out of earshot then spun around. Her mouth fell open, but no words left it. Coris stood rigid as stone, staring transfixed at the patch of thin air where Mum was. His hand traveled to his ruffled hair, slow and trembling.
Coris was rarely treated as a little boy. His parents weren’t around much while he was a babe. His intelligence and precociousness meant from the time he could talk sense, he was surrounded by adult nobles who treated him as an equal or legitimate threat, and knights he could command to fight wars for him. Meya couldn’t imagine even Baroness Sylvia mussing up his head. Sure, Meya often toyed with his hair, but it probably wasn’t the same.
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He turned to her as she slid her arms around him. They shared a smile, as the doorway shared tantalizing wisps of music from the banquet hall. Before long, Coris swayed to his imagined rhythm. He was even more fidgety than Meya at times.
“Now that you’ve mentioned it, we haven’t danced since,” he said. Meya blinked, cocking her head as she reminisced, a smile creeping onto her lips as their second meeting tingled in her limbs like phantom touches.
“Something always happened, eh?”
Coris whirled her to face him, his hands clamping over her waist.
“Nothing’s happening now.”
“Wee-Coris is happening, and I dun think he’ll take to spinning and twirling!” All too aware of her vomit breath and vomited-over dress, Meya placed her hands firm on his bony chest and pushed hard. Unfortunately, he’d hooked his fingers securely in the soft fat of her middle,
“—So we’ll sway. Nice and slow. Rock the babe straight to sleep.”
His heart pounded on her palm, betraying the courage he’d mustered for his guise of nonchalance. He truly didn’t mind the stench? Hadn’t he noticed the damp swathe on her bodice?
As they swayed wider and steadier, Meya gingerly edged close. ’Twas a pain figuring how to rest her head on his shoulder without touching the wet, smelling front of her dress to his tunic. Her resulting posture was akin to hunchbacked old Bailiff Mansfuld.
Coris’s sigh blew onto the naked skin over her breasts. He trailed his hand down her unfettered hair to her sleeve then her dress.
“You’re—extremely—pretty.” He abandoned his attempt at refined poetry, his face flushing as his shoulders fell in defeat. Meya pouted as the pong of diluted sick floated up her nostrils.
“I got watered spew down me front.”
“Still pretty. Just stink a wee bit of porridge.”
Meya hammered her fist on his chest. Laughing, Coris pressed her back so her soiled front was flush against his. She tensed in terror, yet on he swayed, the song in his head unheeding.
As he gently assured her, little by little her mind strayed from the cold, stinging damp of her chest to the soothing, lukewarm heat of his embrace, and the Song flowed out of her.
“Deep in the heart of the Woodland Realm.
In the ashen keep, stood an oaken seat.
Worn smooth as ice and white as bone.
For a hundred kings lasted Woodland Throne.
What the wood remembers, so the leaves whisper.
What the wood remembers, so the winds speak.”
The Woodland Throne wove a hundred songs from a hundred reigns. Meya had picked the tale of an intrepid young prince, who felt imprisoned in his castle ensconced in the arms of the lush, dense forest. He longed to see sand plains where azure skies never rained, sail to islands so far-flung the winds could no longer push his ship.
“I will fly ’til the sky runs out of rain.
I will sail ’til the sea runs out of wind.
I will walk these lands ’til my soles burn to stone.
I will reign so far from the Woodland Throne.”
Fearing he’d abandon the Woodland Throne to ruin, the king ordered poor boy locked away in the deepest heart of the keep. The loving queen set him free and showed him a path through the forest, but she did not let him go without words of reassurance—and warning—
“Go now, beloved— ’til the day you learn.
When your bones creak and groan what your heart yearns.
When your ears think they hear what the leaves whisper.
You’ll return to my cairn guarding Woodland Throne.”
“You may fly ’til the sky runs out of rain.
You may sail ’til the sea runs out of wind.
You may walk these lands ’til your soles burn to stone.
You will find your home on the Woodland Throne.”
So the prince traveled far as he desired, writing to his mother of the sights he discovered, the adventures he enjoyed. He returned a learned man worthy to serve his subjects, to find his mother had just passed away.
However, the Woodland Throne stood shining and ready for him. The queen, true to her promise, had protected it until her last breath, safe in the knowledge he would return.
As he caressed the arm of the empty chair, the prince lamented—
“I have flown where the sky runs out of rain.
I have sailed where the sea runs out of wind.
I have walked all the lands, burned my soles down to stone.
To come home to your bones on the Woodland Throne.”
To find my home on the Woodland Throne.”
Coris pressed his lips to her temple as they continued to sway and swivel, even as the song had long ended. From afar, Mirram and Alanna also swayed as they watched with smiles on their faces.
This night, it seemed, would last eternal.
----------------------------------------
Back in the grand hall, the music had quickened to a merry tune. Blossoming young women had gathered in a wide ring, surrounded by an even wider circle of young men, shunting their parents and grandparents to clapping admiringly on the sidelines. They pranced in clumsy unison, left to right then back and over again, kicking and twirling their feet, laughing and singing. The vielle and shawm swelled and ebbed in turn, egged on by drums, like witty banter between the sexes.
Kellis smiled as his younger son swung back into view. Zier blew a kiss to Arinel, who giggled as the song carried them apart once more. The soft, warm weight of Sylvia’s braided head nuzzled against his neck. He smoothed his hand down the curve of her waist.
“Kellis.”
His hand froze just before it found home. Kellis shaped his lips into the smile that had vanished at the sound of that familiar voice, slid his hand to his wife’s back, pressing slow circles to calm her, then together they turned to face his nemesis.
“Grimthel.”
Grimthel Graye accepted his nod with a serene smile. His eyes strayed to the rings of dancing youngsters, and Kellis followed it. Zier and Arinel met again. This time, the lad managed to snatch a whiff of her rosy cheek before she tore away in a whirl of blonde tresses.
“Isn’t that Arinel of Crosset?” asked Grimthel.
“Yes.”
A pause of silence followed while Grimthel digested the new development. He cocked his head, his empty smile returning.
“Pity. Our children would’ve been dancing hand in hand, save for a stroke of fate.”
“I thought your daughters were reserved for king and deity,” said Kellis.
“And Fyr has claimed one, Chione the other.” Grimthel sighed, then raised his head high, his voice colder, heavier now, “Loyalty betrays and honor punishes when made to serve an unworthy liege. Now I am wiser.”
Kellis whipped around and glared at the man. Graye served no liege, he’d always known. What alarmed him was Graye sharing his sentiments with him, for Graye knew full well he’d never entertain the notion.
“You speak words of treason, Grimthel,” Kellis lowered his voice as he peered into those bottomless eyes, shaking his head. “I cannot harbor them in silence.”
Graye’s lips curved into a pitying smile. Before he retorted, the blare of trumpets swallowed the minstrel song. The spinning circles broke in half then flattened into meek lines before the three emerging figures, who trailed purple robes trimmed with snow-white ermine. The herald cried their royal titles, and the gathering bowed in submission.
As the king gestured for his guests to resume their positions of ease, Grimthel straightened and tossed Kellis a parting smile,
“Fear not, old friend. Today is not his turn to fall.”
With a flutter of his white cloak, he set off silent and swift as he arrived. Kellis stared after him until his last sliver of white melted into the crowd, pondering his cryptic remarks, King Alden’s speech echoing faintly at the back of his mind.
“Esteemed lords and ladies of the six duchies, thank you. Far, far indeed have you traveled to join us in our humble abode. We are honored to receive you. We see tire linger still in your faces. If by the midnight bell it has not been purged, we shall consider ourselves to have failed abysmally as your host.”
A smattering of laughter rose in reply. Kellis wagered it was more encouragement than amusement. The Queen had honed her husband’s public mask to a shine, yet stubborn burnishes refused to be sanded. Alden was a warrior, an idealist. Man delivered flattery as if he were scraping sap from his tongue. Even Coris could’ve done better.
A hill woven of hair and cloth stretched between him and the royal family, rippling here and there as the young and fidgety craned their necks for a glimpse of the handsome king or the adorable ten-year-old prince, and the opportunistic jostled for a spot within the king’s sightline.
A decade on the throne had buttered over the sharp angles of Alden’s face and leeched ruddiness from his cheeks, but otherwise he remained knightly. His honey-brown locks hadn’t retreated fully from his now wrinkled forehead. His blue eyes gleamed bright with youth as they flitted nervously across the sea of people spread out before him.
Queen Zephyr pressed her hand on her son’s shoulder to still the squirming boy. Six braids of ash brown, threaded with ribbons of gold, fell to caress her ankles. Her almond-shaped brown eyes swept the crowd like a gliding hawk, her thin purple lips perfectly straight as she took her husband’s hand in her free one. Heartened, the king mustered his smile and soldiered on,
“We have news of great importance to announce. Thereafter you may drink, dine, dance to your hearts’ fill, and suffer us no longer.”
King Alden looked to his herald, who in turn nodded to the guard standing sentinel before a door to the side. He opened it, and a golden-haired girl of no more than five emerged, shadowed by her heavily pregnant golden-haired mother, both resplendent in robes of apricot and silver.
Sylvia dropped her goblet with a clang.
King Alden flourished his hand towards the pair as they approached, his eyes roaming the crowd.
“It is decided our humble House of Corbyn shall be joined with the great House of Amplevale. As proof of this union, Lady Serella of Amplevale shall be betrothed to Prince Halcyon.”
“Why haven’t we heard a word? How could they—Why?” Sylvia hissed in panic at his ear, her voice drowned by the roiling chatter of the crowd. Kellis grasped her hand tugging his sleeve as his heart thundered against his ribcage. Yet, the worst had not come to pass.
“Amplevale has also asked to represent themselves on the Council, for their pleas are no longer voiced by those they trusted to speak for them.”
The King extended his hand once more, gesturing for the pregnant lady to step forth. The woman Kellis had known from his earliest memories—
“Lady Kyrel of Amplevale, who speaks for the ailing Lord Sytus.”
“Ailing? It hasn’t been two months!” Sylvia scoffed, yet her fingers were claws of ice between his. Their worst fears were befalling them—the ever looming doom kept at bay by The Axel.
“As our first line of defense against Nostran invasion, Amplevale’s concerns must be heard. And thus, I have called a convening of the Council to cast vote on this very issue.”
By all rights, Baron Hadrian shouldn’t be on the Council. Maxus bargained with Philip the Usurper for the seat that belonged to Lord Amplevale. As Hadrian must now guard The Axel against dragons, it was only fitting they control Amplevale’s army and the defense of Zarel Pass, he reasoned.
But the Wynns’ blood of oath had run dry. And Maxus’s threat had always been hollow. Hadrian would never betray Latakia to dragons, even at the cost of their lives.
“However, ’tis a matter for tomorrow! Tonight, we celebrate Freda. Let the feast continue!”
The king threw his arms wide, and once more, minstrel song rose to fill the bursting hall. The gathering took a while to shake off lingering chills from the news, then all but few sank blissfully back to merrymaking.
Kellis peered through the whirling dancers to find Zier rooted at the heart of the ring, Lady Crosset in his arms, his blue eyes wide and fearful on his bloodless face.