> The veiled rhymes of midnight
>
> Oh, that strange gloomy delight
>
> Witch’s ghost, a perfumed mist over Vermilion’s caldera
>
> Hey drunken troubadour,
>
> Have another cup,
>
> And sing us the tales of the Third Era
>
>
>
> Need a meek soul to help etch these couplets on tough skin
>
> Make it last, old Imperial flag raised on a ship’s mast
>
> Hallowed be thine names!
>
> Goddess’ own divine caste ‘n onyx Wyvern’s kin
>
> What a bloomin’ sin!
>
>
>
> A simple spirit to assist with this daunting task
>
> How a Moon bled in order to wed ‘n bred
>
> Sea o’ constructs consumed in all-hells flames!
>
> Hardir’s plight & Lord o’ Lies lost Zaos' casque
>
> Was naught but a simple brass mask!
>
>
>
>
>
> The unscaled Morn Taras’ fright
>
> Oh, but for that single dreadful night
>
> Dead's Coast, a vile cyst hides a Chimera
>
> Hey silly troubadour,
>
> Heed the Queen’s words,
>
> And sing us the tales of the Third Era
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> -
>
>
>
> Veiled verses of Midnight
>
> (alt title –Tales of the Third Era)
>
> Performed live rare 'Imperial' version
>
> Roy & the Purser Gang
>
> Circa 208?
>
>
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> ----------------------------------------
>
> Based on a short lyric text by Naram-Sin Nagar (178-212 NC) found in his notes for the fabled manuscript ‘Age of the Onyx Wyvern’. Roy & the Purser Gang were given the vellum with the poem-like text around 201 NC in Ani Ta-Ne and wrote their now famous epic song, when they returned to Jelin four years later. A rare Wetull-centric song composed by a human, it was first played in Morn Taras around 208 NC, during the celebration for Lussiel Inis-Mir’s eighteenth named year.
>
>
>
>
>
>
-
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THE OLD REALMS
~ACT VI~
The Wings of Fate
-Volume IV-
Solitude's End
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-
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Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Lord of Morn Taras
Monarch of Wetull
King beyond the Pale Mountains
Aniculo Rokae
Duath Erin I Menel
Malantur O’ Furu
Rhu Fareno
Malantur O’ Furu
Act I
–Mister Rhu Fareno-
Part I
-The man that was-
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-
RRRRRREEEE!
“WHAT?”
I’M STIL HURT GLEN!
Uvrycres whined whilst stomping at the ground upon witnessing him head for the tower’s flat top’s stairs, the thick stone pylon protruding about thirty meters over the square citadel alike a strange ship’s mast, or the crude depiction of a phallus.
“I’m sending someone up to help!” Glen retorted over his shoulder and galloped down the narrow stairs, sort of meeting one of Laedan’s assistants who was on his way up.
SEND FOOD INSTEAD!
BE A FRIEND!
The startled young Zilan plastered himself to the wall so the Monarch could pass him by and Glen managed to slow-down using friction, his right forearm and the other wall a couple of steps later.
Eh.
“Hardir,” the Zilan said croakily, face half-hidden in the windowless, dark space.
No one else had permission to climb ‘Uvrycres’ Nest’ after sundown.
I mean people could, and the Den’s employees frequently did but they had the experience and character to face the ‘usually’ resting wyvern. Also the presence of mind, not to leap from the sharp edge –that lacked any guardrails or protective barrier- to the granite rooftop of the Citadel just below.
Now theoretically, a good athlete good clear the rooftop’s parapets, even the Mastaba’s base –the citadel had been built upon- and crash straight on the stone-tiles of Morn Taras’ inner yard, to gain another twenty meters of pure drop, though what that feat would accomplish, Glen had no idea.
“Laedan… is on… his way?” Glen asked raspingly, making the failed attempt to breathe and speak at the same time, as he was still winded from running down the stairs.
“Aye, Hardir.”
“Good, carry on then,” Glen urged the Zilan and headed down the stairs again at a more sane speed.
----------------------------------------
Glen reached the empty third floor of the Citadel, then continued down to the second and the royal quarters. He dodged a palace guard and scared the flip-flops out of Atju’s feet coming out of the relatively darker side corridor leading to the top. The latter was bringing a huge platter with a light-meal and an assortment of foodstuff from the Kitchens for Inis-Mir, which he heroically managed to save with the calmer Monarch’s assistance.
“Anything unusual?” Glen asked the Head Servant, holding on to the platter for him and munching at the dried up figs given the opportunity. “These… are pretty nice, um…” he added while a pale Atju tried to recover from the startle and put the scattered slippers back on his feet.
“Nothing of note master, other than that we lost a rabbit,” Atju replied and took the platter from Glen, who grabbed the glass of milk to wash everything down.
“Hopped away?” Glen chanced afore glugging down at the vanilla flavored milk.
“It had been skinned and then hanged from a meat hook master,” Atju replied. “I don’t believe it could move at all.”
Ah.
Who stole the rabbit then? Hmm.
“I’ll refill it for the princess,” Atju added taking the empty cup from Glen.“But I have to run back to the kitchens for that.”
To which the Monarch burped in agreement, secured the helm under an armpit and headed for his daughter’s quarters.
Glen greeted Sir Qildor, who was standing guard at the princess bedchamber’s opened door.
“Maeriel?”
“She took the night off Hardir, and morrow.” Qildor replied stiffly through his Rokae mask. The mask’s sober expression probably contributing to the Zilan knight sounding like that.
“Whisper is here,” Glen said with a nod. “It makes sense.”
“She tried to enter earlier, but the citadel is locked down due to the war.”
“No war, a nasty raid we won.” Glen pursed his mouth. “Send for Rimeros, or Kilynia. Is Lithoniela still in the south tower?”
“They would know Hardir,” the Zilan knight replied. “I’ll find Rimeros.”
----------------------------------------
“Look daddy!” Inis-Mir’s very excited yell pierced Glen’s ears, the moment he entered the adjoining room that was her bedroom. “These just arrived for you!” She pointed the smiling Glen towards her bed, grabbing his hand when he paused to check on the gold wyvern’s empty cage. The latter had replaced the metal box. “I asked Vycaris & Oelinael to fashion a new shirt for you!”
“Aha,” Glen said, his eyes searching the lavish room for the small wyvern. Qodras was nowhere to be seen, or was hiding sneakily under the furniture. Stumbling forward Glen reached the princess’ large bed and stared at the leather outfit she had put on display there. A pair of leather pants in the mix, a leather shirt and a light-armoured vest. “I have better armour Inis,” he told his insisting to put them on daughter.
“No! This will make you look good!” Inis yelled.
Insisting a little too much.
“Alright, where is he?” Glen asked grabbing the yelping princess by the waist to lift her off of the carpeted floor. “Stop moving about damnit!” Inis-Mir’s expression changed dramatically and Glen had to sit down on the bed as she wasn’t that light anymore. The serious Inis-Mir settled on his lap. “There, this is better. I’m a bit worn-out, but we neutralized this threat honey.”
“Did you kill them all?”
Glen rolled his eyes. “We took prisoners. Who puts these thoughts…? Eh. Qodras!” The King bellowed tipping his head back. “Get out of hiding ye little cretin! Don’t make me come search for you boy!”
For a while they both listened for sounds but nothing was moving about and Glen eyed Inis-Mir’s guilty face again.
“Someone took a rabbit from the Kitchens.”
“No way!” The princess said, faking at shock. “But we have more, so there is no need to dwell on this matter further father.”
Glen pursed his mouth. “Qodras is a wyvern. He’s dangerous.”
“Not to me, he isn’t,” Inis replied and stared in his face. “Do you want to have your hair painted so they could match mine?” She asked changing the subject.
“No, I don’t.” Glen retorted and seeing Inis’ eyes well-up with tears, he sighed and looked to soften the rejection a bit. “I will look ridiculous honey. Red is more your color yes?”
“You like Iskay’s hair. Does she look ridiculous?”
“Alright, we are not going there,” Glen cut her off. “You are too young to have this kind of talk with your father.”
“About hair?”
“Inis,” Glen warned and looked about the richly-decorated room again. “Qodras, if anything happens to my daughter, know that I’ll wear your skin as a bracelet,” he threatened the hidden wyvern.
“Stop it!” Inis-Mir snapped and slapped his chest. “Don’t say things like that!”
Glen moved her down so he could stand. “I’ll do whatever I want. Anyways, I don’t have time for him, Lithoniela is here.”
“We don’t need another princess,” his daughter said with a pout.
“You shall always be the first princess Inis. Lith won’t challenge that.”
“How do you know?”
“I know her well. He doesn’t like conflict,” Glen replied.
“You talk of Jinx but not of her though.”
“We met when I was younger,” Glen said, staring at his tired face in the princess’ large mirror. Sen had mirrors placed in all the bedrooms, but this was a memory Glen didn’t want to revisit at that moment. “And parted under weird circumstances.”
The King’s eyes searched about the well-lit room again for any suspicious shadows.
“How weird?” Inis-Mir asked perceptively.
“That’s another topic you’re too young to discuss with me,” Glen replied and puffed his cheeks out. Rimeros could be heard talking with Qildor outside the adjoined chamber’s open door. “Not all friendships last.”
“Hmm. Jinx would never have brought her here,” Inis decided sounding like an older person, which at times she did. It was darn weird to witness. “If you trust the crazy Gish,” his young daughter added. “Then the princess isn’t here to challenge us.”
Perhaps you’re right honey, Glen thought, as he was less confident than what he’d tried to appear earlier. But things have a tendency to veer off course in life.
The Monarch stooped to grab the crowned masked-helm he’d dropped next to a cupboard and a coin escaped from his closed leather purse secured on the weapon’s harness he still had on. The square coin, rolled on the soft grey carpet somehow, cleared it to reach the cream-colored marble tiles and raced for the door to the adjoining room. Glen went after it, the coin rattling up ahead until it came to a stop under Inis-Mir’s elegant and out of dark-rosewood painter stand.
Glen retrieved the wayward coin with a grimace, his eyes pausing for a moment on his daughter’s painting. The one he’d destroyed was gone, but Inis-Mir had attempted to recreate it and for whatever reason had stopped after she’d finished painting the lovely, but secluded and sunlit meadow.
Clink.
The sound reached his ears, well after he’d picked up the coin, as it was part of a different memory and time.
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“The Lord Shield is here, Arguen Garth,” Rimeros informed him immediately and they both started walking briskly the corridor running in front of the royal quarters. The King’s door opened and Iskay rushed out to follow after Glen, who paused to listen to what Rimeros had to say. “We expect the Imperial Princess any moment now. They stayed at the South Tower.”
“They?” Glen queried whilst Iskay used a moist cloth to clean up the harness and the cuirass he still wore underneath. He gave her the helm to work on as well and then pointed to his muddy boots.
“Jinx was here, along with Mathews and Marlo, but they departed hours ago. The princess is in the company of a human named Caruso and a slave girl. Ah, a talking cat as well.”
A numb Glen stared in the dignified Zilan official’s long face. “Is that common with Wetull’s pets? I assume they didn’t buy the cat in an Eplas bazaar?”
Now that’s a gift for Inis. It could have saved me the trouble of bringing Nefertiti here!
“Not that I’m aware your grace,” Rimeros replied stiffly. “As for the other… that’s more a Cydonia thing. I meant… the witches of Tir and Cyran were rumored to have had talking pets. Personally I haven’t encountered one and given what I’ve seen from this one, not much was missed. It’s a vile animal your grace.”
Right.
“You think they breed them still?”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“Eh… I wouldn’t know. The islands are gone. My current hypothesis is that the cat escaped.”
Glen nodded slowly. “Then that’s an old arse cat fer sure.” He noted. “Unless it passed its talents to its offspring.” Glen cleared his throat. “What about the man?”
“An adventurer from Raoz. Maybe an escort. The girl we don’t know its purpose.”
“She’s a Que Ki-La palace slave girl. They tend to weave their hair with long pins in that manner. Lord Erul-Sol used those pins to prick their nether regions if they spoke out of turn, or ever.” Iskay replied working to polish Glen’s metal mask with the cloth. Zaos’ artifact had assumed a scowling expression at the woman’s persistent efforts.
“What use does Lith have of a slave girl or an armed escort?” Glen wondered and started walking again towards the fancy round staircase that led to the throne room below. “Are you sure the man isn’t that Zilan assassin in disguise?”
“He’s not Ralnor,” Aenymriel assured him. She was climbing up the stairs and Glen gestured for her to turn around which the nimble Zilan female did. She led the way to the bottom of the stairs and they paused there, as the throne was already too-crowded for Glen’s likes. “I checked myself.”
“Anything else I should know beforehand?”
“They rode on an Ostrich?” Rimeros chanced unsure.
Ugh?
“I meant downstairs! What is that cracked bastard Feyras doing here?” Glen grunted and put the now smugly-grinning masked-helm back on.
“The priests wanted to talk with her highness.” Rimeros replied.
“What about?”
“Baltoris had relatively good relations with Feyras to the extent that this is even possible, but Voldomir, while not an outright fanatic, he wasn’t exactly a loyalist also, since he’d basically been under High Priestess Edlenn at Nesande’s Temple. He stayed out of the court’s affairs and tended his gardens.”
Glen had figured that out himself.
“The Priests presume you’ll give Lithoniela some religious, or ceremonial role in the administration.” Aenymriel expounded.
Yeah sure, seeing as I have more Elderbloods available than plaguing positions!
“I won’t,” Glen retorted and set his eyes on the thin but wiry Zilan. Lith had matured into a harder version of herself since he’d last seen her, but some of the regal splendor was still there. The haughtiness also, although that too had been refined as he came to found out soon.
“Don’t hold back on the praise lathered on my person. Get it all out there,” he told Rimeros.
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“We all were,” Glen retorted curtly, minutes later. We could have used your help back then, save Emerson from getting captured, Dante from getting killed like a dog, and all those people we had to leave behind. Ah, then there’s the matter of me almost dying as well, but for a stroke of pure luck and mountain Dwarf hospitality, you knew nothing about!
“Are these the Monarch’s wishes?” Lithoniela asked after Rimeros finished and a loud gasp interrupted the silently watching the exchange hall. Glen’s eyes located the culprit, a Cofol woman with a striking figure and equally appealing face, even in her worn-out garments. The comely female ducked behind the muscular adventurer with the large head and unshaven face. A Lorian.
“It’s been a long journey,” Lithoniela added to get Glen’s attention, which was curious. The slave’s head peeked carefully behind Caruso’s back at the throne.
Which was silly.
“Then you should rest,” Glen started a little amused at the woman’s shenanigans.
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Glen waited for Lithoniela to finish her talk with the Priests, his eyes on the departing Fikumin and Caruso. Well, they stayed on Caruso for a few moments but then he caught a glimpse of the clumsy Cofol’s round bottom moving away from him. Clumsy manners, or not, the well-endowed woman knew how to walk using all parts of her body properly.
Damn.
Sen could do it moving at a snail’s pace, which was remarkable, old Soletha as well, but the briskly hurrying away for some plaguing reason Cofol female, had it mastered on all speeds seemingly. A rare professional sashaying master. Marlo swore on his kids, the priestesses of distant Valeria had perfected the act. While the wily, veteran adventurer was prone to bouts of hyperbole, he was pretty convincing in his lewder tales. Glen signaled for Iskay to approach under Aenymriel’s scrutiny.
“What?” Glen asked in a very low voice.
“I have brought a gift for Wetull’s Monarch,” Aenymriel replied.
“Is it edible?” Glen queried, as he’d only had Inis’ figs and that glass of milk.
“It’s a weapon.”
I should have guessed.
“We’ll talk later,” Glen decided and turned to Iskay. “I want to speak to the girl.” He told her.
Iskay blinked. “Sol’s slaves are dead inside. You don’t need her,” she whispered.
For slovenly fuck’s sake.
“She can still talk. Just grab her afore she leaves. And Iskay,” Glen warned, a little pissed she had forced him to talk about it in public. “I’ll be the god darn judge of that!” With that he got up from the throne to walk near Vulreon’s scribe’s table.
----------------------------------------
Lithoniela glanced at Aenymriel, who bowed her boyish head to her. “Lady Aenymriel, much I’ve heard lately about you.”
“Whom from your grace?” Aenymriel replied teasingly.
“One of your old pupils,” Lithoniela retorted sternly.
“Ah. I’ve no pupils, just lonely souls that had walked the same paths as myself,” Aenymriel said, maintaining that light-heartened manner. “But for one, caught in a seductress web.”
“You served my mother,” Lithoniela noted frostily.
“Dutifully and for long. She was very pleased.”
“We have a ‘no fight’ policy in this hall,” Glen intervened. “Loosely upheld now that Troy is around, but still… it’s good that you survived Lith.”
Lith stared in Glen’s masked face, then eyed the silent Vulreon, they were standing over his table, until the scribe gathered his ink-bottles, quills and scrolls to vacate his seat.
“Send her away,” she told Glen authoritatively, who blinked caught in the stern tone of her voice as if they were standing inside the temple of Oakenfalls again.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Aenymriel offered afore the miffed Glen could reply and walked away. She reached the throne, turned left to round the large podium the latter was standing on and disappeared behind it -never making it out of the other side.
“Do you know what she is?” Lith asked and Glen puffed out, thought about removing the helm, but decided against it. He didn’t trust Lith not to read his face.
“A female of your species,” he finally replied playfully harking back to her own reply and Lith pursed her lips unsure, lines forming on her unblemished forehead as she mulled over his words for a long moment.
“Is this a jest Glenavon?”
There she is, our dry as an old plinth-wall companion.
“Yes, Lith. It was, until you ruined it,” Glen retorted with a grimace.
“You’ve found a stone throne,” Lith noted. “But came to Goras instead of heading to Kaltha to get the gold one.”
Yeah, I didn’t do what you suggested.
“A gold throne exists, but it wasn’t made for me,” Glen replied, trying to get control of the conversation and failing. He was a bit apprehensive around Lith still. It was similar with Jinx because they both knew him from before all the fanfare, but with the Gish it was annoying more and they could always spin a good jest. Not so much with the serious Imperial Princess.
“I wish to see the wyvern,” Lith said.
“He’s injured. Another time would be safer.”
“I had a wyvern’s egg in my cradle,” Lith countered frostily. “Traveled on Ovinet’s back to escape Goras’ destruction. I know more about them than you.”
“I doubt that and this is my wyvern,” Glen retorted firmly.
“The dagger did recognize Hardir O’ Fardor then,” Lith noted. “Who would’ve thought?”
“Not really. But it does talk shit from time to time.”
“Not its own words. The dagger translates the wyvern’s verses,” Lith explained thinking Glen was still the provincial idiot he’d been back then.
“It does that sure, but also speaks its own mind.”
Pretty much everyone uses it, he thought of Gimoss, but the memory was disturbing and he ditched it quickly.
Lith stood back with a frown. “No, it doesn’t. I know it’s confusing—”
Glen cut her off raising his hand, index finger extended and waggling right and left.
“You are wrong again,” he told her. “Where is Larn?”
“Ralnor.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Glen retorted. “Is the ghoulish cretin around?”
“Ralnor had a contract. The whole incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Lith elucidated calmly. “We don’t wish you harm Glenavon and he won’t be a problem.”
You don’t wish me… why, you arrogant stick!
“I almost kicked the bucket. People died!” Glen grunted, starting to get angry with her conceited attitude. “I did as well, fully and for a while, it was darn close. Where is he?”
“He’s not here,” Lith replied sternly.
“I can tell you’re lying,” Glen hissed, although he couldn’t.
“You cannot and wearing the Crown of Thorns shows me that you’re deceptive.” Lith retorted stiffly.
Uh?
“What does the crown do?” Glen asked.
“You know very well,” Lith replied.
Glen had no idea, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Of course I do. It was a test.”
“If you are quite over with the childish games, then there are matters—” Lith started but Glen cut her off midsentence.
“I’ll tell you when it’s over!” He growled and had to press his jaw closed to avoid going in a furious tirade. Lith blinked slowly losing the color from her tanned cheeks, as if her confidence cracked when she sensed Glen’s anger. It was quite surprising really, seeing as Glen had never seen her rattled afore.
What happened to you?
“Who is the girl?” Glen asked, changing the subject.
“Some slave I picked up at Raoz,” Lith replied absentmindedly. “She’s totally unimportant.”
Aha. Then she’s important, else why oversell it? Hmm?
“What about the cat?” He asked to throw her off-balance.
Plus he was genuinely curious about the pet.
Lith grimaced in surprise. “The cat… what does this… Glenavon, I must talk to you about something important.”
“Hardir O’ Fardor has a mandate to restore the Empire,” Glen told her, using Anfalon’s favorite quote he never really liked.
“Of course. Shocking as it is,” Lith replied. “You were much more than what you appeared at first. I won’t challenge your rule. You earned it and your efforts to restore Wetull are clear.”
“What then? You want a liturgical position? Fikumin could use some help. I offered Whisper the same job, but she declined. She’s fully-committed in doing nothing, but for gambling and fooling about I suppose, but I can’t begrudge her that.”
“You need to deal with the Aken,” Lith said and a sober Glen nodded in understanding at first, until her words registered and he recoiled in bewilderment.
“What Aken?” He grunted not expecting the proposal.
“I fought one in Raoz,” Lith expounded and now she sounded very strained. Anxious even. “They are all over the place.”
“I killed a construct in here, about thirty meters from where you stand,” Glen retorted dismissively, afore adding. “Another in Eikenport. The first didn’t even fight back, the other was a bit nastier, but that’s just about it.”
“You killed a construct. I faced an Aken Bonemancer! On Eplas. They are here,” Lith hissed losing her cool completely and Glen stood back furrowing his brows confused.
Fiku did as well, with Marcus and ‘Nine Lives’. So what?
“I can see you’re stressed about it.”
“In a moment of weakness and grief, it caught me,” Lith snapped through her teeth.
“Grief over what?”
“Zil. Eh, I don’t want to dwell on this!”
Whoa, Lith is coming apart fast here, Glen thought curious, but remarkably the old princess managed to pull herself together and breathed out bit by bit to soothe her taut nerves.
“We had an agreement,” Lithoniela finally said tiredly. “My mother was talked into signing it. They get to stay in the Plague Isles and never venture further. They are already here and the Khan has allowed them to travel within the Khanate. This is a grave danger to all. You, Hardir O’ Fardor, the Monarch of Wetull, should enforce it. If they don’t comply, then you should make certain they are punished and rooted out.”
Glen licked his lips under the mask and glanced at Vulreon, who was busy scribbling down notes. The scribe had found a spot near the base of the large column, about four meters away. Vulreon raised his eyes and stared at the silent Monarch.
“Most of the old 1st Era library was destroyed with Elauthin. Elas might have kept some of his personal notes on Nureria. So they are probably gone as well,” the Royal Scribe replied to Glen’s silent query.
Fantastic!
Not.
“What about the new one?”
Library was his meaning.
“Gone with the rest of the palace Hardir,” Vulreon expounded. “And most of Goras.”
Ah.
“Do you know what the gist of it was?”
The agreement was his meaning.
“From memory your grace. I may not recall all details,” Vulreon said pursing his mouth. “The manuscript was about three hundred pages. Big pages,” he added looking at his normal-sized scrolls he had placed on the floor-tiles in front of him.
“Get back to yer desk,” Glen retorted gruffly. “See that ye write down what you remember.”
“The Monarch will move against the Aken?” Lith asked rigidly and Glen snapped his head towards her annoyed and not liking her demanding tone.
“The Monarch shall look into the matter and then… reach a decision,” he grunted and smacked his lips ending the meeting.
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Half-an-hour later, just after finishing his face-to-face with the alluring former slave Moira, Glen sat miffed at his personal desk inside his expansive personal quarters, fingers rapping at the table’s surface and the trio of females in his presence -the Zilan Aenymriel and Iskay with Memphes- watching him in uncomfortable silence.
He had already dispatched Folen –the Zilan had volunteered- to mend the situation with Moira, which was a fifty-fifty shot at best.
“What the fuck just happened?” Glen finally growled, greatly unsatisfied with how his day had gone, after returning triumphant from the battlefield.
“Sol’s slaves,” Iskay started and then yelped scared when Glen jumped up abruptly. The Monarch removed the helm and placed it on the table in deceptive calmness.
“Continue,” he urged the redhead in a reasonable manner that terrified her and robbed the pale Iskay of her voice.
“She’s not interested,” Aenymriel offered indifferently. “Former slaves are apprehensive to move into a new relationship with an authoritative figure of great power, for fear they would slip again into a life of servitude,” the latter she had said eyeing the two shell-shocked human females.
“I don’t believe you,” Glen said evenly. “There is something else afoot here.”
“Feet, legs… she has the whole package,” Aenymriel teased and Glen ogled his eyes at the Zilan warningly. “Although there is something else there… I’m not sure.”
“Um,” Glen agreed shaking his head. “Memphes? Gives us yer input girl, did you swallow yer tongue?”
“Great Monarch, the girl is insolent and a liar,” Memphes blurted out and dived for the floor in a dramatic genuflection that brought a chuckle out of Aenymriel that immediately stepped forward to place her heel on Memphes neck. What the…? Glen thought in shock. For a tensed moment the Zilan kept her foot there, as if considering pressing down even more and breaking the slave’s neck, but eventually she retreated to her previous spot and crossed both arms before her chest.
“I need to rest,” Glen said after the awkward moment was over and Iskay went to help Memphes to her shaking legs. “Everyone get your arses out of me room,” the Monarch added harshly, remembering to temper it a little at the end. “If you be so kind.”
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The Monarch pondered on Nym’s words sitting in thoughtful solitude for a while, until he heard the adjoining door that led to Inis-Mir’s bedchamber cracking open. The princess’ quarters were located between the King’s and the Queen’s. Some light poured in from the ajar door but no one entered. Glen watched the semi-dark spot for any movement, but heard only a faint tip-tap followed by the sound of a small stool pushed on the marble-tiles.
Glen found the stool under a wall-adjoining table, two meters east of the door and then something sparkled at the furniture’s furthest edge. The golden hue lost some of its strength, Glen narrowed his eyes and then two small gold horns, over a pair of gold-rimmed small eyes replaced it, as the tiny wyvern peeked over the edge of table. It had used the stool to stand on.
Clever bugger.
“What are you doing?” Glen queried hoarsely and Qodras recoiled with a sharp hiss, turned into a shriek of panic. Something rolled on the stool’s surface under the table, scratching at the wood’s polished surface and then a thud was heard.
Qodras let out a pained whimper.
Idiot.
“Daddy, is Qodras here?” Inis-Mir asked from the door, clad in her short red chiton. The princess had a matching pair of reddish, made out of fox’s hide slippers on.
“Aye. But he might be unconscious, give it a minute,” Glen teased her, afore sobering up. “Why are you awake? It is late.”
“No it’s not,” Inis-Mir said and walked to where the small wyvern was last seen, stooped and picked Qodras up. Holding the golden wyvern, the young princess approached her father next.
“It is if I say so,” Glen reminded her, helping the girl climb his knee.
Inis twisted around to give him a kiss, then she added stubbornly. “No it isn’t.”
This could go on forever, a grinning Glen thought, while Qodras scratched at his chestplate with his tiny claws as he’d managed to climb on his daughter’s right shoulder. Inis retrieved the flaying baby wyvern and then pushed her small back against Glen’s chest.
“You seem more troubled now,” the princess said without looking at him.
“Just tired. I guess also thinking on stuff,” Glen murmured resting his forehead on Inis’ luscious red locks that reached well-bellow her shoulders. If she failed to brush, or braid them –the elaborate styles she used, some of her late mother’s, but also a mixture of Cofol and Zilan hairdos- the princess’ thick mane behaved just like her father’s, but the curls were now hanging loose, thoroughly brushed before bedtime and without any beads weaved in them.
“How did it go with the bad princess?”
Eh.
“Better than I thought it would,” Glen replied. “But it got derailed at the end. I’m fine.”
“Something else is bothering you?”
“Stop it.” Glen warned, but then added. “I might have lost the opportunity to make a friend of sorts.”
“What need have we of more friends of any sort?” Inis-Mir asked and Qodras burped as she was rubbing his gold-scales covered belly with her fingers.
Not that kind of friend.
“I meant a lady friend,” Glen replied. “And we do. Anyways, something Aenymriel said rings true.”
“Hmm. She’s a weird one. What did she say?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Glen said and kissed the back of her head. “It is time for bed princess.”
“I want to know,” Inis-Mir insisted and turned to look at her father with pleading eyes.
Glen pursed his mouth initially, but then his face relaxed. “Got too-used in bossing people around. Thought all Cofols girls are the same, but they aren’t,” he finally said teasingly waggling his eyebrows. “And I don’t really need intimidation. No woman or girl can resist my legendary charm.”
“They can!” Inis-Mir chuckled. “And you’re not intimidating. You’re funny daddy!”
“That’s what makes me so dangerous little one,” Glen warned her with a wide grin. “I can charm the slippers out of yer feet with minimum effort.”
“No! Why didn’t you then? It was the poorly-dressed girl yes?” Inis-Mir asked giggling and Qodras joined letting out sharp shrieks and snorts, whilst desperately trying to free himself from her grip.
“Hey, not all people can afford new clothes and it was much too late to switch tactics.”
“Maybe your charms just aren’t strong enough? You could use a potion, spike her drink,” Inis-Mir suggested all-serious.
“That’s disturbing to hear from you,” Glen warned and pinched her cute nose as a warning. “I’ll have you know your father’s mighty charm worked famously on yer mother.”
“Bravery did,” Inis-Mir argued with a pout. “Being too-handsome a scoundrel to resist did, mother had told me many times. And also that tenacious unwillingness to take no for an answer in order to get his. You’ve lost that vitality father. Would the old you have given up? Where is that young man?”
A moved Glen stood back surprised Sen-Iv had talked to her about these matters while Inis was so young and their daughter still remembered every detail years after. “It can’t work now. The Monarch can’t lose face on these matters. It’s over and I’ll just move on.”
Inis-Mir stared in his face for a long moment and then turned around to climb down from his knees. Qodras squeaked comically, almost managing a near-escape, but the young princess’ grip tightened smothering him on her chest until the wyvern gave up with a pissed oomph.
Glen watched the small figure walk slowly towards the open door leading to her room, a forlorn expression slowly forming on his face, until the princess paused and turned to give him a familiar stare with a different pair of eyes. Equally precious.
“Did you have that stupid mask Zaos made on?” Inis-Mir asked calmly and Glen caught out of the corner of his left eye the metal mask’s frozen expression slowly morphing into an annoyed scowl.
“Yeah, it helps make newcomers nervous,” Glen rustled and then cleared his throat.
“That too, sure.” Inis agreed sagaciously.
Ah.
Well then…
Father and daughter stared at each other in meaningful silence, until the little wyvern that wanted to be part of the moment tried to wink at Glen and failed spectacularly. So Qodras let out a small angry snarl instead and croaked in a doom-soaked fake voice.
“But also… so much more…” dragging each syllable to create the desirable effect.
Glen grimaced and pushed with both arms to rise from the armchair. “I’ll need a new outfit to pull this off,” he murmured and Inis-Mir’s nicely-shaped red eyebrow shot up tauntingly.
Why, you little shrewd devil. Look at ye planning way-ahead like yer old man, the smirking Glen thought proudly, although truth be told, his own plans never ventured that far into the future.
“Red dye?” Inis-Mir probed hopefully beaming from ear to ear.
Glen puffed his cheeks out and then sighed shaking his head right and left. Then he replied much as he had earlier.
“No.”
----------------------------------------
Hours later, when Folen appeared on the ascending to Morn Taras’ plateau road -well-lit up with ten kilometers of torchlight posts, Glen was waiting for the Master of Silence outside the gates and violently tackled him afore he could enter inside for ‘a emergency strategy session’.
Tackled, because it was more of an ambush, as the Monarch had slipped out of Morn Taras and was in an adventurous mood. Violently, because the half-asleep on the saddle Folen resisted initially ‘spooked by the lateness of the evening’ and Glen had to shove the yelping for the guards Zilan officer off of the saddle to calm him down.