Sitting at the high table, surrounded by a sea of nobility and a host of servants, Myrl shielded himself, as he often did in public view, with a pleasant smile.

Nothing garrulous, nor he hoped too much like a pained grimace that he saw on the faces of many people who wanted to hide their feelings by looking “happy.” Most people he had seen trying to fake “happy” tended to look either frightened, or as though they were suffering from intestinal pains.

He had spent hours with a mirror while reading or otherwise studying with a mild smile plastered on his face until he could take in any kind of information, no matter how horrible or even silly, without his smile ever breaking or slipping.

He had even trained with Lord Ashe at meals, practicing his slight, innocuous smile as the man tried every conversational gambit to break his face free from its pleasant facade. At least once a week once he had turned 15, he and Ashe had taken to eating a meal with the men of the garrison at Jibiril’s Keep. The bawdy conversation, random boasting, frequent use of coarse language, and occasional guardsman laughing food out of their mouth …or several times from their noses… he thought. This thought, oddly, helped him maintain his current smile.

But tonight, as a young man in palace livery set a wonderfully cooked pair of vegetable filled pastries before the young king, this crowd was trying his patience like no other test he had ever been given.

News of the failed attempt upon his life had been severely restricted. And so, as such things go, every person within at least a day's ride of the city of Ghlow knew at least some version of the story. Now the feast, which had been intended as a diplomatic dinner to celebrate the opening of negotiations with the Country of Parthique.

Many high ranking nobles and various kingdom officials, to say nothing of visiting foreign dignitaries, all had come to the palace for this dinner. Some came to make political or social connections. Some came for the chance to meet nobles of the Partiqueen royal line, who had never been to Rhiada before. A few, a very few, had come to show open support for Myrl in his first open trade treaty with a foreign nation.

There had been two other trade deals struck by Myrl since his coronation, but most of the kingdom’s nobility didn’t know about those deals yet. With the help of Duchess Yggrel, Myrl had been on an informal hunt for his late uncle’s keenest supporters, and these first two trade deals he had made out of the public view had been done to help achieve just that. THese deals would cut into their personal trade deals, undercut the market place security of several barons who had all fawned and toadied for his uncle’s favor.

Once these deals squeezed their personal purses, they would scream. And how and what they screamed would tell Myrl what and where he needed to cut to rid the kingdom of cancerous illness amongst the royal houses.

Several times this evening, he had been approached by courtiers asking for his time. They then either tried to weedled from him the details of what had happened during the arrival of the Parthiqueen party, or they tried to TELL him what had happened during the arrival of the diplomats.

The Baron and Baroness of Kairna, Jocel and Viana, had been especially trying. Neither had anything to actually say to the king, and didn'yt want to ask anything OF the king, either. They just wanted to be seen talking WITH the king.

At one point the Baroness had even bade her king "Step over here, Sire, I have to impart something of the most DIRE of natures." Once the two had stepped away from the general mill of the crowd, she had then talked to Myrl abouthow pleasant their carriage ride from their Villa in the farthest northern part of the city had been.

Myrl had waited patiently for the "DIRE" part of her message to him for at least ten minutes, before he came out and just asked her what the dire portion of this message might be. Her husband, the Baron, stood guard near them, to keep any idle wandering snoopers at bay. When she looked confused at his question, he sighed, and rolled his eyes, quoting the opening lines of a famous poem one of his distant ancestors had written.

"When we walk along in a self centered way,

It is only in circles we gang."

The baroness laughed at this, “Oh, your Majesty, don’t be such a goose! I can’t be self centered. I think about myself all the time,” she said without an ounce of irony or an iota of self awareness. “And if i were to start becoming self centered, I would notice, I assure you!” And then she laughed. Myrl knew his gaze was becoming fixed and glazed, but he couldn’t stop himself. And on and on she twittered. She even snorted at one point.

He had moved on from that pair to another, and then another, trying to circle the great hall. It was his plan to personally meet as many members of his extended Court as possible this night. And after an hour of denying many very silly and improbable rumors, he thought he may have achieved his goals.

But for now… Myrl sat at a banquet, smiling as Lady Agraidh paraded several of her daughters before him in the clumsiest and most unsubtle of ways. The woman had buried her most recent husband less than three years ago, and wanted to land a favorable match for each of her six daughters. Her only son, her eldest child from her first marriage, had himself married well, and was now a Count in the Duchy of Fastel.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Oh, Your Majesty, and finally, please let me now introduce you to my oldest daughter, Firalia!” The older woman announced in her distinct Cophred accent. While she now lived in the capital city of Ghlow almost year round, she had never apparently shed her Western Mountain Ranges dialect, and pronounced every word with a softly spoken purring burr.

Myrl had to admit to being at least slightly fascinated by Lady Agraidh. He knew she was in her fifties, though she looked in her early forties at most. He also knew she was of Ghorma descent, her own mother had been of those blue and green skinned northern peoples from the Avathon continent, though she had skin as pale as his own, and hair as light bloat a color as that of Duchess Yggrel’s.

Each of the six daughters he had just been introduced to had been an eerily perfect copy of their mother, Lady Agraidh, at different ages. All had been dressed, by their mother at a guess, in the patriotic mix of colors of the National Heraldry, and that of his family.

This woman isn’t subtle in the slightest… It’s nice… I think… to not have to guess at her motives… She wants a Queen for a daughter… any daughter… Most other matrons I have met tonight have spent ages getting around to coyly mentioning that “Oh! And your Majesty, did you know I had reproduced some years back! You may want to meet my progeny! They’re ever so descended from ME!...

He let his mind roam free for a moment too long, because Lady Agraidh began to fidget in the long pause.

“Lady Agraidh, thank you for introducing me to such fine young women and girls. You have so much to be proud of in them.” He allowed his smile to broaden. The young lady Firalia began to blush heavily at his words, and brought her hands up to her waist, adjusting her wide, embossed, leather belt. It was expertly made, and edged in gold, with accents also of gold in the form of small, spiral covered horses. He noticed then there were a trio of well worn, though well made, buckles on the belt, they ran each a hand’s width apart on the bottom of the left side of the belt settled upon the upper edge of the swell of the young woman’s left hip.

…she usually wears a sword… he thought.

Myrl’s eyes took in the hardened calluses on the young woman's hands as they nervously fluttered and fussed. He then cataloged how she stood, the width of her shoulders, and the way her muscles stood out beneath the shoulders of her dress.

“Lady Firalia, you look like you would be the type of woman to enjoy a day of riding and archery, if I don’t miss my guess. Say no if I’m wrong. But, my Master of the Horse, Elbana, is planning to implement a day of rider training for the local nobility who wish to see what life in the Crown Service is like…” He could have stopped at the mention of Elbana. His ring told him lady Firalia’s excitement burst from her chest in a torrent, though she remained poised and composed outwardly.

Lady Agraidh was at first excited at Myrl’s interest in her daughter, but then it quickly faded as he talked about the idea of Firalia spending a day in the outdoors with his Master of Horse.

Before she could say anything, Firalia giddily spoke up at the prospect, as she attempted to curtsey at the same time.. “Oh, Your Majesty! I would love to meet Master Elbana! She is my idol!” The young woman was brimming with hope and joy at the prospect of meeting the ACTUAL Master Elbana, which made Myrl’s smile turn quite genuine.

“She IS quite impressive.” He then leaned forward as if to impart a great secret, “She wasn’t my first equestrian tutor, but she was who taught me to ride like a soldier, rather than like a …” here Myrl paused for effect, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well...Like a nobleman.” He drew out the word “nobleman” to show his disdain for what he had once heard several soldiers term “prancing parade ground dandies.”

“I’ll just assume you’re saying yes to this, and will be sure to tell Master Elbana that you will be joining her on the first day. Which I believe is in three days. It should be an amazing day.”

The young woman then made an only slightly discrete, high pitched whine of excitement. Lady Agraidh rolled her eyes at her eldest daughter.

“Is Master Elbana in attendance tonight, Sire?” With that question, Lady Agraidh had silenced Firalia, and the young woman’s attention focused in like that of a well disciplined hunting hound pointing out prey, her light green eyes now wide with intent.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but she is busy dealing with several security concerns tonight. With so many important people,” and here he gestured not only to the feasting multitudes about them, but made a point of gesturing at the six young women and girls Lady Agraidh had with her. Agraidh now blushed along with her older daughters.

The two youngest daughters, Morag and Arella, had not been paying attention to the conversation the “old people” were having. They had been messily eating sweet lemon buns, but now looked over Myrl, staring with eyes wide.

Myrl’s ring told him that a knot of very focused concern and rage was moving through the crowd of servants who bustled about behind the high table. He knew that mix of emotions and focus. He was learning to recognise people from their common emotional states.

His smile became natural then and filled with chagrin. “And here she is now to make me a liar.” Myrl stood, and sketched a graceful bow as he stood from his chair, and gracefully turned toward his Master of Sword and Horse, the edges of his mantle of green flaring as the king took a dancer like step away from the table to greet Elbana away from the closest guests at his table.

The ring may tell him her moods, but her stone still face told him how serious she was at the moment.

She bowed, formally. “My King.”

“Master Elbana.” He acknowledged. “You seem concerned. Is it about our Special Guests?”

She took a moment to order her thoughts. “No. Not them, Sire. There has been an attack.”

He raised an eyebrow. “An attack? But not related to our Parthiqueen visitors?”

“I have just been informed that there has been some kind of… attack… at the west end of the trade district docks.” Her voice was calm, and her words very precise. “Some kind of gathering was happening in one of the warehouses. And from what I have been told, there was an animal attack.”

‘An animal.” He said this slowly, so as to chew over what nuances she might have been using that he was missing.

She nodded to him, slowly, her expression never wavering. “Some kind of large animal attacked this gathering, Sire. And there are many dead. At least twenty is what I have been told. There are several people missing, as well.”