FLYNN CLAYMORE

Startled silent as all the rest crowded in the large room of the Great Hall, noble and lowborns alike, Flynn watched with shocked eyes as Zephyr slapped Lady Audrey’s goblet from her hand, sending it to the floor with an echoing clatter as the wine that made its contents spilled all over her velvet garment, dyeing its grey with a stream of red that flowed a small brook from her breasts to her belly. No one in the hall knew what had brought the king to such a moment, and he was as dumbfounded as they all were, but an idea made its way into his head as he looked closely upon the high table. He had not noticed her before, he had not been paying attention, but as soon as he saw her now his chest seized for a moment as he wondered what she was doing there.

What was she planning? Had she later met with Zephyr? What had she done? What had she told Zephyr? And why had she not come to let him know of anything? The questions never ceased coming, but the answers did not come with them. She was clearly doing something foolhardy of her own accord, something he had no knowledge about, and he hated such. He hated being left in the dark, not knowing what he should know, the same way it had been on the night his mother died. They had left that from him all his life, something so important, something so… Flynn tsked angrily. He hated it.

He heard Zephyr speak, “A taster for the wine first, if you will.” A taster? Flynn wondered. Did she poison the wine? Surely she could not have been that stupid, right? She could not have poisoned the wine, not here? Melisandre could not give up everything she had worked for with this act, surely not. This had to be a jape, a nasty one at that. Flynn tightened his hand on his goblet. He was uneasy, but somehow he was still at ease all the same. If Melisandre had truly poisoned the wine, he feared for what her stupidness might cost them both now that it had gone to be noticed, but despite that, he felt a gladness linger deep down for what was happening. If she had truly poisoned the wine, he could not bear to watch Zephyr die… not again. He could not relive that struggle.

“Your Grace,” Flynn whirled about on his bench to behold the lady of Mistridge, Gyda Redwyne, up on her feets to the east of the hall with a call to the king. “Pardon my impudence, but surely the wine could not have any faults. I oversaw the brewing myself and I never let its cask out of my sight during the travel. It was brought as a gift to you, there’s no way I could let it be of meagre quality, or even worse, poisoned, if that is what you think.” Her tender voice was an attestation to her age and her way of speech confirmation that she truly had the mind of such age. Beneath a bodice of bright wine colour was the young lady of Redwyne who stood no older than one-and-six, and she believed that her overseeing of the wine’s brewing and its transportation meant it could have never been poisoned. Flynn marvelled at that. Maybe she was too young to lead a house after all, but a choice had not been given to the dead lord of Redwyne.

During his training to become the king’s royal advisor, the grand savant had drilled him with everything history had of the twenty-one houses of the realm, his own house: the house of Claymore included. To advise the king he had to know more of the realm than the king himself, and that he had grown to live up to. Safe for the men sprawling out from Ravenswatch and his father, the lord of Claymore, no one had more knowledge than he, or so he hoped to be true.

The House of Redwyne was no exception. Lord Jon Redwyne had fathered only a twin of daughters before his beloved had given way to death, and when he was about to meet with her beneath the wings of the ravens years after she had gone first, he had had to choose an heir between his daughters no older than ten then. Lady Gyda, the first of the twin who had taken her mother’s name, was the one that had emerged victorious over her twin sister Lady Lyda, her expertise at such a young age in the workings of wine, the turning point, but alas even after all the years passed, might be she was still too young to lead a house if she thought her wine could not be poisoned. Might her sister be any different? Flynn had a slight wonder, but Lady Lyda was not here to prove if his thoughts would bear fruits of truth.

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“I do not fault your methods of brewing nor transporting,” Zephyr began to tell Lady Gyda Redwyne as the door of the Great Hall pulled open and a taster waddled within, “but I’ll have it tasted nonetheless. You may sit.”

Flynn watched the taster take his steps up onto the platform and before the high table, the silence of the hall permeating the air into a thick murk, and it made him as anxious as any other person seated in the Great Hall. The lanky man spoke no word as he drank from the cup Melisandre had poured him, and he said no word after as well. He cleared his throat then swallowed deeply as if the wine was stuck in his gullet and he was trying to push it further down. His act plunged every person in the Great Hall into a feeling of disquiet, but it died down just as quickly when he finally spoke a word. “Fine wine, Sire,” the man said, his voice so deep that Flynn imagined it reached the depths of the hall. He felt the murky air befriending each person in the hall relieved, but he knew there would be no one with a greater relief than the lady Gyda, unless Melisandre had gone up before the king with nothing of evil intentions.

But Zephyr was not satisfied. “Have from the food brought as well.” The king pointed down at the carts of food pushed into the hall. There was a lot. Boiled pork belly, goat meat stew, fried partridges, honeyed cakes, sandalwood jellies and fritters. The man could never eat from all, he was a taster not a glutton. “Have a few, as many as you can manage. I do not mean for you to eat from all,” Zephyr told the food taster.

The man bowed then came away from the high table to take a taste from each of the dishes that had been rolled in. He took from the pork belly and chewed, nothing happened. He moved to the sandalwood jellies and fritters and took them into his mouth as well, it left him with no oddness than he had come into the Great Hall with. The next was the goat meat stew, but even it was the same as the rest. His steps began to slug along as he walked to the next cart, the one with the fried partridges, and even it gave no odd feelings to him after he took it into his mouth’s embrace. The only odd feelings he had now were the ones of his stomach’s fill. He could take no more. “Fine foods, Sire,” the man spoke to the king on the high table. Nothing was happening and he could eat no more.

“Leave,” Zephyr waved the man off. The taster bowed and went on his way. “Pardon,” the king said to the audience in the Great Hall, “I must have lost it out of weariness. You may feast.” As the clamour resumed in the hall with his declaration, the high lords and ladies murmured perturbedly as a result of Zephyr’s quirky act, leaving the toast of the queen wholly forgotten to the hilt as the serving maids began to roll the food carts once more and filled each table with what they had brought, the honeyed cakes and the goat meat stew going up to the high table.

Flynn espied Melisandre fill the rest of the cups before hastening out of the hall. He was of mind to go after her, but he made a chance to see Zephyr whisper something to his mother and then to the lady of Flamesworth before he rose to his feet and left through the back door of the hall, Ser Aaron Westerling taking to follow him. Flynn made a choice then. He took to his feet as well and hurried after the king, his wine left untouched and Melisandre left unfollowed. He would see to her later, Flynn told himself.

Zephyr was halfway through the veranda of the concourse when Flynn caught up. “My king,” he called, and the Kingsknight birled around to grace him with a bow. Zephyr turned to him as well. “You left the feast.”

“That I did,” Zephyr said with a soft smile.

“Why, if I may ask?” Flynn questioned. Serving maids passed them by in short intervals, none without greetings.

Zephyr tutted faintly. “I need to rest?” He shrugged. “I think I need to. The tourney stressed me out more than you could imagine. Ah, you were there as well, it must have done the same to you.” The king chuckled.

Flynn had a face plain with thoroughness. “The wine—”

“Go back in,” Zephyr placed his hand on Flynn’s shoulder as he cut him from speaking, “my mother will give the word of Dante and Lady Valora’s betrothal on my behalf to the court. You should be there as I will not be.” He gestured with his head and patted Flynn across the arm. “Let’s go,” Zephyr told Ser Aaron after he turned away from Flynn, and they both continued to make their way towards the king’s quarters.

Flynn stood unmoving, watching the king trudge away from him with thoughts unresolved.