ZEPHYR RAVENSWOOD

“What?” Zephyr uttered with a quick turn of silver eyes to his side, putting a pause to his read of the book he had received from the grand savant, Aelred, the last he had blown in on him unannounced at the library.

The day was meant to be one of the free ones he had been blessed with in this realm as the king, and what better way to make fill of it in a world that was without any sort of modern entertainment than reading. His bathe, his meal, and he found himself back at his bedchamber, seated before his table and staring down at the leather-tome’s cover whose title was embossed in a cascading blood-like red, written as: “A Tale Of Red Steels.”

The hearth beside him burnt with fire, charring the little wooden logs gradually to provide heat, as it filled his room with the warmth of the golden yellow the sky seemed to lack on account of the shyness of the sun, which was hidden somewhere no eyes could find it. He had requested the fire as soon as he woke, shivering to the call of cold when ‘morn came, the foggy sky whispering to all who might gaze upon it that winter was near. He saw it and he had acknowledged it.

He had had his servants heat up his bathing water after that, and his body was now enclosed from the paltry cold in a coat of bright white ermine fur speckled with black, while the silver buckle of the large belt of brown fastened about his waist, was a soaring raven, and his hands, covered in knuckle-length gloves that exposed the raven-rings on his fingers, kept his palms hidden in white from the cold.

Further into the present, even though the chill still lingered a bit, the foggy grey sky of earlier had given way to the light blue that was now overhead. “The savant was found dead on the floor of his bedchamber, my king, naked from bath by one of his careservants.” Flynn stood resplendent in a black coat of sorts, padded at the shoulders and fastened to his right side by leather buckles. It was an outfit smeared with a colour that differed greatly from the red he always wore, but it made the auburn of his hair ever more dazzling and beautiful, it was as though he mourned the death of the savant with all the alluring grace he could summon of himself.

Zephyr had no knowledge of this savant, he had never seen him, or maybe he had and did not pay attention, he had seen a lot of people in his short time in this world, not all remained on his mind, as a matter of fact, only a select few remained in truth. But if Flynn was here telling him about this savant, then maybe he was of some sort of importance, and it would be the right call to sound a bit as caring as he could. “Cause of death?” He asked, returning his eyes to the page of the book he was currently on, which was the first page. His reading had not gone two lines in when his advisor had come bearing the ill news, which was no doubt ill to all but him.

“None that I came with.” Flynn shook his head. “The grand savant is with the body at the moment, maybe he would have picked something up.”

Zephyr’s brows narrowed at the recollection of the grand savant’s fragileness. “Should the grand savant be putting himself through such stress. I recall he was growing weaker with the days, is it not?”

“That bears the truth, my king, but the one who would have taken his place is the one that has died. A new savant would have to be summoned from Ravenswatch, and would have to go through the grand savant’s teachings of the royal household.” Flynn was adept with his knowledge, and it baffled Zephyr how someone could know so much and have an answer to most of the questions he asked. Was it his position as the royal advisor or was it the man?

“How do you know so much?” Zephyr let his thoughts spill out unwittingly with a sigh, as he left his watch of the book and began to toy with the ring of gold on his middle-finger.

Flynn smiled with a sharp exhale. “I was taught all that I know by the grand savant, my king. Have you forgotten of the lessons I took?”

Shit… Zephyr’s eyes twitched, his fiddles of the ring on his hand reciprocating the twitch with a stop. “It was a backhanded compliment.” He forced a smile.

“A backhanded…? What’s that?” The auburn-haired man was lost. The word seemed to be alien to him, and he was no doubt right. Zephyr’s modern tongue had managed to slip out there once again, and he took notice with a twitch of his other eye.

“I meant I was being sarcastic, my dear friend, in a good way. Now let us go meet with the grand savant and see if he has gotten something of this cause of death. Shall we?” He gestured, and Flynn answered with a bow before turning to pace towards the door. Zephyr stood then after taking a gulp of the warm almond milk from the small cup before him, in hopes to calm the little trembles of his heart that had arisen from his slight slip up.

He had grown accustomed to the former Zephyr’s habits with the milk; he took it every morning now, and it no doubt did the job of relaxing his nerves like it did for the former. It was far better than the dairy milk he took when he was still Jon; this worked better, by a long mile.

When he came out through the door of his bedchamber, gold and silver tamed his eyes with a bow. “Your Grace,” Ser Aaron greeted. “Where to?” His head tampered by jet black returned from its lowered bow, unshielded by his missing greathelm.

Zephyr turned to Flynn. “Where to?” He cocked his brows.

“The cold room,” Flynn called it. And with Zephyr’s nod to his Kingsknight, they went. Through the hallway of the king’s quarters, they made their way out into the open space of the holdfast’s small yard, then further through its gate where two black cloaks stood guard, and out into the great yard. The small yard had been silent, with only a trickle of serving maids going about their work duty, the great yard was a different cause; it was a storm of maids, guards, and a lot of noise. Clangs of armours and swords, clacks of wooden swords for those that wished to train with little casualties, neighs of horses that erupted from the stables so far away to the west of the castle, and the bark of dogs. All seemed to seize when the king came forth though, it was words of greetings and bows that came now as he, Flynn and his Kingsknight turned left from the holdfast, straying further away from it towards the direction of the library which he had once visited.

The Kingsknight led the way, and before Zephyr knew it, he was past the corner that led to the library and standing before a dwarf house of unmortared stone and timber roof.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“This is it, my king,” Flynn announced as Zephyr watched it thoroughly, noticing the small gaps between the piled up stones used to make the house. There were no windows as well that he saw. The design technicality reminded him of the morgues from his previous life, and from the name “cold room” that it was called in this world—or that Flynn had called it—he had no doubt that the interior would be as cold as well.

“I shall wait out, Your Grace,” Ser Aaron made mention to Zephyr, gripping the hilt of his scabbarded sword as he did.

“That you do,” Zephyr agreed. “Show me the way.” And Flynn did. The door was unmanned before Ser Aaron arrived with the king, and through it they went in.

Zephyr had never entered a morgue in his past, even though his scorched body would no doubt be in one currently, but the cold that spammed his body as soon as he stepped into this cold room, made him happy he never made it into one while he still breathed the modern air. He was happy another, for the ermine fur he wore, he might have frozen in his step if not for it. Maybe it was the winter that was near, or maybe he just had little resistance for cold, seeing as Flynn wandered into the same room wearing clothes of less thickness than his with nothing as much as a grimace of shiver storming his face. Thick Skinned… Zephyr named him then while rubbing his arms together, as he took a quick glance at the little flicker of lamplight on a lesser table at the edge of the room.

The grand savant was more impressive, his fleshless body should have been shattered by now, it was nothing short of shocking to Zephyr how he managed to stand in the cold of this room and concentrate on the body laid on the table before him. Thick boned, he would call this one. Thick boned grand savant.

“Oh my, Your Grace,” the old man came to notice them at the sound of the door’s shut. “What brings you here? And our lord of claymore as well?” He added with a bow.

“The same as what has kept you here,” Zephyr answered in between little shivering gnashes of his teeth. “What is this cold,” he wanted to shout but it would not come that way, it came softly instead.

The old man answered, “Winter is close, Your Grace. The cold is doubled.”

“And how come you stand without shivers?”

“Why, my robe is thick, and I have little flesh to feel the cold.” The old man chuckled, and Zephyr took that question to Flynn instead; he wanted someone to join him in feeling the cold he felt.

“And you, Flynn? How come you stand without shivers?”

“I shiver.” Flynn showed his hands to Zephyr, and he saw it shivering no doubt, shivering as though it was a frightened prey cornered by its predator ready to feast. The cold was already feasting though, on their bodies.

Zephyr tsked and took slow steps closer to the table, all the while rubbing his hands with prudent strides. “Cause of… death?” He asked as soon as he got to the table, the stench of the dead body temporarily seizing his air.

The grand savant grimaced while rubbing his palms gloved in tanned leather hides together before he pinched the dead man’s hands and feets, showing the king things he would not have noticed. Flynn was close too, listening as well. “Look closely, Your Grace, you’ll see that his hands and feets are a lot paler than the rest of his body.” Zephyr strained his eyes while moving his head closer bit by bit. “They had already grown pale a short while before his death.”

“What does that mean?” Zephyr finally let his questions free, he could not see the difference still, but he kept that to himself.

“He was poisoned, Your Grace, by an oleander if I suspect.” Grand Savant Aelred let free his hands from the dead savant’s own.

Another murder…? Is this somehow linked to me…? Zephyr wallowed shortly in thoughts before asking. “How? Through his drink?” That was his speculation; after all, poisoning were mostly done such way.

“Through his bath,” Flynn answered while staring at the body, and the old man nodded.

“Through his bath?” Zephyr was aghast, his rubbing intensifying significantly.

“It is as he said, Your Grace. He was poisoned through his bath.” The old man paced to the head of the body.

“How?” Zephyr kept up his arm rubbing.

“Oleander is a flower that is toxic to touch or inhalation, only one is enough to take down a full grown mount. I believe it was crushed and mixed into his bathing water, hot water I would say the savant had used, and it would have made his death ever more quicker as he both touched and inhaled the poison.” The grand savant shook his head in misery. “Poor Arryn, and he was promising. Always valued his honour, this one. Would have served the throne well.” He pinched down between the dead body’s nose.

Is there some connection here…? Zephyr wondered, but his thinking was only for naught without any clue. “Clue to his death of any sort?” Zephyr asked the grand savant.

“His careservants maybe, one of them warmed his bath, that one might do good to be questioned. Besides that, I know of nothing else, unless I awake to be blessed with the eyes of a seer on the ‘morrow.” The old man chuckled as he peeled off his leather gloves. He was done touching the dead body. “That would be good,” he laughed while dropping the gloves into his small bag which lay beside the lamplight on the lesser table at the edge of the room.

“Seers are real?” Zephyr sounded like a little baby happy to hear of the stories old people told.

“Only as real as tales allow, Your Grace.” The old man spoilt Zephyr’s fun.

A thought suddenly sauntered into Zephyr’s mind, and he had little restraint before he let it come forth as a question. “What about the witches? Are they real?”

Flynn glanced at Zephyr from the side of his eye. No one noticed, maybe.

“They are as real as tales allow as well, Your Grace. Long gone those ones are,” Grand Savant Aelred answered with the shake of his head.

“So they existed?” Zephyr asked again, unrelenting.

“Once they did, now they don’t. All disappeared during your grandfather, King Aeron the second’s rule. They had been banished to the Garden of Crows and were never to be heard of again.” The grand savant finished packing and picked up his bag.

“Why were they banished?” Zephyr asked further, curiously enhanced.

“As to that tale, I would rather not say in this cold, and besides I have the death report to write, so If you’ll pardon me, Your Grace.” The man was walking towards them snailishly like he always did most of the time.

And with that Zephyr stopped his questions, allowing the three of them to abandon the savant in the cold of the room. Once a man of white, now taken by the black wings of the raven.