Chapter Fifteen - Stories

(Part IV)

The silence of the high table thinned into a nervous smattering of laughter at Sara’s back, and her cheeks tingled with heat as she fled quickly into the swelling noise of the crowd. Away from the high table and the Night Throne, bound for the far end of the hall. Ducking through the ambulatory wordsmiths of the King’s court, making curt apologies to several bolder courtiers who sought to entice her into conversation. The vast arching ceiling of the hall glimmered and writhed overhead, and the candles watched her like ten thousand dancing eyes. Her cheeks were hot, and the Queen’s words echoed in her ears. But she bit her lip, putting it from her mind, and rose lightly up the stairs towards the doorway, stepping through the gleaming crack in the façade. Straight into the throng of servants that stood waiting in the room beyond.

‘M’lady?’ a particularly flustered Keeper said, a damp gleam of sweat on his bald head, dark robes creased. ‘Is there something you need?’

Sara took a breath, arranging a ladylike smile on her lips, and met his eye.

‘The Queen is short on wine. Bring five more jugs to the royal table.’ As the man began to turn away, she put up a hand to halt him. ‘Her Majesty is particularly fond of Riftland Vintages, from before the Rebellion.’

‘Of course, M’lady.’ The Keeper nodded seriously, wiping his forehead with one crumpled sleeve. ‘A moment.’

He turned and vanished off into the crowd of servers, wine-bearers, dessert-shapers, and clearers of all varieties, leaving her alone. Sara stood for a moment, buoyed by the authority of her presence on the assembled Keepers. Her blood had fallen, and her cheeks had cooled. She took another breath, turning back to the hall. They could carry the wine to the Queen without her help. Let her spite lash them instead.

Back inside the hall, the feasters twisted and turned through the confining lines of the tables, scheming beneath a sky of moving glass. There were fewer of them now, though not by much, thinned by the drink and the food. She drifted quietly down the steps towards the remains of the feast. There was no hurry. She need only arrive back as the wine did, and a vintage that rare, not to mention specific, would need to be fetched up from the cellars. In the meantime, she would be free to roam the crowds. After the ignominy of the Queen’s orders, she felt a sudden need for the flattering curiosity of the noblefolk. Perhaps she could seek out Glada and her cousin, and the little circle of young lordlings that followed them. What was it her father would say? A good husband?

She stopped in her tracks as an enormous shadow loomed over her, shutting out the light of the candles. A pare of bulbous black eyes stared back at her, and she froze, blood going cold. The Bloodless, bald head jutting out of her boiled leather armour like a swollen pustule. This close, she could see the narrow blue veins pressed against the paper thin paleness of her skin, the grotesque notch in her skull gleamed like wax. The merriment around them continued, unperturbed and bubbling, but beside them, nothing stirred. The giant’s eyes bored into hers like granite spires, heavy with something dark and angry that she couldn’t quite see. Not fully, even if she had wanted to. She took a breath, regaining some of her composure.

‘Excuse me.’ she said politely, but the Bloodless did not move, towering over her forehead like a bowing pine. Her heart thumped in her chest.

‘Scaring the Queen’s handmaidens, now, Trela?’

A new shadow appeared beside the giant, and this time, the crowd around did take notice, stepping back in surprise, suddenly quiet, as the King strode into their midst. He paid them no heed, blonde and silver hair gleaming, at once stern and calm as he faced the giant in her boiled leather. The Bloodless turned her swollen head, looking down at the King from her ruined face. He was a full foot smaller, but Dekar did not flinch. The giant stared back at him for a moment longer, then turned and loomed silently away into the crowd. The feastgoers recoiled, clearing a path, and the giant warrior soon dissolved from sight.

‘My apologies, Lady Sara.’

Sara looked back to find the King watching her, that same expressionless calm on his face. Dekar was a handsome man, she decided, in spite of the silver beneath the gold circlet at his brow, and his black doublet was broad at the chest in the way of older warriors who have not yet lost all of their vigour. Old King Talor’s sword was at his waist, and his hand was on the hilt, fingers toying restlessly with the grey-gleam steel. She realised now, up close, that the pommel was shaped like vines around an orb of nightglass, black smoothness gleaming in the candelight. She felt suddenly naked beneath the calmness of his stare. He seemed to be examining her face, not just her eyes, but the curve of her cheeks, the lines of her chin, the colour of her hair. There was a strange familiarity to his gaze. She took a breath.

‘No need to apologise, Your Majesty.’ she told him, dipping her head apologetically. ‘The… Lady Trela startled me, that was all.’

‘Lady? Your grace becomes you.’ the King said, and she saw the faintest flicker of a smile dance over his lips. ‘Still, let me escort you back to your table.’

He held out his arm for her to take, and Sara was suddenly aware of the curious quietness of the crowd around them. She smiled in spite of herself, then lay her hand against his arm, and together they went away into the parting merrymakers, watched by a hundred silent eyes.

‘Are you enjoying the feast?’ the King asked her as they walked.

‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ she replied breathily, nodding. She swallowed, willing some of the wine-touched fuzziness from her thoughts. ‘A fitting celebration for your nameday.’

‘I find it all rather nauseating.’ the King replied quietly, careful not to be overheard as they passed another group of bowing courtiers. ‘The bowing, grovelling, hand-kissing. Not a word of truth in any of it. A King find real conversation hard to come by.’

‘And now, Your Majesty?’ Sara replied softly. ‘Are we having a real conversation?’

He smiled.

‘I hope so, Lady Sara.’

They walked on. The countless candles seemed to have dimmed as the evening drew on, lending a small privacy to their words and warding off the prying eyes of the crowds. Sara was very aware of the touch of the King’s arm beneath her fingers, the slight shallowness of her breath.

‘You needn’t fear Trela, you know.’

Sara swallowed.

‘She is… I have never…’

The King chuckled lightly, and Sara felt the knot in her stomach unclench ever so slightly. ‘Her quality is obedience, not her looks. More than I can say for most.’

Sara hesitated. ‘My father says she was there, at the end of the Rebellion. That she killed the traitor Aerolf.’

‘And almost died herself for the privelege.’ the King finished.

Sara thought of the Bloodless’s hideous face, and decided not to mention the stories her father had told of how she got his name.

‘What else does your father say, girl?’

Sara’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

‘That she should have put an end to Aerolf’s brother, the traitor Ragnolf, too.’ she said after a moment, looking away. ‘That there are plenty of Northmen who would agree, now. That people love the man who feeds them, and these past few winters have been cold, north of the sea.’

A shadow passed over the King’s brow, but then he smiled, looking at her again with that same odd familiarity on his handsome face. Now, though, it touched her like a warm breath, and she smiled back, feeling a little blush fill her cheeks.

‘Perhaps.’

They had come now to the foot of the dais, and Sara looked up to find that the Queen’s gathering had dissipated into a few smaller groups. She spied Dana and Velis at the far end, accosted by a noblewoman of advancing years and a shrill voice that carried like a wolf-whistle. On the stairs themselves, the small group of courtiers were being led in conversation by the red-faced Lord Korin, somehow managing to look more flushed than usual after the evening’s indulgences. Sara saw no sign of the Queen.

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‘My King.’

Sir Varos approached, gleaming in his polished black armour.

‘What, Varos?’

The silver-haired warrior dipped his head politely, apparently unfazed by the King’s abruptness.

‘The Queen requests your presence, your Majesty.’

A flicker of annoyance crossed the King’s face, then he caught himself, straightening.

‘You must excuse me, Lady Sara.’ he told her quietly. 'Perhaps we can continue our… conversation, another time.’

Sara took a breath.

‘I would like that, Your Majesty.’ she replied, removing her hand from his arm with a smile.

He turned on his heel and strode away up the stairs onto the dais, and she watched him go, feeling the eyes of the hall on her back. Just then, though, she paid them no heed. There were two figures in the half-shadows beyond the throne, in the alcoves of the high windows, two figures only she could see. They were locked in deep discussion, hidden from the immediate attention of the King’s Hall. There could be no mistaking the high, pointed shoulders of the first, or the elaborate crest of her raven-hair, but opposite the Queen, a darker figure, dressed from head to toe in black robes. As the King approached them, the robed figure bowed low, then the three of them withdrew into the dark arches at the edge of the hall, dissolving into the shadows. Sara frowned.

‘M’lady.’ Sir Varos said politely, dipping his leathery head. He met her eye for a moment, face impassive. Then he turned and made his way back up the stairs to the dais, steps smooth as oil. Behind her, the eyes of the hall had moved on, busy with their own affairs, and the wave of sound washed back in around her, filling her ears.

‘A man of honour, that one.’

Sara flinched, turning to find Lord Royce standing at her shoulder, watching her with a narrow smile on his lips.

‘Not many of those left.’

Sara hesitated, watching the Captain of the Black Guard depart.

‘I’m not sure the King shares your reverence, my Lord.’

‘Maybe the King has less use for men like Varos than he ought to.’ the Fox mused, following her eyes. ‘Now, the Bloodless… that’s a woman who can be counted on to do what needs to be done.’

Sara frowned, looking up towards the shadows behind the throne. But the royal couple and their unknown companion were long since vanished. Where she was from, black robes like that only meant one thing, and it was not something she dared think about.

‘You seem surprised, Lady Sara.’ the Fox told her. ‘I warned you the capital has more… unusual vices than the Westmere.’

‘Brothers in the King’s Hall?’ Sara hissed, looking at him. ‘I would call that more than unusual, My Lord.’

‘It is no easy thing, to become a King.’ the Fox said quietly, sharp eyes watching her. ‘Such a thing needs many friends, not all of them in shining armour.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Nothing at all, M’lady. To do so would be quite unwise.’ He paused, frowning softly. ‘But it is far from simple, taking a crown. Or holding it, for that matter. No sons, no daughters, and an ageing Queen. It is a predicament that might lead a man down strange paths. Paths most of us would prefer left untrodden.’

‘Strange paths, indeed.’ Sara murmured, looking into the shadows at the edge of the hall. The Fox watched her quietly.

‘We all walk our own road, Lady Sara.’ he said quietly. ‘Judgement is ever the refuge of the ignorant.’

‘You speak from experience, Lord Royce?’

‘Look around you, Lady Sara.’ he replied, running a hand over the smooth darkness of his head. ‘Westerners. Visitors. Foreigners. Men of my complexion are not received as Valians.’

‘And yet you are?’

‘That depends on who you ask.’ he replied, dark eyes twinkling. ‘I was barely a boy, when I came east over the Sea of the Maker from Dal. My mother’s name mattered little, till her uncle died without an heir. She left Valia as a child, and returned married to a black man. Lesser sins make outcasts of men. The Eastern name she gave me did little to make men overlook my skin. My father was brave, braver than he should have been, and they did what they could, but it was not an easy road.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘They died young.’ the Fox told her shortly. ‘The Rebellion was not kind to everyone.’

‘I am… I am sorry, my Lord.’ Sara said quietly, watching his expressionless face.

‘Put it from your mind, my Lady.’ the Fox paused, looking at her with one raised eyebrow. ‘I see the King has finally taken an interest in you.’

Sara frowned. ‘Was it so certain he would?’

The Fox smiled then, and his sharp eyes gleamed. ‘How well do you know your history, M’lady?’

‘Well enough. My father had tutors brought in from Uldoroth when we were children.’

‘Ah, yes. Important that you know how your house came to rule.’ the Fox went on. ‘I am sure the Rebellion was covered in some detail.’

‘Of course.’

Sara found that her eyes were drawn to the great black shadow of the Night Throne on the dais, gleaming like obsidian in the shifting candlelight.

‘You know how it began, then.’ he began. ‘King Talor was of the old blood, what little was left. The children of Temur’s Chosen; first among all people. But time is a great breaker of things, and that line is spent. Blood-mad, they called Talor, though there was a time he was considered a wise king. A just king.’

‘He was a murderer.’ Sara told him, scowling. ‘Kept with Cursed Ones. He brought the Makers’ anger on his own people with his sin. Famine, the Black Breath. The war!’

‘Plagues beyond counting, to be sure.’ Lord Royce conceded, raising an eyebrow. ‘I wonder, did your father’s tutors ever mention what he did, when his daughter was taken? That he rounded up every North-borne man, woman, and child foolish enough to make their homes south of the Sea of Storms, and strung them up on the road north, all the way to the sea?’

Sara blinked at him.

‘I thought not. It’s not a story us Southerners want telling, even after good King Talor had his throat cut open, ear to ear.’ He paused, and his lips curved slightly. ‘But he was noble once. Wise. Kind, even. This hall was not so different, then. A little lighter, perhaps. A smidge more music.’

‘You mock the King.’

‘You mistake me, My Lady.’ he said softly, looking up towards the King’s sigil hanging over the doorway behind them, its gold tower reaching for the sun in a ring of twisting vines. ‘I remember when that tower was silver, and it was skyfire above it, not the sun. Subtle. Continuity has a way of earning legitimacy.’

Sara frowned, looking up at the sign. ‘You speak as though nothing has changed.’

‘Plenty has changed, My Lady. But there are things that remain from that time. Before the Rebellion, when our King was but Lord of the Greenfangs; a distant noble with a thirst for the King’s graces.’ The Fox paused, and his sharp eyes darted across the dais, glancing off the King’s gold-rimmed brow. ‘And an eye for the King’s daughter.’

Sara’s eyes widened. ‘Talia.’

‘It is quite well known, if you know who to ask.’ the Fox told her. ‘Lord Dekar was close with the King, in those days. A protege, you might say, whilst his… troubled sons were off playing at war, routing bandit camps and putting farmers’ rebellions to the sword with their father’s moonsilver blade. It would have been quite the coup, for the young Lord of the Greenfangs, to secure such a match as the King’s daughter.’

‘Then the traitor Aerolf kidnapped her.’ Sara concluded, looking up at the Night Throne again.

‘Indeed.’ the Fox replied, and his eyes flashed. ‘The Gods showed their fury, that day. They say Temur himself threw down lightning from the heavens, to mark his flight.’

‘Now you mock me.’ Sara said, frowning.

‘Not at all, my Lady. That is how the story goes.’ Lord Royce paused for a moment, looking at her. ‘The King was quite mad with grief by the time she was found. Locked her away in Temur’s Tower. Not one person atop the Heartspire saw her, after that. Nothing opened that door. Not magic or man. Not until the Northmen were through the gates, and the King was dead in his bed.’

‘Aerolf killed her. Killed both of them.’ She knew the story. She had known it since she could walk, from bards and warriors and washerwomen and everything in between. Her father had told it, too. Though his version focused more on the rise of the brave Lord Westmere than the rebellion itself. ‘And the Bloodless slew him.’

‘So it is told. Threw him from the Skyperch, they say, got that fetching scar on her head for the trouble.’ the Fox said quietly. ‘All the Chosen’s schemes come to nought, Isandur flees, and our young Lord of the Greenfangs took the throne that very night. Quite fortuitous the Northmen attacked when they did. Night of the Black Hand, some used to call it. Not anymore.’

Sara blinked, looking at him, but he was still looking up at the Night Throne, eyes sharp as razors.

‘King Dekar rallies the treacherous nobles, drives the Northmen back into the sea. Valia is at peace once more. What’s left of it, after the Elahi vanished through the Dread Stones, too. The Old Kingdom, broken into three pieces, all for a woman. But Valia endures. A good story. One of the best.’

They stood side by side, looking up at the throne silently for a few moments. The feast moved on around them, full of distant sound. Then Sara felt the Fox’s eyes on her again.

‘Has anyone ever described her to you?’

‘Who?’

‘Princess Talia.’

‘No.’ she replied, frowning.

‘I saw her once. At a feast, when I was a younger man. She was as beautiful as they say. More, even. Like all the light in the room was for her alone.’ He paused, and his sharp eyes met hers. ‘Skin pale as snow. Eyes green as emeralds. Hair black as night.’

Sara started, and her skin prickled with a sudden chill. She looked up at the throne, thinking of the strange familiarity with which the King had watched her, the weight of his dark eyes on her skin. Something cold tugged at her gut, and she bit the inside of her lip.

‘And what about you my Lord?’ she said at last.

‘What about me, my Lady?

‘Did you pine for Princess Talia?’

The Fox smiled at her, flashing white teeth from his dark cheeks.

‘Oh no, not me.’ he told her softly. ‘But I never did find a face as interesting as the story it tells.’

On the dais, there was a sudden stirring as the King and Queen reentered the throng. The King’s hand was on the dull grey hilt of the sword at his waist, and the Queen’s gold necklace gleamed with drops of ruby blood. Sara stared at them as the nobles began to jostle for position again, frowning.

‘An unlikely pair, aren’t they?’ the Fox murmured at her shoulder, following her eyes. ‘An upstart lord in love with a dead princess, and the nameless woman, plucked from obscurity to sit beside him. Amazing, what the right friends can do.’

Sara opened her mouth to reply, but the Fox was already dipping his head politely.

‘You must excuse me, M’lady.’ Lord Royce told her. ‘I find I can no longer ignore the call of my bed.’

‘I… Of course, Lord Royce.’ she replied, swallowing. ‘Good night.’

‘Enjoy the rest of your evening, M’lady.’ He bowed his head again, then turned away into the crowd, leaving her alone beneath the shifting milkiness of the candle-shimmer ceiling, staring up at the towering shadow of the Night Throne and the couple beneath it as though either might look back.