The sounds of pipes, drums, and a harp filled the dining hall with cheer, but Sir Casey sat in his chair with his head held in one hand. The weight of his thoughts consumed his attention. A kind and beautiful lady, normally one of impeccable character, sat in his lap with cider in hand. She laughed too loudly, and the music carried on. Even the king joined in the revelry, but Sir Casey said nothing.
His eyes fell on his surroundings. Ceramic plates adorned the table—luxury items even for a nobleman—and embroidered linen covered the gothic windows of the hall. Pomegranate juice filled the crystalware, sparkling violet in the transparent glass. For desserts, the guests enjoyed fruits rolled in pomegranate molasses, a dense and tart syrup that proved delectable. Sir Casey barely touched them; the sugar would make his sleep more troubled than it already was.
The hour grew late. Noble guests—King Lloyd III and his most trusted peers—scattered about the hall at separate tables and chairs with private conversations. Sir Casey left the table to stand by the window and gaze upon the landscape beyond. A dense woodland of leafless trees concealed his home, Porcelain Hall. A dusting of snow flittered about the landscape. He hoped the snow kept the rest of the world away.
White, floral molding decorated the walls. White tiles, hand-painted with care, covered the floor. Tall sculptures of hallowed people stood in the candlelight, unpainted and pristine. This hall remained like the world before the cult began taking so much away, before people had to surrender art, livestock, and other wealth to Dragon-God Rey Polilla for sacrifice.
The cult, known as the Guarantors promised a period of safety as long as Rey Polilla approved of the community’s sacrifices. Plump cattle, horses, and the finest specimens of craftsmanship caught the attention of the Guarantors, who used a caravan to collect them. Rey Polilla and his Guarantors had not discovered Porcelain Hall yet. Here remained the last people who detested the kingdom’s new god, the dragon who terrorized all into submission.
This home acquired its name for its pale aesthetic, but it felt as precarious as porcelain—fragile—so easily lost in a world of sycophants eager to sacrifice everything to a false god. Those who agreed with Sir Casey gathered around him and the king, as they did on this evening, in this place. The world outside burned with passion for the new god.
Lady Lauren Bellucci, a slender silhouette in the candlelight, approached Sir Casey.
“Why are you so dour? I’ve never experienced such a luxurious part in the city of Cronine.” She reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, and he saw it, just as he saw her retract it. He hadn’t made himself friendly enough to be touched yet.
He saw no fault in her. Her black hair framed her face and midnight eyes in a pleasant enough way, and her disposition had always been inviting.
“Forgive my rudeness, please,” he said, forcing a smile,". “This estate was carved from the estate of Sir Colm Murphy upon his death, as he wished. He was a friend and mentor who transformed me from an apprentice yeoman to a nobleman. It hasn’t been easy.”
“I’m sorry that he couldn’t be here with us.”
“I can’t imagine it would be better if he were; he wasn’t an easy person to appreciate. It isn’t the loss of him that bothers me.”
“What is it then?” she asked as she drew nearer. “You have the finest hall in the kingdom; even the king insists on dining here.”
“It’s what Sir Colm said on his deathbed that lingers with me.”
“What did he say?” she drew close enough that he could smell her perfume.
“I watched the life leave that man. A pain in his chest took him. He suffered for a day and a night with it before he left this world. He’d trained me up from nothing and nowhere to be a knight. I couldn’t stop him from leaving when his time came. He tried to say so much in the end—too much—and he couldn’t. The strength left him. I heard the last coherent thoughts he said out loud. I was by his bed, and he looked me right in the eyes—”
Before Sir Casey could finish his thoughts, the double door to the hall’s entrance burst open. A noble guard entered to announce a visitor, but the visitor pushed past him. Clad with brilliant colors around his robust figure, a nobly dressed man with the beady eyes of a mole pushed his way in. The feathers adorning his hat wobbled as he walked, as did his enormous gut and hammy fingers.
Several other noblemen followed behind him, each dressed in clothes just as colorful. Together, they appeared like a flock of warbling, strutting birds. Sir Casey felt his disgust matched only by his shock. The prime servants of Rey Polilla, the Guarantors—the new clergy and rival power to the throne—found Sir Casey in his home of treasures. He knew them by their exuberant mode of dress and their entitled way of strutting into his home. They brought the cold winds of winter with them. Sir Casey shivered at his exposure and returned to his seat at the table.
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King Lloyd III stood from his chair and glared at the new visitors. The king’s scowl showed through his dense beard.
“I’ll introduce myself,” the leading nobleman of the Guarantors said to the guard, who stepped back. The guard clutched a halberd as he stared at the intruder. The enormous noble said, “Marquess Meadows, Guarantor,” and he took a deep bow that threatened to topple him over. He rose up with more grace than he should have possessed. “And what a glorious pleasure it is to be a guest in such a splendid hall!” He took several steps in and reached out to touch the fig leaf that granted a statue its modesty. “Hrm. Such a peculiar aesthetic you have; quite blanched, even! Would our host be so kind—” the marquess said as he squirmed himself into a seat at the table closest to Sir Casey, “as to deliver me a drink, nothing too sweet, but viciously tart!” He chuckled with a self-satisfied grin, and his fellow Guarantors followed him to the table.
They moved as though they owned the hall, as they always had upon arriving somewhere. Their closeness to Rey Polilla granted them this power, and their peculiar manners grew from that latitude. No one crossed the marquess, as he’d organized the Guarantors himself, and they became the voice of the dragon in this kingdom.
The prying hands of the Guarantors entered a realm they’d previously never known. The proper guests of Porcelain Hall—whom Sir Casey had invited himself—stared at the Guarantors in silence. Elsewhere, the Guarantors received automatic deference and even fear.
“Is there always such astonishment at the sight of a thirsty man?” the marquess asked with another chuckle. He looked to his fellow Guarantors for support, and they smirked and smiled. “Well, Sir Casey? That is your name, isn’t it? It’s quite unfamiliar. Where are you from, anyway? It took a considerable time to find this place. The man who owned it died and cut it from his family’s possessions—passed it to some country rube like a scheme. As if I could lose a place like this! A drink, please!”
“The kitchen has closed,” Sir Casey said with a dry voice. “My servants are retired for the evening.”
No one dared speak. No one had ever denied a Guarantor anything.
A nobleman never declined a reasonable request from a guest, especially mid-winter, when the elements could kill. The politeness of this world collapsed at a breakneck pace. The hall’s guests all stared at one another in silence, reading each other for how to behave.
“If this is about the coming full moon, when we’ll expect you to produce a sacrifice to our Lord Rey Polilla, then I assure you it will be a small pittance in exchange for the guarantee of safety that he grants us.”
“A pittance?” Sir Casey asked as he stepped away from the window.
“Of course!” the marquess said with a smile. “Now, a drink, if you don’t mind.” A kind noblewoman, eager to please and visibly disturbed by the discord, reached for a pitcher of pomegranate juice and filled a crystal glass for him. He took it in his enormous hand and sipped the juice. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” he said rudely. “Pomegranate.” He smiled too much. “I’ve come to seek you at this hour to discuss your next contribution. The Guarantors will make the journey up the mountain tonight. Since the moon is full, we can lay our gifts out before Rey Polilla and he may judge them. As you understand, it’s a monumental occasion that guarantees our survival until the next full moon. I have come to you, in your ‘Porcelain Hall,’ to see which of your extraordinary blessings you will give.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen a few things to your liking already,” Sir Casey said.
“Indeed,” the marquess said before taking a deep drink of the juice. “Ahhhhhhhh. And it would suit you to know that the lord himself has made a special request, on account of such treasures being hidden from him in the first place.” The marquess stared at the last rolling drops of pomegranate juice in the glass as he rolled the stem in his fingers. “We ask for two noble children for the culinary delight of Rey Polilla himself.”
Several people gasped out loud. Sir Casey saw the wife of Sir Ryan hold him back; Sir Ryan struggled against her as if he wanted to fight now. Several nobles and their wives stepped back from the table, sensing the danger brewing. Sir Casey walked to the seat opposite Marquess Meadows, but he didn’t sit down. He looked down at the strange guest, a noble far his superior, a marquess and the founder of the Guarantors. None of those words—those titles—meant anything to Sir Casey. He recalled his roots as a country boy making loaves of bread in his parent’s bakery, and he remembered how to deal with the occasional rodents that broke in.
Sir Casey slipped his fingers underneath the table and lifted it fast enough to flip it. The food and drinks spilled in the direction of the marquess and the Guarantors who sat with him. Each of them were nobles, armed and trained to kill, and yet the offense of their existence incensed Sir Casey too much for him to care. The marquess had broken into his home and demanded the sacrifice of two children from Porcelain Hall. That was enough.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Sir Casey said, “but I’m a savage of the country first, and my noble graces have their limits.”
The Guarantors, stunned by this display of rebellion, prepared to stand from their seats. They didn’t move swiftly enough; the Porcelain Hall’s true guests foresaw this moment and seized them. With deft speed, they yanked the swords from the sheaths of the Guarantors and tossed them to the floor. Sir Casey leaped the table and captured the marquess, and Sir Ryan, the king, and other nobleman allied to them each captured a Guarantor.
With their intruders disarmed and shocked, they worked with premeditated speed to trap them in manacles and chains. Even the noblewomen assisted in trapping them; they saw the future of their children at stake. Sir Casey kicked Marquess Meadows to the floor.