The Valnarak’s had arrived on their own time, as the king knew they would. Ser Sledda stood before King Aydar on his throne. The King’s Hall was closed to visitors besides his council. The Oracle and the King’s Intendent stood silently at the foot of the throne steps.
“And?” The king suppressed his desire to shout. “Well, what of it?”
“Their arrival? Oh, not much happened, my king. They arrived late in the night. You had already found your sleep for the night, so I had the Waryon informed before the Valnarak’s were shown to the west wing.”
“Good,” said Aydar. A jeweled crown sat upon his forehead. He was wearing a fleeced robe, red as a ruby.
Sledda stirred uncomfortably. “They did leave behind an important member of their house…”
“Their king. That is not a surprise Sledda. He doesn’t move much as it is. I doubted he’d leave the cushion of his throne to come all this way.” Aydar stared at the floor. “But they did bring the daughter, aye?”
“Yes, my king.”
“And remind me of her name again? How she looks?” asked Aydar.
Sledda hesitated, putting a finger to his lips thoughtfully. Waryon interjected from behind them. “Elswit, I believe it is. Elswit Valnarak of Venistar. Skin as pale and smooth as the milk of goats, but eyes darker than the bleakest night.”
“And her hair?” asked the king.
“Black,” said Waryon.
“I thought it was more of a dark brown,” said Sledda.
“What’d you know? You didn’t even remember her name,” said Waryon.
“Black it is,” said Aydar the King. “She will be an interesting match for my son.” Aydar brought his cup to his lips, finishing off the last gulp of wine.
“It is decided then? Already?” asked Waryon. Sledda seemed to have the same question. The Oracle stood quietly with his hands behind his back. Stoicism was a demanded feature of an Oracle if they expected to maintain their place in the Crow Castle.
“You didn’t think I would have our jaded friends from Venistar come all this way just to exchange pleasantries, watch their Lord Cythos slaughter men in a tournament, and then leave? That would be disrespectful. I do not wish to initiate strife between our houses.” The king seemed bothered.
“My king, although the lady Elswit does have some power and sway to her name, there are others being presented at the feast tonight who may keep Rohinar happier than Elswit—with just as much power and influence.”
“You will refer to him as Prince Rohinar, Ser Sledda. Just as I have included your knightly title when I call on you. Have digninty. I am not interested in picking out a toy for Rohinar. The looks only matter for the rest of us who have to look at his betrothed for a lifetime at banquets and feasts and diplomatic matters. For my son, he must only be worried about the influence he inherits. That piece of dirt he found in the Crag…she must go soon. Just as his other one Marris did.”
Ser Sledda kept his head down, swallowing hard. “You are right, my king. I only wished to explore options.”
“I would not be quick to discard the girl,” said The Oracle. Waryon and Sledda’s heads were turned. An Oracle dared not speak directly to the king unless prophecy was on his lips.
“You guard that slippery tongue, Oracle.” The king looked as if he had tasted something foul.
“In truth” continued the Oracle. Red lines marked his pale, bald head. Ornate ink ran down his body and was concealed by his red garb. “It is the girl that must be kept close, for losing her to the Valnarak’s could prove a fatalistic mistake.”
Sledda, Waryon, and Aydar just stared through empty eyes at The Oracle. Well, you’ve got our attention now, continue then, the king’s face now seemed to say.
The Oracle was slow to speak, clasping his hands in front of him and taking a deep breath through his nose. He had dark liner under his eyes. “The Tree reveals only what it will, but I get the sense she might be the key to unlock the next cycle of civilization. Just wait and see.”
“Wait, and see? Do you expect me to sit here on this throne and count the hairs on my wife’s head while I wait? Do go on and tell, Oracle. Surely you misinterpret the wind of The Silver Tree.”
“I am afraid not. I have never received so strong a message. The girl influence in her eyes. She was a nobody before she arrived here. But now, she has power here. It is no coincidence that the Tree brought her here.”
Sledda scoffed, shaking his head. Waryon wore an expression that one wears when waiting for the punchline of a joke.
“This court will sleep, and the girl will catch the eyes of many at the feast. Watch out, lord king, the Valnarak’s have ambition. I sense vigor. Hunger. But this I am less sure about, the Tree does not give wind about Venistar or the Valnaraks. This is something I feel for myself, lord king.” The Oracle spoke slowly and picked his words carefully. His eyes, which were often a black void, had the glow of red like a rat’s eyes.
“My son will be betrothed to the Valnarak girl, and you will oversee that ceremony, Oracle.” The king seemed to be more concerned with his own agenda, even still.
“Officiate? I am no priest, lord king. I am the words of the Silver Tree,” said The Oracle, stoically.
“Oh, shut up,” said Sledda. “The religion of the Silver Tree has been dead for centuries. It is just a tree.”
The king chuckled at first. Then he cackled. Then it became laughter, in bursts of quick giggles. It went on for some time, the king snorting as he heaved deep breaths of laughter. Sledda soon lost the satisfaction of bringing laughter to his king. He is mad sometimes, thought Sledda.
“The Silver Tree needs no man to serve it, only land to grow its roots. It waits for it’s the person whose blood matches its sap to—”
“—oh, would you shut it, Oracle. Go spend time hugging your tree if that is what contents you. I am sick of your prophetic jargon about the Valnaraks. Be gone or I will have you escorted.”
The Oracle did not appear stirred one bit from his king’s reprimand. “At once, my king.” Even his stride from the room appeared stiff, as if lacking the ability to walk with any sort of swagger or identity. Sledda glared at his back as he left.
“What good is he for this court, lord king?” asked Waryon.
“He is a presence to confuse my enemies. They fear his words.”
“Do they?” asked Waryon, edging his face closer to the king’s ears. “I say…we kick him to the cold.”
“Leave him? To the cold?”
“The hunters will find him,” whispered Waryon. Waryon despised The Oracle. He was another voice to fill his king’s ears beside his own. Without him around, Waryon would have the king’s undivided consideration.
“That is too rash a call, Waryon. I will decide on it another day. We must prepare now for the feast. I have a bath to get to. Tell my daughters they need to get ready and have May Otto send one of her servants to round up Pret and Lun. I expect them to sit with us at the feast.” The King rose from his throne, groaning from the stiffness that plagued his legs.
“It will be done, my king,” said Waryon as he lifted the king from his throne.
The king’s hall was emptied for now until the feast began. Servants and squires filled the hall and scrubbed the floors, ensuring it was sparkling and polished.
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The feast was soon to begin.
The King’s cup bearer sat to his left and his voice sat to the right. Waryon was leaned over and in his ear as the guests began to filter through.
“Maykeeps, The Tchoregs, oh and there is the daughter, Grethe…there is the Malarin’s, the Swordrin’s and their swordfish banners…and there they are…it is the Valnaraks of Venistar kingdom.” A clumsy applause filled the room at the entering of Lord Cythos and House Valnarak.
The foundation of the King’s Hall seemed to rumble with the footsteps of Lord Cythos. His head was bald and as strong as a boulder. He wore spiked, gothic armor with gloves to handle his longsword, which hung from his scabbard on his back and ran the length of his body. His height surpassed the tallest man in the room by far. He stopped at the entrance to the hall with his bounty hunter behind him, Zdeno. Zdeno’s faced remained concealed behind a purple turban and facial covering. The bridge of his nose and two olive eyes peaked out from behind his veil. The lady Elswit Valnarak was covered by Lord Cythos’ imposing figure, but eventually the crowd gathered a glimpse of her once Cythos finally made his way down the aisle of the king’s hall and at the foot of the throne. Elswit was glaring around the room. Her dark eyes gave no indication of friendly manner.
Lord Cythos bent the knee before King Aydar, who maintained a futile attempt to appear brave. “King,” was all he said before rising to his feet. His boots were as tall as Ser Sledda’s waiste. Ser Sledda adjusted his sword belt uncomfortably. The violins and the music had slowed, distracted by the imposing Venistar warlord. The Queen, as often she did, shot a cold glance at the musicians which was enough to perk them up to a loud percussion of chaos. The music took a while before it sounded soothing again.
Once the houses were all seated the food began to come out in waves of dishes. First, the olives and cheese came out with rye bread and roasted pork. Vaya tore through her food, hardly lifting her face to meet the next dish which was lowered onto her table in front of her. It was a marinated chicken with roast potato. A side dish of sweet potato and pecans wafted a sweet scent all around the hall. Excited chatter picked up at the sweet delight brought on by the pecan sweet potato mash.
Lord Kyn Malarin had grease all over his chin as he stuffed mutton and chicken in his mouth simultaneously. He was already signaling for more before he had finished polishing off his roast potato. A stressed squire rushed over to his side to deliver more potato’s. It was enough for Vaya, however, who now sat with her hand on her stomach and slouched in her seat.
As the banquet reached its peak, King Aydar rose from his seat, commanding the room's attention with his authoritative presence. The king's eyes swept across the room, taking in the faces of each of his esteemed guests before he spoke.
"Lords and ladies, esteemed guests from across the realm," King Aydar began, his deep voice carrying effortlessly to every corner of the grand hall. "I am honored by your presence here today, as we celebrate the future of our great kingdom. We have come together to bear witness to the union of two great houses, to celebrate the bond that will bring peace and prosperity to our lands for generations to come.
"He raised his glass, its golden rim glinting in the flickering light of the candles. "To my son, Prince Rohinar, I say this: choose wisely, for the future of our kingdom lies in your hands. The woman you choose will not only be your wife but also a queen, a partner in ruling and shaping our land. May your decision be guided by your heart, your mind, and your sense of duty to our people.
"With those words, King Aydar lifted his glass high, and the assembled guests followed his lead, raising their glasses in a toast. The clinking of crystal echoed throughout the hall, and the king's face broke into a warm smile as he surveyed the scene before him.
As King Aydar finishes his eloquent toast, there is a moment of silence before the room erupts in thunderous applause. The lords and ladies rise from their seats and raise their goblets in honor of the king's words. The sound echoes throughout the grand hall, bouncing off the marble pillars and soaring ceilings.
As the applause dies down, the lords and ladies begin to approach the throne, each bearing a lavish gift for the prince and his betrothed. Some present golden jewelry, others offer exquisite fabrics, and still others lay at the foot of the throne rare and exotic fruits from distant lands.
The king nods graciously as each gift is presented, thanking each lord and lady for their generosity. The atmosphere is charged with excitement and anticipation, for the prince's betrothed will be chosen tonight, and the future queen of the kingdom will soon be revealed.
Queen Lenora gracefully rose from her seat and gave a nod to the musicians. They began to play a sweet and enchanting melody, filling the room with a symphony of strings and flutes. The guests turned their attention to the center of the room, where Prince Rohinar stood with his soon-to-be betrothed. They took each other's hands and swayed to the music, their eyes locked in a gaze of pure love and adoration.
As the song drew to a close, the queen once again stood, and the musicians ceased their playing. The guests erupted into another round of applause, and wealthy lords and ladies began to approach the throne, laying down their gifts at the foot of it. Precious jewels, rare artifacts, and valuable trinkets adorned the ground in front of the throne, each representing the admiration and respect they held for the royal family.
King Aydar stood tall, a proud smile on his face as he surveyed the gifts before him. He took a deep breath and addressed the room, "We are humbled and honored by your generosity, my lords and ladies. Your gifts are a symbol of the unity and strength of our kingdom. May we continue to prosper together as we navigate the challenges that lie ahead."
Vaya stood from her seat, her intoxicating brown eyes locked on the prince. Her turned slowly in his seat. Vaya approached him with purpose in her step. Her dress had a leg slit, exposing her right leg up to her thigh. It was clearly cut with clippers. May Otto nor the Queen would ever allow it.
All sounds slowly dwindled. Talking faded around the King’s Hall. Men and women raised their heads. She was not a high-born girl. If she had been, she was the best kept secret in the past ten years. Nobles exchanged glances. Women raised their eyebrows, jaws gaping in awe at Vaya’s audacity to approach the prince—especially in front of the Queen.
Vaya’s shoulders swung back and forth with confidence as she ascended the stairs to meet Rohinar at his royal table. He took a step toward her. She could see it in his face. He liked her boldness. He was an arrogant man himself, and he had blown her off at the ball a night prior.
The Queen shot daggers at Vaya, who took no notice. She turned to whisper something in Waryon’s ear, who then immediately took off from the royal dais and moved to meet with Ser Sledda. Sledda lifted his head to find the Queen eyeing him with a firm face. He gave her a nod, but the Queen was not satisfied until Ser Sledda began to take action. There was not much he could do, so he pretended to shimmy his way through the crowd and whisper into the ears of his guards.
Vaya offered her hand to Prince Rohinar, who took it all whilst he had his eyes locked on his prize. Marris had never been as bold. Marris had never boasted such beautiful matching eyes and hair. Rohinar skipped past his two sisters, who sat sulking. The musicians had slowed their music, waiting for their cue to stop. May Otto, who stood nearby, sent a shooing motion there way—which was enough to spur them back into full throttle.
Illena Aetos had had enough. As the elder daughter of King Aydar Aetos and Queen Lenora Aetos, she ought to have the spotlight. Tradition said so—it was the eldest daughter who would be offered up a dance by a man of high-born birth or lordship. Illena took matters into her own hands. By the time she rose to her feet and straightened out her dress, Rohinar and Vaya were dancing loosely in a circle formed in the middle of the king’s hall by the guests.
Illena yanked the hand of the young lord Holt Maykeep, who was jerked to his feet unexpectedly. Quickly reading the situation (after moments of dull staring and daydreaming moments prior) he began to match Illena’s competitive energy. Lord Holt swayed Illena this way and that, turning her and circles and dipping her before Queen Lenora. The couple earned a rowdy applause.
Vaya would not be outdone. And neither would Rohinar, who was determined to prove to the public that Vaya had a gracefulness suitable for a betrothal. He ought to prove it to his father as well, who watched on under furrowed brows. The two couples dodged each other a few times, nearly colliding or catching an onlooker in the stomach with their limbs. One noble caught Rohinar’s elbow in the nose, resulting in angry fist at first, followed by a chuckle and soon the whole hall took to it with laughter and a toast.
The feast was just waiting to erupt with dance, but they had to wait. Aurela had not yet been gathered for a dance. She, too, could not wait any longer. She grabbed the squire, Jal, by the arm and leapt onto the dancefloor. She would find her suitor later. Jal would do for now to stem the embarrassment of her postponed dance. She was fuming.
Jal and Aurela took the floor and soon the dancing couples were swallowed up by married couples and single suitors. Lords and ladies, nobles and royalty, men and women alike found themselves in the center of the king’s hall dancing to cheerful tunes from the city’s finest musicians. If they had not already earned their reputation, they had now. And from across the realm.
There was one group who did not partake of the dance floor. They did not partake of any liquor or wine. The Valnarak’s sat idly by at their trestle benches. Other lords and ladies of Venistar remained seated as well. The imposing Ser Cythos sat with his bald head turned from the events of the night. His gothic armor remained, despite the dressy occasion. He was not one for dances and feasts—especially not from the far south where he was raised. Men from those parts were bred for a different kind of celebration. Celebrations for winning battles and skirmishes. Celebrations for surviving the gladiator fights as a teenager and delivering the victory to his owner who had placed bets on his victory. And so, he sat, scowling, with his hands clasped on the table. His fists were larger than rocks, his arms the size of a scythe.
When Jal had snuck away from the dancing, he resumed his normal duty along with the stable boys and serving girls who had been called in for the event. Knowing no one else would be brave enough, he approached Lord Cythos table with mead, bread, and tarts. Unsure as to whether Lord Cythos would like a mead or a tart, he bowed his head and lowered the platter. Cythos returned a cold stare through his sunken black eyes. Jal shivered. He saw the same looks all along the table, though none nearly as menacing as Lord Cythos’.
Zdeno sat with his iron mask covering his nose and cheeks. His sword hung over his chair. It was a magnificent thing really. Jal had a difficult time pulling his eyes away from the sword as he backed away, the platter still in his hands. He backed up too far, and a dancer bumped into his back and knocked him to the ground. The tarts, the mead, and the bread went flying. The mead sloshed, landing at Cythos’ feet. Jal lifted his head, saw the vein in his neck grow large, and scrambled to his feet.
Cythos had his arms at the edge of his table, preparing to excuse himself from the table to smash in Jal’s head. He never moved. However, his eyes did follow Jal the Squire everywhere he went for the rest of the night.