by CW Thomas
Tristian jerked his hand away and wheeled on Scarlett. “What are you doing?” He lowered his voice when some of the guests took notice. “Red, you shouldn’t have done that. What’s wrong with you?”
Aamor stepped back, looking embarrassed. “My lord, she was simply being silly. Weren’t you, love? No harm done.”
“That was inappropriate.” He glared at Scarlett. “Don’t ever do that again!”
Tristian’s anger surprised her.
“I think she’s just at that age when a young girl’s thoughts turn to romantic things,” Aamor said. “Yes. Isn’t that right?”
Scarlett nodded, though she still wasn’t sure what she had done wrong.
Tristian composed himself, smoothing out the front of his coat. “Well, let me give you both a piece of advice. Leave all your romantic notions at the borders of the kingdom. There is no place for softness in Tay, or love.” He wagged a finger at them both. “Don’t ever get married, at least not to anyone from this place. There are no good men here.”
The look of heartbreak on Aamor’s face went unnoticed by Tristian, but not Scarlett.
“You’re a good man, my lord,” Aamor said.
“No, I’m not.” Tristian looked away, his face saddened by some distant secret. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He ambled away with the help of his cane.
Aamor slipped down the corridor to the left and vanished around the corner.
Looking first toward Tristian, and then in the direction of Aamor, Scarlett felt suddenly lost. She wondered if what she had done was truly so bad. Tristian and Aamor were in love. She knew it. She saw it almost every day. People in love were supposed to be together. It seemed so simple.
She took a deep breath and sighed away her confusion. Adults. She would never understand them.
Scarlett made her way into the crowd. She walked between the rows of tables packed with chattering noblemen clad in refined coats and leather, many flirting with freshly powdered noblewomen indulging in pointless gossip.
She worked her way to the middle of the room to watch the people dance. She liked the women in their beautiful dresses, the billowing skirts that flared out when they twirled.
“My lady,” came a voice behind Scarlett. She turned to see a tall man with a regal chin and charming blue eyes smiling down at her. He had the gray hair of a gentleman past the prime of his life, but the build of a man who could still handle a sword. “My name is Sir Dunmore Waters, and I’ve been told that you are quite the little dancer.” He extended an arm to her. “Might you give me a dance or two?”
Scarlett beamed and dipped her head toward him.
“Wonderful!”
She stepped up to the old knight, put one hand in his and set the other high atop his shoulder where she could hardly reach.
And then they were off, their feet stomping across the tile floor. Sir Dunmore was a good dancer, keeping the time and leading her in twirls to the right and to the left.
“Lord Tristian told me you enjoy your dance lessons very much,” Sir Dunmore said. “It makes him happy, I think. Without the use of his feet it delights him to see you use yours.”
The song ended, but Scarlett was just getting warmed up. When a fiddler began a bouncing tune she grabbed Sir Dunmore and started again. The crowd parted, making way for the tall knight and the springy little girl twirling and stepping as though they were the only ones in the room.
“We have an audience,” Sir Dunmore said, as he dipped Scarlett over his arm. “Make me look good.”
Hand in hand they danced a straight line to one end of the floor, then back toward the stage. She caught a glimpse of Tristian smiling down at her from his father’s table, which gave her a thrill, a thrill that died the moment she saw the sour expression of Queen Catherina. She did not look amused.
The song finished and the people clapped. Sir Dunmore bowed. Scarlett curtsied, and they retreated from the dance floor.
A young woman glided up to Sir Dunmore and kissed him on the cheek. From her powdered cheeks, glossy lips, and long dark hair, to her deep décolletage, slim waist, and extravagant gown, she glimmered with a promiscuous beauty. “Who is she?” she asked, looking at Scarlett.
“Korah, this little one is the young lady I was telling you about,” Dunmore answered. “The prince’s young friend, and a wonderful dancer.” He took Scarlett’s hand. “Well done, miss.” He gave her knuckles a kiss.
“And did you have fun, my darling?” Korah asked.
Sir Dunmore released a deep satisfied breath. “Korah, my dear, that was a fine dance.”
“Should I be jealous?” Korah asked.
“Nonsense. You’ll get your turn to dance.” He grabbed her around the bottom, pulled her against his hip, and added, “In my room later tonight.”
Korah giggled, a sweet and inviting sound.
She looked at Scarlett. “Do you live here in Tay, child?”
She nodded.
Korah’s eyes brightened at the admission. “Oh, very good! Then perhaps you could tell me why the castle appears to be white when viewed at a distance. A very dear friend of mine who loves history and facts about the kingdoms made me promise to find out for her. Is it because of a magic spell, or is it a trick of the light?”
Before Scarlett could answer, Sir Dunmore tossed his head back and guffawed. “Silly girl. There is a simple scientific explanation for the castle’s appearance, and it has nothing to do with spells or trickery. It’s caused by the salt that blows in off the ocean, paints the castle in a fine white dust, you see.”
Korah ran a finger through the knight’s gray beard. “Seems they were right about you, Sir Dunmore. You know a lot about many things.”
They walked off together, rubbing noses, hands groping.
Scarlett shook her head, amazed by the things people claimed to know and chose to believe. Had she a voice she would’ve explained that the castle’s white appearance had nothing to do with salt, or magic and light. The stone used to build the castle was rich with white lime. When hit just right by the sun it appeared to shimmer white, though only for a brief period each day, and only when the skies were clear.
Scarlett noticed a series of quick colorful movements in front of the king’s table atop the dais. When she got clear of the crowd she saw a trio of acrobats and jugglers leaping and spinning onto the stage. Among them was Buttonhead, Tay’s most renowned jester. He wore a bright blue and red uniform with bells and trailing feathers, but his most distinguishing feature was his white button mask. The royal family of Tay, and a few others, knew him as Robert Kerr, a stage actor in the city’s amphitheater, famous for his dramatic portrayals of Tay’s historic leaders.
Scarlett noticed that the king’s table was empty.
Glancing around the room she saw Tristian limping through the door behind the king and queen. She followed after him, intending to ask him about her living arrangements. She didn’t care what the queen said. She didn’t want to be forced out of Tristian’s bedchambers and she was certain he would plead her case before Catherina.
She caught up to him in the corridor outside the State Hall, at the entrance to a private meeting room known as the King’s Cagair. Scarlett had never been allowed inside. In fact, few were. The King’s Cagair was reserved for confidential government and judicial matters.
Scarlett tugged on Tristian’s shirtsleeve.
“Red,” he greeted, “it was wonderful to see you dance tonight. You’ll have to excuse me for a little while. The high king’s emissary has requested a private conference with my family.”
Demulier Gongrave brushed past Scarlett, her wild green eyes giving her the chills. “What a lovely young girl,” the woman purred.
“Red, this is Demulier Congrave,” Tristian said. “She is a high ranking advisor to the high king.”
Scarlett didn’t need or want an introduction. She remembered Demulier all too well. She offered a polite bow nonetheless.
“Charming,” Demulier said before slipping i
nto the meeting room.
“I’ll be out shortly,” Tristian said.
Scarlett huffed once the heavy wood door to the King’s Cagair had closed. A guard stationed himself in front of the entrance that, when sealed, was soundproof. He glared at Scarlett with a stern gaze that suggested she find somewhere else to be.
She veered south and made her way along the corridors that circled around the King’s Cagair. She didn’t like not knowing what was being discussed. She didn’t like that woman, or the high king’s emissary.
They may have locked her out, but she knew of other ways inside.
Scarlett took a stool from a broom cupboard in the rear wing of the castle, and carried it to the corridor that circled around the back of the secret meeting room. Against the wall there was a notch with a small vent high above the floor. The vent was small and cold. Scarlett knew that in a few years she would be too big to fit through it, but for now she could shimmy on her elbows and knees to the metal grate overlooking the inside of the King’s Cagair.
A half dozen lanterns illuminated the room. The dark stone walls were bare minus a large silver and gold coat of arms that hung behind the king’s chair. Dagart, Catherina, and their two sons sat around a broad wooden table alongside two of Dagart’s closest advisors, Balgair Kinloch and Dolmhart Gloinson. Princess Arrahbella sat next to Tristian, with a look of faint trepidation on her porcelain face.
Demulier stood on the outskirts of the room, her eyes intent on Ustus as he circled the table in the middle of a speech. He appeared calm and dignified, even if Scarlett did think his face was creepy.
“Do not think the loyalty of the Elles has gone unnoticed by his majesty,” Ustus said. “He is extremely grateful for your support, and is prepared to reward you.” He thrust a finger into the air. “But not in material gain. The wealth of Tay is widely known throughout the realm, and his majesty knows you are not in want, and so what he is prepared to offer is a wealth not of this world.”
King Dagart looked puzzled. “What kind of wealth?”
“Wealth in power.”
This seemed to please the king who smiled, as did his wife.
Demulier stepped forward and joined Ustus, who seemed to shrink in her presence. As much authority as Ustus conveyed, Demulier clearly had more. “The power our great king brings is the power of Ahkidibis.”
A dark silence descended around the table.
Advisor Balgair said, “You dare speak that name here, woman?”
“Hold your tongue,” Queen Catherina said with a deep frown.
“My lady,” said a frightened Balgair, “to speak the god’s name so freely is to invite his wicked presence into—”
“I said silence!” she shouted.
Demulier looked disappointed as she shook her head. “‘His wicked presence,’” she repeated. “Those who fear the power of the God of Fire do not know what they should fear. It is that fear, Balgair, that taints his legend. Ahkidibis offers only truth, wrapped in the fury of a thousand ages. He is to be pitied, not feared. Loved, not hated. He rewards those who serve him, like High King Orkrash Mahl.”
“The high king bows to the God of Fire?” Balgair asked. He seemed surprised, though no one else did.
“Hence his power,” Demulier said. She moved along the side of the table with a devilish sway. “Hence his wealth. Ahkidibis is not the monster so many fear him to be. He wants a place on Edhen, and in exchange he is willing to grant us much, but he requires loyalty.” She trailed her fingers along the back of Prince Taggart’s neck. “Faithfulness. A pledge of unwavering allegiance.”
Balgair looked stunned. “If you’re asking the leaders of Tay to bow fully to the God of Fire—”
“Will you shut up, fool?” Catherina moaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Your protests are starting to give me a headache.”
“Mother, let him speak,” Tristian said.
Emboldened, Balgair turned to the king. “My lord, this requires careful thought. Whomever the high king chooses to bow to is his decision, but to require us to bow with him is the antithesis of freedom. It goes against everything the great High King Vala Hull fought to give this land.”
“Vala Hull?” Demulier said.
“He was a tyrant,” Catherina spat.
“And yet thanks to him this realm exists today,” Tristian said.
Catherina turned to her son in shock. “Are you agreeing with Balgair?”
“I neither agree nor disagree with anyone,” the prince answered. “I think this whole conversation is pointless.”
“You consider the will of your high king pointless?” said Ustus. His expression was cold, his eyes like knives as his gaze bore down upon Tristian.
“If it is the high king’s will that we bow to his god then all this discussion is rather moot, don’t you think?” Tristian said. “What is the alternative? Death? Let’s bow and be done with it.”
Balgair lifted his hand. “We must think about this before—”
“We have thought about this,” Dagart said, cutting off his advisor. “This is why the high king has sent his emissaries to us, to hear our pledge of loyalty to him and to his god. As much as I hate to admit it, my cripple of a son is correct.”
Balgair scoffed. “This is madness.”
“Nevertheless,” Dagart said, rising from his seat, “it is your king’s wish that all of Tay follow the god of the high king.”
Demulier glided over to Dagart and ran her hand across his shoulders. “As your loyalty grows, so will his strength. As his strength grows, his generals will rise. And you will be first among his chosen.”
“Generals?” Balgair said. “Not the Adarc?”
Demulier smirked.
“My lord, the Adarc are demons from ancient times. We cannot—”
Catherina slammed her palm on the table. “For the last time, you will shut your tongue or I will remove it from your mouth!”
Balgair jumped to his feet, his chair scraping along the stone. “I will not stand by and let this kingdom fall to ruin because of the desperate hopes of an ignorant few.”
“How dare you speak to your king like that?” Catherina said with a gasp.
“My apologies, my lady,” Balgair said. “My job is to advise the spiritual and moral direction of our kingdom, and Tay has been backsliding for years. I cannot stand by and allow this to come to pass.”
“Then you can remove yourself from this council,” Dagart said.
Balgair looked offended. “My lord, I—”
“Your king gave you an order,” Catherina hissed.
“Technically it wasn’t an order, mother,” Tristian said.
“And you can go with him, insolent twit,” she said.
“My son stays,” Dagart said. “If the Elles are to swear to the God of Fire, then they all must swear.”
Balgair looked around the table, his eyes lingering on Advisor Dolmhart who had yet to say anything. The man stroked the pointy tuft of hair on the end of his chin as though in deep thought. After a moment, Balgair left the room.
Demulier walked to one of the lanterns and removed it from the wall. She extinguished its flame and then smashed the glass jar of oil onto the table. Pressing her palm into the oil she uttered a series of strange sounding words unlike any language Scarlett had ever heard before. When she lifted her oil slicked hand, she blew on it and a small flame erupted in her palm.
She extended her hand to Dagart. “Swear to him,” she said. “Swear to your high king and to the God of Fire whom he serves.”
Dagart took the woman’s hand, wincing at the bite of flame. “I swear.”
She walked to Catherina and extended her hand. “Swear to him, your high king and to his god.”
The queen took Demulier’s hand and shook it. “I swear.”
And so it went around the table—Taggart, Dolmhart, and Arrahbella, their hands sealing their commitments in a blink of flame.
When Demulier came to Tristian, Scarlett held her breath, wishing s
he could shout out to him to stop.
“Do you swear to Ahkidibis?” Demulier asked.
Ahkidibis. The God of Fire. Everything Scarlett had ever heard about the deity was monstrous. She couldn’t let Tristian pledge allegiance to such a being.
She grabbed onto the metal grate, hoping to rattle it to get Tristian’s attention, but the metal was bolted tight to the wall.
Tristian took the woman’s flaming hand.
Scarlett felt her heart sink as she watched him give it a single shake up and down.
“I have the strangest feeling we’ve met before,” Demulier said as she looked deep into Tristian’s eyes.
He shrugged. “I doubt it. I could not easily forget a woman of your beauty.”
She smiled and let him go, extinguishing the tiny flame in the palm of her hand with a sultry puff of her lips.
“The high king expresses his thanks to all of you,” Ustus said. “He asks now for your patience. The road ahead will be long and fraught with many obstacles. War is coming to Edhen, and he will need loyal supporters.”
Dagart dipped his head. “High King Orkrash Mahl can count on Tay, its resources and its people.”
When the meeting adjourned, Scarlett took advantage of the scraping chairs and bustle of bodies to mask her movements back through the vent. She climbed out of the hole into the hallway, returned the stool to the broom cupboard, and ran back down the corridors leading to the State Hall.
She wheeled around a corner to see Demulier and Ustus in the midst of a hushed discussion. The sight startled her. She jumped back and hid around the corner, winded from her run. Slowly, carefully, she ventured a peek around the bend.
Demulier look agitated. She paced in front of Ustus in her long black gown, one hand pressed against her forehead.
“It’s him,” she said, trying to keep her voice low.
“The cripple?” Ustus said.
“He is the one, I know it.”
“How do you know?”
“When I touched him, his soul reeked with the memories of his ancestors.”
Ustus crossed his arms and touched his chin in thought. “But you did not get this feeling when you touched his brother, or the king?”