by Nunn, PL
The sound of low laughter and relaxed conversation told him that Alasdair’s men were well pleased with this comfort Lord Elvardo offered. Yhalen realized, distracted very much by Bloodraven’s lazy approach, that the feeling of unease that had afflicted them all had faded away completely. If it was a spell, as Lady Duvera suggested, it had either been lifted, or they had passed its boundaries.
Bloodraven caught Yhalen’s wrist in passing and settled himself on the ledge before pulling Yhalen between his lazily sprawled knees. Uncertainty made Yhalen’s heart thump frantically within his chest.
Though Bloodraven had shown a certain modesty to engaging in sexual activity in the presence of his human captors-allies, it had been a long journey here, and Yhalen wasn’t entirely confident of Bloodraven’s ability to maintain indefinite abstinence.
Bloodraven alleviated that particular fear by prying the soap out of Yhalen’s clenched fingers and placing his large hands on Yhalen’s shoulders.
“I can wash myself,” Yhalen hissed, low-voiced and embarrassed, shivering as strong fingers slick with lather traveled down his sides.
“I think not,” Bloodraven said simply.
And that was that. Big hands lathered the soap and spread out across his shoulders and back, washing his body as he’d done for Bloodraven. Back, chest, stomach, and legs. Unsurprisingly, he lingered for some long while around the small of Yhalen’s back and the brand there. Bloodraven hesitated not one bit in soaping the half-hard flesh between Yhalen’s legs. Big hands fondled him, thoroughly working lather into all his crevices, and Yhalen endured it, eyes shut and trembling now and then like a horse under the hand of its groom.
It was clinical, which was the only saving grace, and the fear of discovery worked in direct conflict with the occasional stirrings between his legs as Bloodraven casually handled him. Bloodraven let him go, and Yhalen sank down and backwards, pushing out to deeper water and escape. He fixed his gaze warily upon Bloodraven to see if he’d pursue, but the halfling merely leaned back against the smooth stonewall and watched him with barely veiled interest.
Yhalen submerged, rinsing soap from body and hair. Submerged again to rinse his hair a second time and stayed under water, reveling in the strange, deafening silence that buffered him from all the rest of the world.
He surfaced, hanging near the shadowed back of the pool, water lapping at his lips, having no intention of returning to the nook where Bloodraven waited and hoping against hope that Bloodraven didn’t make an issue of fetching him.
Bloodraven didn’t, and soon enough the men were stirred from the taking of their ease by the appearance of the young red-haired serving woman.
“When you’ve finished with your bath, dinner will be waiting. There are clean clothes in the outer chamber for your use.”
She stood there, as if waiting to see if any of them would rise and request her dubious assistance in dressing. But being good knights and king’s men and under the prudent eye of their commander who seemed set against accepting the hospitality of their host to that extent, none of them rose, and the woman shrugged before disappearing back through the changing chamber.
With quiet splashes and a murmur of expectation, Alasdair and his men left the pool to pad wetly into the connecting room. Yhalen followed, keeping a wary eye on Bloodraven, who trailed the lot of them. They dried themselves with broad towels and indeed, there were clean trousers and shirts, as well as over-tunics for the lot of them. For Alasdair and his men, there was fine, soft material cut in the style Yhalen had seen the king and his advisors wear.
Each item was a perfect fit, even Bloodraven’s. His clothing seemed to have been tailor-made and was of a cut more reminiscent of the clothing he’d worn under his armor when Yhalen had first encountered him, than the human-styled tunic and trousers he’d been given after Lord Dunval had captured him. Thick leather guards were sewn along his elbows and the lower portion of his trousers, and rune-like symbols were stitched into the collar. What seemed to be small, bleached bones and feathers dangled from the lacings of his tunic.
Yhalen found, with much wariness, that the new clothing that filled the cubby where he’d left his travel worn clothing, was the very likeness of Ydregi finery—soft leathers sporting intricately cut patterns along the arms and shoulders, as well as a trim here and there of the small, tubular ceramic beadwork that the artisans among his people produced.
How could they have possibly known? Even if they had guessed his origins upon entry into this uneasy castle, no mundane hand could have sewn these clothes in the time they’d spent in the baths.
The lady Duvera awaited them in the passageway outside, along with the red-haired girl. The lady had been gifted with a fine gown of indigo blue, which, from her look of satisfaction, must have met well with her approval. Her eye passed over the men of her party, lingering in speculation upon Bloodraven, and, both brows lifting in some regard that Yhalen didn’t find comforting, upon himself.
Yhalen walked at the rear of the group, twisting his damp hair as they followed the young servant woman, of necessity leaving it loose until it dried enough to easily braid. The shadows of the passage were thick enough that the figures of the men ahead of him were mere silhouettes, indistinguishable save for Bloodraven’s towering form.
The girl led them through a warren of passages on a path so convoluted that Yhalen was sure he’d be helplessly lost if he attempted to retrace it alone. But soon enough they reached what seemed a more formal section of hall, with towering ceilings and tall, narrow-paned windows that looked out upon the steeply sloped, forested side of the valley. There was a speckling of closed doors along its length and at the end a large dining room.
A long, ironwood table dominated the room. Its surface gleamed with countless buffings, its legs ornately carved creations that Yhalen decided not to look too closely at, once he realized that among the twisted carvings were the triangle shaped heads of wooden serpents. The chairs were high-backed and padded, and no one of them was too fragile to have supported Bloodraven’s weight.
The redhead urged them to settle, and even as the last scuffing of chairs legs against floor dwindled, a pair of swinging doors at the side of the room emitted the young blonde woman, bearing baskets of fresh baked bread. There were flagons of wine already on the table, and the redhead moved about, filling goblets. Yhalen shifted uneasily, wishing for nothing so strong as simple, pure water, but of that there seemed to be none.
“Will you see that my men at the stables have food sent to them?” Alasdair asked of the redhead when she paused to fill his goblet.
“Of course,” she smiled, leaning further in so that her breasts fairly swelled from her bodice.
Alasdair scowled. If he was moved, he hid it admirably.
While they broke bread, the blonde and the raven-haired girls returned, this time with platters of steaming potatoes and onions, mushrooms and leeks in a creamy sauce, sliced fruit and no less than a dozen herb-crusted, roast fowl garnished with lemon and sprigs of fresh mint.
Alasdair had leaned in towards the lady Duvera at one point, while the girls were occupied at the far end of the table and asked with what seemed reluctance, “Is it safe, do you think?”
The lady, who had been swirling the wine in her glass thoughtfully, hesitated before answering, her eyes turning vague and her lips trembling as she mouthed silent words. Yhalen felt the barest trickle of stirring in that place where power dwelt and knew she was about something. She looked back up at Alasdair and smiled.
“Only if you overindulge, sir knight.” She lifted her own goblet and took a sip.
Alasdair motioned to his men, who had been hesitating about delving into the meal, and with a great murmur of appreciation, they availed themselves of Lord Elvardo’s hospitality yet again.
“I’ve heard stories of this keep and its dark lord for all my life,” the lady said, not minding the presence of the girls or what tales they might take back to their master.
“I’ve hear
d rumors here and there,” Alasdair admitted reluctantly, when she seemed to want response from him on the subject.
“They say he was excommunicated from the church decades ago for dark deeds that, even to this day, no one outside the highest order know the details of. They say King Andjuran would have slain him if he could, but feared the decimation of his army, so chose to force a vow of service from him instead, in exchange for this land and a judicial overlooking of his crimes.”
“What crimes?” It was clear Alasdair would rather not have asked, and just as clear that the man was curious.
Duvera shrugged. “As with the church, those records seem to have disappeared.”
The entire time they ate, they saw no servants other than the three young women. The young man was absent from the dining hall, no doubt attending his lord.
Though simple, the meal was savored, as was to be expected from men who had subsided on little more than trail rations for the last week or more. The talk during it consisted of discussion about the oddity of this cliff-side castle, its dark architecture and its often unnerving decor. Being men, the talk would have centered with more speculation on the inviting servants, had the girls not lurked around the edges of the room, awaiting their guests’ needs.
The lady Duvera leaned in occasionally to whisper something to Alasdair, but the knight was too preoccupied to return her conversation, fairly bristling with impatience to be about his king’s business.
Bloodraven was a silent observer to everything. His face was impassive, but Yhalen thought he was no more at ease in this place than the rest of them. Less so, perhaps, with his people’s superstitions regarding magic.
Eventually, when the chickens were picked to bones and the bread baskets empty, the young women cleared away the plates. A door at the far end of the dining chamber opened to admit the young man who’d greeted them.
“Have the trials of the road been eased?” he asked with a serene smile.
“Will he see us yet?” Alasdair countered.
The young man inclined his head. “He will. But not all of you. Lord Elvardo has an aversion to crowds, hence….”
He waved a graceful hand in a grand sweep that indicated the castle and the remote grounds it sat upon.
“You may come. And the lady. And you, I think, since this business has to do with your kind.” He indicated Bloodraven, then hesitated and canted a look at Yhalen, smile turning somewhat less serene and more speculative. “And you, since Lord Elvardo likes pretty things.”
Yhalen felt his face heat. But he didn’t hesitate in rising with the others, curiosity being no small driving force.
Alasdair hesitated, surveying the remainder of his men.
“We will see that your men are pampered like princes,” the red-haired girl promised, she and her counterparts smiling invitingly.
Alasdair frowned, beckoning the ranking knight among his men. He quietly told the man to be on his guard, then he, Lady Duvera, Bloodraven and Yhalen followed the young male servant out of the dining room and towards a meeting with the lord of his castle.
Like the hall they’d walked to get to the dining room, this one continued to overlook the rugged cliffs. Elvardo’s reception room, when they finally reached it, was two storeys’ tall at the least, with a vast, black marble floor reflecting the various wrought iron sconces set along the outer walls. Great, gleaming columns of marvelous, veined stone dotted the floor in no apparent pattern. It was as if the architect had shut his eyes and picked spots at random to plant them. They allowed no straight path to the far end of the room, but rather forced them to take a winding one, following in the footsteps of Lord Elvardo’s bronze-haired retainer.
There was no dais, but a shallow indention in the far wall, where the bulk of a carved chair was nestled. The back rose, twisting and thorny, like the oldest, foulest path of briars in an ancient wood. It encompassed the wall of the cubby and grew outward, threading up to the ceiling above and disappearing into the shadows. It couldn’t have been a comfortable seat. The old man who sat upon it was stone-faced and unwelcoming. Very old, with loose flesh dangling from his jaw, and claw-like hands. Yhalen had heard Alasdair and the lady say that this man had treated with the present king’s father when he’d been young in his rule.
The bronze-haired servant moved to stand behind the chair, close enough to his master should the old lord require him.
“What dire task do you risk your lives and my wrath coming here for?” the old lord inquired.
“Lord Elvardo.” Alasdair stopped some yards from the chair, eyes traveling over the undulating, thorny carvings with thinly veiled distaste. “I come on the business of your liege lord and mine, the king of Suthland.”
“King Andjuran?” The old man lifted a white brow, naming the present king’s late father. Even Yhalen knew the crown had been passed a decade earlier upon King Andjuran’s death.
Alasdair’s frown deepened, his fingers twitched as if they longed to grasp the hilt of the great sword at his side.
“King Valeran,” he said stiffly.
“Ah, Andjuran’s oldest brat. I liked the younger one better. And who are you?”
Alasdair’s cheek twitched. “Sir Alasdair Lhak, knight in his majesty’s service. This is the lady Dun–”
“I didn’t ask.” Elvardo rested his chin upon bony knuckles. “That is an interesting traveling companion for one of Tangery’s knights behind you, though.”
Alasdair half glanced at Bloodraven, who stood with deceptive calmness at the rear of the group, taking full advantage of column cast shadows.
“Bloodraven,” Alasdair gave his name freely. “And a good part of the reason we’ve come.”
He pulled a wax-sealed letter from his tunic and extended his arm towards Elvardo’s young servant. The youth moved forward and took the envelope from the knight’s hand, a slight curve playing about his full lips. The young man went to his lord and Elvardo waved a hand, indicating he should break the seal. The servant pulled out the several pages of parchment for his lord. He remained at the old man’s side while Elvardo scanned the pages in the king’s own hand, explaining what service he wished of his vassal.
Yhalen shifted his footing, casting nervous glances into the shadows at the sides of this strange hall forested by columns and walled with strange carvings that seemed to represent some malformed woods. He felt the subtle twinge of magic. If magic could have a scent, even in its many guises, he seemed to have identified the odor of Lady Duvera’s witchcrafts. What she was doing, he didn’t know, nor did he dare interfere, here in the heart of such a dark and malignant place. He moved marginally closer to the column where Bloodraven stood, laying a hand lightly upon the cool surface and finding solace in its solidity, even as Bloodraven found it in the shadow it cast. Yhalen didn’t wish to be here.
He did not understand why he’d been asked, when the rest of Alasdair’s men had remained under the care of the young women.
The old man upon the thorny throne, if he noted the lady’s arcane questing, made no comment upon it, still engrossed in the king’s communication.
Something crept out of the shadows, elusive as a whisper of breath across silk. Yhalen would have overlooked it entirely save for the vague essence of forest that it brought with it. Of earth deep power, old and unshakable and…insatiable. The lady gasped, her pitiful thread of magic sheared neatly in two as a tendril of that monumental power lashed out at her on its retreat, quiet as night, back into the shadows from whence it had come.
Duvera reeled, clutching at Alasdair’s arm. He steadied her, shocked at her sudden weakness and supporting her wilting body with one thick arm.
The old lord’s eyes flickered up, curious, but the lady was waving the knight’s support away, having regathered her equilibrium, though her face was pale as fresh snow and her eyes wide and frightened.
Elvardo’s young aide canted his head, eyes veiled in shadow, and Yhalen felt the most minuscule echo of power receding like waves from a shore. He b
linked, mesmerized by that sculpted, shadowed face, and one side of the young man’s mouth lifted in a humorless smile.
“What madness is this?” Lord Elvardo snorted, upon finishing the letter. “Has Andjuran’s son lost his senses?”
“Most certainly not!” Alasdair said in offense. “You hold these lands as a vassal of the king of Suthland and are bound by oath and honor to use them as he sees fit.”
The old man laughed.
Yhalen moved around the back of the column to Bloodraven’s side, laying fingers very lightly upon the halfling’s elbow. Bloodraven glanced down, curious.
“That man upon the throne,” Yhalen said softly. “He’s not the power here. I think the other is.”
He felt Bloodraven tense, head snapping up as he stared with scrutiny towards the shadowed alcove with its thorny chair. Almost Bloodraven made a move forward, even as the old man hissed some acid retort to Alasdair’s proclamation of his duty.
The young man at his side began to chuckle. Then to laugh outright, stalling the old man’s speech and drawing every eye to his lean, black-clad form.
“It’s so incredibly easy to manipulate the tainted magicks of the civilized races, to dupe your closed minds.” He inclined his head towards the horrified lady Duvera and Alasdair, then his gaze swung back to Yhalen, lingering in Bloodraven’s shadow. “But far more difficult to fool the pure power of the Forest.”
Yhalen felt a surge of adrenaline-fueled nausea, like an animal caught in the cruel gaze of the predator about to tear its throat out. He couldn’t make himself look away from the piecing brown gaze of the young man in black.