by Brian Fuller
Gen stopped. Where was he supposed to go? Walking up to the great doors of the Great Hall and asking entry seemed inappropriate, so he went around toward the back where he guessed the kitchens would be. On the way, he passed the stables, which were alive with the preparations of mighty horses with shining black coats. They were receiving brushings and braidings, no doubt in preparation for the arrival of the Ha’Ulrich. Two white horses were the subject of even more decoration. The farriers, having finished their part of the work, hailed Gen as he passed.
“Good work yesterday, lad!” one said. “Did me good to see Kimdan take a whippin.’ Did me good like you could never know!”
“That’s double for me,” the other chimed in. “You come by and it’s a drink on us at a tavern ‘a your choosin’.”
Gen thanked them and waved, pressing on toward the sound of children playing. He found them chasing each other around in a nicely appointed yard bordered with tall pines. The smells coming from a nearby side door were unmistakable, and Gen entered. Nearly everyone noticed his entrance and all activity stopped instantly.
“I was looking to take the morning meal,” he explained to the collection of surprised faces. All of a sudden, a plump woman with short dark curly hair was upon him before he could protest, and Gen found himself the recipient of an enthusiastic hug.
“This is him!” the woman said, releasing him and addressing the others. “This is Gen! Welcome, young master! I’m Marna. You’ve a room full of friends here. You were magnificent yesterday! Striking low, striking high!”
Marna brandished a rolling pin, and Gen fought down a smile. “I tell you,” she went on, “that I’ve never been treated more rudely by any man than that Kimdan Ogbith. Seeing you kicking ‘im in his manhood brought a smile to me face that won’t fade any time soon. Oh, but look what I’ve done to that uniform!”
Gen glanced down to find the black cloth of his uniform mottled with several patches of flour. Marna tried to wipe them off, enlarging the stains, and only after assuring her several times that it was all right and that he would take care of it and that he wasn’t angry did she relent.
“Well, I’m sorry all the same,” she said. “But, you said you wanted some food. From now on, you can enter the commons from the rear entrance of the Great Hall, not that we would mind you coming to visit us here whenever you like. If that ol’ mealworm Captain Tolbrook doesn’t let you eat much, well, you just come by here and we’ll fix you up proper.”
Gen thanked her, quite sure he’d never been so welcome anywhere before.
“But wait!” Marna said as he started to leave. “Mercy me. You’re not to eat until you are presented to the First Mother. You’re the first to come through this morning and I almost forgot, though the Door Wardens would have told you.”
“Where should I enter? Through the commons?”
“Why no, silly,” Marna clucked in a motherly fashion. “You march right through that front door. You might not be a noble or an aristocrat, but a Dark Guard is something better. That’s what I always say. And you don’t let those snobs sneer down at you.”
“Thank you again.” Gen gave Marna a little bow, and she smiled.
“You come right back here and get your food, if you like!”
Gen took the long way around the back of the Great Hall just to get to know where everything was, all the while working to get the flour off his uniform with only limited success. If he’d had time to let it dry, he thought he would have better luck, but he didn’t want to keep the First Mother or his stomach waiting, whatever the condition of his uniform. Once around the front of the building, he ascended the steps, a castle guard standing at rigid attention on each one. As at the castle gate, the doors opened for him as if he were expected.
Gen entered and the doors closed with a deep boom. He found himself in a broad hallway with another set of heavily ornate doors before him, those leading into the Great Hall proper. Two guards stood there, as well as an older man, dressed finely in purple and silver robes. Thin gray hair stuck out in all directions from his head, and he leaned his head on his staff of office. Gen guessed this was the Chamberlain, though the sunshine from high, arching windows showed that his eyes were closed. He was asleep standing up.
“You’ll have to wake him,” one of the soldiers whispered. “His son does most of the work nowadays, but the First Mother loves old Hurney here and will likely keep him in service until he falls over dead.”
Chamberlain Hurney snorted and came awake. “I am not dead!” he protested, poking his staff into the ribs of the guard who had said nothing. “Ah, there’s the lad I was hoping to meet. I am the Chamberlain, Chamberlain Hurney Fedrick, at your service.” He executed a small bow. “Capital performance, yesterday. Absolutely capital! But, my goodness! What a lot of scars you have! Well, the First Mother will see you shortly. It is a busy day. However, I just want to say that Kimdan deserved every lick you gave him yesterday. Spoiled whelp.”
“I’m starting to get the feeling he isn’t well liked,” Gen commented.
“Oh, he’s well-liked by the ladies and probably isn’t too bad of a fellow. A little too proud for my taste, though. I have to ask, however, which lady gave you her favor?”
“Lady Fenna Fairedale,” Gen answered. “She serves as the Chalaine’s handmaiden.”
“Ah,” the Chamberlain intoned with a sly wink. “She was here loitering around earlier today, waiting for someone, I think. Now there’s a pretty girl if I ever did see one. A kind one, too, if she’s given her colors to a commoner—not to say that you didn’t earn them! You are a serf in Tolnor, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” Hurney said, patting him on the back, “that’s doesn’t matter at all now that you’re a Dark Guard. Every nobleman you’ll meet will know that you can whack his legs off without much effort, and they’ll be polite enough.”
The inner doors swung open, and Gen watched as several Churchmen, deep in conversation, filed out.
Hurney squeezed his arm. “Looks like it’s your turn. Follow me.”
The Chamberlain walked through the doors and, planting his feet, struck the floor three times with his staff. “I present, Gen, recently apprenticed to the Dark Guard, who has come as requested by Her Majesty. He bears no rank or family name of note.”
Gen was surprised at the power in his aged voice.
“Let him come before me,” the First Mother said brightly. Gen strode forward, taking in the Great Hall and finding it the most magnificent room he had ever set foot in. The marble here was white blushed with red, and sleek, tapered columns rose to an arched roof. Finely worked balustrades lined balconies on either side of him, and the whole room was bathed in sunlight streaming in from a large arched window behind the dais and along the apex of the roof. Tapestries with images of Aldradan Mikmir, legendary king and general of Rhugoth, hung on the walls.
Gen wished he could stop and examine everything more closely, but he kept his head high and turned forward, his face controlled and his steps even and confident. About halfway toward the throne Gen quickly reviewed the lessons Rafael had taught him about presentation to Rhugothian aristocracy, but several other manners of presentation swam about his head from ages past. He strove to keep Rafael’s more current instruction in mind. The old bard had played in Rhugothian court before, though not as the main attraction.
The First Mother sat on a burnished wooden throne next to a larger, empty throne of stone and metal, the throne of Aldradan Mikmir, a throne left unoccupied for centuries. Gen remembered from Rafael’s history lessons that the people in Rhugoth waited for Aldradan to return, though Rafael said most now accepted that the king was not immortal and lost, but rather long dead and buried. The First Mother was more than the equal to the grandeur of the room, beautiful and commanding. Her youth struck him as it had on the field the day before, and he reasoned that she must have been very young when she gave birth to the Chalaine.
The Magician Ethris stood sligh
tly behind her, face serious, as did the guard Gen saw with her at the Trials. A young, dark-haired scribe sat at a desk nearby, busily writing with a colorful plume. The First Mother smiled as he approached, only increasing the youthful beauty of her face.
Once at the base of the dais, Gen went to genuflect, but instead of bending at the knee as a commoner must do before royalty, something from Telmerran took over. Gen drew his sword and placed it before him, point east, and then went to both knees and placed his head upon the sword. The First Mother’s guard loosened his sword in his scabbard and Gen realized that he had made a mistake.
“Resheathe your sword and rise,” the First Mother said. “It has been a long time since a naked blade has been seen in this room.”
“And even longer,” Ethris piped in concernedly, “since anyone has used that manner of genuflection. Do you even know what it means, boy?”
“Forgive me, Milady,” Gen apologized as he stood and slid his sword into his scabbard. “This is the first time I’ve been at Court or near one. I do know what it means, sir.”
“Then pray tell us, Gen,” the First Mother requested, glancing questioningly at Ethris. “For I do not.” The scribe stopped writing, regarding Gen with interest.
“The naked blade,” Gen explained, “symbolizes that trouble is near at hand. The point is set against the east, from whence Mikkik first arose. The knees are bent as a mark of fealty and trust for one’s Lord or Lady, and the forehead upon the blade signifies that the weapon will be used with forethought and intelligence, not impulse and passion.”
“Well, Ethris,” the First Mother asked, “is he right?”
“Perfectly,” the Mage replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“I apologize if I have defiled the hall or worried your protector.”
“On the contrary,” the First Mother said. “I find it charming and appropriate for the times. As you are Captain of the apprentices, I order you to teach your peers this manner of presentation. I will instruct Tolbrook to learn it from you as well so that all the Dark Guard will use it.”
“As you wish, your Grace.”
“But we are not offended. Cadaen was only surprised. He is anxious for my health and has served me long and well. In turn, I hope you were not offended by our Chamberlain’s introduction. Family and rank are always part of introductions at court.”
“If I were offended by the truth, I would have deeper problems than my pedigree,” Gen said, painfully aware of Ethris staring at him intently.
“Very well. I welcome you to court and extend my congratulations to you for your fine exhibition at the Trials. I must admit that I am eager to spend some time with you and ask you more questions than you will likely want to answer. I know the rest of the apprentices somewhat by reputation or through association with their families, but you, quite literally, are an unlooked-for—though not unwelcome—surprise. If it were any other day, I would ask you to take a meal with me, but with the arrival of the Blessed One, I am too busy to take the leisure. I will call on you ere long, however.”
“I will await your pleasure, Highness” Gen said, bowing to show his gratitude for the First Mother’s graciousness.
“But I must ask you a question,” she said, a smile coming to her lips. “Did they not launder your uniform before giving it to you?”
Gen had hoped she wouldn’t notice. “I am most recently the victim of an eager embrace from a kitchen cook named Marna, whom I knew not before today, but whose favor and affection I have unintentionally earned in overwhelming proportions. It is the unfortunate union of black cloth and white apron that sees me thus arrayed. Again, I apologize to the court.”
The First Mother laughed, a sound Gen thought he would like to hear more often. “You take us altogether too seriously, Gen. Marna is well-loved and to bear evidence of her regard is no insult to the court.”
“Still, I must beg permission to leave before I commit a third blunder and bring everlasting shame upon myself. I promise to spend some time with the Chamberlain so that he may instruct me more completely in Rhugothian manners.”
The First Mother laughed again. “You may have to wake him first. Oh, but you must smile, Gen, or how am I to know if you are joking? But as you are resolved to such a serious demeanor, I will grant you leave, but look for an invitation from me soon. And for a quick lesson, when you depart the room, you must only bow before you turn away from me.”
Gen knew this, but he figured feigning ignorance the wiser course. “Thank you, Highness, for your patience. I will be honored to meet with you again. Good day.”
Gen bowed and walked out with the same steady gait he entered with. The guards, smirking at the flour-smeared uniform, opened the doors for him, and the Chamberlain, still awake, grabbed him by the arm.
“How’d you do lad? You weren’t in there long.”
“Poorly, sir.” Hurney’s eyes widened.
“Why yes, yes! I should have thought about that before sending you in there! You’re a commoner from another land. How could you know?”
Between introductions, Hurney instructed him on every detail of proper address and presentation to nobility and aristocracy in Rhugoth and wouldn’t let him leave before Gen knew the names and standards of all the Regents, Dukes, and Warlords in the three kingdoms.
By the time he left, breakfast was long over, but it took no effort to coax Marna to scrape up some food for him. Afterward, Gen explored the Great Hall further, finding an exquisite atrium and a well-stocked and well-lit library. Gen could think of nothing he would like to do more than reading, something he’d not been permitted to do under Shadan Khairn’s tutelage. Selecting one book from so many fine ones took some time, but he spent the balance of the morning comfortably entrenched in a book of poetry.
Finding himself relaxed for the first time in months, and, owing to his lack of rest from the toil of the day before, he eventually drifted off to sleep, awaking with a start some time later. Judging the angle of the light coming through the high arching windows, he knew he’d missed lunch. Not having the heart to beg another meal from Marna and risk further distress to his uniform, Gen resolved to go without and return to the guardhouse to work sword forms before his duty that evening. But as he rose to go, Gerand and Volney entered the library in a bustle.
“There you are!” Volney said. “We must hurry or we’ll miss it. You should be grateful the scullery maids kept good track of you. Probably the first time they’d even seen the library.”
“You mean miss the Ha’Ulrich?” Gen asked.
“Of course!” Volney said. “What an honor! Let’s go. His ship was seen on the lake just minutes ago!”
“We won’t be able to see him at all in the throng, I would think,” Gen speculated, letting himself be dragged off.
“You forget,” Gerand said, pointing at Volney and himself, “that we two are nobles, and nobles get certain privileges. You may not be a noble, but stay with us. You’ll have a perfect vantage point, trust me.”
The day was warm, the sky clear, and the wind gusting. As he expected, a great gathering of people constricted the lane that led to the castle to little more than a path, but Gerand and Volney led him away down a different, guarded route where those of the upper class went on carriage and horse to the pier.
When they arrived at the water’s edge, Gen found that large covered stands were erected near the platform that extended out into the lake, and as his companions promised, they had a good vantage point some ten rows up. Anyone who could lay claim to the title noble was there, and the general noise made conversation impossible unless mouth and ear were in close proximity.
Close to the pier, a group of nearly one hundred darkly dressed Churchmen stood in formation. Their black robes flapped in the wind, and others huddled with backs against the gale, trying to light incense lamps. Brightly colored flags lined the pier, whipping and snapping, one Rhugothian guard standing at attention at the base of each. The mood around them was an odd mixture of worshi
p and wild celebration, an equal mix of chanting Puremen and singing performers, the reverent and the restless.
Gen turned toward the lake, finding the water choppy and uneven in the wind. A massive ship bedecked in the red colors of Aughmere floated low in the water, sails stowed. The flag of Aughmere, sporting the emblem of the hammer and sword, flew next to the Ha’Ulrich’s, the symbol of the veiled Trys, a black flag with a white ring.
“There’s a flag I could do without seeing,” Gerand commented on seeing Aughmere’s colors. Gen nodded in agreement.
Fanfare and a shout farther up the road toward the castle finally silenced to the crowd, and at the same time Gen noticed the sailors lowering the Aughmerian ship’s landing boat into the water on the port side. At this sign, the Churchmen launched into a hymn, beautiful and haunting, while eight Puremen swung their lamps slowly back and forth, fragrant, thick smoke swirling in the wind and blowing over the crowd. The song, which neither Gen nor his companions recalled hearing before, subdued the festivity and brought a quiet order to the street.
You rise with the sun,
Savior and King,
To mold us as one
Beneath your wing.
Your praises we sing.
The light of our faith,
Mother and Queen,
For our God the gate
In your womb unseen,
Your praises we sing.
Eldaloth, our God
By evil slain,