Session Fifty - September 22, 2007

[Matt]

Agrazhar 19, 731

The knight glaring down at him is tall and severe, all beetling brows and crinkly grey hair surmounting a cruel, aquiline nose. The nostrils flare as the knight’s voice grates unpleasantly: Sir Harth of Hurlis, to have a word with Sir Ewen of Ravinargh. Holli has to spin on his heels and scamper ahead of the unkind knight, who is in danger of impatiently sweeping past the serving boy into the hall ahead of a proper introduction, a calamity which would be to Holli’s lasting disgrace. Breathless, he hears his own piping voice announce the scowling visitor in just the nick of time. Wheeling with vast relief, he almost collides with the Thardan man-at-arms who has followed Sir Harth into the hall. Holli retreats to the safety of the kitchen as Sir Harth begins addressing the lords at the breakfast table in his curt, imperious voice.

Sir Ewen of Ravinargh finds his eyebrows elevating as Sir Harth remorselessly details for the assembled party a curious set of instructions, evidently originating from the Lady Rahel herself at Hag Hall. Sir Ewen is to spend the entirety of the day in his chambers fasting and meditating. Four of his companions are to accompany him to Hag Hall just prior to midnight, and are themselves to eat heartily throughout the day. Cekiya is to attend as well, but must not be numbered among the four. Sir Ewen knows better than to question this cryptic business, simply hears it out and nods gravely, and Sir Harth issues a clipped, insincere felicitation before stalking peremptorily toward the door, his mission accomplished. Holli scrambles back from the kitchen in time to intercept the striding knight and hold the heavy door as the two visitors step back out into the street. Arnys, evanescing from the morning mist and slipping past the departing pair into Gray House before the big door can slam shut, winks in sympathy at a clearly flustered Holli before joining the others, sliding into a vacant chair at the crowded breakfast table.

And so all heads turn to hear the calm, lightly droll report from their beggar-cum-squire, recently on detached duty from Gray House at a tenement on the east side of town. Business has been suitable, Arnys shrugs complacently as the kitchen staff, somehow divining Sir Harth’s instructions, hurry additional trays of provender to the board. But the weather does make the old joints ache. Chess games, however, have been good, he smiles briefly. Arnys pauses significantly to eye the abundant food now heaped upon the table by the zealous servants. Sir Baris shoves a plate toward Arnys with an indulgent grunt, having already sated himself after his recent days of gout, self-exile and abnegation. Sir Ewen casts a baleful eye upon these proceedings, Sir Harth’s injunction still ringing in his ears, but forebears from offering comment.

Cutting with relish into a steaming kidney pie, Arnys provides his report, punctuated by periods of contented chewing. The Earl of Neph, of course. The arrival of his noble person and his train. An evident spy discovered, inhabiting the same tenement as Arnys. Turm of Holast by name. Asks too many questions, seems like an agent of Neph. Does his interrogating in an amateurish fashion. Not a thug – he’s got a brain – but lacks experience. Questioning the menials, about what’s going on in different households. Not aware of my connection to Gray House, of course. Arnys mops his plate with a piece of bread, glancing around. And no, I didn’t notice anyone following me, offering a brief grin at Imarë. He leans back in his chair, sighing in unaccustomed satisfaction.

After the servants have cleared the remains of the enormous breakfast away, Sir Ewen quietly confirms the four companions who will stand with him this evening at Hag Hall: Sir Baris Tyrestal, Imarë Taërsi, Kaelyn of Alleta, and the newly returned Arnys. Sir Baris volunteers to return Kyle Muldune’s money at The Red Fox, and so Sir Ewen retires upstairs to his study, where he employs a candle as a focus for his trancing while Cekiya settles in outside, guarding his door from interlopers. Sir Baris, Imarë, and Arnys proceed to The Red Fox, where Kyle Maldune is lounging indolently in a corner. Imarë introduces Sir Baris, who drops the heavy bag of silver upon the table, suggesting that the gentleman appears to have misplaced it yesterday. Maldune takes this in stride, inviting the three to sit, glancing at the bag and shaking his head. He had hoped to make the acquaintance of the renowned Sir Ewen himself, he admits with regret. Sir Baris temporizes, suggesting that the knight is otherwise occupied this morning. Maldune asks if it might be possible that Sir Ewen would be available at some other time in the very near future, not that it’s less than wonderful meeting Sir Baris, he hastens to add. Imarë interposes as Sir Baris furrows his brow: in truth, Sir Ewen is indisposed today, but tomorrow should be possible. Sir Baris, rallying, attempts to ascertain some notion as to the business at hand, but Maldune characterizes it as a matter of some delicacy, and a situation of interest to people of a higher pay grade than himself. The group promises to see what they can do about producing the First Knight of Kaldor on the morrow, and they depart the inn and return to Gray House forthwith.

Later in the day, everyone save Sir Ewen eats a large dinner. Taroc, evidently grasping the pith and spirit of Sir Harth’s strictures, has prepared a feast of goose, hams, roasted vegetables, ale and bread, all of which are consumed while the day is discussed in detail. Sir Ewen eyes the succulent repast bleakly, looking slightly haggard from his long hours of concentration, but adheres to the restrictions placed upon him. The board is eventually cleared and the conversation meanders until the appointed hour finally arrives, whereupon the party assembles in the hall, everyone surfeited and content save Sir Ewen. They progress on foot to Hag Hall, wending their way through the city and deftly dodging the city watch at one point. Turning the corner from Ibuthine Way onto Valdan Way, they come upon an old beggar who pleads for alms for Peoni. Sir Ewen deposits one pence in his hand and the mendicant nods wisely, tapping his stick upon the cobblestones: pass with the blessings of the goddess, lord.

They are mildly surprised to find a guard posted outside the door at Hag Hall. The soldier bids Sir Ewen a good evening and indicates that they are to go straight in. Sir Harth awaits in the antechamber, lip curling faintly in contempt. Ah, he pronounces, prompt at least. Sir Ewen smiles blandly, failing to take the bait. They are instructed to go up the spiral staircase into the great hall, where they find it surprisingly dark. The tables have been moved aside and neither fire is lit, only a single burning candle standing sentinel in front of the empty hearth on the southern hall. Four torches have been lit where each of the tall columns stand, illuminating the ceiling with a dancing, smoky light. Rhonna of Fahl, Elena of Elerik, and Merin Sheld stand in the gloom as Rahel emerges from the shadows, hand extended to seize Sir Ewen’s: come with me, she says firmly. Rahel guides Sir Ewen into a room located beyond the middle door on the eastern wall, while Merin leads Sir Baris and Arnys through the door to its left, and Rhonna takes the women through the door to the right. Elena tarries with Cekiya in the hall, cryptically silent but watchful as the others file out.

Within the well-furnished chamber, Sir Ewen finds the curtains drawn aside from the bed, revealing a pair of robes, white and black, arrayed upon the bedding. Rahel instructs Sir Ewen to disrobe and change into the white robe. Give me the ring our brother gave to you, she says calmly while she strips and wraps the black robe about her slender body. Out in the hall, Elena has tilted her head at Cekiya: I understand you have sharp reflexes – you must stand outside the square and observe the gallery. Cekiya scans the hall and asks what Elena might be expecting. The woman smiles thinly and shakes her head: expect nothing, but if something happens, you’ll be there.

Sir Harth, taking up a wide stance, faces into the hall at the bottom of the spiral staircase, planting his sword point downward and announcing that all is prepared. Merin and Rhonna then lead Sir Ewen’s four companions out into the hall, Sir Baris and Arnys garbed in black, and Imarë and Kaelyn also wearing black. They are guided into position at the corners of the square formed by the four torches. Then Rahel leads Sir Ewen out into the hall, walking him to the center of the square where she takes up position to his left, facing the single candle flickering in front of the fireplace.

The four Deryni women turn inward and begin to speak in unison. Calling upon the north, south, east, and west, the four conjure a protective ward, and a curtain of energy shimmers into view, surrounding the participants, leaving Cekiya and Sir Harth to observe from without. The four torches gutter and extinguish as the conjuration manifests; only the eerie light from the ward and the single candle standing outside the spell illuminate the darkened hall, stone and wood and metal all now gray and ghostly dim in the crepuscular, unearthly light.

The Deryni women each glide to one of Sir Ewen’s companions at the ward’s four corners. They calmly explain that what is to follow will require a great deal of energy, hence the instruction to feed and sustain the body beforehand. Should one of them falter, the women explain patiently, the link may be broken, but there should be no danger. The four companions, glancing briefly from the corners of the square to each other, await in anxious incomprehension as Rahel raises her head, invoking a spell which each of the other three Deryni women take it up in turn, their mellifluous tongues uttering strange foreign syllables to the flickering light and darkness. Soon the chanted words of the spell grow hollow and distant in the ears of the four, a strange sense of elevation and detachment overwhelming each of them, a rising tide of dizzying vitality welling up from within their beings, flooding upward with a surging warmth, as if each were imbued with energy, some- how full to the brim with life’s very essence. Be- coming only dimly aware of what is hap- pening around them, extrem- ities beginning to tingle, ears burning as waves of lightheadedness wash upward and out, the focus of their attention becomes consumed by the thrumming pool of energy linking them each to each, burning stars hemmed in by an infinity of emptiness in the pitch dark hall.

They only dimly perceive the figure as it parts the ward, cleaving it asunder and stepping within, blackness emerging from night, penetrating the curtain of light.

Good evening, my son. The voice of Arren of Melderyn.

Ewen kneels within the ward, head bowed, exhaling my lord, and the dark figure gestures, bidding him rise. Their voices carry through the rippling glow of the spell, reaching the four companions as if from many leagues away as they stand each at their post, coursing with mutual energy. Tonight, Stavron, we must seek to remedy some of the defects of your birth. The figure of the father circles the son, invoking his birth name, strange in their ears like some foreign curse. Try to concentrate upon the candle through the ward. Slipping smoothly forward, Rahel extends her arm as in a dream, dropping the ring into her father’s extended hand. Arren produces a chalice from his robe and deposits the ring into it. Moving in front of Ewen now, he commands: kneel Stavron. A gesture, the kneeling knight’s outstretched hand as Arren draws a heavily jeweled dagger, the keen blade shining cruelly in the eldritch light. He swiftly draws the edge across the palm of Ewen’s hand, catching the spilling blood in the chalice. The figure of the father then moves to Rahel, adding her blood to the chalice in the same way, and then his voice carries across the hall again, resonant and lightly bemused: the blood of an elf will make this much more interesting. Imarë, aloft in the detachment of the spell, suffers the blade to slice the flesh of her palm, elven blood trickling blackly past the chalice’s lip, and then Arren returns to the front of the room and adds his own. Turning upon Ewen, he extends the goblet and bids Ewen seize it in both hands, admonishing him to not let it drop. Rahel moves forward and touches Ewen’s shoulder, channeling the Deryni spell through the triad of Arren, Ewen, and the goblet held between them. Arren’s head is high, his voice clear, as he intones: Stavron, be worthy to receive the legacy of your birth – that which would have been yours, had you but known. Receive thy heritage.

Kailyn falters, swooning and dropping from the spell as she subsides listless against the column nearby. The Deryni women struggle to close the circuit of energy again, Rahel marshalling the spell’s power in the crisis as she thrusts it roughly forward. Energy coalesces in the chalice, a swirling ripple of light and heat reaching Ewen’s face from the cup, and Arren forces it toward him: drink Stavron, drink hot power. All in the room see Ewen bring the chalice to his lips, tilting it back, imbibing the shimmering contents, and then he collapses, knees buckling suddenly as he falls. Expecting it, Arren catches his son in his arms and smoothly lowers him to the ground. Bending over the lifeless form, he retrieves the ring from the cup and replaces it upon Ewen’s finger.

Rahel and the other Deryni women wind down the energy of the spell gradually, meanwhile, and the three companions feel the power retreat within them, diminishing like an echo, leaving them pale and spent. Rahel quietly solicits their help in carrying Ewen to the chamber and laying him upon the bed, where Rahel remains with him as the others decamp to the small hall, wan and mute after their ordeal, where they find supper already prepared and laid out. As they depart the darkened hall, Arren of Melderyn turns and says: Eight fingers. I knew a man with eight fingers once. He considers Arnys briefly. I am pleased to see you used it wisely.

In the well-illuminated small hall below, the light meal is replenishing. Servants are seen carrying a tray upstairs. The three Deryni women are present, and dispassionately observe as Imarë attempts without success to heal the wound on her hand. Merin invites them all to rest before returning to Gray House: you have done your lord much service tonight. She shows them to the barracks, where they might sleep. Sir Baris chats for a time with the men-at-arms, recognizing none from the raid on the tenement house, although all have heard about it and are keenly interested in Sir Baris’s version of events. Sir Harth glances around at them all with a practiced eye, goes out the door, comes in again ten minutes later, and looks pointedly to the men-at-arms: don’t get too comfortable tonight, boys. And so the guests lay down to sleep, fitfully at first, and then oblivion.

20 Agrazhar, 731

Sir Ewen and Rahel descend from their chamber for breakfast the next morning, finding the five others rested but uneasy, with Arnys clearly ready to vacate the scene of last night’s occult events. They speak briefly together of the Earl of Neph, newly returned to the city, and learn that he is an epicurean of immense appetites, keeping allegiance to himself alone and researching his descent from a dynasty which purportedly extinguished during a civil war a few centuries ago. Neph evidently spends much time at the College of Heralds, tracing a claim to the throne he considers superior to that of the Elendsas. Neph has thirteen children, a pious Laranian wife who despises him, and a love of hunting, fine women, and excessive feasting.

The group returns to Gray House to find a letter for Sir Ewen sealed with the arms of the Earl of Neph. They all glance at each other, and Sir Ewen breaks the seal.

My dear Sir Ewen. I am so sorry I was unable to meet you after your triumph in Olokand. If you will allow me to correct that oversight, I would like to invite you to dine at my home in Tashal, for a dinner such as you have never had before. A small intimate affair, but of course you should bring along fellow participants. I trust this evening will be convenient. Yours, Neph.

Sir Ewen and his companions then venture out to The Red Fox and meet Kyle Maldune. Melin, the proprietor, offers no sign of recognizing Sir Ewen as all save Arnys adjourn upstairs. Maldune explains that documents were recently stolen from the Chancellery by a Turen of Pondis, a clerk who was somehow duped by his wife’s brother, Oris of Aberma, into letting him and a third man examine certain royal parchments to settle a bet. When Turen later appeared at the Tower Inn where the bet was to be decided, the third man drew a dagger and absconded with the documents. When the fact of the missing papers came to light, the hapless Turen was arrested, charged, and placed in the pillory, while his brother-in-law Oris was taken into custody and cast into the caer’s dungeon when he initially refused to identify the third man. Sufficient time to reflect upon his fate led Oris to vouchsafe the identity of his accomplice, one Daymon of Tarasten, who is evidently still at large. Maldune, who claims to be a freelance troubleshooter retained on occasion for such missions, needs help in recovering the writs and naturally thought of the renowned Sir Ewen. A reward for recovery of the documents is in the offing, and the Lord Chancellor himself would be personally grateful for their return. Maldune offers to obtain access to the dungeon for the group this evening.

Outside The Red Fox, the occupied pillory stands beckoning and the party gathers briefly beneath nearby trees. The prisoner Turen kneels slumped in the stocks, rotten vegetable matter bespattering his form from an earlier pelting by the indignant populace. Arnys approaches and seizes him by the hair as a groan escapes from Turen’s parched lips. Arnys suggests acidly that Turen has a new problem to deal with, and clears up any incomprehension by displaying his own mangled hand and suggesting that a similar fate awaits the clerk unless he explains about the missing papers. Turen briefly bemoans this latest rotation of fortune’s wheel, identifying himself as the most miserable wretch who ever worked within the castle. Arnys declines to sympathize, and Turen manages in despair to explain that the missing papers included two legal sentences passed on a couple of thieves back in 674, one declaration of war against Chybisa, the 687 peace treaty which ended the Treasure War, Prince Torastra’s 675 order awarding a knighthood for whoever recovers the Sword of Calsten, and the writ for the execution of the bandit Merren of the Valley in 683. The scrolls were in a bag, and while the sentences of execution are unique, and Torastra’s declaration is the original item with the royal seal, the treaties all exist in duplicate copies at Burzyn. Turen confesses to an inability to connect the dots regarding a motive for the ambush and theft, but does explain that brother-in-law Oris had a woman on the side he was attempting to impress with the papers. Apparently Oris, or Daymon of Tarasten working through him, asked specifically for documents related to the Treasure War, and Turen grabbed everything he could lay his hands on. Turnen describes Daymon as about 5’6”, with a lazy eye, a scar on his right cheek, thin, stringy black hair, and brown eyes. He was a younger man who wore the usual street rags, and could have been a typical member of the Lia Kavair based upon his appearance. After the theft, Oris fled the scene like Agrik was hot on his heels. Turen describes Oris as a slacker who cavorts with low-life scum. The interview ends with Turen reluctantly asking the group to look in on his wife Elycia, who is staying with her parents in Lyryn, a village to the south of Tashal.

Early afternoon back at Gray House, and Kaelyn finally encompasses her fog spell. Bounding down the stairs, whooping in triumph, the young Shenava is pursued by roiling tendrils of thick grey mist issuing from her bedchamber upstairs. While Kaelyn beams, exultant and smug, arms akimbo, the others party members look on as the servants, aghast and uncomprehending, throw open the shutters to air out the suddenly dank interior of the hall. Sir Ewen shakes his head, grinning briefly at the girl as he writes out instructions requesting Arnys be granted access to the prisoner in the caer. Arnys and Cekiya then decamp to The Red Fox, where Arnys waves the writ at Maldune, who in turn points out a Sir Gorvan waiting for them at the castle gate. The two approach the guard, indicating curtly that Maldune sent them. Sir Gorvan peers dubiously at Cekiya, whom Arnys describes flippantly as his not-so-blunt instrument. Sir Gorven shakes his head and cautions that he can’t be held responsible for the prisoner’s death: the king wants him hanged, and the king likes his hangings.

In through the heavy gates, striding past stoical guards, hustling along echoing corridors, tromping down steep staircases, bursting through heavy double doors, sweeping past well-stocked guardrooms, gawking briefly at enormous columns, pell-mell down a winding spiral stair, through a cold stone corridor, hard left around the bend and into the very bowels of the massive keep itself. The knight unlocks a door, and they issue into a small inquiry chamber, replete with a rack, chair, various tools, and a brazier. Six cells, with prisoners in the front two, and their target in the right rear cell. Sir Gorven loiters by the brazier, suggesting that Oris has already been broken on the rack and should offer little resistance. Arnys and Cekiya approach Oris’ cell, finding him sitting in the filthy back corner, arms propped upon his knees. Arnys tap on the bars and motions the prisoner over, but Oris shakes his head dejectedly, insisting that he has already told all he knows about Daymon of Terasten. Arnys blandly denominates him an idiot and a dupe, which Oris wearily admits comprehending, and Arnys goes on to suggest that the man can either help them now or rot in the cell. Eventually Oris bestirs himself to tell his story, admitting that he met Daymon at the Spurs while looking for an easy mark. His memory is vague, but he thinks he himself initiated the conversation. Daymon seemed like a big man, likely to go places, and when Oris disclosed his story about a girl named Elsa, who he was trying to impress by claiming to work in Chancery and who now demanded proof of his claim, Daymon suggested using brother-in-law Turen to obtain some actual documents to clinch the deception. Arnys, eyebrow rising fractionally at the mention of the girl’s name, follows up and confirms that Oris’ girl worked at the Busted Nut and turned a mean back flip. Returning to his narrative, Oris clearly indicates that Daymon suggested using the old papers in the ploy, even suggesting that some writs from the Treasure Wars would be perfect for the purpose. Oris appears to have an indistinct grasp of what the Treasure War actually was, and falls to lamenting his piteous fate. Cekiya considers the wretch dispassionately: I could play with him, she suggests, brightening. Peering between the bars, she smiles and calls singsong into cell: Do you like daisies? Arnys casts a jaundiced eye upon the tiny girl at his side while Oris blanches, blinking at her. Pressing forward with the remainder of the interrogation, Arnys manages to learn that Daymon was supposed to meet Oris this very night at The Iron Bell before the plans went awry. Eventually convinced they have pumped Oris for all he is worth, they ascend from the dungeon to the city above.

And so Arnys and Cekiya depart the castle environs the way they came and make their way across the now-darkened city, careful to avoid the night watch, arguing in a desultory fashion as they walk regarding the best way to proceed. Cekiya wishes to make inquiry at the Iron Bell regarding the rendezvous planned for this evening, while Arnys shakes his head, dubious that any conspirators worth their salt would have overlooked Turen in the stocks and be foolish enough to keep the original assignation. Arnys attempts to reason with the diminutive girl, who shrugs and whistles tunelessly to herself and insists upon ducking into the Iron Bell in spite of his remonstration.

As Cekiya enters the elegant, sedate interior of the inn, the proprietor Rosak of Kass swoops in quickly, sensing the presence of a socially inferior interloper in his upscale establishment. Cekiya claims to have a message for a patron, but Rosak parries by offering to take the message. Cekiya demurs, Rosak asks the identity of the recipient, Cekiya says a guy named Daymon, Rosak says emphatically Terribly Sorry, No Daymon Here, and Cekiya asks, in her simple fashion, how he knows this. Faced with an obstreperous intruder delivering an implied affront, Rosak begins to wax darkly indignant when a cultivated, supercilious, highborn, strident lady’s voice carries in from the dining area: Rosak – who is that?

The Lady Cheselyne Hosath gestures grandly from her table toward Cekiya, who immediately sidesteps an exasperated Rosak and approaches. Come here, dear, come here, that’s right. Now didn’t I see you in Olokand? Cekiya agrees complacently, and bluntly names Lady Cheselyne as her interlocutor. Don’t be impertinent, dear. Are you not associated with Ewen of Ravinargh? Loosely, Cekiya prevaricates, shrugging. Hmm. Sit down my dear. And how is he, and his dear friend the elf? Cekiya begins to answer but the lady cuts her off. What are you doing here, dear? Delivering a message, Cekiya grins briefly, shrugging, glancing briefly away and to the side. To whom? A guy named Daymon, she chirps, glancing back at the lady, it’s worth 12 pence to me. Is it indeed? IS ANYONE NAMED DAYMON IN HERE? No, apparently not, my dear, no one in here is. I have done all I can for Ewen. ROSAK, SHE CAN LEAVE NOW, as she shoos Cekiya from her table.

All the while, Cekiya has been surreptitiously observing a table comprised of three Ilviran clerics, each garbed in the brown robes of the Craven Lord, and two other fellows, finding the fivesome to be an incongruous sight in such an establishment in spite of the proximity of their Temple. She offers little resistance as Rosak peremptorily shows her the door, leaning in and announcing a bit too loudly to him before she hits the street: I think you need to cut her off, she’s had too many. Outside, Arnys has caught enough of the tail end of Cekiya’s exit from the Iron Bell to shake his head gravely, forebearing from elaborate comment, and the two head for Gray House without further ado.

Meanwhile, the remainder of the group congregates outside the estate walls of Neph House at the appointed dinner hour. Liveried guards are punctilious at the gate and a minor delay ensues as Sir Baris is not to be found enumerated on the dinner list. The two knights and their lady companions, Imarë and Kaelyn, are ultimately admitted after Sir Ewen references Neph’s suggestion that he, in fact, bring some guests with him, and the four are ushered in and formally announced with great pomp and gravitas to an empty hall. They survey the large space, dominated by one grand table with numerous chairs around it and a gigantic fireplace with the arms of Neph surmounting the hearth: a yellow field with a blue quill bendwise between two red roses. Servants bring decanters of wine and place cheeses, breads, candied fruits, minced meats, delicacies and a single plump orange within nibbling distance. Only Imarë, it appears, has actually seen an orange before, and all marvel briefly at the limitations of their circumscribed lives, not to mention their abbreviated color spectrum.

In due time, Lord Hemison Curo, Earl of Neph, enters the room, announced grandly by the seneschal. Neph trundles in under his great bulk, peering around and asking of the hall in general which person might be Sir Ewen. The knight steps forward and Curo greets him smartly, and when Sir Ewen indicates that the Earl does them a great honor in inviting them to his renowned board, the Earl concurs emphatically: Yes I do. Sir Baris, the Earl then declaims upon Sir Ewen naming his companion, I watched you being unhorsed! Sir Baris bows, reddening, and they all sit down to dinner as the Earl struggles into his seat at the head of the long table.

As the Earl presides over his board, directing the activities of his attentive servants and peppering his guests with skewering questions, the four companions begin to absorb a sense of Curo’s style: a brash, open, bluff panache belied by a shrewd eye and a caustic, jaded penchant for sarcasm. He observes drolly that Sir Ewen has already obtained a manor in Kaldor, and scathingly enquires as to how Sir Ewen enjoys the Earl’s sainted brother-in-law the archbishop as a liege lord. While Sir Ewen dodges the question and they all attempt to come to terms with the bounteous array of food presented before them, Imarë notices servants outside of the great hall moving busily back and forth, and discerns the presence of guardsmen as well, who mostly keep out of sight. Curo cross-examines Sir Ewen about his birth: where exactly was he born in Tharda, and was it not true that the Thardic Republic had no knights at all in its day? Sir Ewen explains that his knighthood post-dates the formation of the Kingdom of Tharda, and vaguely acknowledges that his own accolade came upon him as a consequence of anti-Morgathian activities in Tharda similar to the more recent services which attracted the archbishop’s eye in Kaldor.

Neph seems briefly dyspeptic at this explanation, availing himself of the fresh opportunity to wax sarcastic about his clerical brother-in-law’s vaunted sanctity, but the gleam returns to his eye as a roast haunch of boar, rack of venison, various fish dishes from the Kald, several pheasants, sweet manchet bread, apples and pears, cherries, and a brie torte are paraded in succession for his, and his guests, gustatory appraisal.

Eventually, after all are impossibly gravid with bounteous food and wine, Curo bestirs himself and cries Ah – the floor show, and scantily clad Halean priestesses cavorting in diaphanous wisps of silk appear and commence a salacious dance of veils. When two men appear and join the women in their erotic dance, Neph leans toward Sir Ewen and pronounces this the best part, whereupon it becomes positively impossible to engage Neph in conversation of any kind. Eventually he leans back in his seat, though, which appears to be a signal for the dessert course to be proffered, and the four guests are obliged to contend with sweet cordials and brandy and apricot wine, trays of treacle tarts and marzipan and sugared candy, in spite of their uncomfortable surfeit from the feast. Neph casts his canny eye upon Sir Baris at this point, observing bluntly that the knight does not sound like he’s from Tharda, having an “undertwang” to his speech. Sir Baris acknowledges that he hails originally from Melderyn, which yields a self-satisfied bark from Curo: when were you going to let that little detail fly? Curo caustically proclaims that the knight is probably truth-reading him as they speak, which prompts Sir Baris to attempt a return sally, suggesting good-naturedly that the Earl wouldn’t know it if he was. Neph harrumphs at this, assuring Sir Baris that he would have to execute him if he were doing so, claiming “local privilege,” and then he settles back into his seat, swirling his brandy in his glass thoughtfully for a moment as he turns his gimlet eye upon Sir Ewen.

And so the Earl of Neph finally comes down to business, bluntly asserting that Sir Ewen must be an ambitious man to have come so far in his relatively brief period of time in the kingdom of Kaldor. Neph suggests that Sir Ewen is probably angling for a Barony next, and Sir Ewen is initially noncommittal but takes little pains to disabuse the Earl of the notion. Neph presses to know what Sir Ewen wants of him, and what he might in turn have to offer the Earl. After some maneuver between the two, Sir Ewen states that what he would wish the most from the Earl this evening would be a sample of his legendary roses: one of the vaunted Roses of Neph. Curo throws his head back and laughs. The Black Rose, he pronounces slowly, relishing the very sound of it, his voice lightly mocking: and what, Sir Ewen, would you do with such a paragon of incomparably beauty? Sir Ewen leans back in his chair and smiles, his eyes narrowing, and he endeavors to propose a small bargain between them: should the rose be of such fineness as to win the heart of the intended lady, then Sir Ewen will tell the Earl the identity of the noble lady his passion inclines toward. But Neph shakes his head, his fat hands coming down upon the table, deadly serious again, and insists that he would know tonight the name of the lady who has captured Sir Ewen’s heart. The knight glances into his cup for a moment and then meets the Earl’s eyes, deciding to vouchsafe the name. The Lady Thilisa, Dowager Countess of Osel. Neph takes this in, considering Sir Ewen in what appears to be bemused astonishment for a moment, and then leans forward, his chins doubling under the effort. If Sir Ewen is ambitious for a barony, Nephs observes evenly, noting Sir Ewen’s nod of confirmation, then he, Neph, would have a baron as well. A man of Tharda. A smarmy, self-satisfied, egocentric man of Tharda: the Baron of Stimos. He articulates the name with distaste. Neph would see him exposed, revealed, would know his activities and intentions, and see him in fact ruined. Sir Ewen considers the Earl of Neph for a time, and a thin smile touches his lips as he nods: I believe we have ourselves a deal, my lord. And Neph reciprocates the smile, freighted with gall and malice, his eyes implacable: Excellent. I shall cut the rose myself. And if you renege upon our arrangement, Sir Ewen, I shall reveal you to your lady as a charlatan. Sir Ewen nods, composed, Curo’s words and the threat of something worse hanging clearly in the air of the Earl’s hall.

Outside in the garden, Neph leads his guests among his legendary roses, the hue of their delicate petals all blood and ink in the diffuse moonlight. Neph takes his time, caressing the trellises with his fat, heavily-ringed hand, considering the blossoms with a practiced, critical eye. Finally he draws a breath and glances at Sir Ewen: Ah, this is the one, is it not? And soon the four are escorted to the gates of Neph House, Sir Ewen cradling his fragile prize as they step out into the desolate street.

Sir Ewen and company then proceed directly to Thilisa’s home at Caldeth House, ringing the bell at the gate and so rousting out the men-at-arms. Initial reluctance to admit unsolicited visitors at such an hour, the lady already abed and the household secure for the night, are overcome by Sir Ewen’s insistence that he bears a perishable gift for the lady herself. Sir Rollard, responding to the unforeseen incursion, approaches Sir Ewen in the antechamber with a mixture of dismay and resignation on his face as he spots the rose proffered in explanation by his fellow knight. Ah, Suh Ewen. The rose. Ah shall bring it to mah ladyship’s attention, Suh Ewen, he sighs. Sir Rollard marches stiffly out of antechamber, and soon Thilisa herself descends the stairs, slowly, gracefully, and deliberately. Ewen begins his apology but the lady espies the rose and accepts it from him, exclaiming softly at its exquisite color, marveling at the perfection of its petals. She enquires how Ewen managed it, and he tilts his head diffidently: The Earl of Neph is a challenging individual, but not so difficult I think… But the lady interjects: And yet you acquired one of his prize roses – I would almost think it was … You produced it very quickly – I must confess I did not think you would be able to produce the rose so quickly. I find myself … melting… She gazes thoughtfully at the bloom for a moment, then up at him: But I hear that you have other wiles – that you are a … composer, as well. Ewen laughs: and who is it, has been speaking so of me? Thilisa considers him evenly. I would love to hear a ballad in my honor. Ewen sketches a light bow: I will aspire to compose something to touch your beauty, Thilisa. She smiles: we shall cause it to be the very social event, I think. The king himself plans to hold a levee on the twenty-fifth, in honor of the Goddess Larani, and you shall compose … it would be as if the taint… She trails off, referencing what passed between them in their last meeting, letting the implication hang pregnant in the air between them.

Ewen bows again: Ah, a path to redemption in your ladyship’s eyes. She extends her hand, allowing Ewen to take it lightly, briefly, and then withdraws it. Oh, she adds, I spoke to Sir Rohn. He is looking into that genealogical matter we discussed. She studies him briefly, critically: I trust next time we meet it shall be … glorious. But the smile has faded entirely from her grave face as she gathers the robes about her, holding his gaze coldly, and then turns gracefully and departs, leaving Sir Ewen to take a few steps backward, pause, turn lightly on his heels, and then stride past Sir Rollard without a word, out into the oppressive warmth of the summer night.