Session Seventy-Seven - October 2, 2010

[Matt]

Nuzyael 26, 732

Platters of comestibles, brought up at dawn to the private suite at the Green Dragon Inn, have been vanquished. Determined to slay the ennui of the day with further knife-fight training, Cekiya and Kaelyn open the hall door to head downstairs only to find the slender, lovely page having just climbed the staircase, hand upraised in preparation to knock upon their door. Flashing a fey, dimpled smile, the lad swishes past them and enters the suite. Extending an impeccably hosed length of leg, he doffs his hat and flourishes an excessively low bow in the direction of the two knights. Sir Ewen, he announces lightly, is to be relocated to the castle. Unsurprised, Sir Ewen instructs the page to wait outside. Rising a-tip-toe, the page winsomely adds that Sir Ewen may bring one servant with him. Cekiya, lingering in the doorway, smiles without mirth.

As the time is taken to arrange for the shifting of Sir Ewen’s dunnage to the castle, a peasant boy escorted by one of the inn staff knocks upon the door, Admitted to the disorderly suite, he stares up in awe at Sir Baris and asks in a quavering voice if the knight goes by the name of “Imarë.” Gruffly disabused of this concept by the knight, the boy shyly hands Imarë a piece of paper, glancing twice in alarm in Sir Baris’ direction, then backs away and flees down the stairs without his farthing. After a moment perusing the elegant Selenian hand, Imarë explains that the letter is from Melas, inviting her and her “arcane friend” to Colm’s wood this very evening.

A bit later, Sir Ewen and Cekiya arrive at the castle, the knight finding himself escorted in a more friendly manner this time across the courtyard and into the keep. As they pass through the great hall he notes that the tables have been shunted to one side and stacked, cleared as if in preparation for court or for some gathering. They proceed to the left into one of the keep’s towers, Sir Ewen recalling this is to be the direction he and Baris were taken the previous time. Up the tower to the fourth floor, past bustling servants, and instead of going down the corridor into the Earl’s council chamber as before, they stop at the first room on the left. The page, who has introduced himself by his nickname “Kit,” opens the door to a comfortable room outfitted with a bed, desk, table and chairs. Two of the walls are of stone, and two of wood. Sir Ewen enters and briefly inspects the chamber, then thanks Kit for his attentive guidance. The page bows, winks, and as he steps out into the corridor says, “The chamber at the very end is Lady Thilisa’s.” Sir Ewen nods. Cekiya, peering down the hallway, notes where it turns to the left, leading to the Earl’s own chambers. At the far end of the corridor stands a door, which would lead to a tower, and another door leading to a bedchamber is visible to the left. Glancing at Sir Ewen, Cekiya asks Kit for a tour of the castle, which the page is glad to oblige, so the two leave Sir Ewen to get comfortable in his new chambers.

After a few moments, a knock occurs at the door and Sir Ewen opens it to find his wife Thilisa standing before him. He smiles and greets her, and she steps right into the room and closes the door.

“My father does not yet know you are here, though he will learn it soon enough. You have dispossessed Sir Rollard, by the way. I sent him on an errand.”

“Poor Sir Rollard. He has had a rough time of it lately, but I know he is dutiful.”

“Yes. As I say, I sent him on an errand and I don’t expect to see him for awhile. We should not be seen together during the day, but this evening I will leave my door unlocked. I trust Kit told you where it is?”

“He did.” Sir Ewen adds that he will call upon her when the hour is discreet.

“I will probably see you at the noble feast. The procession from the castle …”

“We must play our role for now, Thilisa, as we have already agreed.”

She curtseys, gives Sir Ewen a quick kiss, opens the door and looks around, and then slips out.

Meanwhile Kit gives Cekiya her tour, showing her the fourth floor, which he explains contain the family quarters, as well as presently accommodating some of the wedding guests and officials. Prior to his death, he explains, Sir Urien had the room which now belongs to the Lady Thilisa. The third floor is where the groom and his family and other relatives are being housed. The second floor – containing the great hall, kitchen, and chapel, is where the cook and servants are quartered, having for the span of the wedding vacated their spaces for the Baron of Nenda. Various towers around the curtain wall, Kit explains, have been cleared for guests as well. The ground floor is mostly storage, the cells where Sir Ewen and Sir Baris briefly stayed being accessible from one of the towers, down a trapdoor from the second floor barracks. In the bailey of the castle is a stable, a well, an outbuilding, and several granaries. Extra horses beyond the capacity of the stable are held in the fenced-in area. During the outdoor portion of the tour, Cekiya eyes one of the towers, gauging it to be potentially scalable but notes that the windows are only about eight inches wide at their exterior span, probably too tight a squeeze for even her slender frame. At one point she asks Kit if the Baron of Kolorn has visited, and he laughs gaily and says “Oh, he’s here.” While walking about the castle, the exuberant Kit skips, gavottes, pirouettes, turns one neat somersault, grabs various corridor corners and swings lightly around them, and generally prances along, lithe as a fawn. At one point, he shares that his father is lord of a manor somewhere Cekiya never heard of.

At noon Sir Baris walks over to Sir Ewen’s tent on the Wool Common. The day is cool and cloudy and dry, boding well for the afternoon’s festivities. Sir Baris checks on the men, and then ambles over to Sir Coreth Lothlar’s tent. Sir Coreth is present, preparing to dress. Sir Baris calls to him, asking how he is faring on this fine morning.

Sir Coreth scoffs, “Eh. I don’t trust air that isn’t wet. What brings you by?”

Sir Baris explains that he hopes to follow up on their conversation from the other day.

Sir Coreth frowns, “Refresh my memory ...”

Sir Baris mentions his search for a squire.

“Oh, I did promise to do that, didn’t I? Right after the noble feast, I’ll get right on that.”

“Well, I thank you. There’s no rush, of course …”

“Well that’s good. Care for a mug of ale?” Sir Coreth pours a tankard full of mediocre ale, augmenting Sir Baris’ covert disappointment.

Some time after noon, at the Green Dragon Inn, Filen pokes his head into the suite and beholds Imarë and Kaelyn construing the mage’s penmanship in the otherwise vacant quarters. Reminding them that the Noble Feast is impending, the herald queries the ladies about the whereabouts of the two knights. Kaelyn, cruelly nonchalant, shrugs and blithely explains that Sir Baris went out looking for a squire, and Sir Ewen was relocated to the castle this morning.

Filen frowns, whitening slightly. “Did you … did you say Sir Baris has gone, to see a man about a squire?”

Kaelyn smiles. “A Sir … Coreth, whatever his name is.”

“Sir Coreth. Quite. I know where his tent is.” Filen looks around. “I’m sure that I misheard the other part of what you just said. Did you say that Sir Ewen has been summoned to the castle?”

Kaelyn, putting down her quill, twists the knife. “Moved. Not summoned. Moved.” She shrugs. “He took Cekiya as a servant.”

“Cekiya?” Filen’s voice cracks. “The little … little crazy person?”

Kaelyn sighs, returning her attention to her penmanship. “Imarë, am I getting this letter right?”

Dazed, Filen knocks upon Sir Ewen’s door, opens it gently, pokes his head in and looks left and right. Glancing back at the two women dubiously, he looks around behind the door, then begins to crouch as if to peer under the bed but stops himself. He comes out, closing the door. Attempting to marshal his dignity, he looks at them one last time and then stalks out.

A short time later, a calm, collected but rather stiff Filen of Oppias locates Sir Baris at Sir Coreth Lothlar’s tent. Sir Baris greets him amiably, having decided of the ale that quantity might breed the impression of quality, but a thin-lipped Filen only announces flatly, “It’s time to get ready for the feast.”

Sir Coreth frowns and says, “He looks ready enough to me.”

Sir Baris agrees good-naturedly. “How long do we have until the feast, Filen, twenty minutes? It doesn’t take that long to get ready.”

Filen, straight as a pike, rather starchily insists. “Come along, Sir Baris …”

Sir Coreth seems irritated. “How long does it take to get ready? You change your eyepatch, and you’re done!”

Sir Baris shakes his head, rising, something in Filen’s tone cutting through the pleasant fog of the ale. “Oh,” he sighs, “it’s best to humor him.” As Filen leads Sir Baris from the tent, they can hear Sir Coreth bellowing, “Hey Vilk, get me my good eyepatch …”

On the fourth floor of the castle, the Earl’s steward knocks briskly upon Sir Ewen’s door. “Gathering in the courtyard, gathering in the courtyard.” He moves down the hall to the door to the left of Sir Ewen’s chambers. “My lord bishop, gathering in the courtyard, gathering in the courtyard.” Sir Ewen emerges into the hallway, while the steward now calls, “My lady, gathering in the courtyard, gathering in the courtyard.”

Sir Ewen comes face to face with the Bishop of Pagostra, Cerdan Bantire. He looks at Sir Ewen quizzically and says, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. You don’t appear to be Sir Rollard.”

“Sir Ewen of Ravinargh, my lordship.”

“Oh, yes! I’ve heard your name …” He smiles, and at that moment Thilisa joins them, so he pivots and greets her briskly. “My lady countess.”

“My lord bishop. Sir Ewen.”

“My lady. Shall we descend?”

As they all go down the staircase they hear other doors opening and closing, and catch a glimpse of Camissa and a number of other ladies whom Sir Ewen fails to recognize. Down in the courtyard they find the procession gathering, nobles milling about and greeting each other, a single horse caparisoned for show making it evident that all save one will be walking. The Baron of Uldien and his son are spotted toward the head of the forming line, the steward dexterously herding the nobility into position, with Sir Ewen ending up somewhere in the middle standing next to one of the Ubaels whom Sir Ewen has not yet met. Sir Ewen gazes about for the Baron of Kolorn, but fails to find him in the crowd. Soon, the Earl strides out of the keep, mounts the horse, and says, “Right. Let’s get it done.” He leads the procession from the courtyard.

Left behind to her own devices, Cekiya tries to pick the lock to Thilisa’s door but fails. She then tries the bishop’s door but is again stymied. She listens at the Earl’s door, examines the lock, but then backs away. Wandering for a bit, Cekiya avoids some servants who are hanging about, deciding to descend to the second floor where the great hall is. Cekiya ventures to chapel located behind the curtain in the southwest tower. She examines the altar, eyes some Laranian statues, and glances around at the benches and the tall, narrow windows, which are arranged as paired apertures. She sneaks up the tower staircase only one floor to where it stops, opening upon a third floor room with a door standing open to the gallery beyond. Cekiya returns down to the second floor and proceeds to the southeast tower, where the Baron of Nenda’s suite is adorned with a large, temporary padlock on the door. She listens and hears nothing, and again fails to pick the lock. Disgusted, Cekiya wanders about and makes her way out to the ramparts, spies for a time upon the guards cycling through their paces, finds her way into the northwest curtain wall tower, and pads down the spiral staircase. She comes upon a gathering of guardsmen in a second floor barracks.

“Whoah, who are you?” They gawk at her.

“Cekiya. Who are you?”

They look at each other. One of them says drolly, “We’re the castle guards,” and they all laugh. Bemused, deciding that she is no threat, and is at least pleasingly female, they invite Cekiya to dice with them. Cekiya happily settles down to the dice game, in the course of which she learns that down a trap door, over in the far corner, is a dungeon occupied by the Baron of Kolorn and every single one of his servants. She also learns that the guards are aware that Sir Lyndar kidnapped Thilisa, and that Sirs Ewen and Baris rescued her. The Baron was evidently arrested on suspicion of the crime, the Earl being not certain if the Baron was implicated in the kidnapping or not. The guards believe that the Earl is waiting until his mind has cleared, letting the Baron cool his heels until the Earl has time to properly deal with the situation. The guards chuckle: that could be some time. Cekiya absorbs it all, and wins eight pence to boot.

Sir Baris suffers being fussed over by Filen while Kaelyn and Imarë chuckle, teasing the knight. Every few moments, Filen glances at Sir Ewen’s door and shakes his head minutely. As the burly knight finally shakes off the ministrations of the herald and stomps out onto the landing, Sir Prehil appears from old Baron’s quarters. Sir Baris, inebriated, feigns surprise to the best of his abilities.

“Sir Prehil, are you staying with the Baron?”

Sir Prehil draws himself up. “Sir Baris, let me tell you this. I was not visiting the Baron, and the Baron wasn’t visiting me.”

“I had thought it might come to this.”

Sir Prehil frowns, confused. “Might come to what?

“The Baron’s not there.”

“Well no, of course not. That’s what I just said.” Sir Prehil leans in suspiciously. “Sir Baris, have you been drinking?”

“Well, as a matter of fact – “

“Oh, good. For a moment there I thought you might be sober.” Sir Prehil shakes his head. “Off to the noble feast, are you?” Sir Baris agrees, and the two proceed to the pavilion where the ladies and noblemen are gathering.

The arrangement of the tables is similar to the first feast, but this time Sir Ewen and Sir Baris are seated closer to the head table, at same table as Sir Prehil. The Baron and Baroness of Nenda are seated at the head of this table, and next down are the Baron’s son Sir Arlbis Hirnen and his wife, followed by Sir Prehil and Sir Rohn, and lastly Sir Ewen and Sir Baris. At the head table the Earl of Vemion, his daughters, and the primary Ubaels are seated. Servants hurry about, weaving between the tables carrying platters of food, flagons and goblets and trenchers and water bowls. The same harpers from the first feast are playing in unison off to the left. As Sir Ewen and Sir Baris take in the assemblage, they note that the table where the Baron of Kolorn had been sitting last time is not empty, other persons having been shifted up, leaving some empty seats at one of the lower tables.

Sir Rohn says, “Ah, Sir Ewen, how nice to see you at last.”

“I am delighted to see you again, Sir Rohn. I apologize for not having called upon you earlier, but it has been such an eventful stay so far.”

“I quite understand. I was fortunate enough to run into Sir Baris here,” he gestures to his left, “but I can not say that I am surprised that you have not found time in your busy schedule to deal with the likes of me.”

“Oh to the contrary, Sir Rohn, I always find our conversations so stimulating. Again, I am at fault.”

“If rumor is true, and it so often is, you are some sort of a hero...”

Sir Ewen coughs lightly. “Well, Sir Rohn, I wouldn’t put it that way myself. But we were able to do the Earl and his family some service, and that is of course always gratifying.”

The Baron of Nenda, having listened to this exchange, bursts in. “What a stuffed puppy you are!”

Sir Ewen swivels to consider the head of the table. “My lord Baron?”

Sir Rohn intervenes. “Sir Ewen, allow me to introduce Lord Erelar Hirnen, the Baron of Nenda. His lady wife, Irene. His son and heir Sir Arlbis, and his lady wife Prtherela.”

Sir Ewen nods and offers his complements to the Baron, adding that, “hopefully, by the end of the feast we’ll all be stuffed.” The Baron purples a bit, he grunts something, and then turns to his wife, and bellows, “Irene! Your sleeve is trailing in the bowl!”

Sir Rohn, smoothly continuing to run some sort of diplomatic interference, introduces Sir Baris to the head of the table as well. Meanwhile, Sir Arlbis looks positively abashed at his father’s behavior.

Sir Prehil, changing the subject and peering at the head table, nudges Sir Ewen, who leans in. Sir Prehil is staring at Thilisa, shaking his head, his mouth slightly open in astonishment. Keeping his eyes on the dowager countess, he whispers out of the side of his mouth, “Ewen! By Ilvir’s crazy aunt! Do you see Thilisa? I swear she’s had a good rogering!”

Sir Ewen leans toward Sir Prehil, eyes the head table for a moment and drolly murmurs agreement, adding that he wonders who might be responsible.

“I don’t know. Obviously not Lyndar. You don’t suppose …” Sir Prehil looks around, abruptly changing the subject. “Where’s an ale? Can’t somebody get an ale here?”

Sir Ewen turns and, in a friendly manner, asks Sir Arlbis whether he has been enjoying the wedding thus far.

“I have, Sir Ewen. It has been very hectic, as I am sure you know, and we’re only halfway through it. We’ll all be so fat and rolly once we’re done with this wedding we’ll all have trouble mounting our horses, I’m sure.” As he speaks, Sir Arlbis gives the impression of keeping one eye upon his father at his side, while he leans away from him and toward Sir Ewen. Across the table, the Baroness seems positively shrunken, while Sir Arlbis’ wife maintains a prudent silence.

“Sir Arlbis, I understand that you squired with the Earl,” Sir Ewen says.

“I did. That was quite a few years ago. He is a very fine man, the Earl of Vemion.”

“Fine man, did you say?” the Baron thunders. Sir Arlbis, alarmed, whispers, “Father, father!” The Baron grunts dyspeptically.

“I understand Sir Toren Curo also squired with the Earl.” Sir Ewen glances at another table, where the reputedly unwell son of Neph dines, evidently recovered. “Did you both squire at the same time?”

“I believe he came after me. In fact, he was the Earl’s squire after I was knighted.”

“Ah.”

At this point the Earl can be seen moving slowly through the tent, working the tables on the other side of the pavilion, greeting his guests as he had during the previous noble feast.

Sir Baris, having embarked upon a better quality of ale and sensing a lull in the conversation, asks the table at large, “Have you heard that Sir Andro is quite an expert in land management?”

“Sir Andro isn’t an expert on anything except the shit that comes out of his ass,” the Baron declares angrily, while his wife shrinks even further.

Sir Baris, waxing philosophical, shrugs amiably at the Baron. “Well, everyone must be an expert on their own shit.”

The Baron’s face darkens and his eyes protrude. “What are you implying, Sir Whoever-you-are? That I’m making some sort of study of it?” the Baron bellows.

Sir Baris smiles at the others, looking for support. “I am implying no such thing, I am merely –”

“Who invited you to this thing, anyway?” Nenda glares furiously across the table.

Sir Ewen examines his goblet. “Are we talking about stuffing again?”

“I’m going to stuff something, that’s for sure!” The Baron begins to clutch for the pommel of his sword, while Sir Arlbis frantically attempts to calm him down.

Sir Rohn leans over to Sir Baris, and says softly, “The Baron has been known to kill people in arguments.” He smiles. “Just saying … The Mangai disbanded in Nenda, the Baron having killed a number of them.”

Sir Baris nods, impressed. “Good to know. Thank you.”

Meanwhile, Sir Ewen has placed his goblet back down on the table. At the head of the table, the Baron’s tunic suddenly bulges out, startling him. Spasming away from the billowing side of the errant garment, he slams heavily into Sir Arlbis, who falls backward, his feet kicking up the end of the table as he goes down. Ale slops violently from every tankard at the other side of the table, drenching the knights as they rear back in alarm. Dishes and cutlery slew across the table as the Baron and his son disappear in a scrum of twisted tunics, limbs and muffled oaths. Sir Baris is aware of everyone at the other tables looking in their direction, leaping to their feet to discern what the disruption is all about. The Baron tries to claw his way back into his seat, spewing invective, screaming at his son, “You oaf, what the –”

At that moment there is a cry of What ho! from somewhere behind Sir Baris. As the Baron cuffs his protesting son on the side of head, from behind Sir Ewen some of the guards begin to shout, The Earl! The Earl! As Sir Ewen half-rises and turns, a number of the guards have seized the Earl and are attempting to shuffle him out of the tent. The Earl tries to fend them off, insisting briskly that he is alright, and that nothing happened. In the milling confusion, beyond the Earl and his guards, Sir Ewen glimpses one of the servants lying on the ground at the far side of the next table over, convulsing. The man spasms briefly and then lies still. The steward, Sir Gorlan, crouches down by the body in the midst of the tumult, checking him, and then looks up. “He’s dead, my Lord.” The Earl narrows his gaze and directs an order to his guards, his voice carrying over the confusion. Seal the flap! Guards with spears seal the tent and stand alert. Slowly the cries and commotion die down as the guests attempt to hear what is happening. Sir Gorlan pulls a dart from the dead man’s neck. Sir Ewen hears him say, “Poison, my lord.” Vemion says, “Meant for me?” Sir Gorlan, looking grave, agrees: “I don’t think it was meant for him.” Sir Ewen glances at the head table, where Thilisa has stood up, trying to see what is happening below, a look of keen interest upon her face.

The Earl turns to the guests at the table nearest the dead servant. “Anyone see anything?”

Someone answers, “No, we were too busy trying to see what was happening at Nenda’s table.”

The Earl strides over, his eyes narrowing a bit as he sees Nenda. “Erelar, what happened over here?”

The Baron, still fuming, sputters. “My shit-for-brains son nearly pulled me under the table, then he kicked the damn table, the stupid son of a whore!”

The Earl frowns severely, reaching out to the Baron. “Erelar, get a hold of yourself – “

“Don’t tell me …” Nenda grumbles disrespectfully as he adjusts his tunic, truculently waving off the Earl.

Sir Baris whispers to Sir Rohn, “A little too much ale.”

Sir Rohn shakes his head. “No, if only that were true.”

After further questioning, the Earl appears content that no one at the table saw anything in the midst of the hubbub between Nenda and his son, and apparently concludes that the disruption had nothing to do with the death of the servant.

The Earl addresses the crowd, holding up his hands. “Friends, an unfortunate accident has occurred. But let it not interrupt the feast.” He points to the harpers. “Play. And … happy.” Cutting short his rounds of the tables, the Earl returns to the head table as the guards stand vigilantly close by. Sir Baris studies the Baron of Ubael at this point, but the father of the groom only looks confused.

As the rhythm of the feast resumes, Sir Baris engages Sir Rohn, asking about the Baron of Uldien’s family. “After all, you are the expert.”

“You flatter me Sir Baris.” The chief herald considers for a moment. “They hold Uldien Keep, of course, the Baron being a vassal of the Earl of Balim. The Baron is getting quite up there. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Sir Karsin the Younger inherit in the not-too-distant future. The Baron’s wife, there, is Sir Prehil’s aunt, Aunt Serli.” Sir Rohn smiles. “She’s not surly at all, by the way, she’s actually quite a lot of fun. Colenia, a little bit further down the table, is the Earl of Vemion’s sister. You may recall meeting her sons, Sir Ferin and Sir Celed?”

Sir Baris says that he does. After the harpers play for a bit, the Earl gestures for Sir Gorlan, who steps forward with his staff.

“Attention. Attention please,” Sir Gorlan intones. “Will the following worthy knights come forward. Sir Baris Tyrestal, and Sir Ewen of Ravinargh.”

The knights rise and approach the head table, with all eyes of the assembly upon them. The Earl gestures to them and says, “These worthy knights were instrumental in the rescue of my daughter, Thilisa. I do not wish at this time to dwell upon the unpleasant circumstances. All of you have no doubt noticed the absence of any Bastunes; let us just leave it at that. But I wish here to publicly acknowledge these two knights, and their deed of derring-do.” The Earl surveys the tent, and smiles slightly. “Now, I had told them that they might beg a boon of me. It occurs to me that this was perhaps injudicious on my part. For one knows that knights are often too humble. Or, sometimes, too ambitious.” Some chuckles ripple through the crowd. “So I will help them along. Now Sir Baris, I believe, had joked – he thought out of my hearing – that a manor would be appropriate.” Sir Ewen glances in mock astonishment at Sir Baris. “And he is not far wrong.” More polite laughter. “But, a manor, well, that’s a bit much. Still, land is not unworthy of a daughter. And so.” He turns to Sir Gorlan, who reaches into a pouch at his belt and hands the Earl a piece of parchment. The Earl unrolls the sheet and examines it. “Yes, yes this is the right one. I did sign this, didn’t I? Ah yes. No, it doesn’t say Bastune, it must be legitimate.” He rolls it back up and hands it to Sir Baris. “Sir Baris, I cede to you ownership in perpetuity of a small property that you now own in Tashal. A small townhouse in what they call the East Side. Modest little income from it, it has some long-term tenants. It’s all explained there.”

Sir Baris bows and thanks the Earl.

“And then for you, Sir Ewen. Most unfortunate, that in your brave act you lost a loyal man. I myself have only lost squires through their knighting, and that’s hard enough. How difficult it must be to have one killed in your service. We all sympathize with that loss.” Sir Ewen nods. The Earl gestures to a tall gangly young man in his late teens seated at one of the tables toward the rear of the tent. The young man stands. “This squire, Uldis Harand, who has recently lost his master, not through death but through unfortunate injury, has come to my court seeking a new master. I can think of no more worthy at this time than Sir Ewen. If you will accept him, Sir Ewen.”

“I will indeed. I thank you, my lord.”

The squire steps forward to accept, but as he nears the head table he unfortunately stumbles and falls headlong into the arms of Sir Baris, who deftly catches and rights the lad. Red-faced, Uldis recovers himself and kneels before Sir Ewen, managing to get out the words, “I pledge myself as your squire.” Sir Ewen, his voice carrying, speaks the words of acceptance, formalizing the newly minted relationship between the knight and his awkward, rather abashed new charge. The Earl begins politely clapping, and the rest of the assembly dutifully follows suit. Sir Ewen bows his gratitude toward the Earl of Vemion, and then the feast resumes as the tent again fills with the sounds of genteel chatter.

Sir Baris notes that the servants are being escorted out of the tent, singly and in pairs, by the guards. The Lady Elena Valador, he also observes, looks as if she has been on the verge of tears the entire evening. The feast continues, all of the servants eventually returning in apparent good standing. Later, as things wind down, the Earl departs the tent first, a definite departure from the routine of the first noble feast. Quite a few of the guards, Sir Baris perceives, leave with the Earl.

During a couple of lulls in the waning festivities, Sir Baris manages a peek under the table at his newly acquired deed. Best as he can tell, the document indicates three long-term tenants. Occupying the ground floor, Sir Andorkil Runder is in year thirty-six of a ninety-nine year lease, paying an annual rent of 78d per month. On the second floor, Lae of Charibor is in year seven of a twenty-one year lease, paying rent of 68d per month. And on the third and fourth floors, Daëndin of Ardis, in year thirty-one of a thirty-three year lease, pays 136d rent per month. The total annual rent appears to be 456d per year, with the total assessed value of the property amounting to 4,966d.

When Sir Baris and Sir Ewen eventually part ways, the latter returns to the castle with his new squire in tow. The Earl has apparently retired straight upstairs, while the great hall has been restored, the tables replete with a very light repast if any guests wish to graze after the feast. The two barons and their baronesses go upstairs, while Sir Karsin Ubael and his bride-to-be Camissa remain below to chat with lingering guests. Thilisa pointedly retires.

Interviewing his squire up in his room fourth floor room, Sir Ewen learns that the lad is the third of four boys sired by Sir Stelan Herand, who holds Iswend manor. It appears that the Earl of Vemion held a local tournament prior to his progress last year and Uldis won the squire’s joust. Sir Lluwyn Haber from Bevon manor, Uldis’ former master, was unfortunately paralyzed when thrown from his horse in the same tournament. Uldis comes well-equipped, bringing with him a suit of mail and weapons, including bated weapons, and a horse, his previous master having given him these things on various tournament successes the promising squire had achieved. Uldis is roughly two years from achieving knighthood. Sir Ewen ascertains that Uldis is already staying in the gallery of the castle, and presents as somewhat gloomy in disposition, perhaps due to the recent calamity befallen his previous master Sir Lluwyn. Uldis asks some appropriate questions about Sir Ewen, and the two part ways for the evening.

Meanwhile, Sir Baris has returned to the Green Dragon. Sir Prehil swaggers into the common room, surveys the place boldly, and announces, “With the Baron of Kolorn gone, I do believe I am senior! I gavel this meeting to – oh ale!”

“So what’s first on the agenda?” Sir Baris cries.

“We will debate … the virtues of this ale!” He takes a long draft. “Broe,” he calls to the innkeeper, “is this a fresh batch?”

“It is, Sir Prehil.”

“Fine stuff! What do you call this, anyway? I’ve been staying here for a week and I don’t even know what it’s called!”

“I call it Dragon Ale –”

“That’s a fine name! The Green Dragon, that makes sense!” Sir Prehil chugs the tankard. “Bring me another one, and two for Sir Baris, he’s behind!”

As they drink, a few others come in. Sir Eadril Dariune, Sir Celed Ubael and Sir Farin Ubael each join the table.

“Well, it’s been an interesting evening,” Sir Baris offers.

Sir Eadril leans in. “Did what I think happened … happen? Was there an assassination attempt on the Earl?”

“It appears so,” Sir Baris agrees.

Sir Prehil pounds the table, “Well, boffo fellow! Did you see how he handled it? By Halea’s honeyed haunches, his must be made of steel!”

They all agree. Shortly thereafter, Sir Prehil retires, and then Sirs Celed and Farin depart as well. Sir Baris, still wide awake despite the excitement of the evening, finds that the departure of the Baron of Kolorn leaves the field somewhat cleared, two of the ladies of easy virtue being free this evening. Sir Baris acquaints himself with Jinete, a pretty lass of twenty, and Maris a twenty-six year old who is quite stunning, and arranges a dalliance for himself.

Sir Ewen, meantime, has retired to his chamber and awaits an hour when the sounds outside his door have abated and the castle has become quiet and still. Slowly opening his door, Sir Ewen surveys the deserted corridor and stealthily moves down the hallway, intent upon silently pad down to Thilisa’s door. As Sir Ewen glides along, making nary a sound, the bishop’s door abruptly opens, and Sir Ewen straightens violently.

“Sir Ewen!” says the sleepy bishop, his nightcap askew.

“Your lordship?”

“Are you lost, Sir Ewen?”

Sir Ewen coughs softly, and then whispers conspiratorially, “I am looking for the facilities, your lordship.”

“What a strange coincidence! So was I. Hah!”

“Well,” Sir Ewen says, glancing around them. “After you, by all means.”

“Well, um. Well. This is odd. Shall we go, then?”

The two proceed together down to the third floor, tiptoeing past the sleeping servants strewn along the length of the gallery, at one point stepping over a recumbent Uldis, Sir Ewen’s new squire. They eventually find a curtained-off area around a window embrasure which serves as a garderobe.

“Ah, do you wish to go first, your lordship?”

“Oh, no, no, no, Sir Ewen, by all means. You may go before me.”

Sir Ewen enters the garderobe and busies himself for a time, stalling. As he emerges, however, he succeeds in implanting a suggestion upon the bishop’s mind that his lordship’s bowels are particularly costive this evening following the feast, and that he had best take some extra time in the garderobe.

The bishop, clutching his nightshirt with a sense of urgency, doubles up a bit. “I’m really glad – uh, have a good night, sir!”

“It’s all yours, your lordship.”

The bishop groans softly as Sir Ewen hurries back across the gallery, carefully dodging supine, dozing figures. He climbs the stairway and softly knocks upon Thilisa’s door.

Thilisa quickly lets Sir Ewen in and leads him into the large chamber adorned with two fireplaces, one on the east wall and one on the west, with narrow windows on the north and south walls. Several chests, a desk and a chair. A small bed in one corner is unoccupied, presumably for a servant, while a large double bed stands in another corner.

Later in the bed, in the warm glow of conjugal bliss, Sir Ewen remarks upon the events in the tent, the latest in a long string of incidents marring the wedding, and adds that her father was certainly a cool one to have dealt with the situation as he did.

“Oh yes, oh yes. My father is a brave man, afraid to stand against no one. As to the other matters, the important wedding has already taken place.” This last is pronounced by Thilisa with no trace of tenderness or romance, but as a simple statement of fact. “Did someone truly try to murder my father today? I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time. His position draws that. And he had to react the way he did. Were he to have shown fear, were he to have run away, he would have lost the respect of all the gentlefolk in that tent. And respect is part of the power of an earl. It was hard for me, as a woman, to command that respect in Osel. But had that happened to me in Qualdris, I would have reacted the same way. Maybe,” she says somewhat ruefully, “I am his daughter after all.”

Sir Ewen smiles, and says, “You are indeed. And yet, the potential remains that more danger may present itself here. You must be careful, as your father must be careful.”

“There are none that wish harm to me. All wish to marry me.” She smiles and tosses her head. “I am sorry you had to sit with Erelar Hirnen. He is the grumpiest man in the kingdom.” She attempts to swallow her smile, her brow furrowing playfully. “Even the king can’t stand him. And yet my father had to invite him, even if he is not a vassal. He couldn’t risk that Nenda would come here and roar at him for not inviting him.” She gets a distant look in her eyes. “When I was a little girl, he was as grumpy as he is now, and he called me a ‘guttersnipe’. I didn’t know what that meant, and thought it was a good thing. And I went around and said, ‘I am a guttersnipe, I am a guttersnipe’ to all who would listen.”

Sir Ewen laughs. “That must have pleased your father to no end.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret. I don’t think it did.”

“I wonder what the Baron of Nenda will make of this stuffed puppy and this guttersnipe making a couple.”

“I don’t know. He’s not that important. He’s important in Vemionshire, but he’s not that important. As a vassal of the king, he is Haldan’s man in these parts, of course, with Tulaph Kaphin. That may change when the time comes, or it may not. What will be, will be.” Her eyes narrow. “But when I am Countess here, I will not brook Nenda.”

When the time comes for Imarë and Kaelyn to depart for Colm’s wood, they make their way in the dark down past the sleeping village of Runuld, and then bear along the road to the east of the graveyard. They slip through a break in the hedgerow and cross an expanse of tall grass which skirts the wood. Kaelyn can make out a group of buildings to the south on the edge of the wood. As the dense trees and thicket engulf them, the dim light afforded by the waning moon and overcast Harnic sky becomes obliterated by the tangled canopy above. Kaelyn, struggling to keep up with the elf, her heart beating in her throat, hisses, Where are we going? But Imarë seems to know the way.

After traveling for what seems to Kaelyn a rather long and strangely indeterminate length of time, they come upon a glade. In the middle of the glade stands a fire pit lined with stones, above which a makeshift wooden spit roasts four rabbits above the flames. Around the fire pit are stones large enough to serve as seats, and between them and the fire a cloth has been spread with fruits, nuts and little cakes of bread. Emerging from the forest next to them, almost as if part of it, Melas comes into view. “Welcome.” Imarë realizes without needing to be told that this glade is a Taur-Im-Aina, or holy grove to Siem. Melas nods, and says this grove is very old. It goes back long before the Atani Wars. Melas invites them to have a seat, so they each seat themselves upon one of the stones. Kaelyn finds her seat to be surprisingly comfortable, noting that it feel like a cushion to sit upon although, when touched by the hand, it feels like stone. Melas bids Kaelyn try a bit of the elven bread, which tastes light and airy. Soon another person arrives. Melas introduces Darwyth of Charaers, the woodward of Minarsas. Curiously, Darwyth seems to know Kaelyn’s name without being introduced to her. As Darwyth takes a seat, Melas invites all to partake of the food, which they find to be quite delicious, if strangely unfilling, and Kaelyn discovers herself eating quite a lot of it.

Singing, poetry and conversation ensues, and Kaelyn gains the cumulative impression that Melas is someone who runs hot or cold, waxing cheerful but wry, pensive then bemused, always with a touch of melancholy, as the verses unfold and their sentiments are reflected upon. After one song, mellifluous and ineffably beautiful to Kaelyn’s ear but inscrutable in its flowing Sindarin, Melas turns to Kaelyn, his head cocked.

So, Kaelyn of Aletta. Just at the beginning of the adventure.

Kaelyn replies, “It’s the best place to be, to choose my path.”

A very enlightened statement. Is not this the most important part? For, without the choice, you wouldn’t have a path at all.

Kaelyn considers. “I may have a path, but at least the path is mine, and not someone else’s.”

That is the great conceit, that the path we choose is our own. Melas says sadly.

“I have my own path,” Kaelyn insists, feeling strangely composed within, debating this ancient elf. “I have my own choice.”

The conversation continues in this vein, seeming to last for a very long time, but Kaelyn finds that she never tires of it, discussing fate, destiny, choice and freedom, ever circling and circling but never touching down upon any conclusion. Then Melas changes the topic.

There are others of your folk. One has been gathered unto Siem. I speak of Astarok who, reckoned in your years, lived a very long time.

Kaelyn glances at Imarë, who has been silent this whole time. “We all aspire to be as … aged … as Astarok was.”

And yet he was but a child.

Kaelyn smiles. “A child in your eyes, but aged in mine.”

True. Certainly more aged than this High Elf. He gestures toward Imarë. But there are others. There are some of your ilk. Perhaps you have met them…

Kaelyn frowns. “I have met a man, Aethal Atan …”

Melas takes on an expression of serene patience, as if Kaelyn were a child. He is not of your ilk. He is what we call Fyvrian.

“Oh. I thought, when you said ilk, you meant something all-encompassing.”

No, no. I meant an Odivshe, dear.

“My apologies.” Kaelyn blushes, taking a deep breath. “I am afraid I was thrown into the world rather suddenly, and I have been trying to find my feet. And as such I have not taken the time, unfortunately –”

“Well. Far be it for me to advise you on a choice of a path,” Melas says, circling back to the beginning of the evening. He dilates on fate and choice again for some time, leaving Kaelyn slightly lost amidst the ideas.

Then Melas says, “I would not wish to set your feet on any given path, for it may not be the one you would choose for yourself. But there are those of your ilk. There is but one left in Tashal itself. But south of the city there is a whole chantry of them. They wished me, when I passed through, to do a task for them. But I was … Well. I did not wish to tarry more than a month. And it was of no real interest to me, he adds wistfully. Once one has killed a thousand gargun, the thrill is gone …”

Kaelyn eyes widen, uncertain if Melas is jesting. “We can all only aspire to that level of … thrill … in life,” she offers sardonically. “If you don’t mind, more information might allow my choices to … better fit my path.”

“Hmm. Wise. Perhaps beyond your limited years.”

Again unsure if Melas is teasing her, Kaelyn glances pointedly at Imarë, as if to say, It’s All Her Fault. But Imarë maintains her silence, watching Melas. Kaelyn adds, as if explaining, “It’s her influence.”

Melas shakes his head dismissively. “She is but a child. She is …” He raises his eyebrows significantly. “I do not believe an elf of her status has been born since her. Melas turns to Imarë. What do you think? Is that right? I get back to the Forest so infrequently.”

Imarë inclines her head in agreement.

Melas returns to his earlier theme. “Apparently these Shek-Pvar wanted some sort of object. Do forgive me, and you too, Darwyth. You silly humans and your acquisitive nature. I didn’t feel it necessary to stray, to retrieve something they might have lost. It wasn’t clear to me if they had lost it, or wanted it. I understand the miners were involved. More acquisitive people, not unlike the dwarves in that regard. I think the gargun in question were supposed to be in the Taniren hills.” At this point Melas becomes somewhat melancholy, reflecting upon the theme of acquisitiveness, and he sings a song in Sindarin, the Tale of Galeroth.

Remember me then,
As I leave again,
For this time I may not return here.
If you look for me,
Then mayhap you’ll see,
Why this time I cannot return here.

I sought out the prize,
The truth pulled from lies,
But this time I will not return here.
I have never foretold,
That the love could grow old,
Though this time I will not return here.

The past is laid bare,
The future’s out there,
So this time I will not return here.
Remember me then,
As I leave again,
For this time I will not return here.

As the song concludes, it is a long time before Melas is willing to speak again. As she waits, Kaelyn reciprocates by telling her tale of the ale made with capers. The woodward chuckles kindly and then tells of how his wife had a similar experience, though not with capers. As they talk, it comes out that the woodward lives on the edge of the wood in the small compound of buildings Kaelyn observed on her way into the forest, and that he is an Ilviran. More talk follows when Melas’ melancholia finally lifts.

Later, Kaelyn mentions her experience with the Pagaelin, and Melas recalls the Battle of Sorrows. Turning to Imarë, he says, It is fortunate you were born after such a time. Or, perhaps it is unfortunate you were not born before that time. It is a mystery, he remarks, and adds some other cryptic comments that lead Kaelyn to suspect that he knows about the Navehans.

And still the meandering conversation proceeds, singing interspersed with poetry. And then, at one point, Melas looks up, and the faintest of smiles crosses his face. He begins to sing again, this time in Harnic.

At starfade a time comes
When you see one brilliant star left behind
When the starry host has departed.
The star fades, the world does not wait.

Why do I linger and sing
Under this fading, mortal light?

There is a daisy among the elanor blossoms
To me it is fair.
There is a birch tree under the mallorn trees
To me it is fair.
There is a butterfly above the swan
To me it is fair.
A spark, small star follows Sirius
To me it is fair.

The leaves of the mallorn are numberless
One tiny leaf, one fading leaf
Holds my eyes. When will it fall?

The brilliant star is fading
Now it departs the heavens
Now I will depart the world
Holding a leaf in my hand.

Melas falls silent. He rises, puts his arms down and out, and bows his head.

“It is done. A pleasant interlude. I bid you all a good night.”

Darwyth rises, and Kaelyn and Imarë follow suit. They depart the glade, and the three travelers this time follow the woods together. When they emerge from the forest, Kaelyn is astonished to find that it is dawn. The entire night has been spent. And yet, as Kaelyn and Darwyth look at each other, they realize that although they have sung the night away, they are both completely refreshed as if they had enjoyed the finest sleep of their lives. Darwyth takes his leave, returning to his home, while Kaelyn and Imarë return to the Green Dragon Inn.

Nuzyael 27, 732

Breakfast is served at the Green Dragon Inn, a surfeit of food resulting from the fact that the inn was not informed of Sir Ewen’s absence. Tora and Filen are moved into the Green Dragon. Sir Baris, conscious of the proprieties, balks at moving into Sir Ewen’s room during the rearrangement, but Kaelyn shrugs and takes it without a qualm.

Over in Caer Minarsas, a knock occurs at Sir Ewen’s door earlier than he would have liked. The page Kit grins mischievously as Sir Ewen frowns down upon him. If it is not too much trouble, Kit says, the Lady Thilisa asks that you join her in the Great Hall. Sir Ewen dresses quickly and descends. Meanwhile, Kit appears over at the Green Dragon, calls upon Sir Baris, bows low, and notifies the bleary-eyed knight that his presence is requested at castle.

Cekiya and others are shooed from great hall by urgent servants. As the abrupt evacuation is underway, the Lady Thilisa enters great hall before everyone has left and calls for wine. Her curiosity aroused, Cekiya slips aside from the bustle of the general departure and finds a convenient location on the periphery of the hall to linger and observe. Shortly, Sir Ewen enters the great hall and walks over to Thilisa, who affects surprise.

“Why Sir Ewen, you are up very early. Would you join me in a glass of wine?” Sir Ewen nods pleasantly, and murmurs something, studying her. “Allow me to pour,” Thilisa says, and turns gracefully to the decanter. She pours a goblet and hands it to Sir Ewen, and Cekiya watches as the two speak softly to each other, enjoying a few moments of brief, intimate solitude in the now-emptied great hall.

The sound of agitated footsteps, then, and Camissa erupts into great hall. Her fists drawn tight, her face livid with emotion, she storms up to her sister and stands face to face with her.

“You bitch! How could you?”

Thilisa, taken aback, asks, “What’s the problem?”

“You got married! It’s always you, it’s always you, it’s always you!” she screams, hysterical. “You have ruined my wedding! Ruined my life! You got married first! Second! I will be third…” She moans and doubles over, sobbing in rage. Silently, behind her, Karsin Ubael the Younger has quietly followed Camissa into the great hall. Cekiya sees Sir Ewen glance sharply at his apparel, causing her to look herself. Ubael is wearing his own arms quartered on his surcoat, with the other two fields vacant save for the three-pointed mark of cadency connoting an heir. Sir Ewen steps up just behind Thilisa, silent and impassive.

Thilisa reaches toward her sister to attempt to console her, to explain somehow, just as the Earl enters the great hall. At the very same moment, Sir Baris arrives, led in by Kit.

The Earl, tall and grave, looks between his two daughters. He turns to Thilisa. “Is what I’ve just heard true? You’ve married?” He pauses, and steps toward his eldest daughter. “Who is he? How could you do this without my permission?”

Thilisa, who a moment before had been trying to placate her sister, hardens her mien and stands taller. “Permission? Ha! Your permission? For what? So you can pretend you are head of the family? You forfeited that when you put my mother in a coma!”

The Earl’s shoulders slump a bit, while anger flashes across his face. “How dare you! I am your father, and Ialny’s husband. And you do need my permission – I am lord of Vemionshire, not you!”

“I will be. And I will be as good a steward of it as you have been.” Her jaw haughty, she adds, “Better than you.” Thilisa, far from shrinking from her father’s anger, seems to relish the fact that the fight has come at last.

As if in a nightmare, the Earl shouts, “Who have you married?”

Softly, she says, “Why, Sir Ewen, of course.” Sir Ewen takes a supportive step toward Thilisa, standing just behind her.

“Sir Ewen?” he sputters, thunderstruck. “Sir Ewen?! That parvenue? This opportunist who killed your brother? This upstart crow whose father must have been a gong farmer? How could you shame this house with such filth? Have you been bewitched?”

Thilisa’s voice is steady and as tempered as steel. “I won’t bother to debate with you. You are but an ignorant thug, and I am ashamed you are my father.”

“Ashamed? Ashamed, are you? You impertinent trollop. I’ll give you ashamed. Inherit my earldom? Never! You’re not mine. We’re not connected. I deny you! You will not get my earldom, and I leave you nothing. I wish you plague, and may all your children breach and die!”

“Deny all you like. When you are dead I shall rule this hall.”

Declaen’s face purples with rage. “You worthless draggle! Guttersnipe! I will petition the King – no friend of yours. But now I banish you and your hedge knight from this hall. And from all of Vemionshire. Begone! If you are in Minarsas come morning it’s the dungeon, daughter or no. If you are in Vemionshire a tenday from now, the same! You are banished, never to return while I live! NOW GET THEE GONE!”

For a moment, all is silent. Then, amidst the soft sobs of Camissa, Thilisa of Ravinargh nods gravely, turns, and with great dignity walks from the hall.