Session One Hundred and Seven - November 23, 2013

Wherein the ongoing story of the FtF campaign may be found ...

Session One Hundred and Seven - November 23, 2013

Postby Matt » Fri Dec 13, 2013 5:21 pm

Larane 19, 732

A summer’s day on Harn dawns fair and mild, presaging a warm and pleasant noontide, and all across Tashal laborers toil, merchants count, and noblemen negligently encompass the fate of a kingdom in their indolence. Sotor of Pelanby, scholar and doctor of physic, remains ensconced all the day at The Red Fox Inn, concerned that another call from the castle might come, and he unwilling to miss the august summons. He writes verse within his journal and considers the prospect, unlikely as it may seem, that he might be granted the honor of plying his scalpel upon the King’s royal person. Sir Aeomund Legith, meantime, secludes himself in his chambers at Raven Hall to reflect uneasily upon the disturbing notion of setting aside the royal succession. He exchanges his hair undershirt for a more abrasive model, and attempts to lose himself in his new chapter on crenelations. Across the hallway, Kaelyn of Aletta continues her studies, a third full day working on a new spell.

Around noontime Sir Baris Tyrestal, nursing his second brimming ale of the day, finds himself absently fingering a small key he has kept within his purse for some time. He holds the key up to the light and frowns. Troubled by memories of his unsuccessful attempt to find a missing person named Arton Wyant, a matter of some eight months passed, he summons his new squire Kalas and they venture forth together onto the city streets to visit the premises of Jere of Merlin, a locksmith in Mangai Square. Old Jere is found asleep at his table while an apprentice caters to a customer. When the other customer leaves without buying anything, Sir Baris steps forward and reminds the apprentice of his visit eight months previous and asks him to re-examine the key, found in Whyce. Peering over the apprentice’s shoulder while that worthy ponders the item, Sir Baris inquires whether the man notices anything about it that his good master might have overlooked. The apprentice shrugs. Aside from an odd discoloration on one side, explained by its having been used as a necklace for some time, the key is unremarkable and mate to a fairly uncomplicated lock. The apprentice does admit that the mark on the key is that of his master, but is otherwise unable to assist Sir Baris. Sir Baris sighs. Before they leave Kalas, self-conscious in the big city, buys an inexpensive padlock for 8d. The apprentice is thereby prompted to remember more clearly Sir Baris’s previous visit and his erstwhile companion’s extravagant purchase, and enthusiastically encourages him to return to the establishment soon. As they depart, the locksmith helpfully suggests to Sir Baris that his sword might give others the impression that he is impersonating a knight. Kalas appears on the verge of saying something, but Sir Baris shakes his head slightly and cheerfully thanks the man for his advice.

Sir Baris and Kalas then fight their way through the madding throng and cross Mangai Square to the other locksmith’s place of business, which is positively bursting with customers. Sir Baris’s eye, as if drawn by some force beyond his control, pivots across the room and comes to rest upon a startling set of twins – most of the customers are clustered around a rather buxom female apprentice. Apparently oblivious, an older man is assiduously working at a table, plying fine tools intended only for intricate work. Sir Baris steers past the attentive crowd and shows the man the key crafted by his fellow locksmith. The master rather acerbically remarks about his having an abundance of time to waste on such matters but perceptively studies the key, offering a few cogent observations while otherwise evincing no insight. Sir Baris, deflated again, browses door locks for a time while stealing glances at the buxom apprentice. It occurs to him that he might upgrade his personal room lock at the Elf and Dwarf. He shows his room key to the locksmith, explaining that it locks a bedroom at the inn he owns. The locksmith recognizes his own work here, and indeed offers to improve on it with a new lock. He eyes Sir Baris’s sword and clothing with an appraising eye and suggests improving upon the mechanism for 150d, installation included.

“Having my niece install it,” he adds, indicating the generously-endowed apprentice at the front of the shop, “would be more expensive.”

Sir Baris nods knowingly, pretending to just notice her.

The purchase being agreed upon, Sir Baris returns to his original thesis and asks about customers who might have brought in a casket or chest needing to be unlocked which might mate with the first key, but the locksmith shrugs and reports that such occurances are far too common to be memorable. As Sir Baris finally makes to depart, the locksmith calls out to him.

“Some innkeepers usually keep a cudgel to deal with customers who get rowdy, but they generally don’t wear swords like that. You might get mistaken for a gentleman, and you don’t want that to happen.”

Kalas opens his mouth, about to say something, but Sir Baris shakes his head.

“I assure you,” Sir Baris replies, grinning, his hand upon the door, “I do not often get mistaken for a gentleman.”


At Galopea’s Feast in the early evening, Sir Ewen and Sir Baris take a table downstairs and order dinner, and at some point ask Mak of Ashel if Sir Meden is in the building, but learn that he is not. They spy Sir Rohn Sarlis taking his ease with some companions. Sir Romlach Ethasiel is present, while one of the two women he was talking with the night before, an attractive blonde noblewoman, is now speaking with an unidentified foppish gentleman fashionably attired in ebon kald. Guildsmen and other customers come and go. Sir Harapa Indama, Lord Chamberlain of the kingdom, enters accompanied by Sir Kytem Curo, Seneschal of the Chamber. As they settle at a table Sir Ewen extends senses and attempts to eavesdrop on them. The knight at first believes that he hears them say something, a remark by Sir Kytem about physicians, until a curious warbling sound obscures the amplified conversation. Sir Ewen grapples with this unforseen phenomenon for a moment and senses some form of interfering magic afoot, a dweomer of some kind, but he is unable to come to grips with it and withdraws his attempt to listen in. The warbling distortion ceases. Sir Ewen glances at Sir Baris, who has been drinking steadily and is unaware that anything is amiss, and thinks for a time on the matter of Aethel Atan and his Shek P’var colleagues.

After a while Maldan Harabor, Earl of Osel, comes in and talks to Sir Rohn, greets Curo and Indama, and acknowledges Sirs Ewen and Baris before passing by and sitting with Sir Romlach Ethasiel. Sir Ewen again attempts to extend senses but only hears regular background noise. The woman and the dandy, having dined, leave after an hour, and later Sir Rohn and his companion depart as well.

Sotor of Pelanby, whiling away his evening at The Red Fox Inn, receives a late message from Cail of Tokal indicating he has received no word from the castle, but will let Sotor know if that changes.


Larane 20, 732

A sunny and cloudless day, so atypical of the Misty Isle, has the inhabitants of Tashal wondering uneasily what form of misfortune might be about to befall them. At Raven Hall, Sir Ewen and Kaelyn put their heads together during breakfast and discuss Sir Ewen’s experience attempting to extend senses at Galopea’s Feast. Sir Ewen carefully describes the warbling interference he detected, and Kaelyn muses about whether Neutral Shek P’var magic might be responsible, or if the warbling sound might be indicative of the work of someone attuned to her own convocation, as the sound almost seemed as if distorted from being underwater. Pondering this, Kaelyn explains that, while studying at the chantry at Chyrefal, she remembers that some of the most highly adept and attuned Virans were able to sense the use of Deryni magic, although she is unaware of anyone experimenting with subverting or interfering with such magic. After some debate, Kaelyn offers to employ a spell to sense whether Sir Ewen himself has been enchanted, but she is unsuccessful in employing the magic, and subsequently retires to her room upstairs to continue her research on her new incantation.

Sir Baris, having consumed Sir Aeomund’s breakfast as well as his own, strides out and knocks upon Aethel Atan’s door. The business of the key had gotten him thinking about the tying up of loose strands, which in turn recalled to his mind his promise to Lord Balim’s falconer to broker an introduction to Atan’s kitchen maid, Molly. The giant Anzelorian answers the door and peers silently at him. Sir Baris bids him a good day and asks to speak to Molly. The black man points at a spot on the floor and tells him to wait.

After a moment Molly appears, beams brightly and curtseys. Sir Baris asks her how she has been. She smiles sweetly and admits that her back has been troubling her a bit, and she asks if she might sit in his presence. Sir Baris breezily agrees to this, but as she lowers herself slowly to the bench, the knight frowns and peers more closely at the girl. Below her ample bustline, he thinks he discerns a certain prominence to her figure, unremembered from their last encounter. Sir Baris feels the blood begin to drain from his face as he considers this. Flustered, he stammers out his prepared line that Tromath of Davold likes her, and that he had promised to put in a good word. As his voice falls awkwardly silent, the words sounding lame even to his own ears, Molly just looks upward at him, her hands toying idly with the apron in her lap. Sir Baris, finding his voice again, asks her whether she needs anything.

She blinks and continues to smile, but ignores the question. “Don’t you want to know when?”

Sir Baris nods mutely, his heart sinking.

She smiles wanly, her eyes swimming. She looks downward. “I don’t expect you to marry me or anything. I’m just a common serving girl.”

“No,” Sir Baris coughs awkwardly, “of course not. But, if you do need help, um, let me know.”

Sir Baris abruptly bids her goodbye and stumbles out into the street. He mops his brow and winces in the bright sunlight. Moving as though a man walking in his sleep, he steps over the threshold into Galopea’s Feast, slumps onto a nearby bench, and calls weakly for ale.

Later that afternoon at Raven Hall, Sir Ewen grows tired of waiting for Sir Baris and walks over to Galopea’s Feast himself, where he finds his fellow knight deep in his cups. Sir Ewen, perceiving that his companion would benefit from solid food and learning from Mak of Ashel that Sir Baris has swiftly exceeded his credit over the course of the afternoon, orders a roast capon and side dishes and attempts to determine the cause of Sir Baris’s obvious funk.

Sir Prehil then enters and Sir Ewen invites him over to their table. Sir Prehil takes in the common room expansively and booms, “Is that Sir Romlach Ethasiel over there?” Sir Romlach rises and sketches a brief bow in their direction, but waves Sir Prehil off good-naturedly. They talk at length, but Sir Prehil becomes increasingly suspicious of Sir Baris’s odd behavior. “By Ilvir’s misshapen children, you almost look like you’ve had too much to drink!” Sir Ewen opines that only thing to do in these situations is to get Baris even more drunk in hopes of loosening his tongue.

But as the night wears on, Sir Baris manages to keep his council as if he were guarding Peoni’s unbesmirched virtue, disappointing and thwarting the two curious knights. He continues to solace himself with sloshing tankards of ale. He eventually excuses himself and staggers back to the Elf and Dwarf in an exhorbitantly drunken condition. Ignoring the bustling common room, he manages to heavily climb the familiar staircase and then fumbles for a time with his room key, which now no longer fits the lock. As this realization dimly penetrates his befogged brain, his first thought is to go back down to the common room, but he realizes in light of how badly the corridor is spinning that this would probably be a very bad idea. Recalling that the privy is located directly across from his door, Sir Baris lurches across the hallway but is unable to negotiate a straight line. Veering off course, he bursts into an adjacent bedroom and stands weaving over a sleeping patron, his gorge becoming bouyant as he grapples with the conundrum of how a bed got into the privy. The man’s eyes open suddenly, staring upward in alarm at the looming figure above him. At that very moment, some inner process beyond Sir Baris’s control seizes him and he feels himself begin to vomit. The vomiting, he thinks to himself in a strangely detached fashion, seems to go on and on. He is dimly aware of a thrashing of limbs and bedcovers and hollering and general mayhem as the befouled patron flees down the stairs. Women begin to shriek hysterically below and an outraged male voice issues threats and imprecations and loudly demands a full refund from Barton. But Sir Baris Tyrestal, expectant father, just collapses onto the bed and descends immediately into oblivion.


Larane 21, 732

Another cloudless summer day assails Kaldor, with perfect temperatures and a freshening breeze coming off the river. The denizens of the Gray Lady of the Kald begin to eye the skies uneasily, snapping irritably at each other under the indecent glare of naked sunshine.

Kaelyn, having fortified herself with a hearty breakfast in anticipation of another day’s work on the spell, again attempts to detect magic in the general vicinity and upon Sir Ewen’s person. She apprehends nothing aside from Sir Ewen’s general witchy nature, as she tends to think of it, and her own magical items upstairs, and so returns to her studies for the day, closing her shutters against the intrusive sunlight.

Sotor spends the day at the Guild of Arcane Lore, where he runs into Wybert of Graon. They discuss the unusual weather, of course, and the flawless expanse of pure azure arching above them which Wybert gloomily characterizes as “the glowering sky.” Sotor goodnaturely objects and attests to many such fine days on the continent, as well as the promising prospect of a clear view of the heavens this evening, but he fails to make Wybert an enthusiast for clear weather.

Kalas, munching ruminatively on one of Amelia’s scones at the Elf and Dwarf, learns of the episode with the angry patron the night before and determines, recapitulating the reasoning of countless predecessors, to stick closer to Sir Baris today.

A knock on the door at Raven Hall brings an invitation to Balim House following the upcoming Soratir. Another knock shortly thereafter announces an invitation to Lady Cheselyne’s for Soratir as well. And, much later in the day, a letter comes for Kaelyn from Garth, reminding her of their last discussion in which Kaelyn promised to drop in on him for a social call, implying that the present would be a good time. Kaelyn sends her regrets in response, noting that she is deep in research and will come as soon as possible. Sir Ewen asks Kaelyn to pen responses to the two invitations, accepting Balim’s and begging off with Lady Cheselyne, using the excuse that Balim’s invitation had already been accepted.


Shortly thereafter, a heavy pounding assails the busy front door. Walin considers the portal with a glimmer of fear this time, recognizing the signature drumming. He performs his now-patented two-step dodge, and Sir Prehil bursts inward. He hails Sir Ewen, and calls Sir Baris to task for mooning about all day: “That’s what happens when you clear out three hogsheads of ale the night before!” Brooking no dissent from a protesting Sir Baris, Sir Prehil leads them out into the street and, instead of heading down the alleyway to Galopea’s Feast, strides uptown towards Haldan Square, taking a left onto Aidrik Street, and then a right onto Chelebin Street. Sir Prehil, calling over his shoulder, observes that they might be wondering where they are going, and then putting his finger to his lips explains that he is taking them to a place a little bit more quiet. They stop at the second house on the lefthand side of Chelebin Street and Sir Prehil just opens the door and goes inside.

The vestibule has a staircase on the immediate left going down. Prehil strides across instead to a door on the far side and goes through first, peremptorily ordering an unseen person out of the room beyond in a voice they are unaccustomed to hearing from the knight and alderman. They enter an irregularly shaped hall dominated by a large table flanked by benches, with chairs at either end. Two doors are located on the right side of the hall, a spiral staircase on the far left corner leads upward to a balcony, and windows to the upper right appear to be interior to the building. Fine tapestries adorn the walls. On the table, a decanter and a number of flagons are arrayed. Sir Prehil picks up the decanter and pours for each.

“Have a seat. This is my aunt’s place, although she’s almost never here. I thought it would be a bit more private.”

He gets up and opens one of the doors, looks through, and then closes it. He walks across the room and peers up the spiral stair. As he returns to the table, the door to the vestibule opens and Sir Meden Curo lets himself in. They exchange greetings. Sir Meden takes the chair at the other end of the table across from Sir Prehil.

Sir Ewen clears his throat and considers each man in turn. “I confess our last conversation has weighed heavily upon my mind.”

Sir Meden raises an eyebrow. “I would hope so.”

“I gather there has been no change in the King’s condition.”

“The King neither improves nor declines. His temper is a different story. I believe the King’s Grace is in great pain.”

“I am sorry to hear it ... Wise men, of course, should plan for whatever contingencies may come to pass.”

Sir Prehil hoists his flagon from the table. “Prince Brandis would like to return to Olokand. He does not feel the time is right for that, and so he lingers.”

Sir Baris thinks to himself sourly that he does not like the direction the conversation is taking, and stares into his ale, unable to fully enjoy the beverage.

Sir Ewen nods. “The Prince is indecisive – that is concerning.”

Sir Meden’s gaze narrows. “Indecision can be a sign of youth and inexperience, or a sign that one lacks the backbone needed to take the reins. It could be either, but as I have said before …”

“I agree entirely,” Sir Ewen says. “Kaldor needs a strong hand.”

“Particularly in these times.” Sir Meden’s gaze rests entirely upon Sir Ewen. “I think you know that in the west lies an expansive and rapacious power. Not so many years ago, it was ruled by a man whom many considered to be the ultimate paragon of evil.”

Sir Ewen nods agreeably. “As I am all too aware. I grew up under the shadow of those events.”

“They say the present King of Tharda is a Laranian. But I cannot take it that any son falls that far away from the father.”

Sir Ewen smiles unpleasantly. “There are many in the west, Sir Meden, who whisper that very thing.”

“You understand that Kaldor needs a strong hand on the tiller. The events of last month show the folly of letting a boy run a kingdom.”

“In this we are all in agreement.” Sir Ewen glances at Sir Prehil. “Kaldor at this time needs a strong king, and a fighting king.”

“Mind you, I am not saying –” Meden begins.

Prehil audibly puts down his flagon.

“– I am not saying that, if the King miraculously recovers, all of this should not be forgotten as the worries of the times. But if the King by the will of Larani succumbs, we must be in a position to move, and to move quickly. The northern reaches have been secured, but the southern avenues have not.”

“We were just in Ternua, and Ewen holds land in that area,” Sir Baris says, finally looking up from his ale.

“It is not a question of troops, it is a question of legal control,” Sir Meden says pedantically. “We do not know when, or if, the King will die. If he does not, that is of course the best outcome. We do not wish to cross a line before that, and intend no treason to Haldan’s throne …”

Sir Prehil’s head jerks to one side. He holds up his left hand, looks upward, and listens for a moment. He then shakes his head. “I’m jittery, gentlemen, just jittery. That word …”

Sir Ewen, picking up his flagon, attempts to extend his sense of sight to see if he can perceive anyone above on the balcony. A remarkably vivid image forms in his mind of a woman crouched directly above them, on the gallery across from the spiral staircase. A younger woman, attractive, with long blonde hair, well dressed and adorned with jewelry, as if a member of the nobility. Sir Ewen realizes that she is the same woman he had seen recently at Galopea’s Feast with Sir Romlach Ethasiel, and then again the evening before with the dandyish young man.

Sir Ewen furrows his brow as Sir Prehil sits back in his chair. He tilts his head as if listening and holds up a staying hand to the other knights, and then slowly points to the gallery above while turning significantly to Sir Prehil. Sir Prehil’s eyes grow wide and he nods and holds out his own hand as well, rises, and steps over to the spiral staircase and climbs. In the image in Sir Ewen’s mind, the woman stands up, and Sir Ewen realizes that he can hear, as well as see, her.

Attaining the gallery, Sir Prehil says something.

“Dangerous talk, cousin,” she responds softly.

Sir Prehil steps forward and begins to say something further, but suddenly the image disrupts and the sound distorts with a warbling noise as it had the other day. Sir Ewen, hand on the pommel of his sword, is out of his chair and over to the spiral stair in a flash, with a sluggish Sir Baris somewhere to his rear.

When they reach the balcony, Sir Prehil has crossed to the other side and the young woman is no longer visible.

“Nothing to worry about,” Sir Prehil walks over to them. “I’ll deal with her later.”

Sir Baris looks concerned, finally forgetting his troubles for a moment. “I don’t know, Prehil, I think we need to deal with whoever she is now.”

“I said, I’ll deal with her.”

Sir Ewen studies him and nods. He looks at Sir Baris. “That’s good enough for me.” Sir Baris shrugs reluctantly, and without further discussion they descend to rejoin Sir Meden, who has not moved from his chair at the table.

As they retake their seats, Sir Ewen smiles wryly. “You will find, Sir Prehil, that I am blessed, or cursed, with rather acute hearing.”

Sir Prehil snorts. “I’ll consider myself warned. Don’t worry about Serli. I am sorry about that – I had believed the place empty tonight.”

Sir Meden patiently returns to his theme. “As I said, we have the north, but the south remains a concern. While –” he nods to Sir Prehil – “the far south is of no concern, there are others we must concern ourselves with. I would be interested, Sir Ewen, to hear your view on how we might secure Ternua, even before it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“Certainly. I still bear the King’s writ, and have the freedom of the place. While I have submitted my initial report on Ternua to the Crown, I believe it would be a simple matter to return there in furtherance of that writ, and to establish a military presence there. On my initial visit, I brought a half company of men with me, and returning with a full company, say, should not provoke undue scrutiny.”

Sid Meden looks to Sir Prehil, who shrugs. “Yes, you could continue under that writ, until the King appoints someone to the barony. But should matters reach a crisis you cannot be so distant, and would be needed here in Tashal. Not so much in any capacity as baron of Ternua, but in loco comitatus as regards to Vemion.”

Sir Ewen accepts the notion of supplanting his father-in-law in this fashion without remark, and suggests nevertheless that Ternua should be occupied and maintained by an appointed proxy of his until the barony can be properly taken, arguing that possession will be critical in the event that the King dies prior to disposing of Ternua. Sir Meden seems content with this scheme.

“That’s a very sound idea. You should send someone to take possession of Ternua, then. But we still need to get legal control of Ternua. That would give us both rivers.”

Sir Ewen shifts in his seat and scowls slightly. “If we’re talking about legal control of Ternua, Maldan Harabor is presently the man closest to holding that legal control under the current king. So, perhaps it would be in our best interest to sound him out as to where he stands regarding the recent turn of events.”

Sir Prehil takes a drink.

Sir Meden says, “Well now, there you have me. I will not pretend that having Maldan Harabor join our little band would be a good thing. He is already too greedy. I see no need to satiate his greed. His earldom should be enough for him.”

“I confess I am relieved to hear you say so,” Sir Ewen asserts. “Lord Maldan Harabor would make a uncomfortable bedfellow.”

Sir Prehil looks disgusted at this image, and Sir Meden laughs. “As we are mostly married, that would make for a crowded bed indeed. Harabor has always been an outsider in the kingdom he thinks he was born to rule. It has never occurred to him that his peasant blood is not enough to wash away the royal blood.” Sir Ewen frowns at this odd construction but refrains from interrupting. “However, between Qualdris and Kobing, the entire southern portion of the kingdom is controlled. Only Jedes, a fief of Balim’s, would be a real threat. It could be contained. You still haven’t answered my question, Sir Ewen.”

Sir Ewen appears to marshal his patience. “Indeed. If not Maldan Harabor – and I concur with your assessment – then we face the more daunting task of getting the King to change his direction with regard to the legal control of Ternua.” Sir Ewen refills his flagon, and smiles. “Perhaps there is a third way.”

Sir Prehil perks up.

“If we intend to take de facto control of Ternua, then perhaps what is critical for us is that time passes and the King does not make a decision until this crisis of the King’s health either resolves, or it does not.”

Meden leans forward. “I am interested in this idea.”

Sir Baris raises his eyes from his flagon, his voice dull. “When I first heard of this head, thoughts of dark religions passed by my brain. However, with no knowledge or way to show who’s head this is, there is no proof of evil intent on Harabor’s part. The head throws a cloud over his own head. Given its timing, it throws in doubt the question of his ascension to his rank. If we encourage this line of thought, it may delay His Grace’s decision or lead to the appointment of a steward to oversee the land for a time.”

Sir Meden sits back and studies Sir Baris. “Well now, that would require everyone to countenance this notion that Harabor is involved in a dark religion.”

Sir Ewen, dissatisfied, shakes his head. “As you recall, Sir Baris, we presented so much to Lord Firith, and he discounted it.”

Sir Prehil agrees with this, but when Sir Baris doggedly suggests leveling other accusations, Sir Prehil is moved to expostulate on the strange matter of the head, not in terms of dark religion, but by way of wondering who’s head it was in the first place. “As you pointed out, it is passing strange that Harabor should be travelling with a head in a cooking pot ...” He begins to warm to the theme. “Could Maldan Harabor be a cannibal? Why else would you have a head in a cooking pot?”

Sir Baris begins to seize on the idea, but Sir Ewen looks irritated and cuts into the nascent buffoonery. “If the relevant parties are likely to discount the notion of dark religion, I think them rather unlikely to believe him to be a cannibal.”

Sir Meden concurs. “His crime is that he strives for the crown. That is where we must snare him.”

At this point Sir Ewen returns to his theme, wondering aloud as to whether a delaying tactic, perhaps some legal complication employed at court, might provide sufficient entanglements to prevent Ternua from being definitively granted while the King’s health situation plays itself out. He suggests that efforts should be undertaken in court to delay the disposition of Ternua with whatever challenges might be brought to bear. Sir Meden mulls this over and suggests that the new Baron of Kolorn, married like himself to a Verdreth daughter and a neighbor to Sir Ewen, might be positioned to offer just such a delaying challenge. Sir Ewen smiles and indicates that he will have a word with Kolorn, who is in Sir Ewen’s debt and may thus be swayed.

“I have rendered him some assistance when in straightened circumstances. I believe I might be able to prevail upon him to mount just such a challenge.”

Sir Meden considers this scheme for a moment, leaning forward in his chair. He nods in agreement. “And that would give time for you to determine a legal way to obtain Ternua.”

Sir Ewen smiles wearily but makes no remark. He refills his flagon and then returns his attention to Sir Meden. “One matter I am curious about, Sir Meden. As we are embarked on this rather delicate matter together, we should, I think, understand each other. So I ask you frankly. Prior to our last meeting, you were closeted with Lord Scina Dariune, who I would imagine harbors very different ideas about the succession, ideas more congruent with those of his father. What is your present understanding with Sir Scina?”

“Do you mean in the matter we are discussing? We have no understanding.” Sir Meden smiles. “Allow me to set your mind at ease. We were discussing matters of horseflesh. There has been no tournament this year, but nevertheless the horses of Osel are magnificent this season.” Sir Meden takes a sip from his flagon. “Sir Scina and I disagree on matters of bloodlines.”

Sir Ewen leans forward and smiles easily. “How interesting you should say so, Sir Meden. My wife and I have undertaken to host a tournament ourselves later this season, and have gone so far as to obtain leave from the Crown to move forward with the arrangements.”

Sir Meden, for the first time in their acquaintance to date, becomes positively animated at this revelation, almost coming out of his chair with enthusiasm. He slaps the table. “A tournament! The very thing! There has been no royal tournament this year. Do you understand the importance of that? A brilliant opportunity to capture the conscience of the nation, if you will. I shall have to have a champion. Prehil, you will have a champion?”

“Yes,” Sir Prehil looks torn and perhaps a bit wistful. “I would participate myself, of course, but I suppose a champion is …”

“A tournament is a brilliant idea! It must be moved forward with all haste. The pulse of everyone will be taken. When were you planning this tournament? How soon? How can I help, perhaps with funds?”

Sir Ewen sketches the existing plan for a sixty-four knight tournament toward the end of the season, to be held in honor of his late mother-in-law. Sir Meden dismisses that last detail.

“That is neither here nor there. It must be grander! There was no Chelebin tournament this year, it was cancelled! The prestige of the Crown will be undermined, and you – forgive me, Sir Ewen – a parvenu knight … How many knights did you say?”

“Sixty-four,” Sir Ewen says flatly.

“No, it must be one hundred twenty eight! This will undermine the prestige of the dynasty as nothing else can. Why have you not told me of this before? Have invitations been sent out?”

“Not as yet.”

“Invitations must be sent out immediately. Where?”

“Varayne.”

Sir Meden nods, thinking. “The manor used to be part of Caleme. When?”

“Six weeks hence.”

“No, no, it must be sooner! Agrazahar.” He slaps the table again, and for the first time refers to Sir Ewen informally. “Ewen? Leave the invitations to me. You be prepared to host one hundred twenty eight knights at Varayne in three weeks time, Agrazahar 15 through 19.”

“In that case, with your assistance, Sir Meden, I think we can do it.”

“Yes,” he says triumphantly. He sits back. “And prepare for a kingdom.”
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Matt
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