Thunderwyrm II

The court hall was tremendous, suitable for twenty men to stand atop each-other’s shoulders, as travelling playactors, menestrals, and mummers had all attempted. Its walls met at a grand arch in the ceiling, from where hung three long chandeliers bearing the crystals of frozen time, all in a sure line. The banqueting table was set there, unusually so, but long enough that it stretched out of the front gates, where food and wine would be placed too, so that the smallfolk and merchants and travellers to Cliffhaven could share in the celebration.

Archduchess Leoise was eager for her husband’s return. Though nothing had been lain yet, for his fat appetite boded the whisper of playful glutton, she had made separate preparations, spending a manor’s-worth on their shared favourite chefs and cuisine.

The walls seemed bare as the wind blew nothing to a flap from the stone. All the normal standards had been furled, concealing the snow-and-amethyst field that bore the Squall’s dancing wyvern and its breath of thunder. In its place would come a richer violet-and-platinum where the wyvern had lost its minstrel’s pose. In the crown standard, the wyvern would not dance; for in the crown standard, it was adamant and exalted, with jagged wings perched tight, and a silvery crown in its beak, with bolts cascading either side.

‘It’s far uglier, that banner,’ Leoise said to her daughter as they onlooked, returned from her quarters, and dressed in heather silks. ‘The Narcuga should dance.’

‘But it’s regal, mother. And full of pride. I still believe we need alter it, anyway; a Quaiggar is our beast. There aren’t wyverns or Narcuga on the Seashells,’ Fiara added. ‘At least not anymore.’

Her mother turned to her and winced a shimmering icy eye. ‘Banners are banners, and legacy is legacy. When our forefathers came from those distant Escothi lands, they rode upon the Squall wyverns – those that are called Narcuga. They rode an entire ocean and two continents, and they founded Cliffhaven, to roost their great beasts. Just as we are their descendants, Quaiggar are the union of Narcuga and native Quetz; we must honour that symbol, or we forget who we are, daughter mine,’ she explained. ‘Though, I admit, there would be much more potential in a crowned serpentine than that bored-looking dragon-bird. A shame the Sileni had that idea first.’

Fiara was unconvinced. The rabble of men around her, however, boded a shift in conversation. ‘With whom does father travel?’ She asked, trying to bottle her eagerness.

‘Well, a rider came ahead. It seems the Hedets wish to send your cousin as part of the household. So, we can expect Theraide and Threid now. Does no one know of the appetite of Hedets? This promises a devastating cost. Aside from the usual affinity, I assume–’

‘Threid is coming? I haven’t seen him in…’ Fiara’s interjection was caught with another.

‘Yes, darling, Threid is coming. I expect the Whitewalls will come. Viscount Louweridge is away scoring business in the Free Realm of Hrakr, I hear, but the Viscountess has promised come. Perhaps Duke Summerose of Maben, assuming your father is content to bring his fury to a birthday celebration... Well, thinking on it, they say the Pious Celestiam himself is eager. Duke Haebyrling of Clyreton is expected too. Speaking of which, what is happening between his son and yourself? He’s a fine-looking lad, but no more than a side show for you, surely? Though, I suppose it does aspire to lie about laying with the daughter of the Stone…’

Fiara had trailed away. Her mind thought of Threid Hedet, soon the Cardinal Lord of Chilternshire, her distant cousin. The Hedets and the Squalls had always been close, if not in love, then in quarrel, and Threid like a brother in their youth. He was a man far beyond the trappings of age; always stronger, as they say the Hedets of the Boulder should be. Dark of hair, striking of eye, and dense of muscle. Warriors, unlike so many other high lords. Warriors that ride the finest stallions, best the finest knights in joust or melee, and with a mason culture so beautiful that any meagre artist would wish they could paint such grace on canvas let alone the gruff of stone. Threid had the neck-length curls that shone an alluring onyx, with the chest of an aurochs, and the limbs of the hardiest horse. It seemed to ring true, that the Hedet men and women were truly carved raw from stone in the bowels of their great palace of clocks, Meridian, as golems made living.

‘Are you listening, Fiara?’ Leoise asked with a sharp tongue.

‘Of course, mother.’

Leoise snickered. She gave the floor two gracious steps forward. ‘Well, what do you think then?’ She asked her daughter.

‘I…’

Leoise laughed. A great beam came across her that was so absent in recent years, of perfect teeth and stretched-full lips. ‘I jest my daughter. I asked nothing. Yes, Threid is coming, but you missed the finest surprise,’ the Queen of Loullands remarked, beguilingly excited herself.

‘Well then tell again, mother, do,’ Fiara exclaimed. She found herself bouncing, clinging onto her mother’s reaching gown. The curls of her fine golden locks, the locks of her family the Therlins of Nefae, seemed to beckon tease just as much as her dimpled beam. Queen Leoise murmured something muffled enough that none could hear save her own ear.

‘That won’t do, mother. It just will not do, so tell me,’ Fiara found herself pleading. Her mother refused to say anymore, tightening her lips firm. ‘You’re just being difficult now. Why can’t you say?’

‘You should have your ears open more, Fiara. Especially if you expect to rule once Boeris secedes.’ Leoise finally turned to the keen iron grey of Riquard Parasquall, the Cliffhaven Steward, and Leoise’s closest counsel since Boeris ascended. He was ever at her shoulder, and eager to make her laugh, and swept the conversation away.

And with that, Fiara left in a confused excitement, to her chamber, up the many stone stairs of Cliffhaven Keep.

***

His procession was grand, for it had swollen on progresses, and long enough did it snake that Fiara could see that serpent’s head and in distance no sign of tail. Cliffhaven could host many, thousands even, but this would test the elasticity of her walls and the diligence of her servants. And the wind stirred with the horde, seeming to ride beside the horsemen, and pour past the exalted window that stretched from the tip of the tallest tower in Cliffhaven Keep, proudspire, through the holes in the brickwork. But that breeze was not alone, for it brought the sun’s most glorious rays, melting the colour of the resplendent window’s staining into the viewing chamber behind. If it had seemed distant once, Fiara then knew, her father was king.

‘What gorgeous glassmithery. They did take care to catch the light well,’ Maerk Gaile commented. ‘A shame that Scarshire’s winds carry bad odours so well. You can really smell those horses; I can’t imagine how much perfume is needed to undercut it.’

‘The bastard does not lie,’ both haunting suitors added. Baron Leach the Lordling seemed basking in his hubris as much as the colour of light. ‘What beauty does Cliffhaven bear, in stone, glass, and women. Unfortunate that the taint of bastard men and tired asses is prevalent. I’m in no rush to wager at which is more deplorable.’ He sneered, though Lord Haebyrling did not this time. He had been uneasy all day, Fiara noticed. It is fearful meeting the king, just as it is fearful meeting a lady’s father, but his anxiety was weighing like a burden of guilt more than simple apprehension. Anxiety radiating most noxious of all.

‘Something the matter Elmond?’ Leach asked. Fiara and Maerk turned then to see. Haebyrling appeared to be shedding a tear; it glistened as the waters of the Prism Strait did, capturing light’s beauty, but giving only terror.

‘I am simply overwhelmed, it seems,’ he mumbled. Haebyrling had chosen to pepper himself in a skirvin of snowy makeup and bore a rather disgusting long wig for the occasion. It, too, was white, and endlessly matted and long, as if straight from the ewe’s back. ‘It’s such an occasion. I admit, I fear melancholy for when our days as guards and wards are ended.’

Leach’s coal-dust eyebrows sunk. ‘A strange piece of sentiment from you, Haebyrling. I suppose you’re right, though. I cannot dispute my appreciation for my time in Cliffhaven, so I suppose thanks is in due?’ The heir Baron asked his companion. Another tear seemed to have fallen. ‘Well come now, Haebyrling. You aren’t truly… It’s not as though we’re expected leave by the morrow. Is this some kind of peculiar jest that you Clyreton folk play?’

‘I don’t jest. I mourn time passed.’

Fiara trotted slow toward him. They met eyes, brief, but in that time Fiara admitted there was deep-sunken lament in his soul. ‘Your makeup is running Lord Haebyrling,’ she quipped.

‘So it is, my Lady, so it is. It is to you I am perhaps most saccharine.’ His voice was as dry as his lips, and yet nothing was so wet to the ears.

‘I’d rather we not do this now. I cannot confess the same emotion,’ Fiara replied, pivoting back in grace a dismissive show.

‘Well, that is unfortunate now, Haebyrling. Perhaps you’d do better should you treat your courtships with a little decency,’ Maerk said. His were the only apparel so bleak; the brownest clothes that supposedly were a necessity upon days of celebration for a training Chiron. A simple muddy gown that made him seem a pig amongst stags, for the young nobles were in their finest silks and leathers and dyed tunics, Leach with a thin cane and a tasteful jacket, Haebyrling similarly so, contrasting their wigs.

‘Quiet please, monk man. Lord Haebyrling is evidently in mourning. The mind is complex, you know, full of little feelings that twitch and hurt and glow and ease. I trust emotion is something you did not have to give up entirely when you joined the ranks of the sombre,’ Leach interrupted, defending his friend.

‘Stop your quibbling,’ Fiara ordered. ‘My father – I mean, the king, he’s almost here. I suggest we make to the square for those welcome drinks. It reads amongst you as though they’re gravely needed.’