Chapter
7
Kiliordes watched the Yule hunt from the main courtyard
balcony with the King. To him it was a quaint
enough custom, perhaps a bit rustic, if not just a little barbaric, but
certainly with enough pageantry and tradition to make it an enjoyable
spectacle. He mused that it was exactly
that combination that made the Lormians, themselves, such agreeable
companions. They were the perfect mix of
warriors and country-folk, with just enough civilization and sophistication to
make it all work. They were a breath of
fresh air for Kiliordes. It was perfect
for him; as Rwiordes, he had known the more northern cultures, where the
city-states were invested with the arrogance of modern, metropolitan attitudes,
and as Kilfrie, the highly regimented life in the temples and woods. Both types of people would have looked down on
the Lormians for this “blood-thirsty” celebration, but they would have been too
“evolved” (or afraid) to say so to their faces.
Yet, Kiliordes loved it all.
He swished his hot cider in its mug, and then gulped it
down greedily. He watched the hunt with
keen interest. He was not surprised at
Tolian’s amazing performance. She had
killed the first boar before most of the huntsmen had cleared the second gate,
and then immediately abandoned the hunt.
The crowd at the palace, with a view of Tolian’s kill, cheered joyfully.
He leaned over to King Tolris. “Your Majesty, is Tolian finished already?”
Tolris, who was clearly delighted at his daughter’s
hunting skills, could not help beaming.
“Yes, Kiliordes.
One boar per huntsmen. Cuts down
on the bad blood and hard feelings. I
order one beast per huntsmen. Everybody
gets a kill that way.”
“Oh, excellent,” commented the royal advisor. “That’s going to save us some strife with the
other Houses. Especially this year.”
Kiliordes was sure there would be quite the ruckus raised
about Tolian’s participation in the event as it was. That girl was making all of their lives so
much tougher than they needed to be. Did
she have to wear that outfit? Tolian was
irrepressible, and Kiliordes knew this.
He couldn’t be angry with her. He
understood her motivations all too well.
The other nobles’ objections and ravings about the princess were based
on chauvinism and jealously. Clearly, no
one had ever dispatched the first boar so quickly. In the end, that would be the real reason for
the rain of complaints they would doubtlessly receive from the Houses.
Kiliordes became distracted as he saw the green banners
of Curdew House stream from the next huntsmen close in on the second boar. Thank heavens, Kiliordes thought. It was Lord Tathuwd. Bagging the second boar should help ease his
envy and frustration at Tolian’s superiority.
This hunt was entirely different than the princess’s had
been. The boar had both the time and
common sense to run from the galloping horsemen. Tathuwd rode down hard on the beast, bringing
his stead right up next to the fleeing animal.
The warlord then used his spear, a weapon unique to the
Lormian knights, capable as it was of being used either as a lance or a
javelin. Tathuwd used his as both. First, he poked at the beast repeatedly,
biting through its thick hide. The boar
made a sudden wild turn from the huntsman and put enough distance between them
to spare him from the lance prods. Now,
of course, Tathuwd expertly released the spear with fury and buried the weapon in
the boar’s thigh, setting the animal to tumble to the winter-whitened ground.
Tathuwd pulled his mighty stallion next to the wounded
boar and dismounted as he readied his sword.
A plunge and the field’s whiteness was marked with a quickly growing
pool of red.
Kiliordes looked over at Tolris and Miderick. They were laughing and swilling a toast in
Tathuwd’s honor.
“Jolly fine kill, eh Kiliordes?” asked the King.
“A fine kill, Your Majesty,” agreed Kiliordes.
The hunt took several hours. Most of the hunters had made their kill
within the first hour, but Yewstrog of the House of Yeld bore the shame of the
last kill, bringing the stigma of a year’s bad luck on himself, his house, and
the unfortunate villagers of Estbentk.
At least the villagers, whose village was quite a distance from the
palace and had the most inaccessible tract of deer forest in the locale, were
used to it.
After the hunt, all of the revelers, spectators, and
huntsmen retired for the afternoon, while the preparations for the Jarrels’
feast were made. Kiliordes wandered the
shockingly nearly deserted streets of the lower palace town for a while. It was eerie.
He had never seen so few people there before. Apparently, even the foreigners and tourists
knew well enough to get their rest. At
last, realizing that he too would be up late for the evening’s festivities, he
decided that perhaps a nap might be a good idea after all.
A knock on his chamber door brought him out of his
slumber. His head was groggy, seemingly
filled with cobwebs. Wearily, he lifted
himself upright and rubbed his eyes. The
knock came again. Three quick raps, a
pause then two more raps. It was his
servant, Pilior. He yawned loudly, then
mumbled, annoyed, “Yes, Pilior. What is
it?”
The door opened and the boy entered, hesitating. “I’m sorry, your lordship. I truly am...”
“What is it, lad?” asked Kiliordes impatiently.
“It’s just that there’re people to see you, sir. They demanded to see you right away. I’m sorry.
That and they’re from...”
“It’s all right, Pilior.
Now, calm down and tell me who they are and where they are from.”
Even as sleepy as he was, Kiliordes knew that the boy was
excited by his visitors’ identities more than he was worried about his master’s
reaction to being awakened during his Yule rest.
“There are three of them, sir. Two men and a lady, sir. They’re from the Solar Pilgrimage Festival.”
The Solar Pilgrimage Festival. Pleasant memories of pilgrimage festivals
past and the memory of the merry wanders following the course of the sun’s
journey, reveling and spreading joy and good fortune in their wake warmed
Kiliordes’s heart. He had traveled with
them for a time. When he had first
escaped from the Demon, he had taken refuge with them. The Chief Pilgrim, Krin Gul, had hidden him
in their midst and had found a way to get him to Lorm in time to warn King
Tolris of the Demon’s approaching army.
He had many a happy memory of his life with those merry travelers; it
stood out as an oasis of cheer in the most harrowing period in Rwiordes’
life. The Solar Pilgrims were
universally welcomed to whatever region they visited. It was said that they brought good fortune in
their wake, and to host the festival was considered an honor. The pilgrims loved the purity, energy, and
joy of the sun, and any that wanted to join their ranks were welcome to join
their bright caravan of feasting, drinking, and singing the sun’s praises. They were free spirits, charged with the
spreading of love and light to the hearts of all. He suddenly longed to see Krin Gul’s ancient,
jovial face once more. Could it be him?
“By all means, Pilior, show them to my parlor. I’ll be there presently.”
Kiliordes threw his robe over his disheveled bedclothes
and was in his parlor before his guests were shown in.
Pilior ushered in three people, all outfitted in furs and
wool garments dyed a hodgepodge of bright colors (though mainly shades of
yellows, reds, oranges and pinks). The
two younger pilgrims he recognized immediately; indeed they were the first
members of the Solar Pilgrimage Festival he had met on that bitter November
morning when he wandered, hunted and exhausted, into their encampment. Their names?
They were coming to him. Yes,
Clonder was the young fellow, a bright-faced blonde man in his twenties, and
his twin sister was Sornite, a Gestoan beauty.
He jumped to his feet, delighted to see them. Now the other fellow, the third—there was something
familiar about him, but Kiliordes could not place him. He was dark complected with a clean-shaven
face. His jaw was square, and although
his mouth was spread in the most friendly, joyous smile, it seemed somehow
foreign to his face. The fun, mischievous
twinkle in his eye seemed at odds with the deep furrows and lines around his
eyes. And in the royal advisor’s eye,
his massive frame looked completely out of place in the brilliant colors he
wore. A chill passed over Kiliordes’
heart for a moment as he regarded the fellow, until the dark pilgrim stepped
forward and bowed before him, leading his companions to do the same. An unpleasant rush of embarrassment chased
away any other feelings Kiliordes had.
He blurted out, “Get up. Don’t do
that.”
Then, composing himself, “I mean, please... it’s
absolutely not necessary.”
“But Lord Kiliordes...” began the large, dark pilgrim.
“No. No,”
Kiliordes insisted, helping the fellow to his feet. “Any nobility I may possess is purely
honorary, and doesn’t require such gestures of submission, especially for those
who partake of the Sun’s own grand nobility.
And please, Sornite and Clonder, my old friends, you must not spoil me
so. It is I who have a deep debt to you,
for the kindness you had for a weary fugitive.”
“Greetings, good Rwiordes,” exclaimed Clonder.
“Hail, Clonder, and to you, Sornite. Please, I go by Kiliordes now. What brings the Pilgrimage to Lorm for the
Solstice? You should be in southern
Surtiz or even Borean by now. And who is
your friend?”
“The Pilgrimage is in northern Surtiz,” Sornite said.
“It is just we three who are here in Lorm,” added
Clonder.
The dark pilgrim extended his hand towards
Kiliordes. “Good Kiliordes,” he said,
“my name is Pagyrus, and it is my great honor to meet the man who saved the
world. Krin Gul spoke so kindly of you.”
The shadow chill again.
“Spoke?” Kiliordes asked, understanding the message of the word, and in
fear that he did so.
A look of concern replaced Pagyrus’ warm smile. Clonder and Sornite lowered their heads in
uncharacteristic sorrow. Kiliordes had
never seen such expressions on their faces before.
“It was most sudden...” began Pagyrus.
“He did not suffer,” offered Clonder.
It seemed as though his heart pooled with frozen lead, so
heavy was it from this terrible and unexpected news. The vitality and joy of life that so marked
the ancient pilgrim made the news of his death so much harder to bear. The color drained from Kiliordes’ face. He asked the first question that popped into
his head: “What is the Solar Pilgrimage Festival going to do now?”
“What Krin Gul wished us to do,” answered Sornite.
“He spoke his last words to Pagyrus,” said Clonder.
“And these were?” asked Kiliordes.
“It was Krin Gul’s will that the three of us should come
to Lorm and entreat you to join the Solar Pilgrimage Festival as Head Pilgrim,”
Pagyrus said matter-of-factly.
“M-m-me?” stammered Kiliordes in disbelief.
“Who better than the man who saved the world from
darkness to lead us in merry pursuit of the sun?” asked Pagyrus. “Besides, you have traveled with the
Pilgrimage before—you know our ways.”
“You were Krin Gul’s only choice,” pointed out Clonder.
“You’re perfect to lead us, Kiliordes,” said Sornite.
Kiliordes’ head spun.
Panic and indecision stabbed at him, and overwhelmed him.
“Look, I’m sorry.
You people have caught me off guard here,” he explained. “I’m going to have to think about all of
this.”
The three Solar Pilgrim’s eager smiles deflated.
Crestfallen, Sornite pleaded, “But we need you.”
“I’m needed here too,” said Kiliordes. “Why don’t you relax, and be my guests for
the Yule Jarrels while I think about it.
I’ll give you my answer after the Yule.”
The Pilgrims accepted his offer graciously and took their
leave.
Could things get any more complicated?
Copyright 2004, 2015 Diana Hignutt
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