Empress of Clouds - Chapter 10

            

Chapter 10

 

            “I have come to ask yet another favor from you, my friend,” said Delorick.

            Tolian was still in her robe.  She had just awakened from her afternoon nap, surprised to find her friend calling on her.  She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and mumbled, “Anything you desire, but you know that.”

            His brow was knitted and furrowed, “This may not be an easy thing for you, but it carries importance to me.”

            “What?” She asked with sleepy impatience.

            He was uncomfortable, but he began, “I know it is your custom to carry the Moonsword with you wherever you go.  I understand that it is a great source of power for you, there is no weapon its equal in all the world.”

            “This is true enough, yes.”

            “Well,” he hesitated.  “I ask you not to bring it to the Jarrels’ Hall for the rest of the Yule.”

            Tolian was stunned by this request.  Finally, she found her voice to ask, “But why on earth not, my friend?”

            Delorick looked her straight in the eye, “It’s hard enough being the Jarrels’ Champion with you in the hall, but with the Moonsword on your belt, it reminds everyone that you should rightfully be the one holding that honor.  The presence of the magick sword serves to bring that fact strongly into focus.  I have overheard several people talking of it.  I know it seems like a petty request, but it is a meaningful one to me.”

            Tolian sighed.  He had a point, she had to admit.  It certainly would not be the first time she did not carry the weapon.  She did not bring it to wedding banquets as a rule because it seemed out of place on such occasions.  Still, she did not like to be without it, and it was not an easy decision for her.  Nonetheless, she agreed, “Very well, my friend, I can see your concern.  I will place the Moonsword over my hearth for the duration of the Jarrels, for your sake.  I won’t be needing it anyway, with you handling the fighting.”

           

            It was the third night of the Yule Jarrels.  The aromas of honey-roasted pork, pheasant, and gingerbread mingled deliciously at the entrance to the hall, cinnamon and sweet potatoes as well.  Tolian was late.  Findelbres had arrived sometime ago, as had the rest of the celebrants.  The princess stepped into the hall with all of her self-confidence and nonchalance.  She faced the customary murmur, the staring eyes.  That night Tolian cut a gorgeous figure in a white, lacey gown, matching slippers, and a holly wreath in her carefully coiffed hair.  She felt naked without the Moonsword, though.  She was already weary of the festivities, and were it not for her royal obligation to attend, she would not have done so.  Nothing seemed to help the crushing loneliness that Brythia’s absence caused.  She told herself that she should have gone with her wife.  Ah, but there she was, and regrets serve no purpose.

            The herald, brimming with impatience, was livid at her tardiness, and told her so as acidly as a servant could address a princess.  Did the princess not realize the time?  Was she unaware that the King could not enter to begin the evening’s festivities until she was seated?  Polite voice, angry eyes.  Tolian directed her doe-eyes, big and brown, in as innocent a gaze as she could muster, and then said with bland coldness, “Well, I’m here now.”

            Again she made her way across the hall and the Jarrels’ circle.  As she approached the King’s table, she noticed a large open cistern, filled with what appeared to be wine, placed before the table.  Two servants stood diligently next to the wine, if that’s what it was.  Tolian had never seen Yule wine placed so, and her curiosity was piqued.

            “Tell me,” she asked the servants, “where did this wine come from?”

            “My Lady,” answered the elder servant.  “It was delivered this morning.  ‘Tis said that it is faerie-wine.  A gift from a Lord of the Sidhe.”

            Tolian looked instinctively at Findelbres, seated across the table.  The faerie shrugged.  “It wasn’t me.  I’m not that thoughtful a guest.”

            “I’ve noticed that,” agreed Tolian.

            “Um, Princess?”  squeeked the servant nervously.  “I think the herald would like you to be seated.”

            Sure enough, the fellow by the entrance was frantically signaling her to be seated.  She shrugged her shoulders, but made her way around the table.  Even her Uncle Keliof seemed annoyed at her for her disregard for the time.  Kelvris was the exception of her kin; he was surprisingly cordial, practically beside himself with uncharacteristic affection for her. 

            “Tolian..  It’s wonderful to see you.  They feared that you had taken ill,” said the prince. “But, you don’t take ill anymore, do you?” 

            No, she didn’t.  Not since she had become a goddess, if that was really what she was now.  She did not like those sorts of things being pointed out, however.  Though she enjoyed her physical prowess, she longed to be like everyone else.   She slapped Kelvris good-naturedly on the back, with just a little too much force.  The prince lurched forward, barely able to keep himself from smashing into the table.  Tolian smiled cheerfully, and noticed the extra chair next to the King’s place. 

            “Kelvris,” she inquired as she slid past him to take her seat, “who’s sitting there?”

            Her cousin regained his breath.  “Ah, that’s the mystery, isn’t it?  A special guest, though who it is, no one will say.”

            “Hmmm.”

            “Yes, exactly.”

            Tolian smiled brightly at Findelbres.  Somehow seeing the elf always raised her spirits.

            “Good evening, dear Master Findelbres,” she greeted him. “I hope you are well.”

            “Oh Lady of the Silver Light, Empress of Clouds, who holdeth all the Realm of Faerie as a piece of her Kingdom, how could I not be well in thine radiant presence?”

            “Please, Findelbres, spare me the epithets,” said Tolian in a hushed whisper.  For the King had entered the hall. “Well, what do you think of our little celebration?” she asked quietly.

             “The food and ale are really fantastic, and I mean that.  But, the entertainment, how many times can you watch Delorick rough people up before it gets old,” came Findelbres’ reply, shouted over the cheers that erupted with the King’s taking his place at the table and saluting the assemblage.  Tolris waved down the applause and the polite silence prevailed once again.

            “I bid you greetings, guests and folk of Lorm,” boomed the King.  “Tonight we have something different.  For the first time in recorded history, we will have faerie wine served at the Yule Jarrels.  And as all can see, we have an ample supply for the evening.  I tasted this vintage myself not long ago, and it truly is something special.  Now, our benefactor would like to enjoy our Lormian hospitality.  I am pleased to introduce to you, a warrior who fought bravely for the cause of Lorm last year, the leader of the faeire forces, Lord Dowbreth.”

            Everyone there had seen faeries before, but this Lord Dowbreth was altogether different than those the people of Lorm had seen before.  It was said that he had led the charge of the elven warriors against the dragons at the siege, but if he had done so, he did not remain in Lorm for long.  A deep uncertain quiet now took the hall as he made his entrance.  Tolian could not see him at first as her cousin Kelvris had moved to the front of the table, next to the wine, blocking her initial view.  He had leapt mysteriously from his chair at the King’s announcement.  Whatever he was doing there, Tolian did not care, but she wished he would stand somewhere else.

            “Kelvris, get out of the way,” she yelled to him.

            He turned with a smug smile and promptly made his way back to his seat.  Now Tolian could see the faerie warlord.

            “By the Gods of Lorm,” she muttered in astonishment.

            “Dowbreth,” hissed Findelbres in displeased surprise.

            Dowbreth made a giant figure, standing between seven and eight feet tall; as with all of his preternatural race, it was impossible to judge his height with any degree of certainty.  He wore full body armor, which glowed with an eerie green radiance and was accentuated by spikes projecting from its surface.  His face was even paler than Findelbres’ and marked by deep red scars across his cheeks and forehead.  His nose, twisted and smashed, had clearly been broken numerous times.  His eyes gleamed with red fire and his hair was deep black, darker than the night sky.  He wore a smile, perhaps friendly on anyone else’s mouth, but on the faerie warlord it revealed his teeth, which were filed to sharp points.  As he crossed the Jarrels’ hall with his confident, great strides, Tolian could see that what, at first, appeared to be several pouches or sacks suspended from his belt, were, in fact, severed heads, cured only by time, such that some were little more than skulls.  Behind him trailed a green cloak that was either tattered or was designed to stream behind him like the tendrils of some rare plant or sea creature.  His boots clanged against the floor with resounding force as he walked.

            Tolian felt a chill run up her spine as Dowbreth brought his gaze upon her.  Their eyes met for an instant, and she could feel the wantonness and otherworldly menace that burned in the fire of his stare.  Did he smile more broadly as he perceived the haughty disdainful defiance of her eyes.

            He stopped and bowed low before the King’s table.

            “Rise, Lord Dowbreth,” entreated the King.  “Receive our welcome and gratitude for your Yule-tide gift as well as your past service to our realm.”

            Dowbreth rose again to his great height.  And then he spoke.  How different was his voice from Findelbres’ bright and fluid cadences.  The words still possessed a vaguely inhuman quality, but were a blended mixture of harsh cacophony and a jagged eloquence, beyond reconciliation from mortal lips.  Gracious in tone, yet malevolent in timbre.

            “Thank you, Your Majesty.  I am honored to be received so warmly at your Midwinter’s court,” he said.  He noticed Findelbres and nodded with familiarity in his direction.  “I see that I am not the only visitor from the Faerie Realm present tonight, and I, as well, bring the good tidings of our Lord and Lady, and this gift from their own wine cellar.  I wish nothing more than to enjoy your hospitality and share your proud and noble customs.”

            “Come,” said Tolris, “please take a seat here at my table.”

            Tolian noticed that Findelbres’ eyes narrowed with clear hostility.  He leaned over to Tolian.

            “You cannot trust him,” he whispered in Tolian’s ear.  “He has no love of mortals, believe me.”

            “What, do you think he poisoned the wine?” she asked.

            The King, overhearing their conversation whispered, “Please give us some credit, Findelbres.  The wine was checked for poison as soon as we received it.  He has not been near it since.” 

            Dowbreth took his seat on the other side of the King, appearing almost ridiculous behind the table due to his massive stature, but menacing enough not to be. “Your Majesty, I should like to propose a toast,” he suggested with eagerness and humility.

            “Of course, of course,” nodded Tolris agreeably.  “Let the wine of the Good Folk be served,” he commanded.

            With the celebrated Lormian efficiency the servants set about the task of distributing the elfin spirits to everyone in the hall.

            Tolian spent a few moments in discrete examination of Dowbreth as Findelbres addressed him.

            “Lord Dowbreth, Our Lady had not mentioned your intention to visit Lorm as well,” he stated with clear curiosity.

            “Naturally not, Lord Findelbres, for my errand is under authority of Our Lord, a matter of military policy.  I do not believe Queen Ymrisiva was informed until after your departure.”

            “A matter of military policy?  How so?  The Host of the Sidhe has never brought such dealings to the mortal realm before.”

            In a patient tone, the warlord explained, “You’ll forgive me for my plainness, friend Findelbres, but perhaps the secret war councils of the Sidhe are somewhat beyond the providence of the Queen’s Guard.  But, in any case, you’ll no doubt agree that a military alliance with mortals was formed last year, and that these mortals, these Lormians, have proven themselves to be mighty warriors, and worthy allies.”

            There was a general muttered agreement with Dowbreth’s words among the surrounding tables.

            “Do I detect a friendly rivalry between our faerie guests?”  asked the King good-naturedly.

            “Is it not possible, good Findelbres,” added Kelvris, “that his words ring true?”

            “Actually, no,” responded Findelbres.

            Tolian found herself torn.  She trusted her friend’s opinion, but there was a brutal straightforwardness to Dowbreth’s manner that lent credence to him.  Clearly, this man, or faerie, was a warrior; the folk of Lorm respected such people.

            “His story makes sense, Findelbres,” Tolian found herself saying quietly.

            “You people don’t know this creature...” began Findelbres.

            “Ah,” interupted the King, “the wine is served.  Lord Dowbreth, your toast.”

            “Excellent,” said Dowbreth, “I’m quite parched from my journey.”  The warlord rose from his chair, towering above the table.  When he addressed the assemblage, his utterances, though still rough, conveyed a sense of friendship and a savage, but mysterious grandeur. “People of Lorm,” he raised his cup.  Everyone in the hall did the same.  “Here is to a new age of unity between our peoples, a new alliance hitherto undreamt of in either of our worlds.  We have much to teach you, and you have much to offer us as well.” As he said this he let his eyes fall briefly on Tolian. 

            Something in his eyes made her uncomfortable.  She straightened herself in her chair and pretended not to notice him.

            “May a great happiness come to our realms.  To Lorm.”  He raised his horn to his lips.

            “To Lorm and our faerie friends,” offered the King.

            “To Lorm and our faerie friends,” echoed back the merry Jarrels’ guests.  And they all drank the wine.

            When the wine hit Tolian’s tongue, the flavors were unlike anything she had ever tasted.  Yes, it was wine, certainly.  It was fruity and sweet, and powerful.  Waves of pleasure radiated from her mouth and throat as the vintage slid down.  It sparkled with a hypnotic aroma, and a taste that seemed a combination of the melody of a songbird, the golden vista of a sunrise and the fragrance of honeysuckle, with a splash of mystery.  Warmth stole over her body as the liquid reached her stomach.  Clearly, the faerie beverage was considerably stronger than the mortal version.  The soothing warmth slowly blended with, and gave way to, a light-headed euphoria.

            “This is a remarkable cordial you have shared with us Lord Dowbreth.  We are indeed grateful,” commented King Tolris.  Tolian noticed that her father’s speech was already slurred slightly from his first drink.

            “You’re very welcome, Your Highness.  It is the custom of my people that friends exchange gifts on the Solstice,” said Dowbreth with a nod at Prince Kelvris.

            Prince Kelvris stood up at once and spoke, “We have a similar tradition, Lord Dowbreth, and in the spirit of gift-giving... I should like to take this opportunity to give my esteemed cousin, Crown Princess Tolian, a gift which is due her.”

            He reached into his pocket and produced a bracelet that he held up for all to see.  “Tolian, dear Tolian.  I promised you something special, something memorable for your Jarrels’ gift.  I shall not, I trust, disappoint.”

            He stepped next to her and bowed, holding the bracelet open for her.

            Tolian held out her arm, allowing Kelvris to slip the bracelet closed around her wrist.  It was beautiful, and clearly different from any other jewelry she had ever seen before.  It was basic in design, a largish circlet of some dark metal or alloy, which was hinged closed, but now revealed no seam or sign of hinging.  Its uniqueness was in its simplicity and the fact that it possessed such a black shimmer that it nearly radiated darkness.

            “It’s lovely, Kelvris.  Thank you very much,” she said with sincere gratitude.  She held her wrist up for those in the immediate vicinity to view. 

            “Oh, you’re welcome to it, I’m sure,” said Kelvris.  “It’s the least you deserve.”

            Everyone at the table politely agreed.  Dowbreth wore a satisfied smile.  He was still standing.

            “Your Majesty,” the faerie warlord said.  “In the spirit of sharing traditions, I should like to make a Jarrels’ challenge.”

            Everyone in the hall gasped in one breath.

            Tolris quickly recovered himself from his initial shock, “Oh indeed, Lord Dowbreth,” he said.  “What boon have you in mind?”

            Dowbreth spoke slowly and calmly, “I wish the right to fight Lorm’s greatest warrior, indeed this world’s greatest warrior, in Jarrels’ combat.  I wish to fight the Moon Goddess.”

            Tolian leaped eagerly to her feet. “I will fight you Dowbreth,”  She declared.

            “Not yet, you won’t,” said the King sternly.  “He must first best the Jarrels’ Champion.  You understand that this is our way, Lord Dowbreth?”

            “I do, Your Majesty.”

            “Very well,” said the King.  “We shall receive your Challenge. If you best our Champion you may combat Tolian, using Jarrels’ rules.  Are you familiar with our rules of Solstice Combat?”

            “I have recently been informed of them.  This shall be most entertaining.”

           

            Tolian felt sorry for Delorick as he and the faerie warlord faced off in the Jarrels’ circle.  She knew that her friend was among the world’s greatest swordsmen, but she did not think he could stand long before the legendary chieftain of the Sidhe.  She shouted his name with the rest of the assemblage, though she both knew, and hoped, that the match would be a quick one.  She was eager to battle the giant.

            Delorick once again gave the appearance of the determined veteran, showing no doubt in his own ability to handle himself and no deference to the stature or status of his opponent.  He held his sword before him, waiting for Dowbreth to unsheathe his own long sword.

            Dowbreth began to laugh in a most unwholesome manner, showing his filed teeth as he did so.  His laughter was raspy, discordant and entirely unpleasant.  To Delorick’s credit, he did not flinch, nor change his expression of confident concentration; he waited calmly with sword up and ready for Dowbreth to make his move.

            Findelbres leaned over to Tolian’s ear, “Remember, I warned you about this villain.”

            “I’m worried for Delorick,” replied the princess, “but I am not afraid to face him.  I’ve battled worse monsters than this rogue.”

            Findelbres agreed, “I know, but he must have something up his sleeve, my friend.  You can count on that.  Some treachery is lurking in the back of his mind.  But for the present let us hope our Delorick doesn’t get hurt too badly.”

            Kelvris, overhearing their conversation, interjected, “Oh, so you think our Jarrels’ Champion can’t stand up to one of your kind, Master Findelbres?”

            “Few can,” answered Findelbres plainly.

            Kelvris smiled, almost slyly. “Well,” said the prince, “perhaps, you would like to make a Jarrels’ wager on the battle?”

            Findelbres turned towards Tolian, “Your cousin, apparently has a abundance of Jarrels’ gifts to be rid of this year.”  He brought his attention back to Kelvris. “You have a wager my friend.  Another bad one, I fear.”

            “Done,” said the prince with an uncharacteristic air of magnanimity.

            Within the Jarrels’ Circle the opponents slowly moved around, vying for positional advantage inside the boundary, locked eye to eye.  The giant’s unnerving cackle almost drowned out the shouts of support from Delorick’s well-wishers.  The Jarrels’ Champion made the first move.  With great speed, Delorick brought his sword down towards the faerie warrior’s hip.  Dowbreth’s blade blocked his attack and with a mighty force pushed the Lormian’s blade up and away.  It was all Delorick could do to retain his grip on his weapon and keep on his feet.

            Tolian frowned as she watched, for clearly her friend’s sword was now too high to put up a defense should his opponent move to attack (which he would surely do).  But, Tolian was surprised (as was Delorick, certainly), for the giant made no offensive move.  Instead he merely returned his sword to a defensive position before him, and kept up his disturbing guffaw.  What is he waiting for? Tolian wondered.  It was now perfectly clear to everyone in the hall, that Dowbreth could win the match whenever he desired.

            Delorick produced a skillful fete to the right and then a quick lunge straight ahead to the faerie’s midsection.  However, Dowbreth now showed that he was not only the stronger of the two, but he was the more nimble as well.  In a stroke that was beyond the agility of mortal sinew, the otherworldly knight parried the thrust and sent the Lormian staggering backwards.  He then did something completely unexpected; he quickly caught Delorick before he toppled to the floor and set him aright on his feet.  There was no motive that Tolian could think of for this behavior, but clearly, for some reason known only to himself, the faerie was prolonging the contest.

            “What the hell is he doing?” Tolian asked aloud.

            “I do not know, but he has a purpose, I assure you,” replied Findelbres.

            And so the match continued for another fifteen minutes, with Dowbreth making no offensive moves, but defending himself with impossible dexterity against Delorick’s assaults.  It seemed as though Dowbreth was playing with Delorick as a cat plays with its prey.  Tolian had the impression that he was, somehow, playing with all of them.  Then all at once the maniacal laughter ceased, and the giant in one swift attack sent Delorick flying across the Jarrels’ hall, and smashing in to the table of the House of Curdew.  

            The giant’s arms reached up in a victorious gesture.  Attendants hurried over to aid Delorick.

            King Tolris rose to his feet, “Lord Dowbreth is the victor.  His Jarrels’ boon shall be granted.”

            There was a polite, half-hearted round of applause for the faerie, though most of the people there would have much preferred to see Delorick best the otherworldly knight.

            The King then addressed Tolian.  “Prepare yourself, my child, to defend the honor of Lorm.”  He added quietly, “and show this elfish ruffian something of the power of Lorm.”

            The princess sprang to her feet.  “I shall, father,” she said.  “Crud,” she added, “I didn’t bring the Moonsword; I didn’t figure on fighting in the Jarrels.”

            “You can borrow my sword, cousin,” volunteered Kelvris.  “It is not as celebrated as your own blade, but it has seen me through many a fight to victory.”

            “Thank you, Kelvris,” said Tolian, taking the weapon from her cousin.

            “You’re not exactly dressed for combat,” observed Findelbres.

            “That shouldn’t be a problem,” replied Tolian.  “I don’t think this fight will take very long.”

            She kicked off her slippers and with her borrowed sword, walked calmly towards the Jarrels’ circle.

            If there had ever been a more unlikely Jarrels’ match in Lormian history, no one there could recall it.  Princess Tolian slipped inside the circle without thought of changing out of her white lace ball gown.  In her mid twenties and dressed in her party attire, she knew her foe thought she would be easily conquered.  Smiling broadly, she stared up at the hulking faerie warlord. “So you want to fight the Moon Goddess?” she asked him.  “I shall make this a much quicker fight than your last one.”

            He looked down at her and smirked most rudely, “Do not underestimate me, my lady.  I may surprise you.”

            They raised their swords.

            “We shall see, Lord Dowbreth, we shall see.”

            “Indeed.”

            The murmuring in the background grew strangely quiet as the match began.

            Tolian struck first, her movements far too fast to be seen.  She made three powerful swipes at Dowbreth’s forearms, alternately, from both directions.  Her goal was to disarm the warlord of the Sidhe immediately.  No mortal warrior could defend or withstand her blows; Dowbreth, however, not only still retained his grip on his sword, though bleeding considerably at the wrists, but had actually managed to deflect one of her assaults.  Impressive, she thought. 

            With a series of light and easy flicks or her wrist she brought Kelvris’ sword down on Dowbreth’s defense with fantastic fury.  In a few seconds his armor was ripped and blood trickled from numerous wounds.  Dowbreth was backed up to the brink of the boundary, panting heavily for breath.

            “Are you ready to finish this, Lord Dowbreth?” the princess inquired.

            His speech was broken and punctuated with gasps for air, but his words carried no tone of defeat. “Oh, my princess, I never intended to finish this.  I’m not so foolish as that.  I’m simply biding my time, waiting from my preparations to come to fruition.”

            There was a powerful sense of menace tangible in his words. “Preparations?  What are you talking about?”

            “Well, to begin with, you’ll notice we have lost our audience.”

            Tolian looked out around the hall.  No one stirred; heads were slumped down or laid on tables, the low rhythmic sound of snoring could be heard.

            “Fear not, they are only sleeping, nothing more than that.  I have no quarrel with your people.  They shall wake in a few hours.”

            “You arrogant fool,” shouted Tolian.  “I shall kill you for this.”  She wielded her sword with great agility and skill, but this time Dowbreth’s blade was there to defend.  She realized that for some reason her assault lacked the power and speed she normally possessed.  In fact, the giant had already caught his breath and gone on the offensive himself.  Now it was all Tolian could do to fend off his blade, as her own sword seemed to have grown heavier.  This time it was Tolian who was out of breath after Dowbreth’s frantic attack.

            Fear grew in the princess’ heart as the towering giant renewed his maniacal laughter and brought his sword once more toward her.  Kelvris’ sword was now almost too heavy for her to lift.  With one more quick move, the faerie disarmed her.

            What had happened?  Where were her powers?

            A great wave of exhaustion descended upon her.  She fell to the floor.  Dowbreth’s scarred and laughing face was the last thing she saw before her eyes grew too heavy to keep open.  Suddenly sleep could wait no longer.  The princess succumbed to its irresistible beckoning.  Dowbreth’s sinister laughter echoed in her ears as deep slumber took hold of her.

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 Diana Hignutt