Empress of Clouds - Chapter 8

                      

Chapter 8

 

            The King held court in the Jarrels’ Hall at sundown each day, during the Lormian Yule celebration.  It was a sizable structure, vaguely dome-shaped, with two mammoth fire places at either end, and three terraced levels provided staggered viewing of the floor.  The place seated five hundred at the tables and another three hundred standing.  Red and green banners draped the walls and well-placed torches provided adequate lighting throughout the structure.  His Majesty provided the most hospitable feast; the tables were always fully laden with meats, breads, and cheeses.  Baskets of exotic fruits and nuts were arranged conveniently on every table, and no traditional horn tankard ever went empty (a custom which kept the servants ever busy).

            The hall was already loud with the sounds of Lormian revelry when Tolian entered with Findelbres on her arm.  It was almost deafening, and certainly no one paid much attention to the herald’s announcement of their arrival.  The princess gently led the faerie through the tables of the Houses Yeld and Curdew, across the Jarrels’ circle, to the royal tables.  The din quieted considerably as all eyes fell on Tolian.  Her tight velvet gown shouted in scarlet that the Princess of Lorm had arrived.  She wore the wreath of holly in her hair.  The scabbard with the Moonsword hung off her belt.  She almost always carried the sword with her out of both habit from her old warrior lifestyle and due to the strong connection she had with the lunar weapon.  She did not like to be without it

            As she made her way proudly to her seat, she saw stares of disapproval, of jealously, of wantonness and lust; looks of fear and respect.  Tolian wondered if they were more or less pleased with Findelbres at her side, in place of Brythia.  While most in the palace heartily appreciated the contributions of both the faeries and the druids to their victory in the war, they did not care for the amount of influence they perceived either possessed over the politics of Lorm.  Findelbres whispered to her sarcastically, “Boy, you’re really popular here, aren’t you.”

            “Oh, you noticed that, huh?”

            She had sacrificed her manhood for these people, and received scorn for her trouble.  Would things always be like this for her?

            Tolian smiled in as friendly manner as she could muster at Kiliordes, who was seated at the King’s Guests Table, along with Miderick, Pont the Swordsmith, Urno, the Chief Bannerman, and three individuals who could only be members of the Solar Pilgrimage Festival.  Their presence drew out the princess’ curiosity.  She had not heard that the Pilgrimage was in Lorm.  Usually their travels did not bring them to Lorm until late spring.  She was distracted from her examination of the pilgrims by Lord Talthuwd, who was already drunk and leaning over Kiliordes.  Talthuwd, who did not notice Tolian as she passed, bellowed his complaints to a patient but disinterested royal advisor. “I tell you, that Tolian’s kill shouldn’t be considered as the first kill.  He didn’t use a spear, as our custom dictates.  It’s not fair.  He or she, or whatever he is now, makes a mockery of our oldest traditions.  I should, rightfully, be First Huntsmen.”

            Kiliordes raised a hand to halt the warlord’s diatribe.  “You make good points, my lord.  Miderick and I will present your case to the King, for his consideration.”

            Tolian had to admit that Kiliordes probably had the toughest job in the kingdom.  He was constantly scrambling to put out the diplomatic fires that Tolian’s situation had caused.  No doubt, there were many displeased that “the druidesses” had taken her son Relinder away from the palace during the Yule, adding to his workload.

            Tolian commented to Findelbres, “I wouldn’t want his job for anything.”  She indicated Kiliordes with a tilt of her head.

            “You two don’t spend much time together do you?” inquired the elf.

            That sort of question, exactly, was why this preternatural being sometimes frustrated her, and she knew it. “Not really,” admitted the princess.  “No.  I know Kilfrie is in there, sort of; I just can’t get past what he looks like.  I try.”

            “People say that about you, too, you know,” rebuked the faerie.

            “Yes, I know—but that body has killed people, lots of people.  Ah, here we are,” she announced, glad to change the subject.  She gestured, indicating their seats at the royal table.  Already seated were her Uncle Keliof and his wife, Aunt Asbere, and their children (her cousins) Kelvris and Helbeflas.  The latter averted her eyes as the princess passed her.

            Keliof was beaming, “Tolian, my boy, you look ravishing tonight.”

            “Indeed she does, father,” agreed Prince Kelvris.

            “Thank you, and a Happy Yule to all,” she said.  She wanted to correct her uncle, but she was weary of it.  It was Yule, she let it pass.  He always referred to her with male pronouns and terms.  It made it so much harder for her to be comfortable with herself, enduring the constant assault of confusion over her gender.  That was one of the reasons she always wore obviously feminine and provocative clothing, to make a clear statement of her identity.

            “Ah, hello, everyone.” Findelbres bowed, and he and Tolian took their seats.

            As if their seating was the signal, the trumpeters blared forth their call to silence.  A hush fell over the hall.  The herald’s voice boomed, distinctly audible this time.

            “His royal Majesty Tolris of the House of Hemris, King of Lorm, and Master of the Yule.”

            The assemblage sprung to their feet and let out a bout of cheerful applause.  Out of the crowd strode Tolris, who walked in with his golden robe trailing and made his way next to Tolian, at the center of the royal table.  He raised his horn tankard, and toasted:

            “Warriors, nobles, ladies and guests.  I bid you all a Happy Yule.  Let joy come to all within this celebration.  Let no horn be empty.  Let no heart be sad.  In the depths of winter, let us gather here to keep each other warm with good company and good food.  Let the Yule Jarrels begin.”

            Now the applause was deafening, echoing as it did throughout the immense hall.  The King waited for a few moments for the din to lessen and waved his hands.

            “Good Lormians and friends.  I present to you, Lord Delorick, Captain of the Royal Guard, and my Jarrels’ Champion.”

            Tolian was a little jealous of her friend as he stepped proudly to the Jarrels’ Circle, his armor gleaming in the torchlight. 

            “He must have spent all week polishing that armor,” commented Findelbres quietly to the princess.  “I hope he found a little time to train.”

            Tolian laughed discretely.

            Delorick bowed on one knee before the King.

            “Rise, Jarrels’ Champion, come join us in our feast, that you may find the strength to defend our court.  Let the entertainers perform as the Jarrels’ Champion takes his sustenance.”

            And at the King’s call a host of jugglers, magicians, acrobats and jesters seemed to come out of nowhere and move throughout the hall. 

            Tolris sat down and sighed.  He looked at his daughter, “Thank heavens that’s over with.  I hate these bloody ceremonial orations.   It seems like that’s all I ever get to say sometimes.”

            Tolris leaned over close to Tolian. “That was a fantastic kill today, I’m proud of you.”

            And there was pride in her father’s eye, though tempered as always with some discomfort in her appearance.

            “I’m also proud of your letting our dear Delorick here take the honor of Jarrels’ Champion this year.”

            What he didn’t say was that Delorick’s being Jarrels’ Champion held down the hostility and bickering that otherwise would have ensued had Tolian been appointed.  In any case, she was happy enough; it was Yule and she could relax for a change. “Thank you, Father, your pride is a true reward for me,” she said.  She then leaned past her father and queried Delorick who sat on the other side of the King:  “So, my friend, are you ready for some action this evening?”

            The captain of the Guard nodded with an uncharacteristic solemnity and purposefulness, “More ready than most have ever been.”  He added, “And more than you, certainly.”

            “Well, we’ll see about that,” she replied.  “But I wish you luck.”

           

            They feasted for half an hour, before the roast boar was brought in.  It was Tolian’s right (and duty) to take the first serving, as she had made the first kill of the Yule hunt.  As she rose to do so, she was startled by a voice raised above the raucous sounds of merry-making.

            “Wait.”

            It was Talthuwd.

            The warrior stood at his place.  All eyes were glued upon him.

            “I call the right of the Jarrels,” he bellowed.

            The King now rose as well. “Good Talthuwd, surely we may feast on the boar before we begin the Challenges?”

            “My liege,” said the warrior, bowing to Tolris, then straightening proudly.  “You have announced the beginning of the Jarrels.  I am within my rights.  I wish to fight to have the Princess’ kill disqualified, and my own counted as first kill.  I wish to take the first serving from the boar as is my right.”

            “Very well,” said the King.  “Prepare yourself.  Let the Jarrels’ Champion take the challenge.  Tolian, sit down until the matter is settled.”

            She was surprised, but she took her seat obediently.  The entire hall was startled, though delighted that the Jarrels were off to an early start.

            Only as Talthuwd removed his cloak did Tolian notice he wore his full battle armor and that his sword hung at his side.  Clearly it had been his intention to make a challenge all along.  It was risky as far as his personal honor went; and why he allowed himself to get drunk first, Tolian could not comprehend.  Sober, Talthuwd would be a good match against Delorick.  Perhaps he had merely considered the challenge earlier, and too much ale had inflamed his bravado and his pride.  His challenge of Tolian’s first kill was symptomatic of the effect of her transformed presence at court.  It was a disease, this chauvinistic pride.  She had felt it herself, the blind ignorant outrage as she learned of the druid’s plan for her metamorphosis, and even initially after she had become female.  Of course, she understood how wrong that attitude was, and now she despaired that it would ever change.  To her, Delorick was fighting this attitude as well as for her honor.  She wished she could fight Talthuwd herself.  She knew that she could best him in a second, probably less.

            “I hope Delorick humiliates that bastard,” she said to Findelbres.

            “Ah, the Goddess grows angry,” came the faerie’s bemused reply.

            The rules of the Jarrels were simple: the contestants battled with long swords within the Jarrels’ circle until one disarmed the other or forced him either out of the circle or to the ground.  An errant foot placed outside of the circle or one knee brought momentarily to the ground were sufficient to end the combat.  The circle was eight yards in diameter.  Armor was permitted; and if someone too poor to own their own wished to challenge, a few pieces were available to borrow.  Challengers must, however, have a long sword, belonging either to themselves or a blood relative.  Lormian warriors as a general rule do not wear helmets (favoring the advantages of mobility and vision, and relying on their skill as protection), so none were permitted in Jarrels’ combat.  Anyone could make a Jarrels’ Challenge.  If the challenger was victorious, his boon was granted, provided the King sanctioned the boon prior to the match.

           

            The clang of their long swords reverberated throughout the hall.  Talthuwd made the initial attack, strong, but reckless.  Delorick calmly parried the thrust and made a slight fete, feigned a low jab and then struck at his opponent’s shoulder.  The excess alcohol was obviously slowing Talthuwd’s reaction time; his block failed and Delorick’s blade crashed down on his shoulder armor.  The drunken warrior shouted, more out of rage than pain.  He brought a series of furious swipes down on his younger adversary, though, once again too high and with too much power.  To Tolian’s seasoned eye, it appeared that Delorick had not expected the force, which was brought against him at first, but had quickly turned it to his advantage.  His sword blocked Talthuwd’s first few blows, then he was able to deflect his last, leaving him open on his left side.  Delorick got two rapid low hits on Talthuwd’s hip.  That caused him to explode in wild anger.  Tolian was confident that Talthuwd’s drunken rage would cost him the match.

            Lord Talthuwd was an experienced swordsman, however, and his fighting instincts were dulled only so much by the considerable amount of alcohol that coursed through his veins.  After the first few blows Delorick delivered, Talthuwd, recovered his sword wiles, and fought with more precision and cunning.  Rarely was there a fight of this caliber in the Jarrels.  They fought fiercely, their grunts punctuating the loud music of the clashing of their blades.  Delorick attempted to power Talthuwd toward the circle’s boundary, but the older fighter would have none of it.  Just as Delorick had done, early in the battle, the veteran deflected the strong blows, forcing the Guard Captain a trifle off balance, creating an opening through which Talthuwd’s blade found his leg.  The struggle went back and forth, first one man pressing the advantage, then the other.

            For a half an hour they moved about the Jarrels’ circle, engaged in their violent waltz of long swords and skill.  Sweat poured off both of their faces.  Delorick still had that look of indomitable determination, unfaded since the beginning of the match.  Talthuwd’s countenance alternated between a blankness as he fought from automatic instinct and a drunken rage, which occasionally returned, usually to the older warrior’s detriment[KR]I’m not sure what you mean here.      .  Tolian’s eyes were glued to the battle.

            “What a treat,” commented Kelvris.  “Tolian, how about a wager.”

            “That depends,” she replied.  “Who do you want?”

            “Oh, I know that you would want to take Delorick, obviously.”

            “A Jarrels’ wager?”

            “Of course, cousin,” agreed Kelvris.

            “Done.”

            “Done.”

            “A Jarrels’ wager?” inquired a curious Findelbres.

            “A wager for a gift.  More symbolic than anything.  Usually we pay up all our festive wagers on the last day of the Jarrels,” explain Tolian.

            “Hmmm,” said the faerie, his curiosity assuaged.

            “Get me something nice this year, Kelvris,” instructed the princess.

            “If Delorick wins, I’ll find you something out of this world, cousin,” replied Kelvris.  “I promise you.”

            “Look,” exclaimed King Tolris, “Delorick’s got him now.”

            “So he does.  I think you’ve made a bad bet, my son,” added Duke Keliof, directing his latter comment to Kelvris.

            Kelvris smiled darkly. “Oh, I don’t think so, father.”

            Despite the prince’s apparent optimism, the match was leaning towards the younger warrior.  Delorick had launched a vigorous assault against Talthuwd, and the challenger was backed up to the edge of the circle.  The Jarrels’ Champion did not relent as Talthuwd struggled against his potent offensive.  The ale had not helped the defender’s stamina as he struggled to keep his balance.  In just a moment more, Talthuwd fell backwards out of the Jarrels’ circle, landing roughly on his posterior.  His face turned bright crimson.

            King Tolris stood up instantly.

            “The match goes to the Jarrels’ Champion,” he announced.

            The hall erupted in cheers.  Delorick bowed, a big smile decorating his previously stern face.  He reached a hand down to assist Talthuwd, who was not happy but was too big a man to refuse.  He slapped Delorick on the shoulder and bowed to the King.

            “Thank you, Your Majesty, for the opportunity.”

            “That was quite a fight, Lord Talthuwd, but your challenge is unsettled,” said the King.  “Tolian, take the first serving of boar as is your right.”

           

            Tolian was enjoying the festivities, but she missed Brythia bitterly.  Her wife’s absence seemed to weigh even more heavily upon her when she was surrounded by her family, and the holiday merrymaking, than it had before.  With each passing day, it seemed that the pain grew more intense, the hole in her heart, larger.  She was immersed in mirth and good cheer, and she laughed and made merry with those around her, but in the end, it only served to remind her of how much she missed her beloved Brythia.  Even amidst the Yule fires, things seemed wrapped in a dimness, an ever-growing emptiness emanating from her heart.  After they had feasted on boar, she watched Delorick fight against a poor huntsman who wished to hunt the King’s personal game tract for a white hart he had seen in the vicinity.  Tolian could only think of Brythia.  What mysterious druidic ritual was she engaged in at that moment?  Was she having the same trouble that Tolian was, fighting the darkness of their separation, unable to fully focus on life unfolding around her.  She hoped that the golden-haired druidess was having a great deal more fun than she was.

 

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