Chapter 3

5 Noel 1061

Bastion looked away from his father. He only saw the trencher off stew on the table before him. He held his knife in one hand, and rested his other hand on the table. His thoughts looped over an imagined an argument. It was a recurring fantasy of his, where he confronts his father about his rule. Point by point he would dismantle Naeldric's self-centered unification plan. He imagined it like a lecture. His father would be seated and listening while he paced back and forth, speaking passionately, loudly, but not yelling. His tone would need to be strong in order to show his conviction, and his courage. And with this performance, with this one well placed argument, over this specific issue of unification and the threats feared lurking in the shadows of the Uest Veld, Bastion would have illustrated the fault in his father's rule, not just specifically but generally. He'd then propose a better approach, his approach, that is the approach he has read about in the ancient tomes. In particular, the approach taken by Larynisis during the Rushing Calm, the period when the west stood silent and firm, and focussed on prosperity for its people, not just the ambitions of its ruler.

Bastion passionately believed that the rule of a dux need not be bloody. Ruthlessness was a trait for gods and devils. Welklings, above all other creatures, had the opportunity to defy this implied order and rule with justice. Bastion was strongly influenced by his religious convictions on this matter. This wasn't, for him, a choice in so much as a duty. The ends matter as much as the means, and he saw no exception to that. Unlike his father, whom he saw as a man who would obtain his ends by any means he deemed necessary. Necessity! Bastion found that word pregnant with traps. Necessity was a bloated fruit that his father was fine letting rot and serving it as such.

Bastion's fantasy never completed or resolved. He didn't imagine how they might reconcile or how they might work together to rule thereafter. He gave no thought to how his father might bequeath the crown to him, or lean on him during is rule until the gods called him back and Bastion would be left to rule. He didn't enjoy those fantasies. They were harder to imagine, and they lacked conflict and disagreement. Imagining conflict gave him more satisfaction, especially imagining how he would stand up and face it.

So, more often than not, as his imagined lecture approached his irreproachable conclusion, his thoughts would fade into a miasma of rebuttals from his father rather than a warming agreement. And these rebuttals often brought him back to his starting point. And the imagined lecture would begin again. But the last rebuttal left a fingerprint on his argument, and things would shape differently. Over and over. Until he would imagine his response going something like, "And that's the key difference between you and I. You see the rule to your ends as the only rule, while I say the rule for the people is the ultimate rule." And clear as the skies after a great wind, even in his own imagination where he ruled every thought, he constructed every detail, his vision of his father would answer, almost of a volition not his own, "And why must those two things be different?" And Lual's imagined self had no good answer. He felt that was simply wrong and didn't require evidence or arguments to refute. And he couldn't understand why his father failed to see that it was wrong, or accept that Bastion knew better.

He left this lecture in his imagination. He knew his father, he knew his responses, he knew how his anger took flight in the face of dissent. He believed no one could stop his father with words, and that included himself. He didn't decide on his course of action, it wasn't like him to plan intentionally in this manner, instead when faced his with father, he reacted. It just so happened that his responses, on their own volition, all seemed to take on the same form. He didn't defy his father with actions, he just looked for ways to do the least he could. It was a kind of protest, a way for him to lend as little support to his father as possible, without having to take a stand, or make a bold statement. He did this naturally, without admitting it to himself. It was easier for him to discuss these kinds of tactics with others and about others. He would often tell them, "Do as little as you can, and maybe others will follow suit." And when asked if that's what he was doing, it would feel like someone held a mirror up to his motives and being he was struck by an epiphany. And it scared him. He would usually answer in a noncommittal way like, "Well, as a prins my options are more limited and scrutinized."

He ate more and more quickly as he thought. He cut the roast of beef into uniform, bite size cubes. Juices ran into his trencher, and the bread quickly became soaked, and a soupy brown. The smell of rosemary and beef was strong. His potatoes rolled into his meet, he held them back with the blade of his knife. He arranged his cut beef in a tidy row, then one by one popped a piece in his mouth, chewed vigorously, wiped his hand on the legs of his trousers. Then swallowed. He ate automatically, all his thoughts turned inward.

He felt a tap and looked over his shoulder. A noble’s daughter from Wogen whom he’d known since childhood smiled fondly at him. Wine flushed her cheeks, she swayed on her feet. She pointed at another table where a man lay slouched in his chair, sound asleep, mouth agape, drool trailed down his brown beard. “My husband refuses to dance,” she giggled. “Give me a dance, Bast.”

Kathe gave Bastion a playful push of his shoulder, “Go, hero of Fael, and rescue her from the doldrums!”

They danced two songs, when abruptly the music stopped. Through the Fues Tor (River Doors) entered a small troop pulling a cart laden with several barrels. Axels groaned under the weight, the cart sagged in the middle. Iron shot wheels scraped against the stone floor. At the head of the troop walked a fay dressed in white and grey. In the dim torch light, his eyes glowed turquoise, like two lamps. The fay had a confident and serene look marked by a slight, contented smile. His prominent cheekbones cast deep shadows down his gaunt cheeks. His long, straight, white hair was pulled back and tied in a bun atop his head.

The rest were all welklings (humans). The fay was shorter than the others, lither as well. They all wore grey and white tunics with silver embroidery in honor of the Noel festivities.

Waes Langhaus (Great White Hall) fell silent. The sight of a fay shocked everyone. Fay were a mysterious people who long ago were driven into the wild regions, the great woods, the barren hills. Since then, there was little love between the stersh and fay. While some of the more remote villages had some mixing, most of the stersh feared them. They were the terrors in bedtime stories. They were the reason people wanted to be home by sunset. When outside at night, the most frightening site was two, incandescent blue eyes -- like two orbs or blue flame -- staring back at you. The fay were feared.

This fay looked pecuilar. Bastion thought him exotic, foreign, and he wondered who he was and whether he came from some distant land were the fay were friendlier and on better terms. Bastion dropped his dance partner's hand. She responded by pressing herself against his shoulder. She appeared concerned, on the verge of fright.

“Theanthal!” Lothar shouted from Naeldric’s table. He rose, held his arms out wide, and bound across the hall towards the fay with a bright smile on his wide face.

The crowd parted. A stunned hush remained. Children hid behind their parents legs, clutching their thighs.

Lothar and Theanthal embraced. A gasp was heard. They parted, held hands, and Lothar raised their hands above their hands in a grand presentation. It was then that Theanthal noticed a tapestry that hung just behind Lothar. It depicted a scene from the Coming, when the welklings first found these lands, and chased the fay into the darkness of the forests. Bloodied swords and scattered bodies of fay lay at the feet of a towering man bathed in a heavenly light. The fay cocked his head, Lothar shrugged, then they both laughed.

Lothar waved for a servant to bring him a chair. He stepped onto it and addressed the crowd. “May I introduce Theanthal. He has come all this way, from the Inderalath. He has long been a friend to Fael and our Dux,” Lothar bowed his head in the direction of Naeldric, and remained silent for a moment. Naeldric’s sat motionless, expressionless. Lothar continued, “Theanthal was entrusted to deliver unto this festivity our Dux’s ending-gift to us all: wines from Leyden. Yes, the famed wines of Leyden.” A gasp followed by a cheer sounded throughout the hall. “Now, now, now, let’s not cheer too loudly. We wouldn’t want our friends,” Lothar said the word with a sarcastic raise of his eyebrow and roll of his eyes, “in Leyden to hear. They wouldn’t be too happy to find their wines in our bowls.” Laughter echoed off the walls of the hall. “Let’s toast our Dux, his gift, and our friend Theanthal who delivered it to our bowls.”

Members of Theanthal’s company tapped the barrels, and after the Dux was served (Naeldric declined the first bowl and instead offered it to the server in a traditional display of gratitude) a line formed of eager people who quickly drained and wiped clean their bowls.

Bastion thanked his dance partner and then started back to his table. He wanted no part of this wine. This was his protest, his refusal to play along with his father's plan. But then he heard his named called, turned and saw Raban beckon him over.

Raban stood beside one of Theanthal’s company, a tall man without a beard -- unusual for men of the realm -- only a small patch of hair under his lower lip. His face looked carved from wood and wore a smug, self-assured expression. He was older than Raban and his expression implied he was doing Raban a favor by speaking with him.

Raban was only eight years older than Bastion, but those eight years were the long years at the end of youth, when a young man matures into a grown man both physically and in character. Raban was tall, the tallest man in the room. He had a long narrow face, a prominent nose like a carved beak and a trim beard. Both he and the man he spoke with had an austere air, as if they had figured out some game that no one knew was being played and enjoyed it was their secret. “This is Deander,” said Raban. “He is a friend of ours. And he has found something you have been looking for. Tell him?”

Deander pursed his lips and said, “No, no, you.”

“The Taphos tuc Larynisis (The Tomb of Larynisis).”

Bastion heard the words and for a moment, that was all they were, words: sounds pregnant with meaning. A moment later Bastion deciphered what was said. “The book of tombs?” He asked with an excited trepidation.

“What else could it be?” Deander laughed.

Bastion took to Deander. The calm, careless attitude, easy posture. He had a manly bearing. When Deander laughed it sounded preposterous and judging. Bastion received it with humility, like the playful scorn from an admired uncle.

“My apologies, I’m just surprised.” Bastion felt like a child talking to adults.

Deander placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “Prins don’t apologize. You should know it's in Larynn. It took a while to find a copy, and more time to find a scribe to make the copy. I wanted it ready for Noel, but things didn’t line up.”

“How long until it’s complete?”

Deander’s head swayed from side to side as he hemmed, “Hmmm, couple weeks. You know the intricacies of scribes. But by then roads will be impassable, if they aren't already. Early snow this winter."

"Yes, strange," said Raban.

Deander smiled and looked sidelong at Raban as if that was some kind of inside joke. Then continued, "So, after the that? Best guess, Frostkill.”

Bastion's eagerness forced the words out before he could pick them. "How bad can the roads be?" From the patronizing smile on Deander's face he realized his statement was naive. “Harder than it seems, I take it."

"Larynn is very high up in the mountains. It's hard to imagine until you see it."

Bastion clasped Deander’s hand in his own and thanked him with wide eyes, a broad smile and a rigorous shake. It was an exuberant display of gratitude performed too vigorously. Deander deflected the gratitude and pushed the credit to Raban. “Don't thank me, thank Raban. He caught scent of the book. He deserves this more than I do.”

Raban made a happy frown and held his hands out as if he also wanted to deflect the credit. “My prins, I just do as you ask.”

“And you do it well!” Bastion’s enthusiasm remained undeterred. It was an odd habit he had, of thinking that the gratitude he offered as a prins would somehow signal that he didn't see himself as anyone's better. Bastion hoped Deander liked him.

“How else is there to do a thing other than well?” Raban laughed. “Now, keep this quiet. Your father is watching and I am sure he wonders. He will not be pleased to know what you are up to.”

Bastion glanced in the direction of his father. “I’ll think of something. And yes. Yes. Must it truly wait until Frostkill?” He regretted the question as soon as he asked it.

Deander answered, “At the present, yes. No trader will risk the mountain passes in winter. And there’s the giants along the road through the Uest Veld...” His voice trailed off.

“You sound like my father.”

Deander looked confused but maintained his smug grin.

Raban explained that Naeldric obsessed over the risk of the giants. “The Dux predicts they (the giants) will rise up.”

Deander nodded. Bastion thought he saw the same doubt on Deander’s face as everyone outside his father’s ministers shared.

“You agree then, it’s folly?”

“Prins, the Dux’s mind is not something I comment upon.” He laughed.

Raban slapped Deander on the shoulder and laughed as well.

The three broke their circle. He pushed his way through the crowds, who were all going in the opposite direction, towards the dux's wine. He wanted tell Kathe as soon as he could. He had the excitement of a child told a gift awaits him. He didn't think she would care much herself. She didn't share his interests. Though, that never stopped her from sharing his excitement, and he really liked that about her. But when he got to his table Kathe was no longer there.