The Banquet

21 Harvestar 1102

The people of D’Lippi lined both sides of the street. Windows filled with torsos and waving arms. Flowers rained down like snowfall. Drums and and flutes buzzed and hummed in festive cacophony. Vendors sold grass-dolls strung up and adorned with imperial red sashes. Children played and occasionally darted into the street. The sun, high overhead, baked their skin and reminded Woesvaen that he was a foreigner to this land, and that the true ruler of this land was a sun god. The street turned into the shade and hid the recent arrivals from their uncaring host above.

The ambassador scurried to Woesvaen’s side. His breathing heavy, he placed his hairy paw on Woesvaen’s forearm, a light guiding touch. Woesvaen let his arm fall limp and watched ambassador’s grip slip away. The ambassador acknowledged the rebuke with a patronizing smile like a frown were it not for his eyes which softened. “At the banquet tonight,” began the ambassador who cut his own statement short and paused. Woesvaen gave him a quizzical look. “You must know there is a banquet in your honor.” Woesvaen grunted and returned his gaze to the road before him. The crowds crammed against the shops and buildings, pressed into the lane. They shouted cheers. They wore smiles. Some reached out for Woesvaen, who continued forward through the throng, their touches mere brushes and then gone. Woesvaen’s chest tightened. He controlled his breathing which wanted to quicken. He disliked being in a crowd. He didn’t like that to be known.

The ambassador raised his voice to be heard over the cheers, while still speaking quietly enough that no one beyond Woesvaen would hear. Frequently, he glanced back to Aensal, who walked solemnly behind by a couple paces, and cast a reassuring and welcoming smile. Each time Aensal looked away, his disdain plain to see. Auraelus wanted to probe that disdain but knew he had time.

“Whatever you may think of this post or how you achieved it; whatever you may think of me; and my dear, however I flayed you at our first exchange, still take note of this,” and he swept an arm across the expanse of their view, presenting to Woesvaen the crowds of Faersh. “The people of Faeruhn Dolhum cheer your arrival; they behold a beacon of hope, the shield of empire sheltering them from the savages of the untamed west and the hordes of the unknown south. This parade honors you. A banquet awaits you with more honors. They wish to impress upon you their adoration, gratitude and support. However the Weaver delivered you here, by whomever you’ve crossed in Som, under whatever pretense, driven on by whatever winds gossip carries, you are here and there is a call for one just as you. You need not be a savior, simply a hero. Put a dent into what ails these people and win back the favor at home. To that end I have a suggestion: attend the banquet in your field dress.”

“Field dress?”

“Yes, field dress. The chest plate rather than the scaled armor. These people think the chest plate signifies something. Play the part not the truth, I say. And the helm. Even the mail skirt. Don’t give me that look, I am aware that it is quite a bit warmer here than in the provinces. But a show like that, a statement that you came here ready.” The ambassador once again drew up his words short and took a pause. He glanced back again to Aensal with a smile and a nod. To his surprise, he suspected the Secondus’s ire was for his Nilaete. Aurelius noticed Woesvaen wasn’t listening; his eyes pointed forward, but his sight seemed turned inward. “Of course,” the ambassador emphasized course, “The warmth here is nothing like the oppressive heat of the Murks. That heat could cook a man or woman.”

Woesvaen halted. He faced the ambassador. Behind them the procession, the soldiers in his command, came to a halt while the din of the crowd carried on as if this interruption was merely a stone meant for the river of celebration to flow past. Woesvaen stepped into the ambassador which forced the smaller man to take a step back. “And what do you know of the Murks?”

“Enough, it seems. Enough to grab your attention, at any rate. You made choices there --” began Aurelius but he was cut off by Aensal.

“Choice.” Aensal’s voice struck the singularity of that word like a spade into mud.

Aensal’s interruption caught Auraelus by surprise. His face betrayed the work his mind did. “Choice, yes: choice. I don’t know where my mind was.”The ambassador smiled, looked to the crowds and raised his arms, and they in turned raised their voices. Cheers echoed off the tiled roof tops. He put his small hands on Woesvaen’s arms, the way a mother might greet a long lost son who finally returned home. “I stumbled off the parade course and into some brambles. Foolish me. Let’s keep this moving,” he said to Woesvaen and he resumed their march down the lane. “Wear the armor,” he said between the clenched teeth of a smile.

Woesvaen arrived at the banquet in a common imperial street shirt (luega), a square of linen with a deep opening typically pinned closed but Woesvaen lacked the clasp and let it hand open. Over that he wore an imperial long coat that buttoned up the front from the waist to the collar; long tails extended to the back of his knees. His breeches were brown. He wore sandals he purchased from a vendor outside the barracks. Salt and dirt ringed the drape of the coat, and it had a peculiar smell of body odor and the sea which left a suggestion of salted garlic. He held a half emptied bottle of a local wine. He greeted the ambassador with a belch.

The ambassador made a show of blowing the foul breath away, fanned the air with his palm, all the while laughing and presenting Woesvaen to those in attendance like an unpolished stone.

Woesvaen was seated beside the Rion. The ambassador was seated next to Aensal at the next table over. A sea of smaller tables with benches rather than chairs stretched the length of the hall. Dozens from the lower stations crowded on the benches: merchants and foreign dignitaries. Shoulder to shoulder, elbows vied for room.

Woesvaen slouched in his chair and toyed with his food. The Rion orchestrated the room. She called out to certain nobles with light remarks about their families. Others, presumably rivals, were chided in an affectionate but nonetheless notable manner. At times she’d partly rise from her seat, wave an arm, and shout through the laughter. In their faces she saw admiration and imagined they rejoiced in how she was Rion and yet remained accessible. More than once, she gestured to Woesvaen seated by her side. Woesvaen noticed, as if at a distance, and nodded or raised a hand.

He looked up, after the main course arrived and more mouths were full of fish than open and chatting. The hall descended into a muffled buzz of words spoken through mouthfuls and calls for wine to be refilled. He scanned the room. The faces, most of them, were round, almond colored, with curly hair and small upturned noses. The fish, the meats, all spiced in foreign and unusual manners that surprised his tongue. He tasted more than he ate. He asked why the wine tasted weak and was told that it allowed people to drink more without the worry of outbursts. He scoffed. He left to piss several times. The latrine smelled. There were flies. He found it crude.

Before the last course was served, Woesvaen lost himself to his thoughts. He considered the Rion, the ambassador, then the lords of her court. He didn’t see people, he saw roles, titles, positions. None presented anything more. The Rion, chief of them all, was a mere person, robed in a role by the hands of others. The game of any court was to be the one who decides, and that was her on that night. But the game to be the decider was always at play whether in the marble oratories of Som or the dingy stone halls of D’Lippi. One was not more sophisticated than the other. If you have a club in a fight, you pound. If you have a sword, you cut. You fight with the weapons afforded you. These people swung their clubs at each other. Until now, he thought. I am the sword the Rion hopes to swing.. Her jokes, her laughter, her taunts, all dared her lords to question her authority. She bandied Woesvaen about, the new basis of her power. A reluctant imperial general, cast off to this remote land, at the behest of people thousands of miles across the sea. Her only merit was that she convinced someone that he should be in this Hall and not another.

The lords snuck looks at each other. Secret smiles. Handshakes and agreements made with a nod. They shouted at the servers. One poured a glass of wine down the chest of a serving girl, laughed, then asked her to twirl. They patiently played their way through dinner. And he suspected they would play patiently through Woesvaen. Everyone’s time is short, whether by the length of their his or the length of his tenure, all things end. These sun-cooked people looked pleased to wait and toy. Ready to concede that day.

Woesvaen looked back to find when the threads of the Weaver stashed him in D’Lippi. Bended knee on cold white marble, head hung below his shoulders, hands clasped across his knee. The emperor spoke with a smooth, assured, distracted tone. Woesvaen remembered the tone more than the words. Then he looked further back to the conversation with his brother at the end of his Trilae Vaetorum (Victory Tribute, a procession through the capital Som to the cheers of crowds). His brother greeted him at the palace steps with a smile, two hands clasped his, cordial yet formal. Woesvaen pulled him for a hug which his brother resisted for a moment. And Dalvaen whispered in his year with breath sweet with wine, lips and teeth stained red, “Your glory ignites jealousy with some.” At the time, Woesvaen welcomed his brother’s counsel. But then he spoke with the Emperor and he suspected Dalvaen’s jealousy was the one ignited.

Still, Woesvaen felt even that wasn’t the moment. Further back, yet he had to look. To Muurkul. He shook his head; he would not go there. That, he thought, Will not be questioned. And so he felt stuck. In that dark memory lay the strongest winds that drove his ships west, across the Sea of Vaulel to the far side of Endleland. He marveled at just how many things, how many of the Weavers’ threads had to come together for him to be festooned there, in D’Lippi, on that night. How many others had to make choices, and collaborate blindly to land him in that dingy keep surrounded by these soiled people. He wondered how much it mattered what he chose to do in Muurkul. If so many things had to come together, was it fated? Or is destiny that fragile?

Of all the things, he imagined it was his wife’s death that fanned the winds. He knew how he was viewed: ruthless. A successful and victorious Nilaete would be tolerated, but a ruthless one is to be feared. Had his wife survived the ambush, had the Blue-Masked mage not succeeded in his ambush, he would not be here. His wife would not be with the gods. He felt a burning welling in his chest. The Blue-Masked Mage.

“And what do you think Empire is, Nilaete Woesvaen?” The question came from a lord sat at a table across from his own. His long grey beared and bushy eyebrows hid a still face with alert green eyes. The Rel den Uni, the largest city outside of D’Lippi, and one that commanded a large fleet. Woesvaen learned of him before he departed.

Without giving Woesvaen a chance to answer, Aurelius stood up and spoke in a regal manner, his head held high. “The empire is, of course, the emperor. And I am his earpiece and mouthpiece in this --” he began.

The Rel den Uni cut him off. “I asked the Nilaete,” he said it without a hint of malice, but with a clear and cutting tone.

Woesvaen pursed his lips. Lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t been paying attention. “Come again?”

“The Empire began as an Aeneean shield against the dangers of the Rhaninaan Plains and those terrible beasts that reside there. Against the fay and their enchantments. The Delvlings and their endless resistance. Or so we are told. But now we, the Welklings, are the supreme danger in this world. We have put Endleland to our heel. What then remains the purpose of Empire?”

Woesvaen looked off, at the rafters, and squinted his eyes. “It is late. I am tired. I say sleep. I thank you, Rion Aisline, for this gracious feast.” He pushed back from the table.

“You will not answer my question?”

Woesvaen craned his neck, leaned forward, like a man in the shops appraising a head of lettuce. “You have an answer in mind. What use is mine?”

“Because you are Empire, Nilaete. And to know what the Empire thinks …” his voice trailed off in a gravelly diminishment.

After a deep breath Woesvaen said, “Your people talk too much. You employ words to play your games. My people communicate. My people listen. My people play their own games, but not this childish one. You harvest my words so you can shuck them,” and Woesvaen twisted his fingers as if we’re wringing a rag. “Strip them of anything I might have said to find what you want to hear. And you know my answer. You know my meaning. I have no use for yours. You have been answered, and with that I will retire.”

Lord Uni’s eyes sharpened on Woesvaen, and a hint of a smile turned up his beard. He watched the Rion as he said, “Shouldn’t you request for our Rion’s leave?”

“She is not my Rion.”

The hall went silent. Most in attendance watched the Rion with stunned looks on their faces. But there were those, the Lord of Uni among them, who instead looked from face to face in the Hall with a look of mirth or mischief.

Woesvaen turned and left. The Rion remained on her throne, smiling a hollow smile, her chin up and shoulders back. She didn’t look in his direction as he walked the long length of the hall and exited out of the main gate. The hall remained deadly still, no one dared to put a breath to the surprise they shared.

The Ambassador whispered something to Aensal who leaned closer to listen.

Woesvaen reached the gate and heard the pitter of hurried steps from behind. It was the ambassador. His tuft of hair bobbed with each step. His lungs labored for breath. “Nilaete Woesvaen, may I have a word?” He leaned, hands on knees, and gulped down air. Before he spoke again, he looked about to see who stood nearby. He straightened up, put a light arm on Woesvaen’s waist and walked him out into the courtyard. “I see your mourning. And now I regret the heavy hand I used to guide you.” He stood in front of Woesvaen, stretched his neck to look the bigger man in the eye. “Time heals all. And distractions help. You’re in the right place.”

Woesvaen said, “Ambassador, you’re trying another door with me. It makes me wonder, what do you think is the purpose of Empire.” He turned and walked off on his own.

Woesvaen sat on his balcony in the dark. Overhead, the three moons peered down from their seemingly still perch. Locust-buzz rose and fell. The air felt thick despite the cooling night. Below, in the courtyard, torches burned in archways and cast dueling shadows. Two guards leaned against a wall beside the gate. No one patrolled the courtyard.

Woesvaen sighed. He understood how this Nael (army) lost their Nilaete and were left to him. These men the fates have placed before me: not a soldier amongst them.

He looked skyward, towards the stars. He recalled as a child being told a new star lit with each passing soul, and old stars disappeared with each new birth. “We are but stars set to light upon the ulth until we are called back again.” He didn’t remember if it was his mother or his father who said that. He credited his mother. She was the more fanciful of the two. His father was more likely to speak of the wet clay dug to bury the dead. Woesvaen never spent much time considering either until that night. He searched the heavens and the countless stars and thought of his late wife. He wondered whether a new star had been lit by her, and which one it was. There were so many stars, he didn’t think it possible to know them all or to know when one went out, or one was lit. Or because it was his decision that led to her death, maybe the gods hid the star from him. Or she hid herself? But he chose a star, close to the horizon that he convinced himself was not there before, and that it was her. He wondered if Aensal had looked for her star, and if he found it.

Woesvaen looked northward, the dark coast cut a line across the sea which mirrored and glistened under the starry sky. He closed his eyes and scanned his memory for maps to what lay beyond that horizon. Draezland. There would be a tiny town known for timber where the imperial legends claimed the Tempest was wronged. His lover struck down by an imperial noble. And then in a rage, the Tempest stormed across the sea and murdered every living member of that family save one. His revenge. It’s a myth that Woesvaen disregarded yet he had studied nonetheless. Enough stories had been written that lent it some weight of truth. And there was the matter of the prophesies someone claiming to be the Tempest wrote centuries later. The tactics employed by this Tempest were worthy of study for anyone engaged in statecraft. Under that starry night, reminded of his wife and the yearning to hold someone accountable, being closer to those lands than ever before, he considered the Tempest.

A murder of crows called out to each other and broke the locust-buzz silence of the night. One guard pushed off from the wall, peered through the spy-hole in the gate, then opened it. Woesvaen watched from the darkness of his balcony. Aensal strode through, behind him was someone smaller, who remained just beyond site in the shadows of the street beyond. Aensal turned and said something to this person. Woesvaen heard his voice, but he was too far for the sounds to be anything more than that. Woesvaen thought to himself that once again Aensal was working in the shadows behind his back.