Selen chuckled. “A Lord, you say?” He put his palms on his hips. “What business do you have with him?”
The man stared at him askance, his eyes fastening on Selen’s hair. “And you are?” His head leaned backwards to a point where Selen could see the inside of his nostrils.
“I’m the queen,” Selen added casually.
The man’s attitude took a U-turn. “Oh! You don’t say? Your Majesty…erg…I am one of the glass masters. Pilkin is my name.” The man bowed. “I am here to deliver Lord Lissandro’s order.” The master trotted to a box on his cart. “You see, it was such an unusual request that I felt obliged to deliver it in person.” He unlocked the box and rummaged in the wood shavings. “See.”
The round object the master held in his hand dazzled with all the shades of red as if all the sunrays passed through it and were projected around to light the world itself. Dust of silver mottled its rim.
Selen gasped, uttered a high-pitched scream, and clasped his hands in excitement. “It’s beautiful!” He bounced. “What is it?”
“Lord Lissandro called it a bauble.”
“May I?” Selen reached for the bauble. His fingers barely held the glass masterpiece. He turned it around. A small hook topped it. “What is this for?”
“I have no idea. Lord Lissandro asked me for several hundreds of those.”
“Hundreds?” Selen nearly dropped the bauble. This year, the solstice promised to be breathtaking.
A young boy halted at their side. “Your Majesty.” He turned towards Pilkin. “The Lord Chamberlain will welcome you in the great hall, master. Please follow me.”
“If you’ll excuse me.”
Pilkin took the bauble back, bowed, and followed the boy in the direction of the main gallery. Selen stared at the cart before returning to his training.
Luckily, The Beef had found a new victim and was busy hammering his adversary into the ground with a shield. From a rack, Selen picked up a wooden sword.
“It doesn’t smell of fish today,” a paunchy man at his side said, talking to a fellow guard who slaked his thirst. “I can smell the rancid stink of your feet.” The man burst out in laughter while his companion smashed his fist on his muscular shoulder.
“You culvert! Your wife washed them this morning,” the guard sneered.
“Why would it smell of fish?” Selen asked, interfering in the conversation. His palm twisted on the wooden hilt, mechanically testing the balance.
The paunchy man looked at him. His dark nails rubbed his nose. “Kit didn’t show up today.”
Selen remembered Kit. The scrawny guard had his post near the kitchen. He carried around a kind of salty perfume of smoked herring. Some said it lingered in the cracks of his pimpled skin. His mother lived in the slums, a stone’s throw from the docks.
“He’d said his mother had fallen sick lately,” the guard carried on. “Seems he caught it too. Or he poisoned himself with rotten cod.” Both guards laughed.
Selen didn’t hope so. His own food passed under the man’s nose. The idea Kit had sneezed on it got a nasty shiver out of him. Sword in hand, he slipped his helmet over his head again and resumed his training. He passed behind the novices practicing their skills on rotating dummies, reached the combat field, and clashed his sword against the one of a hand-tattooed royal guard in a green gambeson. The man adjusted his sallet and jumped en garde. All limbs loose, Selen settled in a ready position and, full with confidence, engaged the fight. Common guards were easy adversaries, but such fights allowed him to sharpen his techniques. Weapons clacked at high speed. Selen’s sword sneaked through unprotected gaps and froze a hairbreadth before it hit. Touched. A grin from his opponent and a lick on the lower lip. The man spun his sword and grated Selen’s down. He wasn’t over yet. Selen welcomed the challenge and switched on the defensive. Cocky, the man hurled forward in a fury of graceless blows. Selen held, stepped aside, and stroked, sending the man smashing facedown onto the gravel.
“It’s not a dagger. Use the range.”
The man staggered upright, hefted his sword in both hands, and grunted. “I’m not done.”
Selen prowled around him, clearly enjoying himself. “Then, get me.”
The battle fever had taken over Selen’s body. He wouldn’t leave his opponent a chance.
Until the sun reached noon, Selen crossed swords and sweated under his metallic prison. The gods smiled upon him, and, besides honing his skills, he won most of his rounds. The horn resounded before the wheel could turn.
“Nice fight, Your Majesty,” his tenacious opponent panted from under his sallet. “You’re as swift as they say.”
He flipped his helmet off, revealing a handsome, curly-haired young man. Catching his breath, the lad smiled broadly. The sun brought out his blond hair and the dust on his overly tight hose. Heat tickled Selen’s ears, and butterflies filled his chest. The guard bowed and nearly lost his balance. The thought of catching him crossed Selen’s mind, but that would have been foolishness and increased the already awkward euphoric feeling. Besides, he was exhausted and could barely stand. He nodded.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “It was a pleasure.”
With both hands, he flipped the helmet from over his head. The wind dried his wet cheeks. He put the sword back on the rack before he headed to the solar’s bathroom. Folc had insisted he didn’t share the guards’ room’s baths. The boy had implied he talked in the name of the whole garrison.
Once showered, combed, and dressed in woolens, Selen crossed the inner garden and entered the apothecary. It consisted of three rooms. One was Brother Benedict’s, one was his to use, and the third, longest and central, was a well-furnished storing room with a multitude of jars, pots, oaken tables, and all the instruments imaginable. Here and there, as well as hanging from the rafters, plants dried on racks. Stuffed animals and other mammal skeletons completed the botanical decoration. Despite Selen’s suggestion, Brother Benedict had declared human bones out of the question.
It was cold in there. Behind piles of copper pots, the two large, black hearths were dusted with ash. His coat tight around his body, Selen slipped to his room.
A line of books at man’s height squared the space. On the lowest shelves, plain boxes with ingredients and raw materials were neatly ordered. By the high window, a stuffed owl spied him with his two orange-golden orbs. Selen sat by his board where his work waited for him.
Three sides of the square pouch of flowery linen had been sewn. The herbal blend he had made stood in a sealed flask. He opened it and breathed in the fragrances. Lavender, chamomile, and mandarin flowers. He would have lain down on a bed of it. Delicately, Selen filled the pouch. Then, he took a needle and a thread and with small, meticulous stitches sewed the parts of the last side together. The cushion was ready. Lifting it to his nose, he inhaled the perfume once again and smiled. It was time to go down to the city.
Selen put the little cushion in a satchel he passed around his neck and exited the apothecary. The sun still shone at the zenith. He wouldn’t be late. He crossed the garden and, leaving the main gallery for the inner yard, held the door for a young maid overloaded with laundry baskets. Her face hidden under her wimple, she minced past him and disappeared inside.
In the yard, a stableboy waited with his horse. Selen thanked the lad and hopped into the saddle. Once the reins were gathered, his mount cantered its way out of the palace and trotted downhill to Nysa Serin.
In the streets, the people flitted around from shop to shop. Warmly tucked under their furs or wools, they collected the last items for the solstice. It could be ingredients for the puddings, a few extra candles, or most importantly, the pork. A whole pork for those who could afford it, bits for pies and soups for the others. Despite Louis’s attempts to promote a diet based on greens and dairy, these people loved their meat.
The shops’ bells rang as Selen wound his way through the shopping area to Khorkina House. When he passed under the porch, an aroma of newly brewed ale welc
omed him. Maybe he would get the privilege to taste the household’s production. Lads were busy decorating the majestic, carved façade with ivy and mistletoe under the supervision of the house’s steward.
“Good day to you, Pierce,” Selen said, waving hello to the slender, ash-haired man.
Pierce turned around. Above his narrow, hooked nose, his bushy eyebrows curved with surprise. “Oh. Good day, Your Majesty. I will announce your arrival to my lady at once.”
“It’s all right, Pierce,” Kilda cheered. “I’m right here.” From under a welter of lace and beige furs, she stretched her hand towards Selen and motioned him to hurry in. Selen knew the way through the halls and stairs to the solar. Kilda followed on his heels. When he pushed the door open, piles of clothes had taken over the furniture. The dressed gueridon was the only spared spot.
“Don’t mind the mess. I was working on the linen,” she said while passing in front of him. As if cupping a ball of feathers, she lifted her son from his cradle and cuddled him against her bosom under layers of scarves. “Please. Take a seat. I had some tea prepared.”
Selen stretched his lower body into a chair while leaning over to catch a glimpse of the milky, chubby face. Only a clenched fist and an ear poked out. It reminded him of the motive for his visit. He rumbled in his satchel and took out the cushion.
“I took the liberty to make this,” Selen said while handing over the gift. “It will help for his nights.”
Kilda forced out a smile that ruined his joy. “You shouldn’t have.”
Though a politeness, Selen understood she meant it. Yet, she took the cushion and slid it between the scarves. Discomforted, Selen turned his attention to the tea. The bowl warmed his hands as he cupped it. He looked around.
“Don’t you have a laundress? At least a housemaid?” Selen asked.
“I have to have something to do,” Kilda snapped.
“But the baby—”
“Something else.” She seemed away for an instant, her gaze lost on the pitiful attempt at an embroidered pattern and the needle pinned in the cloth on the side. “Anyway. One of my laundresses didn’t show up this morning. I could as well learn.”
“Learn embroidery?” Selen asked, dubious. He had never seen Kilda handle something smaller than a dagger. She breathed out. Selen felt he worked on her patience. “I meant no offence.”
“It’s not my cup of tea.” She closed the discussion. “Is it cold outside?”
“Pretty much,” Selen responded and lifted the bowl to his lips. He noticed he hadn’t even removed his coat. It seemed there was no hurry either.
4
As his description had been approved by the king, it had been Lissandro’s responsibility to organize the winter solstice festivities. He felt he had found a delicate balance between his time and the local tradition. From the dais in the great hall, he appreciated his work.
For the occasion, the great hall’s oaken doors stood open to the commoners, and everyone from the city was invited to a reception where food, drinks, and small gifts were proposed in profusion. Next to him, a group of minstrels played merry tunes on vielle, shawm, and tambourine. The long, red curtains hanging from the pillars mixed with the vegetal decoration gave the Christmas spirit he remembered from his world. Whatever his status or fortune, each was dressed up to the nines. Lissandro had opted for brown hose and a yellow woolen tunic on which he had loosely thrown a green overcoat rimmed with fur. Exceptionally, children had received the authorization to leave school. They stood near their parents, their eyes glittering with the hundred lights of the candles, the baubles, and of the magic such a ceremony brought into their austere life. Some already held preciously in their hands the small wooden dog toys Lissandro had had made for them. Lissandro walked through the crowd with a smile on his face, satisfied to have succeeded in his task. When he looked at the buffet, his contentment faded. In front of a pyramid of oranges, Louis stood still, miserable, and on the verge of tears. How could I have been so careless? Lissandro approached him and touched his arm gently.
“Are you thinking about him?” Lissandro whispered with kindness. In Louis’s previous life, the fruit had been Louis’s soulmate’s weakness. Of all the three of them, only Louis had been through a loss. And some wounds would never heal.
Louis did not answer but put his hand on Lissandro’s.
“The fruit is a tradition in my time. I’m sorry I forgot,” Lissandro said. “You should put a smile on your face. Your people are happy. They did not come to see you cry.”
Louis bobbed his head and patted his hand. “I would have reasons to cry. Do you have an idea of how much it cost me to get real sugar?” Louis looked at a plate drowned under marzipan figures.
“You can’t use the Crown’s funds only to build aqueducts. Spontaneous gifts are part of good communication. Besides, the queen seems to like it.” Lissandro smiled. Louis smiled too.
Further away, Selen tasted the sweet figures one after the other. Their friend was radiant in his light burgundy brocade tunic with silver trim that suited his lilac hair.
“You should leave some for the guests,” Louis said.
Selen blushed and came to them. “I have no idea what it is, but it’s good. It’s sweet yet different from honey.”
“It’s sugar. It tends to turn people fat and rot the teeth,” Lissandro responded with a smirk. Selen looked at the little pig figure in his hand with disappointment.
“It is a delicacy imported from the southern part of the Crysas Peninsula. Sugar is also one of the expensive ingredients banned from the royal kitchens. I suppose your friend is not yet aware of all the rules,” Pembroke said, joining them. The count bowed. “Your Majesty. Still in blue?”
“Still in black?” Louis responded.
“Black is not only elegant. It is sober and allows me to move with discretion and have my ears where no one expects them,” Pembroke said while caressing his short, black-and-white beard.
“I am pleased you’re not wearing a dagger with mischievous intentions, or I might have felt the need to restrain you,” Louis responded, teasing.
Pembroke turned towards the crowd. A space had been cleared near the dais for the dances. Old and young swirled in some kind of farandole. “This is an atypical celebration you’ve organized. How did you get the idea?”
“We mixed different elements of our own cultural backgrounds,” Lissandro answered, though he knew the winter solstice in the Windy Isles was celebrated with oysters and crabs on a bed of seaweed, ham in sauces, and gallons of dark ale.
“Speak for yourself,” Selen muttered low.
“I’m sure enough people will be drunk and horny by the end of the night,” Lissandro said with a wink.
Likely irritated by his constant barbs, Selen twitched his mouth and sulked away. Louis reached for Selen’s hand.
“You’re holding my hand in public?” Selen whispered, looking slightly uncomfortable.
Lissandro chuckled. “You’re the queen. The people assume you’re doing a lot more.”
“There is a difference between assuming and being ready to see,” Pembroke noted to him.
“The king fills their bellies with hypocras, gingerbread, pork’s heads, and pudding. I would like to see them dare complain,” Lissandro said. Besides, the commoners seemed too busy enjoying themselves to look in their direction.
“All this is amazing,” Askjell said, walking towards them. “This place is so different from what they say in the Frozen Mountains.”
“And what do they say?” Louis asked.
“Every time I spoke with people at King Thorkell’s court, they told me that Trevalden is controlled by a tyrant who imposes eccentric laws on his people. They told me that violence was the rule and that the people were miserable with no rights to express themselves unless they want to lose their heads.”
“That’s true,” Louis said. Askjell looked at Louis, dumbfounded. “I impose democracy’s eccentric laws and cut the heads off the people who disa
gree and refuse to obey the laws. I dislike and disapprove of the death penalty. Unfortunately, there will always be monsters ready to abuse their fellow men. I am probably a monster in the eyes of King Thorkell’s court. Yet, I don’t think any of the commoners in Nysa Serin call me a tyrant. If it were ever the case, I want you all to inform me.”
“Once I return to the Frozen Mountains, I will gladly spread the truth about this place, Your Majesty,” Askjell said.
Louis looked at the boy and smirked. “Then I suggest you see a bit more of it. Let’s all go down to the city. Are you coming with us, Pembroke?”
“I will stay here and make sure all happens without incident. Have a good time and greet Josselin from me.”
Lissandro, Louis, Selen, and Askjell took their leave and made their way through the crowd, the king still holding the queen’s hand.
They rode down to the city towards the giant square in front of the temple. As they approached, the streets got more crowded with people. Since bakers had been authorized for the day to use all kind of exotic spices, the air smelled of ginger, cardamom, and cinnamon. On the square stood giant firs garnished with red apples and colorful ribbons. People dancing carols hopped and spun around their horses. The king had encouraged the people to be creative within the limits of the laws, thus in an imitation of a feast of fools, the population had taken the initiative to loosen the rules and proprieties. Some wore grotesque masks, others had coifs adorned with jingles. A few had dressed in a satire of the nobles and scolded the crowd around. Joyful people came to them, patted their horses, and shook their hands. Still, though they hailed at him, few dared to draw near Louis. The security protocol is nonexistent, Lissandro thought, and none of us is armed. Though it was the beginning of winter, the place was hot. Sweat ran under his woolen clothes. It would be even worse once they dismounted. What Lissandro had first taken for bonfires were large, improvised pits where an entire side of beef roasted on spits.
“Your Majesty! Over here!”
Light from Aphelion 2 - Tears of Winter Page 3
