by Jocelyn Fox
Murtagh visited on Queensday as he’d said he would, bringing pastries from the kitchen. Ramel ate three as Murtagh slowly savored one.
“Now that I’m not training all day,” said Murtagh with a bit of a smile, “I can’t inhale everything I see.”
“Watching your girlish figure?” teased Ramel as he reached for his third pastry.
“Well, I’m not going to have a Knight’s sword to attract the ladies,” replied Murtagh with a grin.
They had a pleasant visit, but even after six days, it felt as though they didn’t quite know each other as they had before. When Murtagh had been a page, he and Ramel had spent nearly every waking moment together, reminding each other of obligations, attending lessons and drills, going to meals together and studying at night. Now, even as Murtagh told Ramel of his new instructor and all he was learning, Ramel felt that acute loneliness again. He hadn’t been assigned a new roommate, and Balaron had gruffly dismissed him when he’d dared to ask. Ramel took it as confirmation that Balaron did indeed think he’d be chosen as a squire, but somehow it was cold comfort as he lay in his bunk trying to sleep at night, without the small background noises of another page in the room.
“Well, I’ll leave these with you,” Murtagh said after a few hours of conversation. “I have some history to study before tomorrow.”
“No work on Queensday,” chided Ramel.
Murtagh grinned. “It’s not work if you enjoy it, is it?”
Ramel smiled. “That’s one way around it, I suppose.” He leaned back in his chair. “Still going to meet us on the hill for the gauntlet?”
“Five days from now, right?” Murtagh asked.
“Five days from now,” Ramel agreed gravely. The pages ceded the practice yard to the squires whenever any appeared. The squires up for the gauntlet trained with a singular fervor now. It was mandated for them to rest for three days prior to the start of the gauntlet, turning over all their training gear to the armorer to be locked away for those three days. Knight Balaron himself conducted frequent unannounced inspections of the squires’ barracks rooms, ensuring that they were indeed resting and not training with a staff that they’d borrowed from a page or fashioned themselves.
“I’ll see you then,” said Murtagh, interrupting Ramel’s thoughts. Ramel nodded, and sank back into contemplation as the door clicked shut. He put the little box of pastries on the empty desk that had belonged to Murtagh and sat in the chair at his own desk, absently straightening the stack of books awaiting him once Queensday drew to an end.
If Balaron were so sure that he’d be chosen as a squire, Ramel thought, then surely Squire Finnead would be made a Knight. The gauntlet took place a full sennight before the Solstice so that the squires had time to recover from the taxing event. They weren’t expected to participate in the tournament at the Solstice, but they were expected to be able to walk to receive their sword from the Queen’s hand if she chose them to join the ranks of her Knights and Guards.
The pages didn’t truly get to watch the gauntlet, of course. No one except the Knights and Guards knew what was in store for the squires. But it was a tradition for the pages to gather on the hill outside the western gate of Darkhill. It offered the best vantage point over the Queen’s Forest. The squires, escorted by Balaron and three other Knights, disappeared into the shadows of the trees at sundown and didn’t emerge until the second dawn. The pages set up a camp of sorts, sleeping and taking watches in turns, bringing food to each other and, of course, talking about the gauntlet. Occasionally they would hear the echoes of strange noises and see flashes of colored light from within the forest, but they never saw anything clearly. They let their imaginations conjure the most arcane challenges, trying to outdo each other with their wild speculations.
It was also tradition for the senior pages to help the squires who had made it through the gauntlet back to their barracks. The squires who hadn’t made it through always reappeared in the barracks as if by sorcery. Perhaps it was, thought Ramel. Maybe the Knights had one of the mages rig a transport Gate directly back to the squires’ barracks, so they didn’t have to deal with the inconvenience of dealing with the failures themselves. Usually a few of the apprentice healers joined the pages in the hours before the second dawn, to help if they were needed when the bruised and bleeding squires stumbled from the forest.
The rumors about the Northern delegation were confirmed by the Queen herself when she announced that she would be holding a feast to both welcome the delegation and begin the festivities leading up to the Solstice. The Seelie delegation traditionally arrived two days before the Solstice, and the Seelie Knights sometimes even participated in the tournament – though of course, it was rare for them to win, since the flow of power tipped in the Unseelie favor at the seat of their Queen’s power and so close to their holiest day.
The feast took place within the three days of rest for the squires who were undertaking the gauntlet, but the Knights and Guards deemed it acceptable for them to serve their masters at table. All the pages, even the youngest ones, were pressed into service. Ramel learned he was to serve at the high dais, and he fervently checked and rechecked his page’s uniform in the bit of polished silver that served as a mirror. He thought with a grin that Murtagh would regret transitioning over to Walker training before this grand event.
The Great Hall was always spectacularly decorated for the first feast of the Solstice season, but Ramel caught his breath in wonder as he reported to his station at the high dais. For now, the Hall stood empty, and he allowed himself to ogle the fantastic enchantments that the mages had used to transform the Hall into a grand tour of Queen Mab’s dominion. At the far end of the Hall, silvery beaches and azure waters shimmered beneath the flagstones, representing Queensport and the Endless Sea. The middle dais looked as though it nestled in a glade among the lush forest of the Royal Wood, the walls of the Hall bespelled to look as though the viewer were gazing into an endless, misty forest. And at the high dais, a full moon washed the long grasses of the plains that stretched between Darkhill and the Royal Wood silver, a spectacular night sky curving around the Queen’s silver chair. Ramel gazed up at the moon suspended over the queen’s chair in wonder. He’d never seen anything so beautiful and so impossible.
To Ramel’s surprise, Knight Arian sat at the high table…which meant that Squire Finnead was one of the squires to whom Ramel was assigned. The dark-haired squire gave him a nod of recognition as he took his place behind Knight Arian. Half of the high dais remained unfilled, even as the rest of the Hall hummed with the polite conversation of the Court; then the stars above them flickered like candles guttering in a breeze, and a sweet wind swept through the Hall. The Queen and her attendants would make their entrance from the front of the Hall, and silence fell over the courtiers as they turned to watch.
The Queen’s most favored appeared out of the velvety darkness of the night sky that stretched to the ground like a great curtain. Lady Elaine looked as elegant as a swan in a diaphanous gown of white girded with black and gold. Walking beside her, a Northman cut an imposing and foreign figure in his finery, but to Ramel’s eyes the ulfdrengr did not look like a savage as some of the other pages said. Rather, the broad-shouldered man wore his hair long, ornately braided and bound back by leather bands. He wore a mantle of red fur on his shoulders, a vest of black leather skillfully worked with silver, and richly gleaming boots that reached his knees. Ramel couldn’t decide whether the Northman was young or old. A white scar cut into the neatly trimmed border of his beard, and he gestured with one hand as he walked and spoke to his companion, looking down at the Unseelie lady by his side with serious eyes the color of storm clouds. Lady Elaine looked fascinated by the conversation.
The other members of the Northern delegation wore similar garb. Some were clean-shaven and some wore beards, and the decorations on their fine leather vests varied from warrior to warrior. They didn’t wear any weapons, since it was a feast of welcome and to do so would have been a grave a
ffront to the Unseelie Queen, but Ramel thought that any one of them looked entirely capable of killing with their bare hands. A murmur rose from the Court as the women of the North made their appearance, attired much the same as the men, though the women favored richer colors and more intricate decoration than their male counterparts.
“Those two, they aren’t ulfdrengr,” said one of the other pages to Ramel in a whisper, nodding at two of the more slender members of the Northern delegation. Ramel looked at them critically and realized with a start that they were both Unseelie: twins, one male and one female, their dark hair bound back in braids and a mantle of fur on their shoulders the same as the Northerners. They walked proudly with the Northerners, even as the hiss of whispers rose in the Hall.
“The queen must not be angry with them, if they’re at the high dais,” murmured the young page.
Ramel hushed the younger page with a shake of his head, even as the same thought crossed his mind. He realized he didn’t know much about the Northerners. Did they have a queen, as the Seelie and Unseelie Courts did? Or perhaps a king? The foreign concept of a king jarred his sense of place in the world. He suddenly felt very small and ignorant.
The crown princess entered the Great Hall, walking with a Northern woman who wore a snow-white mantle and carried herself with an air of authority. She was beautiful, in a fierce way, and wore her dark braided hair bound up like a crown about her head. In contrast to the other women of the North, who wore earrings and bangles carved from silver wood and fashioned from glittering stones, the dark-haired woman’s only adornment was a scarlet stripe that bisected her white throat, running from the underside of her chin down into the shadows at the collar of her white shirt. When she lifted one hand to point something out to the Unseelie princess, her sleeve fell slightly away from her wrist and Ramel glimpsed foreign runes swirling on her pale skin. The prickle of strange power made his hair stand on end, and he somehow knew the woman was mightier than any mage in Queen Mab’s Court. The aura of her alien sorcery drifted through the Hall like the scent of smoke on the wind.
Behind the Northern woman and the princess came Queen Mab, gliding gracefully beside a tall Northman also mantled in white. Though no hint of sorcery accompanied the Northman, it was clear that he was their leader from the set of his shoulders and the piercing intelligence of his eyes. Something seemed different to Ramel about the Northerners’ eyes, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Queen Mab wore a gown that seemed to be wrought of liquid moonlight, shimmering and gleaming with her every move. At her throat, she wore a magnificent collar that looked like a slice of the night sky, complete with its glimmering stars. Her diadem shone so brightly that at times it was difficult to look at her directly.
Princess Andraste sat only a few places down the table from them; Ramel didn’t miss the slight flush in her cheeks as she glanced at Squire Finnead. He filed that observation away for later. As was traditional with honored guests at Court, Queen Mab had dispersed her favored courtiers among the Northern delegation, so that the Northmen found themselves seated next to the most beautiful ladies and graceful Knights. A few of the ulfdrengr looked slightly uncomfortable, but on the whole, they handled the strange setting very well. The twins sat between Princess Andraste and Knight Arian, and on her other side the Northern woman with the scarlet stripe down her throat watched the proceedings with a crystalline gaze.
Queen Mab stood at the head of the high dais and raised her arms. Silence fell over the Hall again.
“Tonight, we welcome the ulfdrengr and their volta to our Court for the celebration of the Solstice,” the Queen said in her beautiful voice. “And we also welcome home two of our own, Tyr and Rye, who have made their home in the North for far too long a time.”
Ramel blinked. Was there displeasure beneath the velvet smoothness of the queen’s mellifluous words? The twins didn’t flinch, though, so he thought he must have imagined it. Their queen was generous and kind, after all.
“So, let us raise a glass to our honored guests, our returned kin, and the start of the Solstice season.” Queen Mab smiled as she raised her silver goblet, and the movement rippled through the Hall as her Court followed suit. They drank, and then the Queen took her seat, and the feast began. The Northerners’ appetites were as imposing as their physical presence, and Ramel soon found that he didn’t have time for any idle thoughts as he completed run after run to the cellar for more wine. But he kept his ears open, like any good page, and he caught snippets of conversation as he waited for the next empty pitcher.
“So, you have trained with the ulfdrengr, Rye?” asked Princess Andraste intently.
“Yes,” replied Rye. It was difficult to tell her apart from her brother until she spoke; they both wore their hair long and possessed an androgynous beauty that only reinforced their similarity.
“Perhaps you have lived among them for too long,” said Knight Arian, “as you forget your courtesy to the princess.”
Rye turned her head to look at Knight Arian and merely smiled, a smile that looked very predatory to Ramel.
“I appreciate your gallantry, Knight Arian, but it is quite alright,” said Princess Andraste. Her eyes flickered to Squire Finnead as she addressed his master. “We need not demand that our guests follow our traditions exactly.”
“They are not guests,” replied Knight Arian with a hint of stubbornness. “They are members of this Court, and as such, they should remember their place.”
Rye’s smile widened and her eyes flashed with a strange spark. “Perhaps we do not consider ourselves members of this Court anymore.”
Her declaration shocked Knight Arian into silence, and his squire stiffened. Ramel, too, felt a flicker of anger that he didn’t quite understand. Squire Finnead stepped forward and refilled his master’s cup. He held the empty pitcher behind his back, but Ramel hesitated as the princess spoke.
“I am sure my sister would agree that we love our Court and do not want to bind any here who do not wish to serve us,” said Andraste in a low, measured voice, her words somehow both soothing and reassuring. The tense moment passed as she continued. “I should like to hear about your experiences in the North, Rye, if you would stay long enough to relate them to me.”
“We stay as long as the ulfdrengr stay,” replied Rye. Her brother touched her arm beneath the table – the others seated at the table couldn’t see, but Ramel saw the small movement from his vantage point. “My lady,” added Rye grudgingly.
“I look forward to it,” said Princess Andraste with genuine warmth, turning to the Northwoman seated at her other side. “I am curious about your Northern runes, my lady. They look different from our runes in a number of ways…”
Ramel emerged from his transfixion with a start as Squire Finnead half-turned, catching his eye and gesturing sharply to the empty pitcher in his hand. He quickly took the pitcher and disappeared into the warren of tunnels to the cellar, his mind whirling with the implications of the conversation he’d just overheard.
The rest of the feast passed without incident, though Ramel didn’t have much time to observe the festivities as the pace of drinking increased. The feast progressed long into the night, and it was all he could do to keep up with the demands of the high dais. Finally, Squire Finnead nodded at him.
“This should be the last pitcher, lad,” the squire said in a low voice as he took the full pitcher from Ramel with practiced grace.
Ramel nodded, and in a fit of sudden bravery said to Squire Finnead, “Good luck, sir. In the gauntlet.” Squire Finnead paused to let him finish. Ramel swallowed. “All the pages are rooting for you.”
A small smile appeared on the squire’s face, though his eyes remained untouched by mirth. “Luck has very little to do with it, lad, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
Face burning at his own forthrightness, Ramel stepped back and lowered his gaze respectfully. He focused on slowing his breathing after the last cellar run, surreptitiously checking his uniform for neatness. True to the
squire’s word, the table did not call for any more vinaess once the full pitcher was emptied. Ramel noticed that the twins, Rye and Tyr, weren’t drinking anymore. He searched his memory and realized that they’d drunk very little vinaess over the duration of the feast, as if they wanted to keep their wits about them. But then the queen stood, motioning gracefully for the guests of honor and her favored courtiers to follow her as she retired from the feast. The rest of the Court stood respectfully as the high dais slowly emptied. The illumination from the full moon suspended over the queen’s now-empty chair slowly faded as it waned to a crescent, still pulsing with pure silver light.
“I cannot keep you up any farther into the night in good conscience,” said Knight Arian to his squire as he rose from the table.
Squire Finnead bowed slightly. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, sir.”
Knight Arian chuckled and raised his eyebrows. “You’ll be cursing me soon enough, lad. Trust me.”
And with that ominous statement, the Knight and squire left the high dais. Ramel shifted from one aching foot to another. Even though the high dais was now empty, the pages had to stay on station until every seat in the Great Hall was vacated. Only then would one of the assistant training masters release them. Finally, the last of the courtiers left their table, and Ramel heard the low whistle that signaled the end of their duties. The pages darted forward and snatched up the most appetizing bits of food left on the table; they were forbidden from eating here, but they’d take their haul back to the barracks for a quick meal before lights-out.
Back in his room, Ramel ate his food by the flickering light of one candle, idly stretching his tired legs. One advantage to serving the high dais was the abundance of food and thus the abundance of choice for the pages’ late meal. He pondered what he’d heard at the table. If Murtagh had still been there, he’d have asked him if he really thought they had a choice in belonging to the Unseelie Court. He’d honestly never thought of the possibility before – to him, he had been born into the Court, and it was all he’d ever known. It was never presented to him as a choice. He turned the thought over a few more times in his mind, and then turned his attention to his stack of supplies for the gauntlet. He thought that perhaps he’d make a trip to the healers’ ward tomorrow and ask for a few more rolls of bandages to add to his pack. He blew out the candle, padded across the room in bare feet and dreamed of watching Finnead emerge from the forest victorious after the gauntlet, the other pages glancing at each other jealously as Ramel assisted his future master to his quarters.
