Aalis, Verne and Giordi sat in the servant’s chambers quietly. Now and again Giordi would prod the logs in the fire, sometimes when it needed it and other times because he needed something to do. Aalis sat on the rug in front of the fire, wiping the monster blood off the armour they had collected in the corridor while Verne laid the cleaned pieces out on one of the beds, making sure that they had the complete suit. Verne had been able to retrieve the helmet before leaving the Arena and set it at the top of the empty armour construct.
He stepped back from it and cast an eye over the remaining pieces that needed to be cleaned. “That’s all of it.” He announced softly.
Aalis nodded. Giordi glanced at the concealed door. “Do you think one of us should check on Judd?”
“Be my guest.” Verne replied softly.
“Yeah,” Giordi sighed, “I wouldn’t know what to say.” He frowned. “You don’t…Judd wasn’t serious about Donimede keeping Suvau? That’s…that’s not right.”
“After Suvau tried to kill him?” Verne looked at the minstrel.
“Someone must have done something to him to make him react like that,” Giordi stood up, “you know Suvau! He wouldn’t hurt Judd…not…”
“Without good reason?” Aalis looked up. “Something terrible happened in that Arena…long before we ever set foot in it.”
“Yeah,” Verne folded his arms, “and I’m not sure I want to know what.”
They continued to work quietly when there was a light tap on the concealed door before it opened, Judd moving into the room. Monster and human blood were congealed in his hair and there were several bruises starting to form. All three of them set down what they were doing and tried to meet his eyes but he kept them downcast.
“I just received word that Lady Jocasa intends to hold the grand feast tonight in honour of my victory in the Arena in conclusion of my knighthood.” He said in a flat tone.
Verne peeked a glance at the other two but said nothing.
Aalis kept her mouth firmly shut.
Giordi gave a small huff. “Is that…appropriate?”
“Appropriate or not, it is happening…or else I would be packing my belongings and leaving within the hour.” Judd said, his jaw pulled tight. There was deep anger bubbling beneath the surface. “So I will go…and I will accept their praise of my actions and tomorrow, we leave for Astaril.” He paused and swallowed. “Giordi…I think I will need you there tonight.”
“Me?”
“I’ll need…a guiding hand…to keep me from saying or doing anything rash.”
Giordi nodded. “Of course, Judd.”
“Aalis, could you ensure our belongings are ready to go with Verne’s help?”
“You don’t want me to come?” Verne asked.
Judd floundered for a moment and the trauma of the Arena started to seep through the cracks of his fragile mask of ambivalence.
“I doubt you’ve got anything decent to wear,” Giordi slapped him on the shoulder, “but I will be by your side, Judd. I promise.”
Judd nodded and turned to go.
“Judd,” Aalis stood up, the cloth stained with blood clutched in her hands, “what about Suvau?”
“What about him?” He said with his back to them.
“He…he didn’t mean…what happened in there…”
“He made his decision,” Judd retorted, “and Donimede gave me very little choice. For what Suvau did, I should have killed him in the Arena. Leaving him in Donimede’s despicable hands…well, at least he will live.”
“Judd,” Aalis reached out tentatively, “you know why…you saw it…I know you did.”
Verne and Giordi looked at each other, confused. “Saw what?”
Judd swallowed. “Donimede draws monsters to the Arena with the scent of blood…human blood…Maul blood.”
Verne’s face paled and Giordi’s jaw dropped. “No…no…”
“One of Suvau’s people was slaughtered to draw the minotaur to the Arena,” Judd tilted his head back, his voice mocking yet scathing at the same time, “all for the sake of my knighthood…” Verne whispered a foul word while Giordi pushed his hand through his cherub blond curls. “It’s my fault that man was killed,” he continued brokenly, “my ambition…ended a human life…”
“No, I will not hear that!” Aalis cried. “Judd, it was Donimede and the deplorable mentality that those with dark skin are lesser humans than the rest of us, that killed that man.” She argued as Judd’s head lowered, his shoulders bowed. “If it was not you, it would have been another warrior, one ignorant of what the true cost of the Arena was! This was not your fault!”
Judd spun around to face her. “I might as well have killed him with my own hands!”
Giordi and Verne jumped as Aalis’ hand struck Judd’s cheek, each of them as stunned as the other at the blow. Judd put his hand up to his face, staring at her in shock.
“Sorry,” Aalis blurted, going to touch his face and he recoiled from her, her hand falling by her side, “Judd…more Mauls will die in this terrible place if you do not take the sacrifice this man made…”
“Murder, you mean.” Judd trembled.
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“If you do not take his murder,” Aalis conceded, “and become a knight so that you can expose this terrible practice and start petitioning King Rocheveron for Mauls to be recognised as humans, just like the rest of us,” she lifted her hand tremulously and he let her put her fingers over his, “then all of this, not just his death but your knighthood, will be in vain…please…this world needs knights like you.”
“Oh Aalis,” Judd closed his eyes, “I’m not sure I am the kind of knight you want me to be.”
“A knight who grieves for lives lost, no matter the colour of their skin?” Aalis said warmly. “Oh yes, Judd LaMogre…you are already that kind of knight.”
Judd breathed out and nodded. “I…I’ll try to live up to your expectation.” He glanced at his blood crusted fingernails and smeared body. “I should bathe…then I’ll dress for this blasted feast.”
“I’ll go with you.” Giordi offered. “I’ll keep the adoring militants away so you can bathe in peace.”
“I will lay out your clothes in here,” Aalis offered, gesturing to the bed, “and take care of all the packing.”
“Thank you.”
It was a universally acknowledged belief that nothing smoothed over a close encounter with death like a grand feast…at least, in the minds of noblemen and women. The same souls that had run screaming from the Arena, sure they were about to become the finest and tastiest humans the monsters had ever devoured and had languished in self pity and hysteria in the hours following were remarkably well recovered by the time the feast began. After all, what was the point of transporting meticulously chosen outfits from fort to fort if they couldn’t be seen during a time when they were most fashionable? And what better way to salvage one’s reputation of robust bravery than by having the opportunity to find reason for their behaviour amongst others with equally ludicrous excuses?
And so it was that the men and women who had faced death from the perch of a high balcony and lived to tell about it, gathered in the grand hall of Fort Mavour. Lady Jocasa had mustered no little effort in decorating the hall with endless festoons of fragrant wreaths with red berries, sheets of silk draped elegantly from wall to chandelier and the tapestries, that had hung in the hall for many, many years had been taken down and beaten to remove the dust of the ages then returned to their place to enforce both elegance and longevity.
There were tables around the outside of the room, allowing for men and women to sit on either side but leaving plenty of space for dancing in the middle should the mood arise and the orchestra was ready to play. The tables were decked with branches decorated with more red berries, twisted into wreaths that wound their way around large, thick candles, three per wreath, their flames flickering brightly. Alternating as table decoration with the wreaths were candelabra with slimmer yet more numerous candles so that the entire hall was aglow with candlelight.
Servants, the best looking from the many that Fort Mavour had to offer, circulated amongst the guests, some with trays of goblets already filled with wine and others bearing jugs so that the thirstiest of guests need never run dry for long. The smell of roasting meat was cleverly wafting through the hall, a new wave of stomach gnawing, saliva beckoning aroma bursting out every time a servant opened the door from the hall down to the kitchen where a dozen servants and two cooks no less were working frantically to provide Lady Jocasa with a feast that would satisfy even the fussiest of palettes.
All noblemen and women and their children were invited and already in attendance, not wanting to miss a single moment of it. A great many higher ranking guards and soldiers were also there, including Captain Chael and sword master Roust. Now that the gate was properly down, there was no need for a military presence in the Arena. The removal and burning of the bodies could wait although Caste had heard two servants gossiping that there had been several attempts to count the amount of monsters Judd had killed and the number had only grown with every retelling.
The soldiers were looking forward to sampling the opulence Fort Mavour and its protectors, the Donimedes, had to offer. They were dressed appropriately, still in Mavour tunics but the finest and cleanest uniforms they had, their boots polished and their faces, meticulously scrubbed and shaved.
Into this world did Clerics Caste and Rodel enter. Caste was still pale, his freckles able to be counted with accuracy across his nose and his red hair only highlighting the lack of colour in his skin. Rodel’s handsome face was lightly powdered much to Caste’s chagrin, his ash hair freshly washed and despite he and Caste wearing almost exactly the same thing, Rodel was prone to fiddling with it, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles.
“You look fine.” Caste said when he thought he couldn’t stand another one of Rodel’s fidgets.
“There is fine for a cleric on the road and fine for a cleric at a feast.” Rodel retorted.
“Oddly enough, they ought to be the same.” Caste grumbled, still on edge despite the three hours that had passed since the chaos in the Arena.
“And how many grand occasions like this have you attended?” Caste opened his mouth but didn’t like the honest answer he would have to admit. Rodel interpreted his silence accurately. “That’s what I thought.”
Rodel swept two goblets off a servant’s tray and handed one to Caste who took it with a dry expression.
“You’re just hoping a certain daughter of a certain nobleman will certainly notice you tonight.” Caste muttered.
“Oh, like you aren’t without vice in that area?” Rodel walked ahead, leaving Caste staring at him, dumbfounded. Rodel realised he wasn’t there and turned to look at him.
“What are you talking about?” Caste asked, wondering if he talked in his sleep.
“I saw you try to rescue the nomad from the Arena,” Rodel folded his arms across his cappa clausa, his four star pendant, the symbol of Astaril and the mark of the Order of the Grail shining dully against the deep red of his hooded cloak, “don’t tell me you’re not smitten.” He leaned forward, his blue/grey eyes giving Caste a critically scathing look. “And you had the nerve to tell me I’ve no business falling for a nobleman’s daughter.” Caste opened his mouth to argue and protest…then realised what it was he had been about to confess in the process and snapped his teeth together, closing his lips over the top. Rodel huffed and stood up straight. “That’s what I thought.”
Caste drank some of his wine, wondering at the ridiculous irony that the world had at times.
In order to stop Aalis from doing anything ‘witch-like’ and exposing herself in the Arena, Caste’s actions now looked like he was enamoured and had tried to save her.
He couldn’t blame Rodel. From what he had seen, there was little other way to interpret it and to Caste’s relief, he had not realised the truth. A dalliance with a nomad would be eyebrow raising but wouldn’t stop Caste from becoming a deacon and then, after a decade of training and dedication, archdeacon and, before he was thirty, Bishop Undern, the youngest ever to hold such a post. However, being aligned with a witch would dash all of Caste’s hopes for the future with even greater devastation than if he had been killed in the Arena. For at least he wouldn’t be alive to regret it for the rest of his long life.
He followed Rodel to where Sir Donimede, dressed all in black as usual but splendidly so, stood with his wife who was a vision in a dark red robe and the eldest daughter in a gown of opalescent cream fabric which would have cost more than most commoners would make in a lifetime. She was radiant, her blood red hair curled and clustered on her head, a single, thick curling strand draped over her shoulder.
To Rodel’s credit, he didn’t stammer and blunder as he greeted her along with Sir Donimede and Lady Jocasa yet Caste wondered if everyone was entirely ignorant of Rodel’s affection for Willower. Perhaps it was only because Caste knew of Rodel’s infatuation that it seemed so obvious to him. But if the poor cleric was looking for any kind of hint or encouragement from Willower, he would be sadly disappointed. Willower only had eyes for the double doors leading into the grand hall and every time someone walked past the windows that looked into the hall, their silhouettes making their identities impossible to determine, Willower would hold her breath and gaze at the door.
Judd LaMogre was yet to appear but when he did, Caste wondered if Rodel would be able to retain his mask of ambivalence.
