After the feast, the libations flowed like a fountain, and the music filled all ears with drums and humming melodies. The reception began to boil into revelry, drowning the conversations. Maidens locked arms and spun and twirled in rhythm, and the lads tested sinew and pride at arm wrestling; warriors drank deep and boasted loud, and old men sat and watched, reliving their youth through the antics of the young.
At the high table sat the bride and groom, Avarlon and Gedain. But her countenance was troubled and grim. Gedain feigned a continuous grin, false happiness betrayed by his cold, measuring cast of eye. He nudged Avarlon to appear happy, yet she obliged him only for a heartbeat, her face swiftly dissolving back into dread.
Also seated was Cerenid Rex, and his mother Fia, and at the table’s end, aunt Una. The father of the bride, widower Olian, watched as Cerenid clapped along to the rhythm of the song, stopping only to take sips from his silver chalice. Behind the rex stood Menek, his guard’s captain. Olian’s eyes met Menek’s. Menek nodded faintly. Olian scanned back over the room, far to the opposite end, to the doors of the hall. There, stood two more guards, emotionless, frozen.
The song changed and amidst the turn, a dancing maiden collided with a servant, causing her to drop her cask. Red wine burst onto a table, splashing a seated thegn, spoiling his tunic and cape. The thegn leapt up with a volley of curses, but the din swallowed his rage.
Olian felt a hand clasp his shoulder. He turned. It was Gedain’s. He acknowledged him with a nod, then glanced at Avarlon, then back again.
Gedain leaned close and murmured, “I’ve spoken to her at length. There is no need to worry. She will be fine.”
“Then bid her to brighten her countenance,” Olian replied, funneling the words to Gedain’s ear. “She looks as though she’s attending a funeral rather than her own wedding.”
Gedain nodded and returned to his seat.
Olian looked again over his shoulder, but Menek was gone. He then turned to the doors across the hall. The faces of the two guards had changed. He felt droplets of sweat beading upon his brow. He rubbed his neck. He looked at Gedain who was laughing at the thegn’s tongue-lashing being doled out upon the clumsy servant.
He glanced at Cerenid, his vulnerable, naive face unaware of what fate crept towards him. In his mind, Olian saw the blade driven between the boy’s ribs, his body crumpling. And he envisaged the future beyond: Fia imprisoned, Una hauled away under guard, Menek seated as steward. But all of this blood and tumult be for a justice that was no longer demanded.
His mind raced:
What should I do?
End it, of course.
But how? They will saw you for treason!
Find Menek, call it off.
But where is he? Will he reach his assassin in time?
Think…
The rex prepares to leave. There’s no time!
He drained his goblet, then wiped the sweat from his brow. The music blared. He rubbed his temples. The maidens twirled. Gedain laughed. Olian looked upon his daughter— yet unmoving, expressionless, unblinking, as if she were moulded of clay…
“Enough!” he muttered to himself. He pushed back from the high table and proceeded past Cerenid toward the edge where Una and Fia sat. She noticed him coming, her eyes following him closely as he approached.
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“I must speak with thee,” he said.
“So speak.”
“In private.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Concerning what?”
“Concerning a matter most grave.”
Una rose from the table, and together they descended from the dais into the churn of the hall. Gedain’s laughing ended when he saw them together, yet he dared not move from his perch and draw eyes upon himself conspiring with them. They passed into an antechamber where Olian shut the door.
“What is it?” Una asked.
“I… I have come by knowledge that imperils the rex.”
“Then speak to the rex.”
“I fear he would not grasp its weight.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Olian paused to listen at the door.
“Because thou hast proved thy fealty by risking thy life for him. He trusts thee without question.”
Una’s voice cooled.
“What is happening, Olian?”
“My lady, I have reason to believe there be a plot against the rex.”
“By whom?”
“There is no time,” Olian pressed. “Only this: I believe the danger comes from within the vanguard. I must intervene, but until I know for certain, we cannot risk him unguarded. Canst thou keep thy men with him when he leaves the hall?”
She studied him, eyes narrowing. “How would you come to know this?”
“Just… will you have your guards attend to him… please? There’s no time to explain.”
“Of course,” she answered with lowered voice.
Olian left the chamber and the hall in haste and slipped out into the streets in search of Menek, but daring not to call his name nor ask after him, lest suspicion fall upon himself. He searched one alley, then another, then peered into a tavern thick with smoke and voices. Yet Menek was nowhere.
Returning to the street he saw four of Una’s men leave the hall and take separate positions on the street, blending into the shadows so they would not be conspicuous. Olian searched the next alley, and then the next. It was vain. Menek could be anywhere, biding his time, awaiting the signal from his co-conspirators. At last, Olian returned to the hall, lest his absence be marked.
He saw Gedain’s eyes locked on to him as he re-entered through the doors, following him as he retook his seat.
“What is happening, sir?” he demanded.
“Ask nothing more,” Olian answered. “Do not speak to anyone, no matter what comes this evening.”
Moments later, Cerenid Rex stood, yet the hall took no immediate notice. Olian seized the moment to buy Una time, striking his cup and calling aloud, “Be still! The rex would make a toast!” At last, the hall fell silent.
Cerenid stood, in his uncertain manner, his cup held too tight in his grasp. He cleared his throat and began.
“I… I will not keep you long,” he said. “I am yet no orator, nor have I yet learned the weight of speaking as rex.
“But I drink first to Gedain and to Avarlon. May thy union be stronger than the tempests that trouble this realm, and may thy hearth know warmth longer than sorrow.”
He paused, searching for words, then went on more quietly.
“We walk a road whose length is… is hidden from us. Some are granted many leagues upon it. And then others are called aside without warning… I have learned this… sooner than many.”
His voice steadied.
“But when the journey ends, and the spirit passeth through the Gate of Tartarus and cometh unto the River Thol, may we all choose our next life with our honour unbroken.”
He raised his cup.
“I drink to love, to duty, and to the road, however short or long it be.”
…And every lord and lady then clinked their goblets and cups, and drank, and shouted, “By The One!” And Cerenid Rex smiled with a nod and departed the hall, greeted by Una and two of her sergeants at the door.
