CHAPTER 28: CHAPTER 28 - THE BANQUET TALKS

The bell-chime for dinner threaded through the music. Attendants moved like a tide, doors swung wide, and the hall’s bright chatter poured into the dining chamber.

The table stretched the length of the room—one unbroken slab of polished oak banded with iron, wide enough to feed a small company. The chamber was beautifully decorated.

Banners of the black bear hung between antlered sconces; firelight drew brass to a low glow. Morena paused one breath in the doorway, surprised the table could seat so many and still leave room to breathe.

Earl Duran took the chair at the head, heavy-shouldered and fur-collared, his children flanking him: Cedric to the right, Elira to the left.

No countess. Morena noted the absence, but she didn’t mention it; after all, it wasn’t her place to gossip about such a thing.

She and Alina were placed halfway down on the right-hand side, among the younger nobles, amongst some of the people they spoke to just earlier. The first platters came quickly: roasted fowl brushed with herb oil, root vegetables glossed in butter, torn loaves glazed in honey.

Of course, they couldn’t forget the drinks; pitchers of wine followed, dark and warm. It contained no alcohol, as many of the guests were still young, and the Earl didn’t wish to hinder the hunt tomorrow morning.

As soon as everyone was settled in, with them all gathered in one place, conversations soon began to flow. Naturally, Morena was pulled into them eventually.

"Lady Morena, isn’t it?"

A boy across from her ventured, smiling with a hint of eagerness on his young face.

"Is this your first time at the Blackbear gathering?"

"It is."

"How was your trip here? Some hate it, but I love the way the air changes after the marches."

"It was pleasant. I do agree that the air of freshness was pleasing to experience."

She replied in simple conversation.

Laughter pricked the edge of the table, and a girl with northern braids leaned forward, bracelets chiming softly.

"People tell the tales of how your father earned his title in the war. I have always respected him; he’s one of the people I aspire to be like."

"They say that he’s one of the few warriors that survived that war. After all, in front of the priests from the church and the lunatics from that place, it would be impossible for any normal man to survive."

Another added, tone wry.

Morena tilted her head. She had heard the stories, but they were all rather vague; even from her memories, she couldn’t find much factual evidence of what actually happened during the war.

Her father had always refused to go into detail about it in the past, and the church heavily regulated the spread of information.

"Well, I suppose it’s just another sign that even a mere man could stand before the inevitability of destruction and survive with enough effort."

Morena replied, earning herself a few nods and some chuckles. Soon enough, the conversation shifted focus and they entertained themselves further with rumors.

As they ate, a young man arrived in the chamber much later than the others, taking a seat near the group. Alina smiled as she saw the boy and waved.

"You’re late again."

She scolded a lanky boy who scratched the back of his head with a dry chuckle.

"Try pacing yourself this year, Ren."

"I will, I will."

He lied, grinning.

Morena glanced towards the boy as her sister spoke to him, curious as to who he was, but she didn’t ask. Instead, she would ask her about it later.

Cedric’s voice carried from nearer the head of the table, smooth as poured wine. He was good at this—drawing circles into his orbit, lighting them with a story, and passing the flame along. Elira’s tone was brighter, the companion piece that kept soot from collecting on the edges.

Politics seeped in with the second course.

"Have you heard?"

A young man two places down murmured, eyes bright with gossip.

"About the King’s health? They say the winter took more from him than the court lets on."

"Hush. Walls have ears."

One of his friends hissed, warning him to be careful what he said.

"They always do."

He lowered his tone, but not quite quiet enough to avoid being heard by those nearby.

"And anyway, it’s a rumor everyone knows. The royal physicians keep sending for sea-flowers and marrow salts from the south. That’s not for bruises."

"Or it’s for gout and dramatics."

A girl said dryly.

"You’ve never met a court physician. If they can’t mix three powders and charge five gold, they feel cheated."

Morena found herself drawn to the conversation. The King was sick? That was news worth paying attention to. After all, if the King was to pass away, every noble would be swept into a battle of succession whether they wanted it or not.

’Sea-flower and marrow salts?’

She hummed softly to herself as she thought about the herbs, ones she had read about before in books. Such herbs weren’t for gout, they were for infections. If they truly had asked for such herbs, then the King must have a bad infection.

In a time like this, with limited medical technology, an infection could kill.

"Even if the King were ill."

Another young man chimed in, tone much more careful.

"What would it change? The heirs are old enough. The council would argue, the church would piously intone, nobles would posture, and the sun would rise again over the same city."

"The church has been doing more than intoning."

The original boy replied with a dry laugh, as if mocking the other’s lack of information.

"White sashes in half the provincial temples. New tithes. New sermons about ’purity’ and ’alignment’ with light."

Alina’s smile thinned.

"We’ve had more visiting clerics than we used to. Inspections of training halls. Questions about warrior methods."

She glanced at Morena, then away.

"They’re not subtle."

Morena narrowed her brow at her sister’s words. Why hadn’t she known of this? How foolish of her.

She had been so hung up on finding a way to get stronger, to progress her training, that she had ignored something as obvious as the political landscape of the city she lived in; such news that she should’ve known was overlooked.

A boy with a fox pin at his collar snorted.

"They never are. Last month, they hauled a hedge-priest from my mother’s village. Said he’d been blessing fields without proper sanction. The village elder had to ride three days to get him back, and only did because he knew the right bishop to beg."

"That’s nothing."

The braided girl said.

"Two lesser nobles west of the marshes are dead. One ’fell from his horse’; the other ’took ill and didn’t recover.’ Both had been loud about tithe hikes. Maybe it’s a coincidence, and maybe we all grew up yesterday."

Silence fell over the group; talk about the church and royal family had weighed down on the conversation. The mood had gotten darker, and many of the young people now worried about their futures.

They were the people of tomorrow; however, it looked like tomorrow was getting harder to come.

Morena watched the faces and reactions of all those around her. Fear always wore a scent: sour pride, sharp humor, brittle dismissal. Here, it smelled like all three.

"Bandits near our border have been bolder."

Another said, trying to drag the topic back to something safer.

"Or they’re something else wearing bandit faces. We lost two caravans last month on the east trail. No tracks, just torn canvas and blood."

"Wolves?"

Someone offered with a question.

"No tracks. And wolves don’t cut harnesses clean and take horses."

"Smugglers, then. Or deserters? Half the border outposts rotate children, and the other half drink through the cold."

The boy named Ren chimed in, having been silent all the time.

"Careful."

Alina’s voice gentled the word.

"Some of us live by those outposts."

The boy flushed and bowed his head.

"I meant no insult."

Morena placed her cup down and joined the conversation more openly than before.

"What have you heard from the capital about the border?"

She asked, voice even.

"Edicts? Reinforcements?"

"Talk. Always talk. There was a notice about increased patrols, but commanders aren’t given coin for horses, and without horses, patrols are walks with spears."

"And the church?"

Morena asked, her tone sharp and concerned. Her family lived on the borders; if something were to happen near it, then it would drag her into it.

"Do they offer men? Or only prayers?"

That earned a few nervous laughs.

"Men, if the men wear cassocks."

Fox-pin said.

"They’ve sent ’advisers’ to three forts I know. ’Adviser’ is a generous word for a man who writes reports and asks why the chapel is small."

"Light and fire."

The braided girl muttered.

"They have always been interested in them, but recently, they’ve been gathering anyone with a spark of either. They are no longer inviting, but demanding now."

Elira’s voice floated from farther up the table—warm, soothing the fray.

"Not every cleric overreaches."

She chimed in with a friendly voice.

"We’ve had help when sickness came through in the spring. They sent tonics and a priest who kept half the town breathing. It isn’t all grasping hands."

"Perhaps, but even good hands can close into fists."

The braided girl quickly struck back, only getting a smile from the girl in reply.

Morena caught Alina’s eye; her sister’s mouth was a small line. She must have been worried. It would be a lie to say that she wasn’t concerned. With their family near the border, if trouble really did arise, the council would begin to put more pressure on her father and, in turn, her.

"Lady Morena."

Fox-pin asked with a casual smile.

"Is it true your father’s council wants him to name his heir by summer?"