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If Castle Armathain was the heart of Amenthere, then the Hall of Thrones was the heart of Castle Armathain. From this mighty room an ancient dynasty had been built, a dynasty which endured still. If everything else in the world were to change and fade with time, the Hall of Thrones would remain just as it had been in the days of First King Amenthis. His scions would see to it.
Constructed from beige marble of the highest quality, the carven pillars and polished floors met like waterfalls flowing into a pool of quiet water. Thrones long un-occupied lined the hall on either side, sheltered from crowding by shallow alcoves gilded with gold leaf. Each pair of seats was as individual as the royal couple that once graced them. Their occupants had long since passed into memory, but sometimes servants would swear that they could see shadows seated upon the empty thrones in the dark of night.
The current monarch of the Amenthis Dynasty, Mahir Amenthis, sat at the head of the Hall of Thrones on his own seat of power. Shaped with fire from a single block of rich macassar wood, Mahir's throne was high-backed and beautiful. The scorched image of draconic wings splayed across the backing behind Mahir, earning him the nickname 'The Dragonling King' by some of the bolder nobles at court. It was of course a harmless joke; dragons had not existed in Goran for thousands of years. Not since the days of First King Amenthis, Mahir's ancestor, in fact.
Today though, the true person of honor was not the king, but his son. Prince Hithon sat to his father's right in the second throne, a seat once reserved for a different person altogether. The death of Queen Gwynnis in childbirth almost a year previous was a wound still raw at the heart of the royal family. Still, Mahir's smile held only pride when he turned his gaze from the assembled nobles to Hithon.
The prince, who had been accepting congratulations from a family head, felt his father's eyes on him and looked up, heart-shaped face expectant. Mahir nodded slightly at the boy, reassuring him, and Hithon went back to receiving his guests.
This exchange was observed by a pair of ruby red eyes that gleamed with inner fire from the crowd. Their owner blinked, returning her attention to the people in her immediate vicinity. It was not like Arzai to be distracted.
Arzai, formerly of the Dorwiniel family, now a Red Obad of Goran's Magicol, was an imposing woman, and not just for her statuesque height and physique. Like any native of Syrion, Goran's famous cliff-side city, she was possessed of an olive complexion, precise, sculpted features and glossy dark hair. That alone did not make Arzai so striking though, nor even did her bright red eyes, a trademark of her innate magical ability. What made the Red Obad memorable was the utter surety with which she carried and conducted herself. Arzai could have told a Mooanese fisherman that the sea was made of wine, and they would very likely have had to dip a finger over the side of their boat before doubting her words.
It was not often that the Magicol made an appearance at formal events, and Arzai was in high demand among the court. Fielding attempts at social networking by members of the ever-hungry nobility was not Arzai's favorite activity, but today being the prince's Birth Day she made the effort regardless. She could do no less, especially when even Davenir, their introverted Grey Obad was himself surrounded by a cluster of nobles.
Noting an exception however, Arzai craned her neck in search of Margalee. Usually the northerner Blue Obad could always be found right in the thick of things. It was to her mild surprise and amusement when Arzai spotted Margalee's whereabouts.
Even with her back to the room, Arzai knew it was Margalee half tucked into one of the Hall of Throne's many alcoves by her distinctive blue-black hair and indigo robes. Margalee wasn't alone either. She appeared to be enjoying a rather close conversation with a tall southerner dressed in the garb of a retainer; no doubt one of the many servants of one of the many nobles and merchants in attendance today. Still, the servant was notably attractive, with curly dark hair and a broad mouth, and Arzai silently congratulated her friend on a bit of social prosperity.
Not wanting to interrupt Margalee's fun, rare as it was that the Blue Obad ever did anything remotely selfish, Arzai chuckled to herself and turned away. All the other members of the Magicol were present and accounted for, just as the king had commanded for his son's Birth Day. There was Davenir, the aforementioned Grey Obad, clinging to the side of the Hall of Thrones even while surrounded by a gaggle of chattering merchants. Bvhoros and Roran sat with their heads together in a corner, the Green Obad and Green Ovate no doubt still hard at work on the Magicol's project for the occasion. High Obad Tomur stood not far from the head of the Hall of Thrones, handling the onslaught of conversation with his usual grace, his thick, tidily trimmed white beard bobbing every time he smiled. In his hand he carried the ceremonial golden scepter of High Obad, a match for its smaller, ringed counterpart on Tomur's finger. Brand and Ijireen, the two remaining Ovates, hung close to Master Tomur's side. Brand, the Grey Ovate, younger of the two at ten years of age, seemed quite content to remain where he was. Ijireen however, older and bolder at sixteen was stretching her scarlet eyes toward some of the young noblemen in attendance. Arzai met the Red Ovate's roving gaze with a stern scowl. Rather than look properly abashed though, Ijireen actually had the gall to wrinkle her nose at Arzai.
The only one not present was Frandel, the Magicol's other full Red Obad. He was away on business, scouting for children with potential as Ovates in Derbesh, Anset, and a few of the smaller eastern villages. Arzai hoped he took his time getting back. In Arzai's opinion their current trio of Red Obads was similarly endowed with variations of the same arrogant disposition, herself not excluded. Master Tomur had always said that training Red Obads was not unlike herding cats. Even so, Frandel's absence was a welcome relief for Arzai.
Taking pity on Davenir, Arzai wound her way through the press to the Grey Obad's side. Davenir looked up in relief when her arrival deflected some of the nobility's attention. Arzai slid him a stealthy wink before jumping into the discourse on Syrion's wine trade. Not that Arzai really had much to do with her family's business, having spent the past fifteen years of her life living in Castle Armathain.
They were all saved from the tedium of networking when the king stood at the front of the Hall of Thrones. Immediately all conversation ceased. As king of all Goran, Mahir never needed to so much as clear his throat to instantly command the attention of all. He smiled benevolently at the room.
"Esteemed guests, you do us an honor with your presence here on this great day. Today, on the eleventh anniversary of my son, Prince Hithon's Birth Day, we celebrate the rising glory of the forty-third heir to the line of First King Amenthis. Never before has this dynasty been graced with so bright, so beautiful and so kind a prince."
Prince Hithon grew steadily pinker in the face as his father spoke. Poorly concealed delight stretched the corners of his young face. Looking up from his seat on the queen's throne, Hithon's childish love and adoration was plain for all to see.
Mahir continued. "Although it is with a heavy heart that we mark this day for the first time without the presence of Queen Gwynnis, we know that she and her second son born sleeping will outshine all the stars in the night sky forevermore."
A murmur of condolences and various exultations of the late queen rippled through the hall. Arzai had only met the Lady Gwynnis a handful of times, but she remembered the Vaelonese queen's grace. Then again, the Vaelonese were generally a beautiful breed, so she supposed Gwynnis was less the exception and more the rule. Not that Arzai had ever been to Vaelona to see for herself. The king was still speaking, and so Arzai respectfully quieted her inner musings.
"Looking to the year ahead, however, we may yet have new beginnings to bring us joy. It is with great gladness that I announce the betrothal of my sister, the Princess Ellorae Amenthis, to Lord Rhadu A'Khet of Derbesh. May their union bring continued unity and prosperity to our great nation of Goran. Congratulations to you, sister."
Mahir raised his wine goblet in a toast echoed by everyone in the room. All eyes fell on the lady in question, who stood just to one side of the dais surrounded by her own cluster of mingling nobles. Princess Ellorae inclined her chin to her brother, making the yellow tourmaline gems woven into her elaborately styled auburn hair sparkle in the lamplight. What the king's sister thought of this betrothal Arzai couldn't guess. Derbesh seemed like a world away, on the far eastern coast of Goran. Not to mention that there had been rumors of Factionist sympathies rising in the east of late.
"In light of Princess Ellorae's imminent departure to the east, we are very glad that she has been able to remain long enough to celebrate the prince's tenth Birth Day. To have one's family, friends, and loyal subjects around us on this occasion has pleased us most highly. Truly, such a kingdom is a gift that the heirs of Amenthis shall forever cherish."
"Your Grace, Prince Hithon." Right on cue, Master Tomur approached the dais and bowed deeply to the king and prince. "With your permission, the Magicol of Goran would like to offer another gift to the honored prince, to commemorate the young lord in his waxing glory."
There was a pause as Hithon remembered that he was the one expected to respond to such an address. After a quick glance at his father, the prince cleared his throat and nodded. "Permission granted, Master Tomur. What have you to offer?"
Stepping back, Tomur waved forward Bvhoros and Roran. The Green Obad loomed over the elder High Obad thanks to his carefully sculpted head wrap, an avant-garde eastern custom as he was fond of reminding others. By comparison the Green Ovate seemed slightly too small yet for his new robes. It was impossible to keep the novices in properly fitted robes once they stuck adolescence. Still, if Arzai had to guess she'd say Roran would be easily a match for both her and Bvhoros once he finished growing, if not taller.
Bvhoros and Roran bowed before the royal pair, their backs perfectly straight at the waist. Straightening, Bvhoros spoke loud enough to address both Prince Hithon and the crowd.
"My prince, we have prepared something truly special for you, something that may be appreciated both by yourself and others for so long as you shall walk this world. If we may...?" Bvhoros indicated the steps of the dais.
"You may."
With Hithon's consent, the two sorcerers ascended the dais and came to stand just behind the king and queen's thrones. Mahir stepped slightly to one side, granting them a little more room. His piercing gaze remained firmly fastened on his son though, watching carefully. Hithon likewise appeared both curious and a little uncertain as Bvhoros and Roran positioned themselves behind him.
"Now, remember what I told you about grounding," Bvhoros murmured in Roran's ear. The teenage Ovate nodded, then drew in a deep breath before reaching over the back of the throne. His freckled hands lingered a moment in midair before coming to rest ever-so-lightly on Hithon's shoulders.
"Relax, Your Grace. All you need do is remain seated." Tomur spoke from the bottom of the dais, noting the apprehension on the young prince's face. The High Obad likewise kept an eye on the king.
Arzai's skin tingled faintly. She knew without hearing the tell-tale humming that Roran had initiated the casting trance of the Obads. Meanwhile Bvhoros was also sinking into trance behind Roran. They had gone over this a hundred times with Master Tomur in the Tower. This was both a gift for the prince and a test for Roran. A spell like this would be difficult for an Ovate, and it was by far the most complex piece of magic Roran had ever attempted to date. Hence why Bvhoros was also in attending; the Green Obad would not perform the spell, but would join the Ovate in trance to ensure that all went well.
On the queen's throne, Hithon's eyes went wide. He looked to his father once again, questioning. Mahir likewise eyed the two droning Obads, livid green eyes closed and faces slack. The three of them; Hithon, Roran and Bvhoros formed a living chain through which elemental magic thrummed like a current. Nobody saw where the magic was going until it began to loom up behind Bvhoros.
The tree grew and grew and grew, faster than any ordinary plant could have managed in ten years. Its branches unfurled like ribbons from a slender golden trunk, stretching toward the Hall of Thrones' gilded ceiling. Leaves as red as bloody rubies budded and bloomed in as long as it took to describe them. With no soil for its roots, still the tree grew straight and true out of the solid marble of the dais. Gasps of amazement went up from the nobility, and even the king himself gazed up in astonishment, his mouth open.
Hearing the reactions around him, Roran faltered in his trance ever so slightly. Bvhoros was there to support and correct the boy in an instant. A single branch felt the loss of magic though, and grew as solid and cold as the marble from which it sprung. No one could have seen the dead branch though, buried within a sea of gold and scarlet, unless they had known to look for it.
When the last red leaf had unfurled, Bvhoros tapped a single finger against Roran's shoulder to signal him. Blinking like a dreamer awakening, the Green Ovate ended his trance. Below, everyone stared in awe at the beauty of the golden tree. Then applause erupted, louder and more rapturous than ever before throughout the evening.
"What is it?" Prince Hithon asked, craning his neck to look behind. Roran realized he was still holding the younger boy's shoulders and released Hithon. Immediately the effects of such a spell hit him, and he smiled gratefully when Bvhoros caught his elbow.
"It is you, Your Grace," Bvhoros answered. "Behold! This tree, woven from the magic of the Obads and the life spark of the prince, shall grow and flourish alongside him. As Prince Hithon matures and reaches his prime, so shall the tree become ever larger and more magnificent. All who see it shall know the beauty and strength of the forty-third heir of First King Amenthis."
Once again the applause was nearly deafening. At last Hithon was free to stand and see the tree with his own eyes. The red leaves cast a faint glow on the marble columns around them, and the golden trunk gleamed in the lamplight. When Hithon reached out to touch the shining tree, he was surprised to find it smooth and as warm as a pan of coals from the hearth.
King Mahir was beaming and shaking Bvhoros and Roran's hands. Then he raised a hand, immediately silencing the jubilation of the hall.
"This gift has pleased us above all others today, Obads. As a token of our appreciation, let it be known that the Magicol of Goran, long partners to the crown, may at any time of their choosing, ask any one favor of myself or my son, and it will be granted without question."
"You are too gracious Your Grace," Master Tomur demurred. However he accepted Mahir's invitation to ascend the dais and join the king, Princess Ellorae and Prince Hithon in admiring the golden tree.
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Someone looped their arm through Arzai's; a familiar gesture which only one person in all of Amenthere could have been allowed. Arzai tore her gaze away from the golden tree at the front of the Hall of Thrones to her fellow Obad. Margalee's narrow dark eyes crinkled in amusement.
"You're gaping, Arzai. What an unusual expression for you."
"And you're not? Even I must admit that's impressive magic for an Ovate."
"We both know Bvhoros would never have let Roran fail," Margalee pointed out.
"True." Arzai couldn't resist adding "I see you've been enjoying the celebration."
Oddly enough, Margalee did not seem interested in discussing her handsome new friend. She waved aside Arzai's teasing observation like an irritating fly. "Parties need not be all politics and social climbing. Speaking of which, I see that you have some visitors to attend to."
Following Margalee's meaningful nod, Arzai had to bite back a groan. She had been hoping to avoid her family at least for a little longer. Too late though; it appeared Siresia and Nesaria had already spotted her. Where her younger sisters were, her mother and father were sure to be not far behind.
"Good luck." Margalee was already edging away, bemusement dripping from her voice.
"One of these days, Margalee, your own family is going to decide to pay you a visit here in Amenthere, and then I will never let you hear the end of it."
Margalee snorted softly. "Unlikely. Enjoy your visit."
With one last huff in the direction of the retreating Blue Obad, Arzai regrouped internally before plastering a calm smile on her face. As much of an honor as it was to have had their eldest daughter discovered as an Obad, the Dorwiniels had never let her live down the fact that she had broken a highly promising engagement to the heir of the prestigious Volkain family in the process. Never mind the fact that Arzai had been all of nine years old at the time. Sometimes Arzai silently gave thanks to Amenthis that she had been discovered as an Obad. Being married at twenty to a stranger did not feature highly on Arzai's list of life goals. She marveled at Princess Ellorae's apparent lack of concern over her own arranged betrothal to the lord of Derbesh. Such was the life of a Gorian noble though.
While the Dorwiniels swooped in to accost their eldest daughter, the festivities in the Hall of Thrones resumed at large. Entertainers were brought in, with their colorful costumes and unique music from every corner of Goran. Space was cleared for dancing, and Ijireen could be seen trying to escape Master Tomur's attention long enough to snag one of the younger noblemen for a song. Roran and Bvhoros sat to one side, Roran to recover and Bvhoros to keep an eye on the Ovate after his feat of magic. Davenir had given up trying to escape the gaggle of noblewomen all pelting him with attention, and instead punctuated his monosyllabic answers with deep sips from his wine goblet. Princess Ellorae retired early to prepare for her upcoming journey, and Prince Hithon could not stop looking over his shoulder at his golden Birth Day present.
Above it all sat the king, looking out over his subjects from beneath the crown of Goran. The fire-carved dragon wings flanked him as though they were his own, and his hands rested with comfortable authority on the dark arms of his throne. This was the center of the world, and he, King Mahir, was the center of the center.
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