"Why?"
Mordred looked at the heap of garments piled across the bed in the way he might have eyed an off-color catch of fish in market.
Berethar, already clad in the embroidered tunic and gartered leggings, raised his brows slightly. "It is the king's wish that we do not appear at his table this evening with the smell and tatters of beggars."
"And I suppose when my own clothes are washed, I shall be able to go back to wearing them?"
"Mordred." Berethar's heavy hand descended on his shoulder. "Put the attire on."
Mordred's nose twitched as he gathered up the armful of cloth. "I shall look ridiculous," he muttered as the last word.
They were late joining supper in the long common-hall below the ground level; King Cyhado himself had delayed his attendance in order to give them audience, and he was still eating at the center of the long table.
Mordred looked around for indication of where they should sit; there was no room near the king, but more tables lined the walls in an open-ended square, and Mordred, with a questioning glance at Berethar, struck out towards one largely unoccupied.
As he settled himself, a servant approached them both and began filling their cups with some dark, faintly aromatic liquor. "Echerag Castle welcomes you, llythydef," he said. He was young, his beard wispy and sticking to itself with sweat.
"We thank you," answered Mordred with a smile.
"I am Arbhan," continued the young man with a frank air of comradeship and extended his hand. "Arbhan dimmur-Cythlan, gúlf-Myrdí."
Mordred studied it a moment, and said politely, "If I were an ordinary ambassador – or should I say llythyda? – I should know what to do, but I confess I do not know what–"
Berethar leaned over and grasped Arbhan's forearm in a brief, sturdy clasp. "Berethar dimmur-Cirnac, bharoc-Hylfher, gúlf-Mycraí," he said.
"Hylfher? That is not a house name I know." Arbhan sat down comfortably beside them, crossing one leg over his knee. "Have your kin dwelt away for a long time?"
"It has been a long time. And there are few of us left – perhaps only my own household. But we have returned, from time to time, to seek wives from our own people."
"There are not many of the Myrdí left, either," said Arbhan with sudden gravity. "But now, I think have heard of your line after all – the wandering house, are you not?"
Berethar nodded briefly. "Dúlhythr the Wanderer is the first named in our genealogies, though there were others before him."
"So have you indeed come yourself for a wife? For I think the thing has not happened for some generations now."
"I am already wedded."
Arbhan seemed turned aside by none of Berethar's curt, if civil, rejoinders, and the young man continued making pleasant conversation with them as the meal progressed. At one juncture, he took up a third, half-empty plate from nearby and began himself to eat.
Halfway across the room, the king's central table was still humming gently with sound and laughter. A woman sat there on his left hand, clad in white that stood out starkly against the wealth of brilliant dark hair waving over her shoulders.
As a harp lifted up glassy, tumbling notes over the settling noise, uplifted by the low swell of some pipe, she stood up and rested her hand on the squared corner-post of the king's chair – a discreet, possessive gesture. She moved as though she might command an army or offer a cup to a weary traveler with equal familiarity and grace. Something glittered around her neck, echoing the firelight caught deeply in her hair, something Mordred thought was shaped like a sickle.
"His wife?" he asked Arbhan, nodding towards the slender, powerful figure who glimmered like a moon in the midst of the warm, golden evening.
Arbhan followed his gaze and laughed softly. "She may well yet be, within the season."
"Who is she?" asked Berethar. His voice was hard.
"She is Fythra Elythra edimmur-Gadhe of Lyrenel. She came to Eithur Gúlef to live with one of the king's older counselors, whose niece she is, and cared for him in his latter years before he went to the mounds. Half the city is in love with her."
Berethar sat stiff and angry, tense as a crossbow-bolt about to fire. Mordred looked askance at him, but Berethar said nothing further, and the moment spun away into other things.
"So the treaty between Orden and Rodron," said Arbhan. "It is true?"
Mordred was a little surprised. "Why should it not be?"
"No, no, it is a good thing," Arbhan hastened to assure him. "I am glad to know its truth, even if I did not doubt much."
"I was not there," said Mordred. "But I know that the king departed with his sword set against Rodron, and he returned with the hilt turned back in friendship."
Arbhan nodded, though his scraggly eyebrows still arched quizzically. "So it will last," he said, and there was far more under the words than the words themselves.
And Mordred thought of a high, arid plateau and sweaty, jostling embraces under the shadow of the dragon, and he frowned, puzzling over the conundrum in his mind.
When the last of the evening was breaking up, and Arbhan took their platters and cups and stacked them neatly, and Berethar rose with a swiftness that betrayed his impatience to leave the crowd, Mordred was still half-distracted by his thoughts.
"Berethar," he said, stretching full length on the bed prepared for him in their room. "The Runnicoran miners laughed, do you remember? We had fought each other in the War, I might have faced them in battle and killed their friends. And yet we laughed with one another, because it did not matter. Why does it matter so with Orden and Rodron? Why does Enydhwyn come, when Rodron will not lift a hand to help our country? Why does everyone speak of the treaty as though it is a thing of hot porcelain a breath away from shattering? Now that the old grudge is put aside, why can we not simply laugh and believe that we are all men with the same blood underneath?"
Berethar was silent for a while. "There is more than a grudge at work with Orden and Rodron," he said at last. "More than a long-burning resentment, though there is that, and it will be slow to fade because it is very old. But they are different underneath, like water and stone are different.
"Orden seeks truth to grow, to make herself stronger and better. She has come out of smallness and obscurity, and she is always pushing and reshaping to make great things.
"Rodron has ever been great, and she wishes to hold onto that. She seeks truth in order to retain it and pass it on to the future lineage. It was by forgetting truth that Rothalon the Great fell into ruin, and Rodron refuses to forget again. She is the stone, unyielding and long of memory."
"Keeper and pioneer," said Mordred softly, to himself. "If they were not estranged, they could balance one another."
Berethar shook his head. "It is deeper than the estrangement. Aye, they could have balanced each other, but it comes easy for a man to take pride in the thing he values and hold the rest in contempt. The men of Rothalon and the men of Thiredan had met a warp between their thinking long before Mirad broke the alliance.
"Now these patterns are so long ingrained in them that they do not even recognize their influence. Orden wishes Rodron to release the past, not understanding what she asks. To relinquish the past is anathema to Rodron, yet she does not suppose it needful to explain why.
"That is why the signed treaty is a mere form; why men question and wonder if this pledge will last a year; why to speak of it is like smelling the air before a lightning strike. It is much, much older than a broken alliance."
"There must be a way." Mordred sat up against the pillows, looking out at the empty dark panes of the windows. "Douglas always wanted to find a way."
"Douglas would befriend a viper." Berethar's tone was unexpectedly humorous.
Mordred laughed absently. "My brave, compassionate boy. Would that he could hear all this. He won't give up – no, he'll find a way."
~
They walked quickly down the halls, their steps a lonely echo. Sloping passageways, stairs, and arches opened all around them in an airy, intricate weave.
Mordred had not been invited to the council-meeting, which, it was apparent, would conduct mostly in Enydhywn and not the common tongue – "and," Mordred had said to Berethar, "is unlikely to concern me in any way whatsoever." Nonetheless, he had elected to come with him as far as the door.
The door, when they reached it, proved not to be a door at all, though the silver-inlaid engravings framing the archway did their work to set it apart from other nearby apertures. Within, several men already sat at a wide circle of shaped benches around a surprisingly small stone table, and Berethar moved forward to join them, but Mordred's hand drew him back.
"What is it, Mordred?"
Mordred's grey eyes searched him up and down, intent and earnest. "I do believe you like dressing up in these clothes, Berethar."
Berethar glanced down at the tunic gifted from King Cyhado, its patterns woven in a slightly darker red against the crimson wool. Mordred was already wearing his travel-worn outfit, having changed into it as soon as he acquired his belongings back with the assurance that they were fit to be worn. "And?"
"And you did not even reply to me with a grunt. It is not that I mind you so at ease, I am a little baffled, that is all; but I shall get over it."
Berethar's lips twitched in a half-smile, and he went into the council-room.
"Berethar gúlf-Mycraí, llythyda of Orden," the king greeted him, and around the room his name rose and came back in a rumble of welcome.
Two more men entered before King Cyhado crossed to the table and turned over a time-glass filled with black sand in its center. "The Ordenian llythydef arrived last night and brought tidings of the country, which is sorely oppressed with the King of the Werevultures' assaults. They also inquired after our embassay concerning the Dead Forest, and have agreed to travel south and observe it. I shall ride with them."
"My lord Cyhado," said a man with severely combed steel-grey hair and beard, "who will be presiding at the councils and overseeing the muster of an army in your absence?"
Cyhado waved a hand easily. "My brother will see to it – will you not, Finedyn?"
The young man addressed as Finedyn gave a nod. "Yes, Cyhado."
"Lord Cyhado." The first speaker was gently insistent. "In such a time as this, do you not think it wise perhaps to remain lest a thing come about and you be unaware and unable to respond? Riding south toward Lyrenel is to go far from the regular currents of news."
Cyhado hunched forward thoughtfully on the seat, pondering. "It may be unwise," he said. "Who do you advise should go with the llythydef in my stead, Gelhref?"
"Wythra of Echerag would suit, Lord Cyhado."
"He or Dythelin of Dimfyr," said another.
Cyhado nodded. "We may cast a vote on the matter at the end. But now, since the llythydef have chosen to remain in Enydhwyn this while, I would ask of Berethar a question. Will you lend us your dragon to spread the word among the clans while you ride to the Dead Forest, llythyda Berethar?
"It will take a month or more to spread the summons and gather the army, even having sent the messengers out straightaway. On dragon, the time would be cut to a matter of weeks." He inclined his head toward Berethar. "But we know not what charge your king may have given you in this matter. What say you, llythyda?"
"Use it," said Berethar. "And if it breaks some writ of policy, it will be to my account. We are in need of haste."
The king's smile lit the room, underscoring the sincerity of his solemn nod. "Thank you, Berethar gúlf-Mycraí."
~
Mordred, dressed again in the objectionable deep-blue tunic with its flowing designs and gartered leggings, shouldered his way rapidly through the pressing crowd. Berethar was some distance ahead of him, his crimson garment flashing in and out of sight. The smell of burning pine sap and perfumed hair and heat mingled in his senses with the stifling roar of cheerful, incomprehensible chatter. He ducked a swaying rack of covered dishes and knocked into a cluster of equally well-dressed people, stumbling an apology that they were unlikely to hear or understand.
Must there be so many people?
The king's dinners had not been so elaborate or so densely attended, but tonight they were visiting a wealthy woman's estate, and clearly she liked her parties substantial.
Berethar was already engaged in coversation with a lord in the king's retinue when Mordred reached him and their seating out of breath. Mordred paused and watched him, forgetting his hotness and irritation, seeing the smile, the easy way he wore the belted, princely garments, the knife of Mycraí bared of its concealment and hanging jeweled and bright at his side. He did not think Berethar had ever smiled so often even when holding his young children.
He has been waiting all this time to come home.
Berethar turned as Mordred took his seat. "There you are, Mordred."
Mordred grinned wryly up at him. "I was beginning to think the meal would be over before I could reach these tables."
Berethar shook his head with veiled amusement, and stepped aside again to resume his conversation with the Enydhwyn. Mordred listened with half of himself, letting his ear attune the low, murmuring rhythm of their discourse.
They were seated at the centermost table, almost directly to the king's right – in a clear place of honor. Mordred was not sure how he felt about all eyes being on him, or about a dinner that was being hosted partially in recognition of his presence here. He had only come for Berethar's sake, anyway; he was no true envoy of Orden here. But when he broached this to Berethar, Berethar had said, "None of it would matter, even if they knew. You are a guest; let them honor you as one. And besides, should you have the smaller honor because you came for my sake, that I might not fail at my task?"
Mordred rested his head on his arms, feeling the need to shut out the smallest part of the noise. "Whose is this household we are visiting, anyway?" he asked his right-hand neighbor.
"The woman of Lyrenel, yes?" responded the other, his Common tongue hesitant and slow. "The one the king is seeking to pledge to himself."
Mordred glanced swiftly back at Berethar, who was parting from the nobleman with a nod. He had not forgotten Berethar's angry reaction that first night in Eithur Gúlef. Did Berethar know?
A muted horn sounded somewhere outside the room, and the preliminary commotion furled suddenly as the doors on the far left opened to admit the Fythra Elythra of Lyrenel.
Two nights ago, at the king's table, she had been clad in simple white, no less proprietary than many Enydhwyn girls Mordred had seen by now, though showing a good deal more bare arm than would have been smiled upon in any Ordenian banquet. Today, however, her gown swept the floor in shifting shades of night-dark blue, spangled with glints of light like stars. Silver gleamed around her neck and her brow again, sparking under the light of each torch she passed. She stepped lightly yet surely, with the grace of a hawk, and as Mordred watched her smile toward this face or that, or pause to listen to some servant with earnestly attentive expression, he was sorry for his untoward thoughts earlier.
The hum picked up again in her wake, though subdued and covered by men and women hurriedly setting out the last of the food and drink. She met the king at the far end of their table and halted there, exchanging some words with him. He offered her his arm with a smile, and together they rounded the table's corner and headed directly for Mordred and Berethar.
"Greetings, my friends!" exclaimed Cyhado with characteristic warmth as he reached them. The lantern-light glinted off his neck-band and the circlet of office sitting slightly askew on his hair; he reached a hand up to straighten it. "Fythra Elythra gúlf-Lyrenel, these are our guests, the Ordenian llythydef who have come on behalf of our distant ally and eat on your hearth this night: Mordred Kenhelm, and Berethar dimmur-Cirnac gúlf-Mycraí."
The woman smiled and put his arm aside. "My lords, it is an honor." Her word were sincere, with the faintest inflection of the Enydhwyn accent – a curious softening of the vowels and the harsher consonants. She took a finely beaten cup from the head of the table, offering it to them with both hands. "Peace, and welcome to these halls!"
Mordred, who had with part of himself wanted to dispute being included as a lord, did not think he had ever felt so overwhelmed by a single presence. "Thank you, my lady."
Beside him, Berethar did not respond.
"You must be sore wearied. It is not long since you were traveling, but you shall rest tonight, and be refreshed."
"I–" Mordred started, and stopped. Perhaps he was still weary from their long travel. He had at least been out of sorts enough thus far to account for such a thing. "Thank you once again, my lady. Your cup already is a refreshing welcome."
Berethar tensed.
"Your friend, will he not drink?"
Mordred had already bent his head for a draught from the large vessel, but Berethar had still not so much as stirred – save for that coiled reflex. "He is not always easy in unfamiliar company, my lady."
"Get away from her, Mordred." Berethar's voice was terse and low.
Mordred spun. "Berethar, what is the matter with you?"
"Can you not see her?"
"I see a fair and courteous woman who has greeted us most kindly, whom you have inexplicably spurned."
"It is no matter." The lady spoke, reassuringly, as though to gloss over Berethar's obvious slights. "Sir, you are welcome to retire if you feel uncomfortable or unwell."
Berethar did not touch his weapons, but he might as well have for the rigid, perilous ferocity thickening in his shoulders. His tone was stiff, barely courteous, cold. "It will not be needed, my lady."
"As you wish." Her brows lifted in faint distress, but otherwise she preserved an admirable cool. "Do speak if you desire anything."
"We need not your smooth words, my lady, nor will I take anything from your hearth."
Mordred whirled again and seized his arm. "Berethar," he whispered fiercely. "What are you doing? Why do you speak so? Can you not see she is a lady, and a great one?"
"If she were not a lady, I would not have given her the courtesy I saw fit to give."
Mordred could not help a laugh. "Courtesy? That?"
"You do not know her."
Mordred glanced back briefly. "She is our hostess! Perhaps I do not know her! And you, who confess that you have never set foot in this land – you do?"
Berethar put his hands grimly over Mordred's shoulders. "Mordred, you have already spoken to her enough. Do you not see how her wiles work on you–"
"Are you saying–" Mordred jerked indignantly away.
Berethar's grip only tightened and he wheeled, dragging Mordred with him towards the wall. "No, I do not mean she will seduce you, though that would hardly be beneath her. Only take your mind and feed whatever dark will resides in her into yours! Look what she has done already."
"Berethar, once and for all, do you know this woman? What grounds have you for such discourtesy? Do tell me what I have missed!"
Berethar said nothing.
"Berethar."
"I have never seen her before that night."
"Then why?"
Again, Berethar said nothing. Slowly, his fingers released Mordred's shoulders, and he stepped back against the wall.
Mordred turned back to the tables, but Berethar did not follow.
~
She was tall, fair, and ageless as a young tree. Her hair flowed like shining sable, her skin was like the moon in its purity, her words clear and gracious; and her manner was not brass or diffident, but radiated wisdom, courtesy, and decency in equal measure. She moved with a delicate, powerful discretion, and the weight of time was in her dark eyes.
And her voice struck awry on his ears.
Berethar watched her silently, refusing to join in the merrymaking and the laughter around him. Mordred sat at the king's table, a part of the feast, yet his eyes went back to Berethar now and again with a pained look. It sickened Berethar to see him so near her.
But it was her he watched.
Their gazes met, and her brow flickered up in a challenge, What do you want? it seemed to ask.
He held her stare ruthlessly, giving the same silent question in return. Then the moment passed, and she did not look at him again.
And Berethar's gaze turned to the king, scarcely thirty, still young, still unwed, laughing in his easy way with eyes fixed fondly on the woman whose darkness rang under her very breath.
"She may well be, within the season."
What was she? Why should she want the throne of Enydhwyn? And why was Mordred so blind?
A fear struggled beneath his anger, as he thought of Mordred's awe-stricken meekness before the woman, his eyes turned on Berethar in confusion, the frustration and scorn lilting in his voice. The king's corresponding look of alarmed disapproval. "Half the city is in love with her," young Arbhan had said, not exempting himself from the jesting remark.
Berethar watched steadily, never stirring from his place, urgency and anger lashing within him to a storm. His hand, in an almost instinctive movement, strayed to his knife and closed savagely around the hilt. There was more at work defiling Enydhwyn than a dead forest.
***
okay so I really don't know how I feel about this chapter and I think I hate it but I also love it and I just really don't know??
Anyway y'all have been patiently waiting for almost two months so here's a chapter <3 I'm doing better amirite? 1.8 months is better than 6 XD
ALSO we're really getting into the good stuff, the stuff I've been looking forward to since beginning this volume of SAS, and it all goes downhill from here >:) ahhhh I love writing me some intrigue and angst and -- whoops spoilers
also! Mordred is adorable and this has been a PSA thank you for your time