The Dragonstone (34 page)

*   *   *

The guard at the door to the great hall stepped before Egil to bar the way. “Sorry, sir, but weapons into the presence of the queen you cannot bring.”

Egil grinned and canted his head, then said, “Let me present Lady Arin the bard and Alos her drummer. And this is Lady Aiko the sword dancer, and I am Egil of Jord. We are entertainers and are to perform at the command of the queen, and these meager arms are but part of our costumes.”

The warder opened his mouth to speak, but from behind came a commanding voice: “Let them pass. They are indeed mere entertainers.”

They turned to see the lord chamberlain standing at hand. Egil flourished a bow, and the chamberlain nodded in return. The guard stepped back and clicked his heels together and stiffly canted his head, and the four moved into the great hall.

“Milords and ladies and honored guests: the Dylvana
Arin of Darda Erynian, Lady Aiko of Ryodo, Master Alos of Thol, and Master Egil One-Eye of Jord.”

Again they moved past the steward and stepped down onto the amphitheater floor. This night Arin was dressed in her pale green gown, with matching ribbons laced in her chestnut hair. Alos was outfitted in his tan jacket and breeks and brown jerkin, and his dark brown boots and belt; he carried his tambour under one arm and his cruik was slipped through his belt. Egil wore black: shirt, jacket, breeks, boots, belt, soft beret—all jet; only his eye patch and axe were of a different color—the scarlet and gold leather band and the steel blade and dark oak helve enhancing his sinister air. Aiko was dressed in her leather armor, the hammered bronze platelets on her jacket dull in the lantern light. At her waist were girted her two swords, the four shiruken hidden. She wore a pair of daggers, one strapped to each thigh. Her helm was under her arm, now adorned with the peacock feather. Colorful long ribands were tied ’round her upper arms and forearms and wrists, and ’round her waist and thighs and just below the knees; and as she walked, they trailed and swirled. She looked every inch a golden warrior—danger afoot—yet with the grace of a dancer, and many a head turned her way.

Once again the four of them circled the floor, looking for Baron Steiger, yet with little hope, for Dolph had not brought word that the baron had returned. And with the rain pouring outside, it was likely that Steiger, even if he were on his way back, had taken refuge in some inn. Indeed, they did not find him among the milling guests.

Finally the trumpet flourished and the steward knelled the floor and announced the imminent arrival of the queen, and the guests formed an aisle. Again the clarion sounded, and the steward’s words rang out and the queen and her consort entered.

This night she wore a peach-colored gown, and her golden hair was long and straight and fanned about her bare shoulders. Her tiara was gold and plain.

Following her on his silver chain came Delon, dressed in shimmering blues and greens, his sheening blue jacket long and tailed, with puffed sleeves inset with glittering
green panels matching his green satin shirt. His pantaloons were blue-and-green striped, and he wore blue hosiery on one leg and green hosiery on the other. His shoes were sequined blue and green, and his hat iridescent blue, with a shimmering blue plume on one side and a shimmering green plume on the other.

The queen and her gaudy escort mounted the dais, she to sit on the throne, he to sit to one side at her feet, and she smiled down at him as if he were a prize stud on display, he to wanly smile back.

The entertainers paraded about the floor, this time Arin, Alos, Aiko, and Egil joining them, Aiko growling under her breath, yet she managed a smile of sorts—her teeth gritted in false exhibition. Afterward they rejoined Baron Stolz’s table in time to hear him say, “Helga, see.
Told
you did I common entertainers they are.”

Again this night, food was served, and, as before, the queen declared the celebration to be in honor of new love. And the festivity began.

Three garishly painted buffoons entered, arguing silently as they strolled across the amphitheater floor. Of a sudden, it seemed as if they collided with an invisible wall and crashed backward to the floor, to the amusement of the guests. Hands outstretched they felt their way along the invisible barrier; moments later it became clear that they were trapped in a large invisible box, for the unseen wall went ’round in a square, and they were enclosed inside. Two boosted the third upward, to see if he could climb over the wall, but his head crashed into an invisible ceiling, and all three crashed to the floor, while the guests and queen hooted in laughter and she pounded the arms of her throne. Now the three buffoons panicked and ran crashing into the unseen walls, falling and rising and running and crashing only to do it over again, and the queen’s shrieks of laughter were lost in the howling roars of all, while Delon merely smiled. Then a fourth buffoon entered the banquet hall and stepped across the floor to the invisible chamber and took a great key from his pocket and unlocked an unseen door. He motioned to the others, and they came out one by one, only to be whacked with loud
cracks
by a slapstick wielded by their rescuer as
he chased them out from the great hall, while the guests roared their approval and applauded. The four buffoons returned to take a bow, only to be whacked on the behind by a fifth buffoon as they bowed low.

When the applause and laughter died, a man with his hands in his pockets nonchalantly strolled in, followed by five small dogs dressed in gaily colored ruffed collars and walking upright on their hind legs. They leapt through hoops and climbed small ladders and retrieved juggled balls when the man dropped them…and other such tricks as well.

The performance of the man and his dogs was followed by a prestidigitator, and then three people who performed feats of balance.

Then it was time for Arin to sing. Dressed in black, his tawny hair shining like burnished brass, Egil stepped to the center of the floor and waited for all to grow quiet. Finally he turned and bowed to the queen. “Queen Gudrun the Comely”—he turned once again to the crowd— “and milords and ladies and honored guests, I present the lovely Dara Arin, Dylvana of Blackwood, of Darda Erynian. Accompanied by Alos of Thol, she will touch your hearts with song. Beware, for you will never be the same.”

With Alos at hand, Arin, looking small and slight in her green gown, made her way to the raised floor to the right and below the queen’s dais. Stepping forward to the edge of the amphitheater, Arin waited as slowly the mutter of conversation died, then in a clear voice announced, “’The Shorn Bride.’”

A stir went through the crowd, for this was a tale of love bereft, and who knows how the queen might react? Quiet swiftly returned as Alos, standing behind and to Arin’s right, began gently tapping cruik to drum.

Now Arin’s voice softly filled the chamber, climbing in volume as she sang of Raid and Isalda: he was a young knight and she a maiden, and their love for one another was so deep as to be nearly beyond understanding. Their wedding was celebrated by the entire realm, for they were dearly loved by all. Yet on that very same day, news came
of the slaughter of Raid’s brother Gran, who had journeyed away on knight errantry to a far land. Raid swore vengeance, and after but a single night of sweet love, he set out to avenge his kith. Pining in her tower, the new bride Isalda waited for a year and a day, yet no word came of her husband. And so she set forth and journeyed after, disguised as a lad and posing as nought but a common goatherd. A year and a day of fruitless searching passed, but then in the hold of a renegade warlord she discovered Raid, locked and starving in a dungeon deep and dying from his terrible wounds. Oh, how she wept over his emaciated, torn body and strove desperately to save him, yet he died whispering his love for her. The dungeon warder, overhearing, took pity on her and allowed Isalda to bear Raid’s wasted body away. She took him to a field at the edge of the forest, where she built a great funeral pyre. The warlord, spying the large heap of wood at the edge of the field, rode out to discover what was afoot, and Isalda slew him with a dagger to the heart. She cast his body to the foot of Raid, and then mounted atop the pyre and set all aflame and lay down beside her love. It is said to this day that when entwined curls of smoke coil up from a fire, they are the spirits of Isalda and Raid embracing in everlasting love.

When Arin’s song came to an end, there was not a dry eye in the hall: Queen Gudrun sat on her throne for all to see and wept and gazed at Delon, choking back her sobs; and even though Delon was a bard who knew the song well, tears ran down his face; throughout the chamber there were sniffles and sobs and unrestrained weeping; even sour Baron Stolz broke down and cried. Behind Arin, Alos wept.

Arin turned to Alos and said, “’The Ransomed Kiss.’”

Alos nodded and wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve, and then with a flourish he hammered a
rat-a-tat-tat
on the tambour. And as he rapped out a wild tattoo, Arin soared into an absurd ditty of a maid whose cow was stolen by the lad next door who held it as ransom for a kiss. The maiden refused at first, yet she needed the milk to feed her pigs, and so at last she agreed, but under her own terms: she would kiss him in the night in the dark in
her shut barn through a hole in a hanging blanket, for she was shy and didn’t want anyone to know, but only if he brought the cow with him and only if he would put milk on his lips so she could be sure it was her cow and not some other. Too, he had to swear he’d not do this again. The lad agreed for he dearly wanted that kiss. And so in the night he led her cow into her barn and shut the door after. In the pitch blackness she called to him, and fumbling about he discovered the hanging blanket and then the hole therein. He turned and with one squirt from the cow’s teat, he got a handful of milk and smeared it on his lips. And in the dark in her shut barn through a hole in a hanging blanket, he received his kiss, a sloppy one with the milk and all, and not what he imagined it would be. But he left the cow behind and went back home, swearing that he’d not ever do such again, and things returned to normal. The lad always wondered thereafter, however, why it was that one of her pigs seemed always to gaze at him fondly.

Ta-tump!

Laughter rang out in the hall, and Arin and Alos bowed to the giggling queen and her smiling consort, and then to the crowd entire, and in spite of the calls for more they made their way back to Baron Stolz’s table, who, beaming, leapt to his feet and bowed. “A drink, Lady Arin, this calls for,” declared the baron, and he handed her a goblet filled with wine and steered her to his end of the table. Lady Klatsch turned and offered Alos a goblet as well. He glanced about, his eyes seeking Aiko, but she and Egil had moved to the edge of the amphitheater in preparation for Aiko’s display, and Arin was distracted by the baron, and so Alos eagerly reached out and took the chalice from the dowager and gulped down the contents in one long draught. He stood for a moment with his eyes closed as the wine warmed his very blood. Then, smiling, he reached for the pitcher to refill his emptied cup.

At last the applause died, and Egil once again stood in the center of the amphitheater floor. Dressed in black and looking every bit the sinister figure, he held his deadly axe in his hands and slowly raised it above his head and the hall grew quiet. “Dear Queen Gudrun”— again he
turned to the crowd—“and milords and ladies and honored guests”—he flourished his lethal weapon in a whirl and some ladies in the hall gasped—“I may seem Death’s champion”—he grounded the steel head of his axe to the floor and leaned upon the oaken helve—“yet I am as nothing when compared to the exotic golden warrior of distant Ryodo, mysterious realm to the faraway east. I give you Lady Aiko”—Egil paused, one hand clutching his neck—“but I warn you: watch for your heads.”

As Egil stepped from the amphitheater to stand below and to the right of the throne, Aiko moved to center floor. She bore her plumed helm under one arm, and her swords were sheathed in scabbards harnessed across her back. Upon reaching the midpoint, she paused, and then bowed deeply to the queen, followed by a bow to the guests left and right. She donned her strange helm, with the skirts of the cap flaring out to step down nearly to her shoulders and ’round the sides and behind. A nose guard projected down the front to join with the cheek guards. The peacock plume atop the cap arched over and back to lie at a shallow angle. If the guests had not seen her beforehand, they could not have said whether this warrior was male or female.

Aiko stood for long moments with her eyes closed and her arms extended out to her sides, her bright green and red and blue and orange and violet and yellow ribands hanging down and still. Then she whirled and spun, her ribands streaming, and suddenly her swords were in her hands, the steel flashing in the lantern light. And she danced, or drilled, depending on how one looked at it, twisting, turning, weaving, advancing, retreating, leaping and landing, forward, backward, side to side, the swords gyring and spiraling, her hands reversing their grips so that the blades lay along the length of her forearms, only to reverse again. She thrust ahead and thrust behind, and turned and kicked and thrust, and whirling she slashed the air, so swiftly the blades hummed. She ran up the floor and down the floor and ‘cross the floor side to side, all the while hacking and slashing, spinning and cutting, her streaming ribands like streaks of rainbows trailing after, and the crowd
ooh
ed and
ahh
ed. And she whirled and
gyred, spinning faster and faster as she came up the floor toward the dais, a blur of leather and bronze and steel and color, until she was before the steps, and of a sudden she stopped, facing the throne, her swords now sheathed—just how or when she had done so, none could say. And slowly, carefully, she removed her helm and bowed low to the queen.

The hall erupted in roars of acclaim and thunderous applause, and the queen herself pounded her trencher table, setting crockery and knives and spoons aclatter. And Delon in shimmering blue and green stood and applauded, and he swept his iridescent plumed hat from his head and bowed low. Seeing Delon’s display, a flash of rage crossed Gudrun’s face, only to be replaced by a smile that went no further than her mouth. She held up her hands for quiet, and when it fell, “Most impressive,” she said, “but I wonder if it is as deadly as it seems.”