Stellan had sought Gretchen’s advice, as well as Froll’s, and they’d counseled him extensively. All of the inhabitants of Castle Vandeborg were in agreement–Leopold must be made to understand the threat.
To accomplish that task, Stellan had decided he would do anything–including washing several hundred years’ worth of grime from the castle walls. If forging an alliance with Aldebaran was simply a matter of following royal protocol, as ridiculous as its rules may be, then he would do it. There was too much at stake, too many lives at risk. So, pail of water and rag in hand, he had set to work.
Several weeks of backbreaking work passed.
Gretchen cleaned a set of porcelain dinnerware, one Froll had purchased at an emporium located a five day’s march away with money left over from Clarysa’s forfeited rings. Perhaps it was ostentatious, but visiting royalty expected to be surrounded with ostentatious finery. Such attention to detail could only further Stellan’s cause.
Besides, the dishes did much to lift the spirits of a tired cook accustomed to the brittle earthenware she had been using for years. Stellan could hardly begrudge her the change.
Finally, the castle began to take on the appearance of something “less than detestable,” as Gretchen remarked. It would have to do. All that really mattered was King Leopold understanding the gravity of the situation.
The hour of the King’s visit arrived. Stellan ended his rumination and joined the others in the entrance hall. By necessity the gate remained closed, but Ghyslain faithfully kept watch along the wintry ramparts for the Aldebaran procession. The other inhabitants of Vandeborg waited anxiously.
“How does the weather look?” asked Gretchen.
Hunter cracked open the front door. “Not bad,” he told her. “Almost clear, for this place.”
They waited.
After an hour, Stellan stopped pacing the entrance hall and retreated to the throne room. He fiddled with the various decorations. He adjusted and readjusted the lighting. Then he sat at the head of the long dining table. The entire area was redolent of sweet sauces and meats. He fought to control his growling stomach.
Three hours later, Gretchen entered. She, too, made a number of unnecessary corrections, this time to the silverware. Turning to Stellan, she pursed her lips. “I can keep the food warm, but it won’t be as good.”
“Do it,” Stellan muttered.
They waited more.
An hour later, she sauntered up to him again. “I should feed Ghyslain on the tower. The poor boy’s probably half-frozen to death, but he was determined to keep watch. Let alone how hard it is for everyone to be around this much food and not eat.”
Stellan tried not to groan. “Fine.”
After the others had shared a meal in the kitchen, Froll tried to entice Stellan with a game of cards, but he was in a dangerously foul mood and waved him off. He continued his vigil at the head of the table.
Froll played cards with Hunter in one corner. Patrulha appeared and leaned against a wall with arms crossed. The Captain of the Guard looked at him, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Stellan knew what she was trying to tell him with her measured, one-eyed stare. He glanced away. Now was not the time to provoke him. After a while, she took the hint and left.
The hour of midnight approached. Gretchen wandered in and encouraged Stellan to eat. He waved her back to the kitchen. After she left, he frowned. The Aldebarans should have arrived by now, even if a storm had delayed them.
He stared into the fire. The candlelight–staged to properly welcome the expected visitors–was dying down. Shadows lurched across the walls. Wolfe slinked around his master’s chair, sensing a dark change in his master’s mood. He howled mournfully.
“Silence!” Stellan shouted. His voice echoed wildly around the chamber as the animal dutifully complied.
Gretchen appeared carrying a plate laden with fine victuals. “Well, eat something, at least. Be a shame to let all this food go to waste.”
“I told you I wasn’t hungry!” Stellan lashed out. The delicate porcelain smashed into a hundred pieces against the floor, leaving a soiled path of food in its wake. Gretchen cried out in surprise. But Stellan was beyond the ability to care anymore. He pushed away from the table and stormed out of the room.
“Fine!” he heard Gretchen shout after him. “Be that way! You think I’m going to clean up after you? Some prince you are–behaving like a spoiled brat. How about a little spell to make your shitty attitude disappear?”
She screeched like a banshee, the sound following him up the stairs even to the next floor. Damn that woman and her foul mouth. Stellan rushed through the corridors, melting into the darkness like a ghost. He grabbed an old iron bar and clubbed randomly at the walls as he strode. An old suit of armor crumpled under his wrath. This is how all the kingdoms will fall, by refusing to stand together under a threat. Those stupid fools!
Stellan hammered away at the armor until his arms burned with pain. When violence failed to sate him, he tore open one of the tower doors and buried himself in a great snowdrift on the balcony. He sat there for countless hours, all the while being pelted by the hail and wind of a newly arisen storm. Go on, you bastard. Attack me with everything you’ve got!
He mentally worked through the situation at hand, turning every piece of the puzzle over and over from every possible angle. Perhaps he should saddle Midnight–Why do you insist on using that infernal name?–and search the countryside. After all, it was possible the King’s party had become lost. The thought rebounded about in his head for a few moments, only to be immediately nixed. No. The King traveled with an entourage of guards and attendants. The King’s procession did not get lost.
A more distressing thought occurred. Maybe Clarysa had changed her mind. What if some other man had caught her fancy in the meantime? Stellan wouldn’t doubt it. What would she
