your judgment that its value far exceeds what I have to offer.'
Feston advanced slowly back to stand directly in front of Alodar, eyes glaring down from his extra six inches of height, 'Do I hear your right, most bold journeyman? Your trade of equal worth to a man-at arms? If so, then tell me quickly now how much training have you received at the hands of warmaster Cedric in his sparring yard in Ambrosia? How many lives has your blade cut short? How many battles for Procolon have you won? How many great deeds in the sagas relate to the smith or carpenter? How many times has your like been hero of the day? Yes, perhaps even hero of the realm?'
Feston's supporters broke into laughter at his ridicule, and Alodar breathed deeply to maintain what composure he had left. 'No, my lord, the sagas are silent indeed on what you speak,' he said at last. 'But mark you, suppose that lowly Alodar be born to the table of mighty lord Festil, and Feston scion to doomed Alodun. What then of my chance to be a hero, with blade paid for with gold, with training in arms from the likes of this Cedric, with soft bed and groaning board always provided for? And what then of yours, forced to survive as but you could, grabbing at whatever trade gave you enough coin to feed your belly and keep out the cold?'
Feston eyed Alodar's lean form, tilted his head back and drowned out even his chorus with his booming laugh. 'Sweetbalm, might the blackest demons aid the house of Festil, were the likes of you born to be heir. Know you that I am marshall of the west wall, hero of the day, and the mirrors know what else, because I deserve it so. The blood of glory runs in my veins, and I will burn my name into as many pages of legend as I am able. I and men like me will chart the destiny of Procolon with as firm a grip of iron as this castle has upon the plain. And for that stewardship the men of this land sing grateful praise.'
Before Alodar could reply, someone in the background shouted, 'Hail Feston, hero of the day and savior of Iron Fist.' The crowd took up a rhythmic chant, drowning out any chance of Alodar's being heard. Feston turned slowly around in a small circle, arms folded across his chest, and attempted a stern smile to acknowledge the accolade. Alodar looked at the throng as well and saw adoration on every shouting face. He spotted the first archer he had attended raising his good arm and yelling hoarsely, unmindful of who had saved his life. Even Morwin could not resist the hypnotic tug of the rhythm and shouted with the rest.
After a minute, Feston raised his arms to stop the cheers, and the courtyard fell silent, under his complete control. With even heavier sarcasm, he addressed Alodar again. 'And what makes you aspire to rise above your station so, journeyman? Could it be that you hope by such a feat to turn the head of our fair lady away from true men-at-arms and upon your own heroic profile?'
To his own surprise, Alodar's cheeks flushed involuntarily as he thought of the beauty of the queen.
'Sweetbalm, my son,' Festil's deep voice roared, 'you have hit upon it. This shamed varlet's son seeks no less than Vendora herself and truly to be hero of the realm. You had best redouble your efforts tomorrow to stay in contention.'
The crowd crowed with laughter in unison with the guffaws of the retainers, drowning out any of Alodar's sudden protestations. The noise echoed across the courtyard and seemed to him louder than any of the din of battle. He looked about for a sympathetic face; finding none, he lowered his eyes to wait until they tired of the sport. Eventually the noise began to subside, and the charge, 'Feston, hero of the day,' started again in its place. The men-at-arms resumed their pace towards the tower, and the crowd fell in behind, cheering them on. Alodar looked up and, seeing no eyes still upon him, headed in the opposite direction across the courtyard, torn between the tugs of haste and decorum.
In a moment, he was alone. Seething in his own thoughts, he paced along the wall into the night. He struggled to submerge again the memories of hurt and frustration, but this time they would not go. He ran his hands through the many pockets of his cape, trying to concentrate on the contents he found there, enumerating the ways in which they aided him in his trade.
Had he fooled himself all this while, pretending that it did not matter? Accepting what deep inside he could not? Choosing to float and seek, when he should fight the current, no matter how swift? Is that why, regardless of what he had tried, it always seemed the same, empty, incomplete? With an uneasiness that was compelling, pushing him onward to yet another craft? If he was a lord's son, could he truly rest content until he was what fate has chosen for him to be?
He stopped and filled his lungs as the anger did not cool but boiled higher within him. By the laws, he was as much a man as Feston or any of his peers! If not by deed then by birth, every respect shown Feston was his by right as well. Enough of drifting; he would accept half rations as his lot no longer.
Alodar let his breath out slowly and threw his head back, eyes closed, trying with reason to divert from the path his emotions were taking him. But how? How could he grasp what had eluded his father's every effort and in the end crushed his spirit from him? Whenever Alodar had dared to consider it in the past, the answer had always been the same. First try reason, then plead, and finally beg as they tossed him out of each manor in which once he was welcome.
What would make the likes of a Feston meet him eye to eye, weigh courteously what he would say, force from the noble's memory whatever had befallen Alodar's house before? No, even better! Feston should meet him on bended knee in recompense for what has happened and with the deference such as that shown to the queen.
Alodar blinked his eyes open and jerked his head forward fully alert. The queen, he thought, a beauty who would be the fair prize of a quest from the sagas. A queen besieged, who had yet to select her hero of the realm. A queen naturally gracious to whomever might rescue her from the peril in which she was now ensnared. Title and estate restored would be the least of her favors. And the hero of the realm. For him they would be forced to bend their knees.
He looked up at the night sky, the tension suddenly gone, his lips curving into a slight smile as he savored the image forming in his mind.
He envisioned himself rounding the corner to the main throughfare that led to the palace gates. The roar of the crowd intensified and he patted his mount gently on the neck to soothe already jangled nerves. From the second and third stories which dotted the way, streamers and confetti rained down onto an already clogged street, and many a lesser building seemed on the verge of collapse from the humanity it carried.
Royal guardsmen paced slowly ahead trying to clear a way for the procession. Young girls sighed as he passed, batting eyes or gesturing outrageously to catch his attention.
'Alodar, Alodar the hero, Alodar the savior of the fair lady, Alodar of Procolon,' the crowds shouted over and over without tiring, each small group trying to drown out the rest as he passed. And Alodar smiled and waved expansively. He glanced over his shoulder at his groomsmen who followed and saw them riding straight and tall, sharing in the fame that showered down on their leader and touching them as well.
Far too quickly the concourse was traveled and Alodar and his guard dismounted at the base of the wide gate that led to the house of the rulers of Procolon. The crowd momentarily fell silent and trumpets sounded from within with the voluntary of the queen. With regal slowness the gates parted and, five abreast, the nobility marched down the steps to meet the one who had saved the queen.
White-haired lord Festil was first. With a dramatic flourish of his cape he fell to one knee and bowed his head.
'Where you command, may you see fit to let me follow,' he said. 'Your deed will forever shine in my heart and in those who come after me.'
He stepped back into line and Feston swore his allegiance in turn. In quick precision the barons of the outlands, the lords of the fortress towns, and the lesser nobles as well knelt and gave Alodar the accolade of the hero.
The trumpets blared again and Vendora appeared unaccompanied at the gateway. With a long gown trailing behind she gracefully glided down the steps to extend Alodar her hand. Alodar knelt before Vendora and kissed her offered hand and she immediately bade him rise.
The fantasies raced on as Alodar continued his pacing, unmindful of the time. Finally, as the moon rose against the gatehouse of the east, he broke out of his reverie as he saw Morwin's lazy shuffle coming his way.
'Ah, there you are, Alodar. Thinking of another scheme to get the attention of the lords on the morrow?'
Alodar wrinkled his brow and his eyes shot flame at the apprentice. 'Listen, Morwin, I strive to break this ring of siege as much as anyone, but by the laws, I will no longer abide some popinjay taking more credit than is his due. I tell you this, the battle is not yet over and we shall see who is most deserving of the chant of the crowd and who the ridicule.' He paused, recalling his newly found resolve. 'And yes, the hand of the fair lady.'
