They raced inside.
“Up or down?” Talon asked while Fallion’s eyes were still adjusting to the gloom. He realized that in the change, she must have improved her night vision. When he could finally see, he made out a wooden ladder leading up to a loft. Another went down to a pantry.
A partial skeleton lay sprawled upon the floor, a few scattered bones wrapped in a rotten dress. The skull had been taken.
The ladder was rotting, too. Fallion imagined that a giant would have to worry about breaking a rung as he climbed. So Fallion decided to go up it. Besides, if the group was attacked, Fallion would rather defend from above than beneath.
“Up,” he said, racing quietly up the ladder.
He reached the top, found a bedroom. A child’s bed, with a mattress made of straw over some wooden slats, rested near the chimney, and a wooden horse lay on the floor. Otherwise the room was bare. A window stood closed, the last of the sunlight gleaming yellow through a pane made of scraped hide.
The dust on the floor had not been disturbed in years.
“This will do,” Fallion said.
He peered about the room. The walls were formed from sandstone and looked to be a good two feet thick. The roof itself was a great slab of stone.
He felt safe here, protected, like a mouse in its burrow.
Everyone climbed into the room, and Fallion considered pulling up the ladder. But he suspected that if anyone was familiar with this place, they would notice what he’d done. Better to leave everything undisturbed.
A TURN ON THE DANCE FLOOR
An undeserved reward cankers the soul.
At the feast in the great hall in Caer Luciare that night, Alun threw the remains of a greasy swan’s leg over his back, food for the dogs. The king’s mastiffs were quick to lunge from their beds by the fire to scuffle for it, and as the growls died down, Alun could not help but turn just a bit, to see which dog had won.
It was a pup of nine months, young enough to be fast and hungry, big enough to hold his own.
Much like me, Alun thought with a satisfied grin. He was half drunk on the king’s wine, though the meal had hardly begun.
It would be a big feast tonight. The warriors would need their strength tomorrow as they ran north for the attack. The big men would keep a grueling pace. A warrior was expected to run ten miles in an hour, a hundred miles in a day, and the run would last from first light to full night.
Only by covering the ground in a single day could the warriors hope to gain the element of surprise in their attack.
Alun could only hang his head in despair. He could never make such a run. It would soon be apparent to all that though he might be named a warrior, he was in fact only a fraud.
Indeed, now that the lords were finishing the main course, the festivities would begin. There would be jugglers and dancing, a fool who aped the lords.
But first-
Madoc stood, and his men began banging the table with the butts of their knives, with mugs or bones- whatever they had at hand.
“Good sirrahs,” he roared for quiet, for the room was huge and hundreds of people sat at the tables. There had not been a feast so well attended since last summer’s eve. “Good sirrahs and ladies,” Madoc roared. “I have an announcement. Today let it be known to all-to lord, to lady, to warrior and commoner alike, that Caer Luciare has a new Master of the Hounds, our very own Alun.”
There were shouts and cheers from the many nobles gathered about, as Madoc brought out a large gold cape pin that bore the image of three racing hounds upon it. It was a lovely thing. More importantly, it was the badge of his office, and with great ceremony, Madoc pinned Alun’s cape with it, inserting the prong and then twisting until the spiral pin was locked in place. Then he took Alun’s simple old brass cape pin and set it upon the table.
The applause died down quickly as the guests prepared to return to conversations, but Madoc roared, “And, let it be known that Alun has proven himself this day to be a man of great courage, a man of decisive wit, of firm resolve, and a man of uncommon character. Indeed, he is no longer a common man at all in the view of House Madoc. Not a vassal. It is with heartfelt appreciation, that I name him a warrior of Clan Madoc, and a defender of the free.”
At that there was far less clapping. Many of the nobles just stared in confused silence for a moment. Alun was not a warrior born, after all. He was an ill-bred gangrel. Everyone could see it.
Yet, sometimes, the honor was won, every generation or so.
There were excited whispers as women went asking their men what Alun had done.
What will they think? Alun wondered.
He did not care, or at least he told himself that he didn’t. He peered across the room, to the royal table off to his left, where the High King ate. There, to his right, in a place of honor, sat the king’s long-time ally and best friend, the Emir of Dalharristan, resplendent in a coat of gold silks, his white turban adorned with a fiery golden opal.
And four seats down sat his daughter Siyaddah, her dark eyes glistening in the candlelight. She looked at Alun and smiled gently, as if welcoming him to the nobility.
She remembers me, Alun realized. And she thinks fondly of me.
His heart hammered and his mouth grew dry.
She is not so far above my station. I am a warrior now.
He took a drink from the goblet of wine, but a single swallow did not satisfy his thirst, so he downed it all, a rich red wine in a silver goblet.
He had never taken a drink from a goblet before. He picked it up, looked at it. It was a beautiful thing, with two feet like a swan on tall legs, and feathers on the outside, and a swan’s long neck bent and forming a handle.
Such a mug, he realized, was worth more than his life had been worth as a slave. With it, he could have bought his freedom twice over.
Now?
He nodded to one of the serving children that waited against the wall. A boy of six ambled forward, struggled to fill the mug from a heavy cask of wine.
Alun sat and waited. He waited while the fool went strutting around the room, aping the lords and ladies. He waited as minstrels sang while the dessert pastries were passed around.
He waited until the king called for a dance.
Then he downed another mug of wine and went to ask Siyaddah to join him upon the dance floor.
His feet were unsteady and his aim went afoul as he veered across the room, avoiding collision with those on the dance floor only by swerving wide.
He was greeted with astonished looks as he got to Siyaddah’s table, bowed, and asked, “Your Highness, may I ask you to dance?”
Alun looked to her father, the legendary Light of Dalharristan, whose face remained expressionless, but who merely gave a slight nod.
“I think you just did,” Siyaddah said.
Alun had to stand there thinking for a long moment before he figured out the logic to her words.
She joined him on the dance floor. Alun had never danced like this before. It was a stately court dance, with lots of strutting about together while the men occasionally stopped and raised the ladies’ hands while they twirled.
