Chapter 8 No.8

Present Time

In the High Court of King Macedius the sun fell through the grand stained-glass windows showing the history of the world according to the Fae and washing the revelry below in jewelled tones. The pillars holding up the high arches of the ceilings were carved in the image of grand Kings and heroes of legend, and the floor was an intricate pattern of tiles designed to be both visually intimidating but also to clearly outline the ranks within the court, the colour of the tiles dictating how far into the chamber an individual could progress.

Sylvin sat within the gold tiled section occupied by royalty and the highest ranks of Fae nobles. On one side, the Princess Auralyn and the other, his Liegeman Mage, Cerilius. The table before him held an array of food served on gold and silver plates, and a dozen servants attended them, keeping wine goblets filled and the food placed before them fresh.

Silvyn had been dressed by his servants for the event, the cloth he wore as fine as any around him, the gold chain heavy with precious stones on his chest, and his fingers wearing the rings of his rank – but he preferred his armour, he thought sourly as he watched the offensive antics of the court jester that circled the lower tables collecting coin as he went.

The court jester completed a series of flips that had ended with him sliding under the skirt of a human slave, causing the girl to cry out and flush. The jester grinned and made a lewd gesture with his tongue as she hastily stepped away with her jug of wine, and the Fae courtiers on the lower tables where he entertained burst into laughter, attracting the attention of the higher tables.

"So crude," Princess Auralyn sighed wearily, lifting her golden goblet to her lips. "I detest jesters."

"The lower ranks and soldiers enjoy his antics," Cerilius replied. "And the Silver Dragon, apparently, for he has been staring at him all evening."

"Wondering if I can slit his throat," Sylvan lifted a lip to reveal his pointed canine and pre-molar on that side. "Without angering the King."

"You could spill the jester's blood into my father's wine jug, and he'd probably salute you with it," Princess Auralyn observed.

"True," Cerilius encouraged Sylvin towards murdering the entertainer. "You'd be doing Fae-kind a service."

"Hmm," Sylvin slid the mage a look out of the corner of his eye. "Not today," he decided.

"And the jester gets to live another day," Cerilius grinned and took a generous mouthful of wine. "You sent Diersen off yesterday morning," Cerilius raised an eyebrow in enquiry as he changed the subject. "With enough treasure to outfit a kingdom. Towards Elliard, if I'm not mistaken."

"Elliard," Princess Auralyn turned to look at Sylvin with a baffled frown. "What is Elliard?"

"Elliard is a tiny slice of land in the east," Cerilius explained helpfully. "Where our mighty Silver Dragon keeps his wife, like a dragon of legend, locked within a tower."

"My goodness," Princess Auralyn was astonished. "You have so many keeps, Sylvin, why keep your wife in such a place? Bring her to court, or at least relocate her to a keep nearer to the High Court, so that she might keep company with her peers. Yelena," she repeated to herself. "I have never known a Lady by that name. What was her mother's name, perhaps I know of her?"

"Cerise," Sylvin replied.

"Cerise? That's not a Fae name..." The Princess trailed off and took a mouthful of wine to hide her consternation. "Does father know?"

"Yelena's father is the Lord Sevethen," Sylvin added.

"Oh," her expression lightened. "Him, I have heard of," she pursed her lips as she fought to recall. "Eccentric, but handsome, if I remember rightly. It has been decades, perhaps even a century since he has been to court."

"Very likely," Sylvin had no interest in continuing to explore Yelena's parentage. Talking of her had his need clawing across his heart and aching deep within. He grimaced and shifted uncomfortably on his seat, familiar with the discomfort as it had followed him for most of his life.

It was also the cause of the mistake that might cost him what he held most dear.

"F-k," he muttered under his breath and took another mouthful of wine, seeking to douse with the liquid the fire that burned within him.

"Are you alright, Sylvin?" Auralyn was concerned. "I don't think I have ever seen you discomforted."

"F-k it," he decided suddenly, and shoved up from his chair.

"And there he goes," Cerilius saluted Sylvin with his wine glass as the silver-haired man strode down the walkway between the tables and out of the chamber.

Sylvin ignored the greetings and bows of those in the hallways of the court, his thoughts turned inward, his lips twisted in a grimace and a muscle twitching in the corner of his jaw. He opened the door into the luxurious apartment of interconnected rooms which King Macedius had appointed him and stepped into main entertaining chamber with its elegant dining table and chairs, and the couches set before the fireplace.

On the rug, an array of small wooden toy soldiers had been abandoned midst battle. He stepped around them and went to the internal door connecting the chamber to the next, where the rise and fall of voices indicated the occupants of his household were to be found.

The second chamber was a smaller sitting room, intended for use by Sylvin's Lady, but he could not bring Yelena to the court, where her heritage and magic would put her in danger.

He inhaled and breathed out slowly.

Tillie looked up as he filled the doorway and a hesitant, uncertain smile crossed her face. In colouring and size, she was very similar to Yelena, and it was exactly that which had caught his eye when he'd seen her in the slave cages just over a year before. Human, she did not have Yelena's beauty, her eyes did not have the same luminosity, her lips were not as full, her nose not as regal, her cheekbones not as high. A poor substitute, at best.

She was teaching her younger sister to sew, whilst her two brothers had been set to the task of polishing Greshyn's boots whilst his trusted knight tended to his weapons. Sylvin's pages and squire were polishing Greshyn's armour at the table behind him.

"My Lord," Tillie greeted him, and the children looked up fearfully. He could never balance the reputation that proceeded him, he thought, and the young ones feared Macedius' Knight of the Silver Dragon even though, embroidered on the chest of their clothing, the silver dragon emblem marked them as belonging to him.

Greshyn rose to standing. "My Lord Sylvin," he said. "We did not expect you for hours?"

"I am going to Elliard," he told his squire and pages, ignoring the rest of the company. "Get my armour ready."

"My Lord," Greshyn had learnt to push for answers during their time together. "Shall we prepare to accompany you?"

"Follow with the slaves in two days," Sylvin told him.

"My Lord," Tillie rose to her feet, her hand going to her stomach and her face alarmed. "Elliard?"

Sylvin's eyes fell to the round of her stomach which held the evidence of his mistake and weakness, but also the hope for his people, and for his marriage. "Two days," he repeated, and turned, striding back across the entertaining room to the chambers which he used for his own.

Within an hour, he rode out of the Fae High Court, with only his pages and squire to accompany him.