Chapter 1 - a disappointing banquet

Seated alone at an immense table upon a raised dais, King Tact scowled into the sea of gloom stretched before him with the distaste of a jeweler scrutinizing a flawed gem.

The hall’s perimeter was fenced by rows of braziers, and yet despite the stones cast by their orange glow, the room was dank as a cell.

The fires dearth of heat and light was overcompensated in abundance by ropes of greasy smog that stung the eyes and seized the throat. An unfortunate and necessary consequence, he was told, of the poor harvest forcing a substitution of lumber for dung and lard. A negligible difference, he was promised, once the merrymaking of the harvest banquet began.

Several hours in and he wasn’t sure when that tipping point of celebration would arrive.

From some dismal corner the minstrel slouched over his lute and plucked out a handful of limp notes that plopped like used bath rags.

Jutting from his seat at the head of the hall, an archipelago of tables stretched onward, consumed by the darkness. Their faces rife with crosshatched knife scars and ring-stains alluding to faded glories. Head slumped, he stared back into the writhing darkness at the smattering of silhouettes within the void haunched over platters heaped with untouched food. Their mumbles and whispers were the tide for this sea of gloom, and the occasional knife-scrape across a plate the gull’s screech.

The only thing with appetite here are the shadows.

One noble among them, misjudging the pitch of the light, slunk along the wall toward the exit. Tract slammed a gnarled fist onto the table, launching his surrounding collection of drained goblets. The man froze mid-step and swiveled a sheepish glance over his shoulder.

“Is the Fall Harvest not to your liking?”

“Not at all! Uh, I mean, yes?” He whipped his head about, looking for help. “Can you repeat the question, Majesty?”

Tract pointed to a vacant table, following the man’s slumped march back to the feast. “I’ve ordered executions with more zest than this! Shall I call for the hatchet man to liven the mood?”

Nothing but the long stretch of silence, and yet he felt their eyes upon him.

He snatched a haunch from a nearby platter and tore into the crisped skin with a furious snap. The savory meat did nothing to abate his ire, and so he chased it with a gulp of wine. The acid cut through the grease, and made for a fine pairing, but the twirl of flavor was a fistful of ash poured over his tongue. He slurped a mouth of wine, swished it, and chased it with another guzzle, then raised his drink and nodded at the cup. Wine paired with wine was a match better suited to his mood.

And so another flagon in the fire in his chest was blending with the steam in his head, giving fuel to his rage. He rocketed to wavering feet, sent his chair hurtling to the floor. The echo reverberated throughout the room, snuffing what signs of life remained like a lone candle’s flame.

“A toast!” He thrust his cup like a banner, sloshing crimson waves about. “To another successful harvest!” He raised it for a sip, found it empty, and dashed it to the floor. With a snap he summoned the serving girl over and snatched another goblet. “May we be gracious for Lord Tinybottom’s vineyard. Rise, Sir!” He squinted out at the tables, trying to discern which shadow would rise to his call. None did. “Where is the old wineskin?” he groused.

A jerk at his sleeve. E’greasior leaned out from the murk to whisper, “Not present, Majesty.”

“Hmph. To the dogs with him.” He squinted into the abyss, deceived by his the drink that any blob discerned itself from the others. He brandished his half-gnawed haunch and swung it at the crowd like a mace. “This roast hog, with skin so supple, undoubtedly came from Lord Sweingud’s farm. Rise and bask in your King’s glory, Sweingud!”

A yank. “Absent, Sire.”

He whomped his cup upon the table, the drink erupting in a crimson geyser. “What?!”

“It’s mostly minor Lordlings. Distant kin, third sons, nephews. That sort, Majesty.”

E’greasior’s words were a damp blanket smothering the pyre of fury within him, leaving naught but steam and smoke. Just hot air. Tract slumped in dejection as he deflated.

He hurried the rest of the toast crestfallen, “Then may we pay bounty to the land itself, and to what further gifts Bountia’s fertile lands may offer.” Needing no signal from the crowd, he upended his drink and chugged, sparing himself the humiliation of the few half-hearted replies.

The stampede of boots and slippers as they departed was the most vivacious the hall sounded in months.

He watched them scurry toward the doors, none lingering to curry his favor as they once had. Already deep in his cups, he was slumped over with wine and self-pity, but still dragged an arm toward a cup. Rather than a goblet’s neck, he grasped a woman’s touch.

The alabaster hand settled on his shoulder, rousing him from his brooding. Its twin brushed his bristled cheek with a rasp, displacing the cliff of crumbs as they avalanched onto his lap. He squeezed the hand and held it against his cheek, relishing the lilac scent before kissing it.

“It was a lovely meal, Father. And next year’s bounty will be grander yet.”

“Bless your sugared heart, Descia.”

Of the cornucopia his lands and hands had reaped, none was more treasured that his only child, the crown jewel of Bountia. Her silken hair, blacker than a raven’s wing, flowed like a cowl to frame her ivory face. A pearl wreathed in stygian. So much like her mother.

A surge of sharp claps accompanied by a pair of clopping boots roused him from the respite.

“Quite so, quite so! The Lady’s tongue is as smooth as any Tinybottom vintage, if I may be so presumptuous.” Gnashing his teeth, he swung his blood-hazed eyes sharp enough to decapitate the intruder.

“—Faireweather,” Tract growled.

“—Julius!” Descia squealed, clasping her hands to her bosom delighted as a babe.

“Actually, it’s Lord Faireweather,” the man corrected as he polished his nails against his vest. “Ever since father’s most unfortunate,” he flung his head back and draped an arm across his eyes, “and untimely demise.”

Tract rolled his eyes. ‘Untimely’, my chaffed ass. The late Faireweather Senior’s “mysterious” death at the Cliffs of Trepidatious Height had been a favored topic among the court’s gossipers last season. Alas, what he wouldn’t give to have those hens clucking again.

Descia, pure of heart and unripe of mind, dashed toward Faireweather, and clutched his hand against her bosom. “Sincerest sorrows, my lord. I daren’t intend to dredge such painful memories.”

Her touch dispelled his grief quicker than a child’s sand castle in the waves. “Blessed am I for the Lady Descia’s bounteous heart.”

She raised an arm, slender as a swan’s neck, and fanned delicate digits over her mouth as a ravenous blush razed her cheeks. The coquettish giggling belying her feigned stoicism while Tract’s grumbling hid none of his own feelings on the matter.

“Father,” Descia tilted toward him on a waist to make a wasp green. “Lord Faireweather,” she giggled, “has a new stallion stabled on his estate. I’d so love to ride with him today. I shall be home before the moon’s light touches the first stone of the East tower.”

Tract’s veined eyes, dull and red as faltering coals, flitted between Descia’s blush and Faireweather’s wolfish smirk as his rapacious gaze crawled along her behind. “Stallion?” The hoods over his eyes flung open, and the blooded orbs bloomed with realization. He pushed his chair back and tried to stand, forced to lean onto the table, dizzied. “Des, I don’t—”

But Faireweather was already leading her by the hand, as confident as a stable master with reins. “He’s quite the stud, m’lady. I’m sure he’ll take to your filly. She’s three now, which means ready to breed.” He leaned close to whisper something, invoking a burst of giggles and a playful swat from the princess.

The iron-studded door crashed shut behind them, blasting a swift gust that extinguished the candles along the walls and engulfed the room in sudden darkness, like a sheet dropped over a birdcage.

He knotted his brow as the faint afterglow of the door faded from his sight. He understood, but altogether too late. Descia had blossomed into a woman as unknowable as any other had been to him.

“That bastard. E’greasior!”

“Sire.” A skeletal hand descended on his shoulder. Its chill touch seeped through to his flesh, making him shiver.

“Have the captain of the guard trail them. I want a full account of their goings on. It should go without saying that if ‘little Faireweather’ should make an appearance, I expect the Faireweather family tree to be de-rooted tonight. May the line end with the father’s fetid fruit if needed.”

“Quite so. I shall dispatch the orders at once.”

The hand lingered.

His face sagged further. “Yes. We’ve more to discuss.”