The strings of the violins thrummed as the lords and ladies danced in the great hall. Their dancing intertwining, bonding the house of Lothdale and the Crown. Trystan and Merrin danced the centre of the room; they were enraptured with each other. They flowed as though part of the same body as though part of the same soul. Jorgen found himself staring at the rise of the Duchess’s stomach. He couldn’t help himself. He felt the bile rise, but he forced it down. The king sat on his throne; he looked on at the dancers. His eyes followed the flow and the rhythms of the dancers. The throne next to him was still devoid of the Queen. The Queen was a cold woman, cold and calculating. From what he had heard of her, this event would have been more of the Queen’s doing than Usteon’s. But her absence was both telling and chilling.

In the centre of the great hall the ducal couple danced on. Trystan wore a doublet of silver and azure, which thinned out towards the cuffs, atop which he wore a coat of deep indigo. Emblazoned on the back, with wings spread, was the peregrine falcon. The duchess in contrast wore a dress of copper, with an under gown of white. A brown studded belt held her at the waist, lightly holding her rise in. Her golden hair, split into two braids, and occasionally she looked into the corner where Dansen stood consumed in his wine. Even as they flowed in to the steps, Jorgen could see the tenseness between them. They were scared, scared but hid it well.

There was a lull in the music as the song finished, and a minstrel tuned his lute. He began a tune, which sang of the fall of winter and the beginning of spring. The couples began to twirl as the chorus began. Their cloaks flew in the air, separate tornados spinning in the confines of the hall. The candlelit hall brought the scene into sepia. Baerdling were taught to paint as young boys so that they could recognise colours and patterns. They were also taught to create vivid scenes with their voices instead of the brush. From the balcony, he could see all the guests.

Lord Bryant was laughing with Lady Hemrick in the corner, it was the laughter of the old. Their stodgy frames racked with chuckles as they drank more of the Theralian wine. The old general wore formal officer’s garb, his chest bearing the mouthed crevasse of house Bryant. The man was once said to be ferocious but he was dulled by age and wine.

Dansen stood in the corner; he held a goblet in one hand and a pitcher in the other. His courtly garb ruffled and stuck out at odd angles. The multi-layered robe was deceptive, it made the lord seem to be thick of chest, but under that Jorgen noticed the emaciated frame. That hollowness in his eyes had nothing to do with the murder of Trystan. He had not been eating properly. The one thing that struck Jorgen was that these enemies did not have daggers to each other’s throats.

* Jorgen strode to his chambers in the servants quarters untying his daggers and Flare oil. From under his bed, he pulled out his oak chest; he brought it closer to the torchlight to check the lock. There was no sign of any scuffing around it, it served to be careful. Jorgen removed the key that hung around his neck, smoothly inserting it, turning it listening to the soft clink as it unlocked.

A shirt of Flaresteel chainmail reflected the torchlight; Jorgen reached under it for a small ornate black case. Opening it, he studied his paint reserves. Red, black and white paint powders were in small decadent glass bottles. A looking glass reflected dully. Removing them and placing them on the bed, he untied his shirt laces taking it off. He slipped on the Flaresteel chainmail, feeling its cold lingering touch on his skin.

Diving into his chest once more, he drew out his attire for the evening. A shirt of black and crimson with similarly coloured breeches, this was going to be a motley farce, a tragic motley farce. Looking into the looking glass he opened the small black case. He removed his thin brush. The black powder was for his eyes. He went over to the basin, using one for his goblets to draw some water. He dipped the brush into the water, and then he carefully dipped the brush into the white paint. He started on his cheeks; he had to lather it on thickly. If it was too thin, the paint would begin to crack and it would ruin his visage.

Only when he knew that it was thick enough he went to his cabinet and removed a beaker that contained Theralian wine, only the strongest wine could get him through tonight. Once his face felt sufficiently lacquered, he wetted the black paint, he traced the hollows of his eyes and painted his lips. He waited impatiently for the paint to dry. Dipping the brush, he cleaned of the remnants of the black paint from the brush. Now that it had dried, he dipped the brush into the red paint; he raised the looking glass once more. At the corners of his eyes he delicately brushed three red tear drops. There would be more than three drops of blood spilt tonight.

*

Again Jorgen stood on the balcony, surveying the dancing that continued below. The Lords and ladies danced, their faces flushed. Lust was rife, love forming, eternally poisonous. They had supped on wine, gorged themselves on meat. They were happy. The Ballroom was resplendent, the servants had done well. The Duke danced with his wife, Duchess Merrin; there was an attraction akin to ember and Flare oil. Ballads rang through the hall, merriment struck all those who entered. The capes of the lords touched the floor as they bowed to their ladies. Lust disguised as courtesy. The young lust for those they cannot have.

There was an influx of servants bearing goblets of wine, they wore the doublet of the wyvern. None of Trystan’s house served wine here. A young man, in a golden doublet, placed another goblet on the table in front of Lord Bryant and another in front of Lady Hemrick. Having already drunk beyond inhibitions, Bryant drank deeply then stood up. He struggled to remain upright; clearly he had drunken too much. A whistling cough came from him, a rasping for air, he collapsed on to the table. The signal was given.

Silence filled the hall, the dancers stood still. The whole world stopped for a moment. Trystan and Merrin looked at the now dead Bryant, from there their eyes found Usteon’s.

The king just sat on the throne, a goblet in hand, his gaze serene. The servants dressed in the golden doublets, who had stood motionlessly, lifted their doublets to reveal stiletto daggers with wyvern hilts. There was a sudden air of panic as the crowd vied for escape. The sudden sound of plated men approaching grew louder and louder.

Lady Hemrick sat nonchalantly at her table as the king’s guests scrambled for the doors. Armoured men appeared at the door, their corseques and halberds shining brightly, their steely gaze promising blood. Others held rapiers and poignards. Merrin looked up at the balcony, up at him. Jorgen felt his mouth form the words I’m sorry.

He turned away from the balcony; he could hear the screams of the guests as he walked down the stairs to the ground floor. The sound of steel hitting flesh pierced his ears. He felt each scream hit him, shake him, weakening the gravity binding him to this earth. A soldier rushed at Trystan piercing his right leg with his corseque. Trystan stumbled, shouting in agony. Pulling himself to his feet, another soldier stabbed him in the back with a dirk. Still the Duke stood protectively over his Duchess.

A servant, hair burdened with dirt, charged at the Duchess. Jorgen felt his hand grip his throwing knife, and away it went into the breast of the servant. He stood for a moment shocked before collapsing. Merrin’s eyes met his own for a moment. There was a flash of hope in them, a hope of escaping this alive. In the loud silence of the hall, Trystan shouted at the king, pleading, looking for mercy or salvation.

“Please stop this.” Jorgen saw no thawing in the King’s eyes.

“You betrayed me, you would take my crown. You should not have come here, Trystan. What did you expect, a pardon?” Trystan, now wild-eyed, beseeched the King.

“You gave us the wyvern flame, the guest right.” The King rose from his throne.

“Treason denies all rights; you were dead the moment you stepped into my hall.”

“If you kill me, the other lords will rebel, treaty or no treaty, you will know only blood.” The King turned his back on the rebel.

“The treaty was never signed! I will know only the blood of my enemies.”

“I curse you, King. My blood will take vengeance, all you touch will crumble, your head bears a Crown of Iron now, but it will soon only bear a Crown of Ash.”

The King snorted. “Your blood, you will be avenged by whom exactly? You have no heir to your rule?” A look of pure horror passed on Trystan’s face as he stared at Merrin.

“I do…”

“Not any longer.” The king signalled, a shattering of pottery, sundered the silence. Dansen strode out from the corner, his drunken gait almost terrifying. As Dansen reached her Merrin clung to him, her head pressed to his chest. She clung to him so tight; Jorgen saw her fingers turning white at Dansen’s back. Merrin looked up into Dansen’s eyes, what she saw there Jorgen did not know. As though people were not dying all around them Dansen craned his neck, kissing her forehead delicately.

“I’m sorry.” There was a sudden motion, Merrin’s eyes widened in shock, in pain. Dansen released her, Jorgen saw the wound in her belly. He had killed the babe; Dansen had killed an unborn child. Merrin fell almost gracefully as she collapsed, her eyes devoid of life, open to the world.

Pitifully Trystan tried to reach her, he crawled on his belly, with each inch he gained, he cried out in pain, before finally reaching her. Holding her head in his hand, he looked for some sign of life in her eyes, but there was nothing. She was gone.

“No, please, no.” A primal whimpering came from him, Jorgen tried to look away but found he could not do so. A distant voice called to him, Jorgen tried to put one foot in front of the other. His heart pounded, the world seemed to shake around him.

“Kill him, Jorgen.” Grabbing Trystan’s hair, forcing him to reveal his neck, Jorgen raised the head and sliced. A limp body thumped to the ballroom floor. The king addressed him once again.

“The usurpers were foolish enough to come here, they died for it.”

Few stood in the hall, the usurpers to the kingdom were dead. Jorgen looked up towards the King.

“What of their men?”

“Kill them. Kill them all.” The sound of armed men approached, moments later a woman appeared at the door and strode towards the king. Her flame red hair and sapphire dress drew the eyes, she stopped before the throne. This was the Wyvern Queen

. “What have you done?”

Next Chapter: Retribution