The guard pushed open the door to the king’s study, Usteon sat there with quill poised to write another letter on faded parchment. The king now looked plain to Jorgen; he did not wear the turquoise and gold of his house but a plain maroon doublet and breeches, his brow devoid of the crown.

Jorgen bowed deeply before the king. The king hadn’t noticed his presence; he just sat there immersed in his work.

“You asked for me, your grace?” Usteon slowly raised his head; emerald coldness stared at Jorgen. Jorgen shuffled backwards slightly.

“Jorgen, yes I need you to visit Lady Hemrick. She is both the royal and one of the great portrait painters for the nobility. Her collections of portraits contain many of the guests who will be attending the treaty signing.” This was odd, why would he need to see the portraits of the other guests as well as the Duke? The Duke was the focus of Jorgen’s ballad.

“I shall do as you wish. Has the Queen not returned?” Anger flickered on the king’s face; he smoothed out his features to dispassionate staring.

“The queen has not yet returned, as to why that is of interest to a Baerdling I don’t know.”

“In Vindaheim we have a collection of portraits of the royal families; I would like to complete the collection.” The king did not respond he dismissed Jorgin with a wave. The guard who had stood silently behind Jorgen opened the door and beckoned him to follow. The man wore the turquoise coat and golden doublet, a rapier at his waist with the gauche at his hip. Jorgen noticed a bulge at the man’s back; he recognised the shape as a musket.

“Where are you taking me?” Jorgen was hesitant; perhaps he had pushed the king too far. Perhaps this man was sent to kill him. Jorgen placed a hand on his daggers.

“I am taking you to Lady Hemrick as the king wished.” The man turned away and they walked in silence. The man caressed the pommel of his rapier. Jorgen noticed the calluses on the man’s palm, this was a man who enjoyed swordsmanship; he had practised for a long time. Jorgen was in danger if this man turned on him. He felt about the pouches, he coyly shook the Flare oil and heard a sloshing sound that calmed him.

He would not go down easily; he would burn the bastard that tried to kill him. So focused on his blades he had missed the intricacies of the halls and would not know his way back. The silent man pointed at the door that they had stopped by.

“Enter, Lady Hemrick awaits you.” The guard departed, his turquoise cloak hiding that sheathed musket. Jorgen found the handle and he turned it. The chamber within was well lit, many candles around a table where a woman perched, leaning forward. This woman’s hair was greying, thick with a single golden clip keeping it from straying on to her face. She wore a green dress embroidered with little golden flecks imitating scales. This woman was a wyvern.

“What do you want? Why are you disturbing me?” Lady Hemrick’s face was lined with wrinkles at her eyes, a thin scar trailed down her right cheek.

“I asked you what you wanted.” Lady Hemrick’s expression was cold, not unlike the king’s.

“My name is Jorgen; I am a Wayfarer from Vindaheim. The King has requested that you show me the portraits of the nobility. He thinks that it is important for the ballad.”

“Aye that’s well enough. Find yourself a seat; I’m too old to be polite.” Jorgen looked around for a nearby chair, but his eyes found only one in a far corner. Moving the chair closer, Jorgen sat on it while the Lady chose one of the books on the shelves and delicately placed it on the table. The book had a green bound leather cover with a brown spine. The Lady opened it carefully.

The pages had been stitched in with neat, precise stitches. Jorgen studied the portrait of the man who adorned the front page; this man could be none other than the king. Although the man in the portrait was much younger, they were similar in size and stature; those eyes were unmistakeable as the king’s. He looked reverent in his golden doublet and turquoise cloak, the Aragonite crown rested on his head. The Lady traced the lines of the king’s face delicately; almost sadly she turned the page to reveal a woman’s figure. The Lady quickly turned the page.

Jorgen put his hand on the book and the Lady turned back the page. A woman stood in a sapphire dress with floral embroidery down the middle, trailing from the top to the waist. Embroidered sleeves covered the woman’s forearms. Luscious copper hair fell onto her shoulders; blue eyes stared out of the portrait, contrasting with her hair. Atop her brow, a small Aragonite crown rested, a smaller version than the king’s.

“That is the Queen? She is the Wyvern?” Jorgen asked. The Lady turned the page from the Queen. Jorgen had seen that look before; she hated her, the look of jealousy.

“Aye, she is the wyvern queen. She’s as dangerous as any dragon that one.” Jorgen sensed that conversation was over. She flicked through the pages of the book until she came to the portrait of the Duke.

“This is Trystan Lothdale, Duke of Isladoone. He rules over Seaward, a castle in the north of Isladoone. He is tied by paternal blood to the king of Bellach. He is King Tyrilain’s nephew, who dotes on him as his own son. His cousin Vaedran is a known Igniter. He will also be attending the treaty signing as the third party to oversee the proceedings.”

Trystan held himself well, his bearing reminding Trystan of the heroes of old. Short black hair covered a pale face, with a clean shaven chin. Brown eyes stared from the portrait into Jorgen’s own. He wore a cloak of azure and silver, plate shone from under the cloak. A rapier hung at his waist.

“What of his wife? I heard that he had married into a Bellachian house?”

“Merrin Lothdale? I do not have a portrait of her; I never had the opportunity to paint her.” The corner of her mouth twitched, just slightly, barely perceptible. But Jorrin noticed. He said nothing as she turned another page. A middle aged man encased in plate except for his head and neck, he held a broadsword in one hand and a shield in the other. His face wrinkled by age but he stood tall with back straight looking out into the world. This was an old portrait though; the broadsword had been out of fashion for many years. His cold grey eyes pierced through paper to appear lively.

“Who is that?”

“Lord Edwyn Bryant. He is one of the greater lords in Isladoone. He is a man of war, and he likes wine too much. A harsh man at times, but he is an old friend at that.”  There was something almost mournful about the way she said it. The woman who had seemed so defensive at first had become mournful now. There was sadness in those grey eyes, something regretful. “I will leave you to your painting, my lady.” Jorgen bowed before turning from her and leaving her to her saddening peace.

Next Chapter: The Treaty