13
The Coronation Feast

The Ciprean party made its way majestically through the fabulously ornate gates of Tal. Orlac’s heart leapt as they entered the city. What would he do? Unleash his powers and start the killing rampage now?

The red mist which was Dorgryl could imagine his thoughts. I’ve been thinking, the elder god said, the familiar slyness in his voice.

I wish you wouldn’t, Orlac snapped, wanting to be left alone.

Dorgryl continued as though his nephew had not responded. I believe you should wait. Don’t reveal anything yet.

I’ve waited too many centuries already.

Nevertheless. Orlac could tell his uncle was deliberately choosing his words; keeping his normally voluble thoughts to a minimum. He was obviously serious in his intent to convince Orlac of something. Stick to what we promised. Wait until we know where Gynt is. To exact maximum retribution you should take some time to learn something of today’s Tallinor. After all, you have waited this long…and you have all the time in the world to ensure your vengeance is pure and perfect.

Oh, he is good, Orlac thought. Very good. And for one of those rare times they agreed on something. Orlac felt his uncle was airing sound advice: he would find out more about this King and his court. It would make the dismantling of it all the more fun when the time came.

So we continue in these roles, he finally said.

For a while, yes, Dorgryl responded. Just look at the welcome awaiting you, my regent. And Orlac heard the senior god’s deep chuckle.

It was amusing. There were dozens and dozens of courtly people awaiting his carriage on the grand steps of the Tal palace. They were all bowing or curtsying as they watched his party draw close. Trumpets blasted and guards, uniformed in the brilliant Tallinese red, stood to stiff attention.

And in their midst, Orlac noticed, stood a young man. He was not especially tall but was broad and handsome in a rugged sort of way. He was dressed simply as one would expect a soldier might but his dark clothes were a perfect cut and hung well from his square shoulders. He wore a sword at his side and the crimson of Tallinor fluttered around him in the shape of a cloak. His bearing was regal. Without question this was the new King—the Bastard of Wytton—whom they had come to witness being crowned.

I presume this is the famous Gyl. Dorgryl echoed his thoughts as their own carriage halted. But just who is that delectable creature next to him?

Orlac’s gaze shifted and locked intently on a young woman with golden hair and greyish-green eyes the colour of the sea on a stormy day. Her cheekbones were set high, chiselling the creamy complexion of her skin. The god’s breath caught in his chest. The woman was strikingly beautiful and he knew in that instant he wanted her; she was perfect to his eyes.

They await you, nudged Dorgryl in his mind.

Orlac tried to gather his thoughts but they were scattered by the dazzling smile on the face of the young woman who seemed to be directing all that warmth at him as he stepped from his carriage. There were several soft exclamations from many women on the stairs that afternoon as, unbeknown to them, a god entered their lives. His height alone was enough to turn heads but the exclamations came from women whose hearts began to beat harder at the beauty of the foreign dignitary who elegantly bowed towards the King of Tallinor. Orlac heard none of them; paid no heed to their sounds. His attention, though seemingly directed towards the King, was actually riveted on one pair of eyes only. She dipped them from his gaze as she bowed once again.

And then Gyl of Wytton was striding towards him. He was smiling broadly and making noises of welcome. ‘Your rider came ahead. I’m sorry to hear of your Queen’s illness but extremely glad she sent her Regent. You are most welcome to the Kingdom of Tallinor,’ Gyl said, extending a hand.

Orlac took it. ‘I feel privileged to be amongst you and sincerely thank you for this rousing welcome on behalf of Cipres. I am Regent Sylc.’ He smiled at the name he had taken. It had only just occurred to him to use it. In the old language of Cipres, not much used now, the word meant thief. He liked the irony. The King was speaking again.

‘I trust her majesty’s ailment is only minor?’ Gyl enquired out of politeness.

‘Yes, sire. Our Queen should be well within a day or two but we did not wish to delay your coronation, nor to miss it. Please accept the Queen’s apologies for not being here and her commiserations on the untimely death of your father. By all the accounts we heard in Cipres, he was an excellent man.’ Orlac felt the twitch of amusement from Dorgryl at this exchange.

‘Thank you. He was,’ Gyl said, not wanting to discuss his father with the stranger. ‘Come now,’ he continued, ‘let us show you your chambers and your servants can unpack and settle you in for a wonderful few days as our honoured guest.’

Orlac smiled, his eyes flicking to the woman standing not so far away. He was not mistaken; surely this was the woman that Juno spoke of. Juno had not lied; she was indeed a seer. Those were certainly freckles on the girl’s face and now that he could see her smiling, her nose crinkled as it did in Juno’s vision. He would make this woman his.

The Cipreans were the last of the royal guests to arrive and the palace was now brimful of people in all wings except the chambers at the top of the west tower which remained dusty and unused. Lorys had left instructions many years previous that they were not to be reopened during his reign. The housekeeper had enquired of the new King whether these chambers should now be unlocked and cleaned out but Gyl had shaken his head, deferring to his father’s sentimental wishes. They were not essential to this event; they could make do without them and anyway, which guest would want to climb to the very top of the tower after a night’s feasting? Merkhud’s rooms and their secrets remained untouched.

The coronation itself had gone smoothly; the weather had turned on a picture-perfect spring afternoon and Tal’s populace, swelled by thousands for the event, had begun a long week of celebrations in which the violet shroud was replaced by the Tallinese crimson edged in coronation gold and almost fanatical decoration had appeared in every nook and cranny of the capital to mark the occasion.

Inside the palace, the coronation feast was underway and Cook’s team had surpassed themselves with course after sumptuous course—the rare sea lamprey a particular highlight. And in between each special dish Sallementro would take the floor and sing for the guests, his superb voice winning acclaim amongst the visiting royalty, many of whom suggested he might care to visit their realms and sing within their palaces. The King of Briavel—to the far east of the Kingdom of Tallinor—was especially insistent. The bard was more flattered than he would admit to but knew in his heart he could not leave Tallinor with the threat of Orlac hanging over it.

The god was thoroughly enjoying himself, finding his seat positioned not far from the King and near enough to the Lady Lauryn—as she was introduced—to speak with her. So far the entertainment and banqueting had ensured their conversation was brief and polite but he hoped that might change, now that the evening had reached the point when softer ballads would be sung. A natural break between the savoury and sweet courses had occurred and people were allowed to settle back and talk uninterrupted for a while.

Orlac found himself engaged in a tedious and lengthy conversation with a dignitary from one of the kingdoms to the far east of Tallinor. He was barely listening and certainly not paying attention. Even Dorgryl’s comments interested him more.

His uncle shimmered. She is spoken for, I’d suggest, or at least her heart speaks to someone in this room.

How can you know this?

I notice things. I observe people.

She has hardly taken her attention from me.

Dorgryl laughed. Perhaps, but watch how her eyes stray every few moments towards the King; see how her lips purse because he is not paying her attention. I would be most surprised if those two are not lovers.

Orlac felt a painful spike of jealousy. He knew he had no right to and yet his desire for this woman had become overwhelmingly proprietorial. He tried to ignore his uncle’s sly voice and managed to extricate himself from the attentions of the eastern dignitary.

‘Lady Lauryn,’ he said, flashing a brilliant smile. ‘Do you hail from Tal itself?’

‘No, Regent Sylc. I have only been here a short while.’

‘Oh? Where is home?’ he asked, determined to hold her attention.

Lauryn felt distracted and just a bit irritated. As much as she was enjoying all the pomp and ceremony, the fabulous gowns and amazing food, most of which she had never tasted before, she was also in the grip of jealousy.

Across from her, Gyl was engaged in animated conversation with the most gorgeous young woman from some far away realm. Lauryn had established that this woman was a Princess, set to inherit a wealthy throne. The King and Queen seemed very intent on encouraging their daughter’s time with the King of Tallinor. Lauryn watched with loathing as the olive-skinned Princess dipped her dark eyes to show off her long lashes at some little jest of Gyl’s.

She heard the Regent of Cipres clear his throat, and refocused her thoughts. The man was paying her a great deal of attention and she could feel the weight of glares from other women in the room who would have given their eye teeth to be so close to this exceptionally handsome man.

‘Er, my family is from a rural part of the Kingdom. A small village, Mallee Marsh, not far from Flat Meadows,’ she said, knowing the man would never have heard of it.

Gynt’s home! Dorgryl was just short of spluttering.

Orlac kept his face steady but his ears too had pricked at the mention of this sleepy village. ‘You know we had a visitor in Cipres not long ago who hailed from that very place. How odd that you should mention it.’

Lauryn was rescued from the direction of Sylc’s thoughts by a familiar laugh and then a not-so-familiar yet instantly unlikable giggle. Gyl and the princess were sharing another intimate joke it seemed. Lauryn could not stand it another moment.

‘Regent Sylc, would you be kind enough to excuse me just for a short while.’

Orlac stood and effected a brief bow. ‘Of course.’ He did not fail to notice the high spots of colour on her cheeks.

Lauryn fled the hall, half in anger, the rest in plain hurt. Outside she dragged in the air of the crisp night and calmed herself. Candles sitting in painted paper lanterns threw glowing colours around the courtyard in which she found herself, but she paid scant attention to the prettiness surrounding her or to the air fragranced by the different perfumes of the candles.

What had happened between her and Gyl? Had that been a declaration of love, spoken only two days ago and sealed with a kiss? Several kisses, in fact, including a long and memorable one that had left her breathless and weak-kneed. And during that kiss she had indeed given her heart over to this man. And now here he was flirting outrageously with that girl. It was bad enough that he had already danced with several eligible women and been involved in lighthearted conversations with at least half a dozen others.

Once they had been seated, Lauryn felt sure he would pay her more attention but he had not even made eye contact with her. She felt the sting of tears but refused them, fought them back. Instead the anger took over from the sorrow.

‘Ah now, why are you here, beautiful girl, and not amongst the festivities?’

It was Cook. On her way to rouse up another shift of kitchen workers, who were being rotated throughout this day and night of festivity. ‘I came around here for just a quiet moment and an ale,’ she said, holding up a cup to show Lauryn. ‘You know your mother is very partial to the stuff but only Gyl and I were permitted to know this,’ Cook said, tapping her enormous and rather red nose.

Against her mood, Lauryn smiled. ‘Is that right?’

‘Oh yes, it was our secret. Your mother likes to have a large mug daily…says it keeps her regular.’

Now Lauryn laughed. ‘May I taste it?’

Cook thrust the enormous mug towards her.

Lauryn sipped and pulled a face. ‘Ugh! I think I prefer Tallinese wine.’

The large woman sat down on a bench nearby. ‘Ah well, you may get a taste for it if you stay with us long enough. I love your mother, Lauryn. I wish she hadn’t left.’

‘Me too.’

‘So what’s got you all sad?’

‘Oh I’m fine, just needed some air.’

‘You not only look like Alyssandra Qyn but you act like her, and in being so similar you can no more hide your emotions from your face than she can. What’s making you sad, my girl?’ The beefy woman took another long draught and then eyed her steadily.

‘It’s Gyl,’ she blurted, not really meaning to.

‘Oh that silly boy. Don’t let him upset you so,’ she said, waving one enormous hand towards Lauryn. ‘I’ve known him since he was a stripling. On the day he arrived he won the heart of two of Tallinor’s most important women.’

‘Oh?’

‘The Light strike me if I lie to you. Queen Nyria was quite taken by him on first meeting and then your mother, bless her, loved him as if he were her own son. I saw him tonight, my lady. He’s flirting isn’t he?’

Lauryn nodded.

‘Yes, Cook’s right. I always am. Well, child, flirt back. You’re not exactly the ugliest woman in the room tonight are you? Have you noticed how many men watch you?’

This time all Lauryn could do was shake her head. She genuinely had not noticed anything along these lines. She was still reeling from Gyl’s first fleeting kiss; the notion that anyone could fall in love with her or even desire her seemed remote. The suggestion that many men ogled her was laughable and yet Cook seemed earnest.

‘And what about that dashing Regent from Cipres? Oh he’s got all my serving lasses’ hearts a-flutter. They can’t stop talking about his golden hair and violet eyes; his perfect white smile and broad chest. I have to admit, he looks like a god.’

‘Yes, he is extremely handsome.’

‘Well, he only has eyes for you, my dear, and I would suggest you take advantage of that. Perhaps achieve a little jealousy of your own.’ Cook drained her mug noisily. ‘Well, I must get back to my steaming kitchen, my lady. We have the sweet pies and treats to be brought out next —I’m very proud of our marzipan fancies.’ And then she bustled off, with a wave to Lauryn.

Lauryn smiled to herself. Cook was right. If she was going to win Gyl’s attention back, she would not achieve it staring at him like some sad lap-dog. Regent Sylc was showing an uncanny interest in her and what was the harm in returning that interest? None at all, she decided, as she straightened her pale green gown which set off her eyes perfectly.

When she returned to her place, Regent Sylc stood politely once again and without so much as a glance towards Gyl, Lauryn took her seat and immediately fell into conversation with the man from Cipres. The night wore on and their talk became more intimate. At one stage he passed across a piece of candied fruit which had been rolled in sugar. No one, not even the King of Tallinor, missed Lauryn taking the Regent’s outstretched hand and somewhat seductively placing her mouth around the fruit he held, her lips just touching his elegant fingers which he then put into his own mouth to lick off the sugar which still clung to them. And when Sylc asked Lauryn if she cared to join in one of the dances, she readily accepted, making a small jest that he was so tall he might have to hold her off the ground.

They danced several times and not once did Sylc take his violet eyes from her sea-green ones. She held his rapt attention and surprised even herself by how much she enjoyed his attentions. Sylc was devastatingly handsome, a witty and intelligent companion, and his mannerisms were as elegant and fine as his garments, which were tailored from the purest cream silk and dark velvet—a fine catch for any woman.

Lauryn realised several pleasant hours had passed. She was pleased that she had managed to put the King to one side for this evening and enjoy the company of this splendid man who seemed to have no hankering to share himself around, which made her the envy of most of the eligible women in the room, if not all of them. She had cast a surreptitious glance Gyl’s way only once since her return and found him glaring at her. In reply Lauryn doubled her attentions to the Regent. Gyl would learn tonight that her heartstrings were not to be plucked and then left unplayed. She liked the vision she had conjured and laughed coquettishly at something Sylc whispered in her ear, infuriating the King.

Gyl seethed. He felt like drawing his sword and running the Regent through. How dare he monopolise Lauryn in this manner—and their whisperings, laughter and flirtatious activities were not going unnoticed. This was humiliating, to say the least. He could have sworn Lauryn had felt the same way about him on the day of their ride and picnic. There was no doubting the affection in that kiss. Nay, it was not affection —it was much more than that. He had felt her desires—and, dare he say, her love—being returned in that long and passionate embrace.

Gyl had made love to many women in his time; far more than he cared to admit to. He had broken hearts too, but in truth he had never made any promises to these women. Their own desires had forced them to believe that he would be true to them; that, in lying together, they had reached some pact, some agreement of commitment. But not so. Gyl was a known flirt— he readily admitted it himself and he was happy to carry that dubious honour. His mother had made it painfully clear in recent times that he was never to promise himself to any woman without consulting her. It had made him laugh whenever she put her hands on her hips and threatened him with terrible punishment. Now he understood. She had known he would be king one day, knew he must make an excellent marriage—for the girl he chose was destined to be a queen.

But his mother need not have worried. Gyl felt remote from women. As much as he enjoyed their company and the exploration and touch of their soft mouths on his skin, not once had he felt any connection of love. Herek had once spoken of chemistry. The Prime had admitted it was old man Merkhud, a former physic to King Lorys, and his father before him, who had said that until the humours were right between two people, then the love would never happen. Until that point, it was all lust and heated desires.

What Herek said had made sense to the young Gyl and so he comforted himself with the notion of chemistry when he found himself wondering why no girl could ever touch his heart. And then in a blink this one had…dripping with mud and answering him back—in a manner just short of insolent—she had sparked something in him. And then again in his mother’s private garden, she had fired him up and he had been so taken by the surprise of his feelings he had walked out on her and almost set off an argument between them. He recalled how he had searched her out in the Throne Room when the shocking news of the heir to Lorys was revealed and it was her calm flowing out to him across the room which had steadied his nerve. Every flick of her golden hair, every casual glance of those gorgeous green eyes, every feisty riposte or gentle grin just hammered another nail of love for Lauryn into his heart—and he had known her such a short time! This must surely be the chemistry of which old man Merkhud had spoken, for Gyl could not help himself. There was no remedy for this powerful feeling; no drug which could alleviate the exquisite pain it brought now to his heart to see her so much as smiling at another.

He would not be able to take it much longer, her continued ignoring of him and her attentiveness to the Ciprean. Gyl had not exactly taken an instant dislike to the man, but within a few hours of his arrival he had loathed the very name Sylc because it was on the lips of every woman in the palace.

As Gyl churned his grumpy thoughts, Cook entered the hall to take some well-deserved applause as the last course was served with sweet wines, bringing with her a crown made from sugar crystal. It was transparent as glass and had been painted with luminous colours to look as if it were made of jewels. It was exquisite. She beamed as her staff presented it to their King, who graciously accepted it and made a toast to the finest head of kitchen Tallinor had ever been fortunate enough to enjoy. Cook bowed low and when she stood, her eyes—ever expressive —cast a severe glance towards the Princess, now once again seated close by him. Her face clouded into the look of reproach which had become very familiar to him over his years of growing up and stealing hot biscuits from her kitchen.

Could that be it?

Could it be that Lauryn was cross with him for favouring the Princess? Well, he had to be courteous to all of his guests, did he not? And perhaps she did not grasp how politically important it was for him to curry favour with all of the monarchs feasting at his table tonight.

He needed to ensure a smooth transition from Lorys to himself as King. He could not risk falling out of favour so early in the piece. Snubbing a Princess was a sure way to disgruntle a King, and risk alienating important and strategic neighbours. But Lauryn would not be thinking along these political lines, he realised. She would be feeling scorned perhaps and no doubt hurt by his inattention. It was true—he had deliberately avoided her gaze. But he needed to tell her that it was the only way he could keep his eyes, filled with unspoken desires, off her. It took all his willpower not to sneak a foot beneath the table to touch hers; or whisper something only she could hear. All he wanted to do was wrap her in his arms and kiss her all night long—but not tonight. Tonight he had to play the role of King for all the realms on show at the palace.

Gyl felt sickened by the realisation that she had interpreted his activities tonight as a cooling of his desires for her. It was so far from the truth. He would marry her here and now if only he could. There, it was out! Spoken aloud in his mind, it could not be taken back. He wanted Lauryn for his wife. He needed Lauryn…her strength, her courage, her love. He suddenly could not care less if his mother approved or disapproved. He thought she would hardly consider it the wisest choice but that would not deter him. He was King after all. He would marry whom he pleased.

How could he put things right? Tomorrow he would find a way. First thing in the morning, he would send a messenger to her chambers requesting a meeting.