Ebenezer frowned and looked away, and Gar’rth felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. Castimir lowered his drink and gazed at him in concern. Doric, sitting across from them on a raised chair, did likewise. Theodore, sitting near the King himself, was too far away to notice.
Are they so afraid of me that I cannot even celebrate with them? My friends?
“I am sorry, Ebenezer,” he said. “I will only have one. I have been… better recently.”
“Good-it’s not a good idea to drink too much,” the old man cautioned. “Not here. Not when you are so unfamiliar with your surroundings.”
Gar’rth nodded and stood.
“I need air. The smells, the noise here.” He shook his head. “Too much.”
“I’ll come with you, I think,” Castimir said, glancing quickly at the old man in the grey robes who returned the stare with a raised eyebrow.
They descended the steps from the stage and found themselves in among the press of people. Gar’rth felt hands and elbows brush against him as he forced his way to the door which led out onto a terrace overlooking the western bailey.
I hate it here. These people are all so false.
A man barred his way and for a moment Gar’rth was surrounded, pressed in from all sides. Different odours assailed him-the grim decay of a man’s breath illustrated by rotting teeth, the sweat-coated body of another, and the artificial sickly sweetness of fragrance. He heard Castimir call to him from somewhere behind, but the wizard’s words were lost as the orchestra played faster and louder than before.
Then a woman shouted in sudden fear.
And above it all, he could smell blood. Fresh blood.
He couldn’t concentrate. A man pushed him in the back and as he gasped he was free of the crowd. A shape moved next to him, black and red, the scent of blood overpowering.
The woman screamed again.
Suddenly he was face to face with a wolf’s head on a man’s body. An obscene sight made worse by a man’s cackle from behind the wolf’s dead eye sockets.
“Gar’rth! Come on!” Castimir was at his side. The wizard took his hand as the jester with the wolf’s head leapt into the air and cackled again and for the first time Gar’rth saw the sick pantomime in full. A young maiden, dressed in white, ran through the crowds and onto the stage, shrieking with exaggerated gestures, while the wolf pursued her in a game of chase.
“What’s that about?” Castimir asked as the woman shrieked again, barely evading the jester’s groping hand to the laughter of the onlookers. They were near the western door now, and from the terrace beyond, their question was answered.
“It is a tradition,” said a pale-faced man with a hooked nose. “A wolf is killed on this day every year and its head is paraded around upon the jester’s shoulders as he pursues a maiden, pretending to be a werewolf. The maiden escapes, of course. A pity real life is different, for Morytania does not lose those victims it hounds.”
The speaker peered at them through narrow, cold eyes.
“Ah, Lord Ruthven isn’t it?” Castimir said as he bowed.
The man nodded. Gar’rth felt those eyes rest on him.
“You both know something of Morytania,” he said. “And of werewolves also, I believe?”
Gar’rth froze. He caught Castimir’s panicked eye.
“I know that Jerrod is in Varrock, with Sulla,” Lord Ruthven continued. “Kara-Meir told the King this afternoon. You have fought the werewolf before, have you not?”
“We have,” Castimir said. “He was at the monastery, east of Ice Mountain-and before that in Falador, where Kara wounded him.”
“Did your magic not work against him?”
Castimir nodded grimly.
“It did, but the werewolf took my runes. Without them I am powerless.”
“Ah, the runes!” Lord Ruthven lowered his voice. “There are too few of them now. Too few wizards, as well.”
Gar’rth saw a flicker of surprise pass over Castimir’s face, then the wizard and the nobleman exchanged a knowing look before Ruthven continued.
“Nonetheless, with or without magic, Jerrod must be hunted and slain. Werewolves and creatures from Morytania are given no quarter in Misthalin.”
Castimir glanced at Gar’rth, who remained silent, determined not to react.
I have known that for a long time. It is the same in Asgarnia as well.
An enticing breeze flowed in from outside, and Gar’rth breathed in deeply to clear the pollution of the hall from his senses. The bailey was populated with yew trees and grasses, an oasis of nature in the city of men. It was a relief.
He breathed in again, and this time he sensed the newcomer before he saw him. Clean robes and soap differentiated Lord William’s scent from most others.
“The ladies are about to enter,” the young man said. “Come. It would not do to miss them.”
Gar’rth followed Castimir back to the stage as the double doors to the north were opened. All eyes fell on Kara-Meir as she entered the Great Hall. She walked at the front of the column of women, her dress ballooning outward from below her waist, a yellow cloak hanging from a golden chain about her throat. Her waist-length hair had been ornately styled in curled plaits, with a yellow ribbon tied at its apex.
Behind her, Gar’rth saw Lady Anne, whose jaw was firmly set.
“I would have thought it would have been Lady Anne leading the girls,” Lord William mumbled to Castimir, who gave a smile. “It is so unlike her to follow in second place.”
A red rose leaf caught in Kara’s hair, thrown by one of the many young children of noble birth who were too young to participate in the dances. They lined the way to the stage, carrying small buckets and raining red and white leaves upon the women.
“Why do they do that, with the rose petals?” Castimir asked.
“It’s a symbol of summer, and with it, fertility, I imagine,” Lord William replied. “Ah! There is Lady Caroline, standing behind Lady Anne and next to your friend Arisha.”
“You should go and throw a rose petal over her,” Castimir advised.
Lord William laughed.
“I will do just that, Castimir,” he said. “Excuse me.” The nobleman gave a last grin as he hastened down the steps.
Their happiness is strange to me, Gar’rth thought as they arrived at their table.
“Arisha looks nice, Castimir.” He heard Doric say. Gar’rth looked to their barbarian friend. Among all the women, Arisha stood out, for she was dressed according to the customs of her people, and not the court of Varrock. Her arms, legs and midriff were exposed, for she wore a leather brassiere and short brown skirt. Her wrists and neck displayed elegant jewellery, and as ever she wore her silver tiara in her now-straightened black hair.
“But have you seen what Kara-Meir is wearing, Lord Despaard?” Gar’rth heard someone say not far away. The speaker was a shrivelled old man in a great black-bearskin fur. “The yellow cloak and ribbon? I am not sure if the King will be amused.”
“It has been over a year since she died, Papelford,” came the response. “It is important for the realm that he moves on. A Queen must be found, an heir needs to be born. If Kara-Meir has acted knowingly, then I applaud her boldness. If not, then it is a fortunate reminder.”
Gar’rth saw now that many people spoke to one another, their eyes all on Kara, some in puzzlement, one or two in open disbelief. And the King himself stared also, his face impassive.
Kara-Meir approached the stage as the orchestra ended their play. In the silence, the King stood.
“Kara-Meir, you will be seated at my side,” he said. “Your dress is an appropriate one for this time of year, and yet it bears a familiarity that is painful to me. You are aware of this, are you not?”
What game is this, Kara?