Battleaxe: Book One of the Axis Trilogy. Sara Douglass
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Borneheld could afford to be the most generous since he controlled more territory than any four of them put together.
By nine in the evening the citizens of Carlon were happily gorging themselves at the various venues – the town hall, the market square, and seven of the massive guild halls. The whores and the dancing boys were starting to ply their business outside the eating halls. Well away from the street parties, a less rowdy and more decorous banquet was underway in Priam’s cream and gold palace in the heart of Carlon.
The banquet hall of the palace, popularly known as the Chamber of the Moons, was a massive circular affair that doubled as an audience chamber on ordinary days of the week. Great alabaster columns supported a soaring domed roof, enamelled in a gorgeous deep blue with gold and silver representations of the moon in the various phases of its monthly cycle floating amid a myriad of begemmed stars (thus the popular sobriquet). The floor was equally spectacular – deep emerald-green marble shot through with veins of gold.
Tonight the floor was hardly visible beneath the dozens of tables crammed into the chamber, and (as yet) no-one was drunk enough to be lying in such a position as to stare straight towards the magnificent domed roof. On the side of the chamber, directly opposite the entrance, was the slightly raised dais, where Priam normally sat to receive whoever had come calling, but which tonight supported the royal table. Priam was there with his immediate family (of whom not many were left), and the most important nobles of the realm with their wives. Jayme, Brother-Leader of the Seneschal, enjoyed a spot not far from the centre of the table and was, despite the grim news from the north, determined to enjoy the banquet until he could discuss developments more privately with Priam.
Immediately below the royal party was a large table seating the sons and daughters of the highest nobles. From there the tables spread across the floor of the Chamber of the Moons with the least important guests cramped around rickety tables in the dim recesses behind the grand circle of columns.
Faraday, eighteen-year-old daughter of Earl Isend of Skarabost, sat soaking up the atmosphere with her intelligent green eyes. As she had only turned eighteen a half-year previously, this was the first time she had been invited to one of the grand royal banquets; indeed, this was the first time she had even been to Carlon. Although Faraday had not been raised in court, she was far from being out of her social and cultural depth. Her mother, Merlion, had spent years training her in the rituals and etiquette of court society, while the girl’s own natural wit and composure gave her the skills to hold her own in most courtly company. Pleasant conversation notwithstanding, Faraday’s green eyes, chestnut hair and fine bone structure held the promise of such great beauty that she had already caught the speculative eye of a number of young nobles seeking well-bred and wealthy wives.
Beside her sat her new friend, Devera, twenty-year-old daughter of Duke Roland the walker. Devera had a blue-eyed, fair-haired prettiness that Faraday thought extraordinarily appealing.
Faraday leaned close to Devera, hoping that the intricate knot of her heavy hair, held together with only small pins of pearls and diamonds, would not tumble down. “Everyone looks so beautiful, Devera,” she whispered, unable to completely hide her excitement. Her eyes slipped to the goblet of watered wine she held. Its golden cup was encrusted with small diamond chips. Noble she might have been, but Faraday was still young enough to be impressed by the extreme wealth and ostentation of Priam’s court.
Devera smiled at Faraday. She remembered how she had felt when she first came to court two years ago, but she was not going to let Faraday know that. “You should try and look more bored, Faraday. If people suspect you are in awe of them they will seek to take advantage of you.”
Faraday looked up from the goblet, her green eyes serious now. “Oh, Devera, surely you have read Artor’s words in the Book of Field and Furrow? Taking advantage of people is not the Artor-fearing way.” Besides teaching Faraday the courtly graces, Merlion had also made sure her daughter received strict religious instruction.
Devera suppressed a small grimace. Faraday sounded a little too devout for her liking. Everyone at court genuinely feared the wrath of Artor, and most respected the Brother-Leader, but they generally only paid lip service to the Seneschal. Devotion to the Seneschal’s Way of the Plough was a trifle too peasantish for most court nobility – indeed, most Carlonites. Besides, many nobles resented the interference of the Seneschal in the political affairs of Achar. Faraday would have to drop the expressions of devoutness if she was to hold the interest of one of the better-looking courtiers. Devera assumed Earl Isend had brought Faraday to court and decked her out in such an exquisite dark-gold silk dress and fine pearls in order to find her a husband. Devera herself was betrothed to one of the younger sons of Baron Fulke and would be wedded within the month. She looked forward to the event with lustful impatience.
Well, if Faraday was devout, then perhaps her father could arrange an audience with the Brother-Leader for her. Devera indicated the white-haired and stooped old man one place down from the king’s left hand. “Have you met the Brother-Leader yet, Faraday?”
Faraday turned her gaze back towards the royal table and the leader of the Seneschal. He looked as noble as any other at the table with his well-groomed (and non-tonsured) hair, his gently waved and perfumed beard and rich clothes. He wore a massive emerald ring on his left hand, and wielded his napkin with as much grace as the king himself. He had a kindly, intelligent face, though he seemed preoccupied with some grave concern.
“No.” Faraday hesitated a moment. “Does he come from the royal family itself, Devera?”
Devera snorted behind her gravy-stained napkin. “Not he, Faraday. No, Brother-Leader Jayme comes from an undistinguished farming family somewhere in the depths of Arcness. Knowing that province, he probably has more than a passing knowledge of pigs, although he hides it well now. He was appointed chaplain to the royal household a few decades ago – that’s where he learned his manners. Jayme was … is … an ambitious man, and he learnt well at court. Well enough, I suppose, to be appointed Brother-Leader.”
Faraday was dismayed at the sacrilegious way Devera talked about the Brother-Leader. “Devera, you must not speak ill of the Brother-Leader. The Brotherhood of the Seneschal elects the Brother-Leader – the royal household has no influence at all.”
Artor! but the girl had a lot to learn about the intrigues of both court and Seneschal, Devera thought dryly, and decided to steer the conversation away from religious matters. “What do you think of King Priam, Faraday?”
Faraday smiled and her face looked truly beautiful. “He’s handsome, Devera.” Her eyes twinkled impishly. “But such curls!”
Devera laughed despite herself. Priam had inherited the regal good looks of his family as well as their magnificent dark auburn hair, but it really was a trifle ridiculous for a man in his late forties to continue to have his hair curled so tightly.
“That must be his wife, Queen Judith.” Faraday indicated a woman of ethereal and fragile beauty sitting between Priam and the Brother-Leader. As they watched, Priam leaned over attentively and gave her the choicest meats from his own plate.
“Yes. It’s so sad. They say that Priam loves her dearly, but that she cannot have children. Every year of their marriage but the past two she has fallen pregnant, only to lose the babe in the fourth or fifth month. Now, perhaps, she is too old.”
Both girls fell silent for a few minutes as they contemplated this supreme tragedy. The primary purpose of any noblewoman was to bear her husband sons as quickly as possible. No matter the dowry, the connections or the beauty that a woman brought to her marriage bed, her life became meaningless if she could not produce heirs. Faraday picked up a piece of cloudberry cheese and nibbled delicately at its edges, a line of worry appearing between her eyes. “It would be a tragedy if King Priam does not have any sons to follow him.”
“Ah,” Devera took a healthy sip of wine, “that would leave the way open for his closest living relative. Now tell me, if you can, do you know who that is?”
Her tone irritated Faraday. “His nephew, Duke Borneheld of Ichtar,” she retorted.
Faraday had arrived at court only the day before