GUILLAUME X

  Bauchan led Eógan, Esker, Liadan, and Guillaume through branching hallways that became increasingly ornate the further they traveled. The corridors were largely empty, dotted only by scurrying house staff and the occasional regal looking Gaídel accompanied by an entourage.

  Guillaume did not know what to expect: would his party be welcomed with open arms, or was journeying to the High King’s seat a mistake? The rest of his group was somber, with the exception of Eógan, who was only half-dressed and brazenly making a rude gesture at any Gaídel who gawked at him. “What does that hand signal even mean?” he asked Eógan.

  “I am encouraging them to dig up their deceased grandmother and…”

  “That is more than enough!” Liadan cut him off. Eógan grinned wickedly. “Please be on your best behavior and try to keep a low profile when we are in audience of the High King,” she beseeched the group, focusing on Eógan, “I have heard that the High King has little patience for perceived slights and has acted ruthlessly towards his rivals.”

  Bauchan nodded in agreement, pointed to its eye and pantomimed plucking it out. Guillaume shuddered at the thought. “We will follow your lead Liadan,” he added supportively.

  Liadan smiled at him and hurried her pace to trail closer behind Bauchan. Without turning she said, “Eógan, when in doubt do what you think Guillaume would do.”

  Eógan silently feigned vomiting, while Guillaume delighted in the instruction, strutting down the hallway. He and Eógan began to jostle each other with their elbows, like children squabbling in the back of a wagon, out of their parents’ sight. Esker shook her large head and looked at them disapprovingly. “You both have rock rubble for brains,” she said in exasperation. As Esker loped to catch up with Liadan, Eógan began to make that same rude gesture with his hands, yet interrupted its culmination with a devilish smile. Guillaume laughed heartily.

  Bauchan led the group to a junction, then down a far more expansive and gaudier corridor. At the end of this hallway, guards were posted and along the walls, portraits of stern looking men were hung amidst colorful tapestries. The paintings ranged from lifelike to fantastic. “These are prior High Kings,” Liadan explained and Bauchan nodded to concur.

  The little purple creature retrieved the pouch from its waist and uncinched it, wider and wider. Bauchan then pointed to Eógan’s spear and Esker’s insect limb. Both weapons went into the bag. It sniffed around Guillaume’s satchel for a bit, until the Jotman opened it up for inspection. Bauchan took the lodestone out and cocked its dainty head questioningly. Guillaume nodded and into the bag the curious stone went. Bauchan smiled appreciably and continued to walk towards the end of the hallway.

  There were hundreds of faces Gaídel kings on the walls and Guillaume noticed that very few showed signs of advanced age. The slightly muffled jubilations of a feast became audible as the party drew closer to the double doors. Bauchan maintained a consistent pace and the guards opened both doors in time for it to enter the banquet hall without breaking its tiny stride.

  Liadan looked at each of them and forced a weak smile. “I have faith that this will go well. Enjoy the food and I will translate any necessary Gaídel for the rest of you.” Guillaume did not share her shaky optimism and dreaded crossing the threshold of the double doors.

  When Eógan, Esker, Guillaume, and Liadan entered the large banquet hall, the boisterous celebrations dampened. All eyes turned on the group. The intense silence lingered until the occupants of a long table, nearest the door, began to foster a cheer: it was the laborers that the party had aided in the battle between the Pechts and Jotman.

  An ornate tankard slammed down on a tabletop, raised on a dais, at the far end of the hall. A greying man wearing a crown styled like the menhirs of the Coronation Stones fixed his baleful eyes on the Gaídel laborers and they immediately stilled. A central aisle bisected the room and ran directly to the dais. A stentorian voice bellowed something Guillaume could not understand, Bauchan knelt on the floor with its head down.

  “He said, ‘all hail the High King.’ We must bow to show our respect,” Liadan quietly translated as she knelt, followed by Esker. Guillaume watched for a moment before coming to his senses and joining them.

  A murmur ran through the assembled Gaídel and Guillaume stole a glance back towards the doors, to his dismay Eógan was standing defiantly. Esker reached out her long arm and yanked him to her side, where he reluctantly joined them kneeling. Guillaume’s knee began to hurt from being pressed into the hard stone. After a long moment, the High King grunted something and Bauchan rose. The purple creature padded over to Eógan and offered its tiny hand to help him rise.

  As he climbed to his feet and Bauchan led the party down the central aisle, Guillaume took a longer look up at the High King’s dais. What ended up capturing his attention were the other guests seated at the High King’s long banquet table: all nine of them had wrapped linen bandages covering their eyes, one of which was disconcertingly sullied by a blood stain. It was a striking image, the High King was dressed in his finery, with four guests seated on one side and five on the other. By the High King’s left hand, a tiny table and chair sat atop the banquet table, presumably for Bauchan.

  The festivities resumed, those seated below the dais tore into the courses of food arrayed in front of them and quaffed their drinks. The High King stared at Liadan as the party was led towards the middle of the feast hall by Bauchan and seated at an empty table. Taking one last glance at the High King, it struck Guillaume how much older he appeared than the portraits of the prior High Kings. He pondered that significance.

  The food and ale provided a welcome respite from the tension of the situation. A feast was arrayed atop the table Eógan, Esker, Guillaume, and Liadan sat at. There were countless dishes: platters of salted meats (Guillaume could identify mutton, pork, and goat, one remained a mystery to him) and herring were accompanied by dense loaves of barley or oat, with generous dollops of butter. There was also a wide assortment of vegetables, primarily: celery, carrots, peas, corn, and kale. “This is wild garlic,” Liadan said pointing to the seasoning of one dish. Berries and nuts were abundant in the meat dishes: Guillaume watched as Esker foraged for the vegetarian fare that she preferred.

  “Which animal is this meat from?” Guillaume asked, gesturing towards the largest platter at the center of the table.

  “Horse,” Eógan replied with a mouth full of food. Guillaume was a bit taken aback by hippophagy, since the Jotman revered horses as a noble animal, primarily for their military application. Even a fatally wounded steed would rarely be consumed.

  “During a High King’s coronation, a horse is sacrificed and is served as a centerpiece dish,” Liadan added. Guillaume had heard of the Gaídel propensity to eat horseflesh and had even caught wind of a salacious rumor spread by a Jotman chronicler: the High King to be would first fornicate with the mare, prior to her sacrifice. He doubted the veracity of that claim and decided that this was not the appropriate venue to seek clarity on the matter.

  Taking a look around the feast hall, Guillaume saw none of the rabbit that the Jotman were fond of and initially could not spot any beef. When he looked towards the High King’s dais and the adjacent, nearly as ornate, tables it was clear that what was served throughout the hall was not uniform. The High King had a platter of tenderloin in front of his seat and the quality of the meat served appeared to diminish the further you radiated from his throne. The bread at these privileged tables was also noticeably distinct, baked with rye and wheat, instead of the barley and oat loaves found throughout the middle of the hall.

  Guillaume wanted to confirm his observations with Liadan, “Am I correct that the quality of food served in a Gaídel feast depends on status?”

  “Keen observation,” Liadan complimented him. “Beef in particular is reserved for the most esteemed guests,” she said as she looked towards the High King’s dais. “Seated below the High King are the households of the petty kings who are most loyal to his rule. Unlike in a Jotman court, there are no dukes, counts or similar titles: only a High King and lesser kings.”

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  Guillaume was fascinated to learn more, “And those seated at the High Kings table, who are they?”

  “Those are hostages,” Liadan answered somberly. “It is common for a High King to demand custody of a rival’s heir, yet the current High King, Murtaugh, has taken that practice to an extreme. He has solidified his power and maintained his rule by crippling any potential threats. In this case, literally.” Liadan pointed to her eyes. “The High King punishes those who disobey him by gouging out their eyes.”

  “That is an unsightly practice,” Eógan quipped between mouthfuls.

  Liadan shook her head, but otherwise ignored Eógan. “Removing a rival’s eyes serves two functions: the first is obvious, they are tangibly less of a physical threat due to their condition. Secondarily, in Gaídel custom a High King cannot possess any physically disfigurements.”

  “So these heirs of his rivals could never challenge his throne…” Guillaume muttered, stunned by such ruthless pragmatism.

  “Indeed. There are many notable differences with Jotman courts; Gaídel High Kings do not rule by divine right, they maintain their reign through intimidation and military might. High King Murtaugh has survived many coups and ruled far longer than any High King in recent history.”

  “I noticed how young many of the prior High Kings appeared in their portraits,” Guillaume said as he stirred at his plate and ate a few morsels, finding that his appetite had waned.

  EóGAN IX

  Eógan disliked it when Liadan’s attention was fixed on Guillaume. It was not as if he coveted the maiden. She was comely and delightful, sure, but he did not feel the keening in his heart as he did towards others, such as Lady Galdr. Eógan was unsure whether his reaction was due to his hatred of the Jotman and by extension Guillaume, or if it was more personally driven.

  He thought back to the frequent accusations leveled at him by his childhood friend, Mael: that Eógan always needed to howl the loudest in the pack. He mourned Mael’s companionship and insight, she never hesitated to challenge him in a way that helped his growth. He had made bids to join in on the conversation between Liadan and Guillaume, yet his witty remarks were being ignored. Placing his elbows on the table top, Eógan looked down at his plate and sulked.

  “What is the cuisine of your people like?” Esker asked Eógan.

  “Better,” Eógan stated simply. He stole a glance at Liadan and Guillaume as they conversed before continuing, “The True Folk live off the land, we do not grow crops like the Gaídel. That said, some of these dishes bear similarity, mainly those including foraged nuts, berries, and wild plants.”

  “Unlike myself, you are fond of meat as well?” Esker asked.

  “Hunting is a part of life in the natural world. A wolf is not malicious in preying upon deer, it needs the meat to survive and the population of deer must be kept stable. A balance must be struck, if too many deer are slain the wolves will go hungry. Likewise, if too many deer survive, the deer will not have enough to forage and will starve. My people are careful to maintain that equilibrium.” Eógan paused for a moment after speaking so passionately and quickly added, “I do not judge you for your diet Esker.”

  “Nor I yours,” the Tengu responded.

  “You have such sharp teeth,” Eógan remarked. “Do you not like the taste of meat? You possess far greater tools to consume it than I do.”

  Esker’s eyes smiled a bit. “It is true, until a recent restratification of Tengu life, followers of our older religious traditions, like myself, consumed meat with much relish.”

  “The Gaídel like to pickle their vegetables as well.” Esker looked at him for a long moment confused. “They eat their meat accompanied by relish, I was-”

  “Making a bad joke,” Esker finished for him. They stared at each other seriously before breaking into laughter.

  “The True Folk have a saying,” Eógan explained, “A hunter will miss every arrow that they do not loose.”

  “So you fire wildly into the darkness in hopes that you might strike true?”

  “Exactly!” Eógan laughed and was glad that he was getting to know his stoic companion better. Truth be told, he was even warming up to the Jotling. As there was a comfortable lull in his conversation with Esker, bits of Liadan and Guillaume’s exchange caught Eógan’s attention.

  “Is there a queen?” asked Guillaume.

  “There is, but she does not hold quite the same status as in a Jotman court,” Liadan replied. “She is seated directly in front of the High King’s dais, along with all of the High Kings concubines.”

  Guillaume’s prudish sensibilities appeared to be taken aback, “And she is not insulted by having to face her husband’s mistresses?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Liadan answered. “The bulk of her power is established by her position over them. Matters of the kingdom are left to the High King. If you look closely you will see that the Queen’s meal is identical to the High King’s, except half the portion size. The concubines are served one third of his meal.”

  “There are animals that have that arrangement as well,” Eógan added.

  Liadan initially seemed ready to dismiss his comment, but her disposition changed. “That is observant. I have heard that there is a strong bond between the Gaídel Queen and the concubines, like that of sisters. There are even legends of a High King’s harem turning against him and fomenting a coup!”

  As she laughed, Eógan noticed that Liadan seemed especially excited about the latter possibility. Liadan’s mood darkened noticeably, “I thought I was doing my friends and neighbors a favor by encouraging them to join me at the abbey as nuns, yet I only put them in graver danger.”

  “You could not have known that Liadan,” Esker consoled. “Do not make yourself into a blacksmith’s anvil.”

  Eógan puzzled over the idiom for a moment. “Avoid beating yourself up?” he asked, the Tengu nodded. “Do any of your sayings not involve rocks or forges?”

  “Do any of yours not reference nature?” Esker retorted.

  “Aye, that is fair,” Eógan said smiling.

  “What shapes our cultures, influences our languages,” Guillaume said softly and they all nodded in rare agreement.

  The conversation was abruptly interrupted by the same baritone voice that had demanded the party pay fealty to the High King when the party had entered the feast hall. “The High King speaks!” Liadan whispered a translation for Guillaume and Esker.

  With a clatter of mugs and dishes, the room hushed and all eyes turned towards the dais. Eógan’s temper flared at the indignity of having to kneel before anyone, let alone the self-appointed ruler of the Gaídel. In an act of defiance he continued to eat.

  The High King stood, reveling in his power over the room. Murtaugh was not an imposing man, even draped in the frivolity of his garb and wearing that silly crown. Lord Osmond had struck terror into his heart, while Eógan’s mother Aife drew people together with her fierceness of spirit and generous compassion; the man who stood upon the dais did neither, there was a scheming quality about the man. Murtaugh’s beady eyes scrutinized the room, as if afraid. Eógan found the High King’s voice to be piercing and annoying as he bragged about his strength and wealth.

  “A significant part of these gatherings involves posturing from the High King and the petty kings,” Liadan explained. “High King Murtaugh must justify his continued rule by showing that he alone is the strongest king. He is making elaborate boasts and outrageous claims, daring any to challenge him.”

  Eógan was not fluent enough in Gaídel to pick up all the nuance of the High King’s speech, yet understood enough to get the gist. “Do any of the other kings ever challenge this braggart?” Eógan asked.

  “They have,” Liadan said as she nodded towards the blindfolded men sitting atop the dais. “At first, his custody of hostages from each rival petty king was enough of a deterrent. Over the years and as the High King’s rule has surpassed any reign in recent memory, the petty kings grew more brazen. High King Murtaugh swore an oath to protect all hostages who were loyal, yet used treachery and sedition as reason to blind each heir, one by one.” Liadan leaned in a bit and spoke in a more hushed voice, “The dissension from the hostages conveniently happened to be revealed soon after a petty king challenged High King Murtaugh.”

  “So they have been cowed,” Eógan surmised.

  As if on cue, the High King’s herald used his commanding voice to roar, “DO ANY CHALLENGE HIGH KING MURTAUGH’S CROWN?” The feasting hall fell deathly silent. The herald waited a long moment and then continued, “Our glorious High King will now detail what perils threaten our sovereignty.”

  Eógan was surprised when Murtaugh spoke first of the Giantkin to the north and accused the True Folk to the west of pillaging villages, rather than the Jotman invaders clutching them by the bollocks.

  “The High King’s methods have been effective,” Liadan said looking at Eógan with her brilliant eyes. “From what I have heard, Murtaugh is shrewd at playing the petty kings off of one another.” She gestured to the lavishly set tables in front of the room. “Currying the favor of a choice few and sewing dissent amongst each kingdom.” Liadan lowered her voice even more, “We must be careful what we say, in any language.” Looking at Esker she added with a smile, “Except in your case.”

  Eógan had been surprised by how much Pechtish the hunters they encountered by the river had understood, so he took Liadan’s advice to heart.

  “I will be sure to only use the most cavernous of insults to describe Murtaugh,” Esker deadpanned and they all laughed.

  “Which petty kings are seated near us?” Guillaume asked.

  “We are in the midst of those who pose the greatest risk to the High King’s rule,” Liadan answered. “Murtaugh cannot risk offending these kings by seating them at the very back of the banquet hall, where only the most impoverished and reviled kings can be found. Rumor has it that the High King has spies and informants seated at all of the tables around us, waiting for the opportunity to expose any petty king’s plans for a coup.”

  “Why would they betray their own king?” Guillaume asked.

  “High King Murtaugh may deign to reward them with a disloyal ruler’s position. Many of the petty kings seated at the front of the hall secured power in that manner,” Liadan answered.

  Eógan’s attention from the conversation was interrupted by the rantings of the High King. “Am I hearing this correctly?” he asked Liadan. “Is Murtaugh calling for Lady Galdr’s head?”