Chapter 4 – The Golden Court

  The Golden Court of Haluk, the former king who generations ago reigned over the mountainous Ginlesik for a prosperous thirty years and built the hall within his cavernous mountain castle, still held much of its former majesty centuries after it was first built. To a Dunyasi or an Ilerlean, the gaudy candelabras and ornately carved reliefs plated with gold may have given the impression of overcompensation. In Ginlesik, however, with its countless veins rich in minerals that laced the mountainside and the surfeit of jewels that were still being carved out of stone to this day a thousand years after its founding, jewels and gold were the norm. Built into the mountainside, some of the natural rock still showed, with small veins of glittering cinderglass bejeweling the walls like a line of glowing ants suspended in the rock. Gold held much of its luster when properly cared after, and Kysir, King of Ginlesik, cared for little more than he cared for proper cleaning.

  “Not a speck of dust on the center table, do you hear me!” he shouted at one of the maidservants.

  “Yes, your majesty,” she replied. She bowed her head and began to wipe with a handcloth vigorously at the crevices in the table. It was carved from a single slab of onyx thirty feet long and two feet thick, with natural recesses and discolorations polished to a remarkable sheen.

  Kysir, much like the Golden Court itself, looked well-cut despite his age. He retained a full head of hair, and though it grayed at the sides, he could have passed for a man ten years his junior. His robe, with small diamond baubles sewn into the hemmed seams that kept it cut above his knees, blazed a beautiful amber in the candlelight, and even in the loose-fitting garment, one could see the frame of a former warrior underneath. Kysir, the second of three sons, cut the look of a handsome monarch presiding over a rich and powerful nation. The Iron Wars, however, had sapped his people of their pride and energy and sapped much of his kingdom’s wealth from their vaults. Maidservants tottered around the dining hall dusting, cleaning, or lighting one of the numerous candelabras. It was to be a joyous day, his fifty-third birthday, but the hushed quiet that hung about the room was ominous and deafening to any joy.

  A short, feeble-looking man approached the king as he inspected the seating arrangements and floral decorative centerpieces, set at every other chair. Today’s feast served also as an opportunity for strategic discussions as Ginlesik continued to funnel raw materials to the Ilerleans and their war machine against Dunyasik. Dunyasik, that pitiful, weak country that somehow had willed itself to a stalemate against Kysir’s forces for twenty years before turning the tide and driving them back through the Ginlesi foothills deeper into their mountains. Kysir feared that soon his people would be forced into becoming mountain-dwelling monks like those mysterious shepherds that huddled behind the mountains in Tas Utul. To think that those feeble plains-dwelling cultists were able to strike down his forces and beat them back time and time again, inch by inch until he had ceded ground. That they had taken his older brother, Kiyell, the one who had first seen their encroaching threat, to the ground in battle. That they had slaughtered the Golden Immortal, his young nephew Jojune, in one of those bloody battles not even a year later, erasing his family’s legacy in a matter of just months. “Those bastards,” he muttered to himself under his breath, just raging at the thought of being beaten by that brazen counsel of politicians and priests. His people were born of iron, smoke, and fire. And they had been so utterly defeated. After the thoughts nearly consumed his mood, Kysir was distracted by a bead of sweat falling to his robe and finally noticed the limping figure approaching him.

  “Ah, your majesty, it is so good to see you up and about!”

  “Kuncer, no formalities, please. I’m far too old for it at this point,” Kysir said, embracing the man warmly.

  “My apologies,” the smaller man replied, bowing dramatically. “Even at your age, you still dwarf me, brother.” Kuncer was a man whose weak posture exaggerated his already undersized frame. His hair was a mangled, graying mess of oily hair, messily chopped at a neck length. His emerald green coat hung over a black undershirt, giving the appearance of him sinking into the blackness of his clothes. Despite being younger by fifteen years, he could commonly be mistaken as an older, more frail man than his brother the king.

  Kysir smiled warmly, though his eyes seemed to betray a hint of sadness or frailty. “Are the preparations made?”

  Kuncer nodded, his face adopting a more serious expression. “The agent has been contacted and has preliminarily agreed to the contract offer. He has, however, insisted on…collecting a down payment, your majesty.”

  Kysir rolled his eyes at the reply, not saying anything, instead turning to inspect the maidservants adorning the room for the feast.

  “Perhaps, we should address this at a later time, when you’re…feeling a tad more up for the discussion?” Kuncer whispered the last bit.

  Kysir shot a sharp glance at his brother for a moment, returning after to oversee the work. “There are cobwebs in the corners of the ceilings. Someone, grab a ladder for her, hells!” Kysir shot off, instead just lifting the maidservant up by the waist so she could quickly dust away the cobwebs in the corner of the vaulted ceiling. As he placed her down, he returned over to Kuncer, stifling a coughing fit.

  “Brother?” Kuncer attempted to speed over to the king, placing his hand upon his back.

  Kysir brushed him off, waving as he continued to try and stifle the coughing fit. He cleared his throat, faint tears welling in his eyes from pain. “I, ahem,” he coughed again for a moment before continuing, “I need to have this discussion. The noble houses can’t keep blindly selling off oxcarts filled with iron for no reason. Each meter they dig further into the mines will continue to cost them, and the last thing we need right now is to foment civil unrest. The longer we support Ilerle in their fight, the more inimical toward Ginlesi interests the noble houses will see the support as being.”

  The smaller man nodded, “you are wise to consider this position, your majesty. I will see to have the assassin’s payment readied then,” finishing under his breath as his eyes searched for listening ears.

  The king nodded, walking more gingerly this time toward one of the servant boys who was trying to shift a plate of armor adorning one of the emptier corners. As he helped to straighten the position of the plate, a sweet smell of incense wafted in from the halls upon the arrival of a young woman. She was dressed in plain steel plate, though gold eagles commonly seen in the Ginlesi peaks adorned the pauldrons of her armor, with a red cloak stitched with gold thread trailing behind her as she hurried over to the king.

  “Father,” she started, coming to a knee in front of the king, looking up at him with a stern expression. As he looked down at her, the king held her gaze for a few moments, but then broke into a wide grin, hugging the girl as she laughed. “Happy birthday, father!”

  “Buyul, my sweet sunfeather, you look beautiful today,” he beamed with pride.

  She gently elbowed the king in his ribs, laughing as she pushed away, “and is that supposed to mean I’m not beautiful any other day?” They laughed in unison together, heartily ignoring decorum for a few moments. Buyul was, in fact, a great beauty. She had inherited her father’s high cheekbones and his height, nearly towering over most men her age. At just seventeen, she was yet to be married, though she had been receiving gifts and supplications for her hand for five years now. She had rebuffed them all, and it bothered Kysir little; considering she bore such a striking resemblance to his wife, he wished for her time away from him to be put off for as long as possible, no matter what the cost. Despite her stature, her elfin nose and large, twinkling blue eyes were reminiscent of some type of foreign goddess of beauty. Her blonde hair was like pale straw, though luxuriously soft in texture and neatly maintained. All her beauty could not hide, however, how very clearly the princess carried herself as a warrior. The ‘Warrior Princess,’ many jokingly called her. It bothered her little, however.

  “Your highness, it is…good to see you,” Kuncer interrupted the conviviality with an awkward interjection, bowing to the princess. “Your beauty and strength seem to embody your namesake perfectly,” he added with a smile.

  Buyul bowed ever so slightly to her uncle, her face wiped of laughter.

  “Yes, she truly inherited the majestic beauty of her mother,” Kysir added with pride.

  “Truly, her beauty is only matched by her ferocity on the battlefield, now if you’ll excuse me, I have preparations to see to,” Kuncer added with a nod. He then turned on his heel and walked away from the pair, hands clasped behind him.

  As he walked out of the hall, two armored guards entered the room. They were an odd pairing; the man on the left was a hulking menace of a man. His head resembled a weathered egg, tanned of skin with his hair completely shaved off, with a half dozen scars littering his face. The guard next to him was a petite woman, one that would not be perceived outside of her armor as being a soldier or guard of any kind. She had a wicked looking face; she was not unattractive, despite clearly being in her mid-fifties. She had black, curly hair and piercing black eyes, but she emanated a clear aura of death.

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  “Uncle Urta!” Buyul shouted. She leapt at the man, catching him off guard as he caught her with one arm, his other hand holding an iron helmet with elaborate purple plumage atop it. It always caught Urta off-guard, how child-like the warrior princess could behave, considering her undeniable ferocity on the battlefield. She giggled as she slumped off of him, her smile returning to her face. Urta was taciturn in nature, and awkward in scenarios like this. He seemed to be sweating more in this grand dining hall than he ever seemed to be on a battlefield.

  “Your highness,” Urta bowed stiffly, then turned and bowed stiffly to Kysir, “your majesty. K’tune’s blessings to you on your birthday. I look forward to the discussion with the heads of the houses tonight.”

  Kysir embraced Urta, Kysir a half a head shorter than the man. “It’s good to see you,” he said. He nodded at the shorter woman with her malicious stare. “Sister Pem Nell, we look forward to having your counsel later. How has the promotion suited you?”

  The woman bowed slowly with a half-grin, “my humblest thanks, your majesty, for the appointment. I look forward to providing counsel.”

  “Ah, but it was Kuncer who had kept his eye on you, so thanks must be his. Either way, I’m confident in his faith in you.”

  Pem Nell bowed again, though not as slowly nor as deeply.

  Urta cleared his throat, “the Ironbound are stronger with Sister Pem Nell amongst us. Not many have her prowess in channeling the old magic. I have no doubt she will provide for you the best shield amongst your enemies.”

  “Ah, yes, they are numerous,” Kysir replied, chuckling. He began to have a coughing fit, hacking into his hand as he began to hunch over. The fit lasted a few moments before he began to stifle the coughing, Buyul placing her hand upon his back to comfort him.

  “Father, are you well?”

  Kysir smiled at his daughter warmly, that same sadness as before in his eyes. “Of course, sunfeather. Do I not look strong?” he puffed out his chest and raised his chin.

  Urta stiffened, bringing his hand to his chest in salute. “His majesty looks as though he could stand against a horde on the battlefield tomorrow,” he nearly shouted in all seriousness.

  Kysir laughed, careful to not allow a coughing fit this time. “Ha! And I just might decide to, depending on how this discussion settles tonight. But before that, we must celebrate, mustn’t we? Aha!” he shouted with jubilation at the end, as a large cake was wheeled in, half of a man’s height with three tiers, each a different color. The pink base was soft and rosy looking, while the sage green middle held up a daffodil-colored top tier.

  The colorful display looked pristine, and Buyul clasped her father’s hand with love as she beamed with her own pride now. “Well, father, I figured I would gift you with something special for your birthday. But it’s not just the cake,” she trailed off, waving at one of the maidservants. At the signal, the maidservant returned into the room, her arms draped in a deep blue cloth. Buyul stepped forward, removing the silken cover and revealing the blade beneath. She took the sword from the maidservant, who retreated hurriedly, and turned to hand the blade gingerly to her father. The blade gleamed in the candlelight. It was simple for a Ginlesi blade but had a blood red ruby adorning the hilt.

  Kysir pursed his lips, his mood quieting as he seemed to contemplate the blade in front of him before he grasped the golden hilt. “Jojune’s blade…” his voice tailed off; the sound choked.

  “Our spy network found it had been recovered by Ilerle. They had been holding it, so I threatened to bash a few skulls. Turns out the Merchant Lords were happy to give it away, lest they lose a bit of blood,” Buyul said. She held out a smile, waiting as she studied her father’s reaction.

  He grasped the blade in his hands, where his age slightly showed with a few liver spots. He fought back tears, holding the blade above his head, and brought it back to rest at his side, eyeing his daughter lovingly. “Thank you.” He grasped her arm tightly, holding her gaze.

  “And that’s not all, father.” She knelt down; her right hand cupped against her left shoulder across her chest. “I am your daughter, but I pledge, on this glorious day, I will seek honor and glory in our clan’s name. Please, reflect on this pledge, father. I know it seems…obvious that I would choose to seek glory,” her eyes darted away for a moment, and she blushed, hesitating with a touch of embarrassment, “but I beg of you, search your heart. Any task, no matter how daunting or dangerous. I will complete it. I will bring you the glory you deserve.” She finished, ending with a quiet smile.

  After the festivities had died down, the large onyx table was cleared of flowers, and plates, though the ornate gold and silver candelabras remained to light maps and pages upon pages of paper, strewn across the area in front of head of the table, where Kysir sat, leaned slightly to his side and a weathered hand holding under his bearded chin. The discussions after the festivities had dampened his mood but he had accomplished his goal: placating their childish whims.

  Six halls, six turns, and fourteen doors down the sixth hall, far removed from the glamor of the grand dining hall and the festivities, Kuncer paced with a frenetic and distracted gait around his private chambers. Smoke swirled about and lingered around him from the many pipes, dancing around his ankles as it gently fell to the floor or dissipated. “That foolish girl. She’s ruining everything,” he said, to no one in particular. Kuncer’s personal chambers were of the traditional ostentatious nature, with silken blankets lining goose feather-cushioned long couches, threaded with gold and ornately decorated. His personal guard of four Ironbound relaxed in four separate corners of the chambers, three men and Sister Pem Nell, all flanked with Kuncer’s personal arrangement of courtesans. “Do you think she could actually be vying for the throne?” To this, he directed his question at Pem Nell in particular.

  “It’s not…unheard of. It’s been a few hundred years since the last time Ginlesik had a woman on the throne, but certainly your oldest brother and his son’s death warrant for exceptional consideration,” she said. She dragged slowly on one of the pipe mouthpieces, picking aimlessly at a plate of passionfruit, starblush, and mangoes, all shipped in from Donenoledur. She picked up the starblush; the drupe fruit had a dark indigo color with white seeds that faintly resembled the night sky when the moons were out of view. It was a fruit with hallucinogenic properties when eaten in excessive quantities and was often distilled to make a sweet liqueur. She eyed the fruit and demurely took a small bite, covering her mouth as she did so, though she rarely feigned ladylike manners around others.

  “Those were extraordinary circumstances; Jojune and Kiyell’s deaths were tragic, yes, but unavoidable. I am still here, however. Unlike then, the King has a brother, ready to take his crown,” he said.

  “Careful, love, or some may think you wish the crown before your brother falls,” she said knowingly as she leaned over in her chaise to pick up a goblet of the white wine that sat beside her.

  Kuncer eyed her with a frantic, frayed expression. “I’ve waited long enough for the crown. I can wait the weeks Kysir has left, but I’ll be damned to the Three Hells if I’m going to wait behind that warmongering, insolent brat.”

  She clicked her tongue in disappointment, “she is but a child, love, and she’s shown no interest in the crown. Unlike you,” she paused to take a sip of her wine, her eyes never breaking contact with Kuncer, “she seems to respect the King’s wishes.”

  “He wished for me to take the crown upon his death, we’ve all seen the writ.”

  “Then why are you so concerned?”

  He groaned a deep sigh, his eyes hanging on the ceiling as he threw his head back, “you and I both know the way the noble houses are. They wish for a militaristic leader. Even in the midst of bankrupting our entire country in a war we don’t even fight in, my brother’s popularity does not wane. The houses still wish to be at war, and they will always want to see a warrior King on the throne. Buyul is idiotic and childish, but she’s a warrior, that’s for damned sure.” At this, he gestured at his legs aimlessly demonstrating how feeble he looked. Even when not standing next to his brother, a man who was once the greatest warrior in the country, one could see the feeble body of Kuncer and know clearly that he had never once held a blade in battle. He held a traditional Ginlesi sword ceremonially at his belt, but he was no warrior.

  “Yes, but you are a warrior of the mind, love. Your brother must have seen it, or he would never have named you the heir.”

  “A warrior of the mind?” he blew a raspberry. “While he is still alive things may change. That sword meant something to him, it was clear. Hells, it may have given him the strength to hold on a few more weeks.”

  “But the girl does not know? Of her father’s illness.”

  Kuncer shook his head. Though his ambition knew few bounds, he did love his brother, and the sadness he felt showed clearly on his face.

  Pem Nell lay back on the chaise, relaxed now that she was no longer wearing their gargantuan and heavy plates of armor. She closed her eyes as she spoke, “then you have nothing to fear love. Surely the girl cannot change his mind so much that an official writ of the King only weeks from his death would be annulled.” She threw up her hands, the wine seeming to have some effect on her as she loosened her typically tightly wound attitude.

  “That silly pledge of hers was clever. I doubt there’s anything she can do in the next few weeks, but still…her loyalty to my brother is unquestioned. And if she’s on some quest, it gives him the opportunity to put a hold on my coronation and base it on the result of the pledge,” he said. He brought his hand under his bearded chin, contemplating. “She can’t possibly be making a play for the throne, can she?” Pem Nell threw up her hands again. “There must be a way, some sort of way, for me to turn this to my advantage.”

  “Perhaps…perhaps it is best to encourage the quest, my love,” she said. He looked at her with some confusion, though her eyes were still closed. “If she succeeds in her quest, it may bring her and your brother glory, yes. The tradition of glorious conquest trails all good kings of Ginlesik.”

  His eyes widened. “If her task is impossible, she must die or return home a failure. In either case, she’ll no longer have the glow of glory about her, merely a ruddy red trail of death and gloom. My crown will be assured,” he said musingly.

  Pem Nell sat up, then stood up to approach him. The other three Ironbound, all hired hands brought in by Pem Nell, were in drunken stupors and seemed to not notice her rise from the couch. She brought one hand to rest upon his cheek, the other pulling them closer together while sultrily staring at him with big eyes made larger looking thanks to charcoal black eyeshadow.

  His voice lowered to a breathy whisper as he gazed at her with an inexplicable desire. “But that’s not enough,” he said, his lips merely inches from hers. He still appeared distracted, half-dazed by her perfumed, smoky scent but with some hints of fear that he tried to push down and fight against. “Perhaps…perhaps, if we were to add some assurance to her failure, I’d rest easier.”

  “An assurance, you say? My love, you so easily feign the timorous coward. Yet you are so cruel, so wicked, so clever. Such a risky move to be certain, you cannot be called a coward. Surely if the pledge for glory is so impossible, it won’t be necessary to take any other actions upon her.”

  “Can you find someone? Not a Ginlesi. They must be far enough removed from me that I am not implicated in her death.”

  She nodded to him as she brought her lips to a hair’s width from his, smiling. To think that she would be so seductive in this chamber would probably surprise her hired guards had they the clarity to notice. “It shall be done, exactly as you wish, my love,” she said, and bit his lower lip.