Golden Fool

Queen Kettricken’s silent passage through her folk was both dignified and intimate, for the smile that lit her face as her eyes lingered on her assembled people was genuinely warm. Dutiful’s expression was grave. Perhaps he knew he could not smile without looking stricken. He offered his mother his arm as she ascended the stairs to the dais. They took their places at the table but were not seated. In a gracious yet carrying voice, Kettricken spoke. “Please, my people and friends, welcome to our Great Hall the Narcheska Elliania, a daughter of the Blackwater line of the God’s Runes Islands.”



I noted with approval that she gave Elliania not only the name of her mother’s line, but called her home by their name for the Out Islands. Also, I noted that our queen had chosen to announce her rather than giving this task to the minstrel. As she gestured toward the open door, all eyes turned that way. The minstrel repeated the names of not only Elliania but also of Arkon Bloodblade, her father, and Peottre Blackwater, her “mother’s brother.” The way he spoke the last phrase made me suspect it was one word in the Out Islands and that he strove to give it that flavor. Then the Outislanders entered.



Arkon Bloodblade led the way. He was an imposing figure, his size enhanced by a bearskin cloak flung back over one shoulder. It was the yellow-white fur of an ice bear. His clothing was of woven cloth, a jerkin and trousers, but a leather vest and broad leather belt gave him an armored, martial air despite his lack of weapons. He glittered with gold and silver and gems. He wore them at his throat and wrists, across his brow, in his ears. He wore bands of silver on his left upper arm, and bands of gold on his right. Some were studded with gems. His brash posture transformed his display of wealth into bragging gaudiness. His gait combined a sailor’s rolling stride with a warrior’s arrogant strut. I suspected I would dislike him. He scanned the room with a wide grin, as if he could not believe his good fortune. His eyes traveled across the waiting tables and gathered nobles and then lifted to where Kettricken awaited his company on the dais. His smile widened as if he glimpsed unclaimed plunder. I then knew that I already disliked him.



Behind him walked the Narcheska. Peottre escorted her, a pace behind her and to her right. He was dressed as simply as a soldier, in fur and leather. He wore gold earrings and a heavy torc of gold, but he seemed unaware of his jewelry. I marked that he took not just a guard’s place but also a guard’s attitude. His eyes roved the crowd watchfully. If there had been any in the crowd who wished the Narcheska ill and dared to act on it, he would have been ready to kill the attacker. Yet he gave off an aura, not of suspiciousness, but quiet competence. And the girl walked before him, serene in the safety of the hulking man behind her.



I wondered who had selected her garments. Her short tunic was of snowy white wool. An enameled pin, a leaping narwhal, secured her cloak at one shoulder. A paneled skirt of blue fell nearly to the floor. Glimpses of her feet as she walked revealed little white fur slippers. Her sleek black hair was caught in a silver clasp at the back of her head. From there it flowed down her back, an inky river. At intervals, tiny silver bells glittered in its current. Upon her brow she wore the coronet of silver set with one hundred sapphires.



And she set her own pace, a step, then a pause, and another step. Her father, unmindful of this, or perhaps ignorant of it, strode up to the dais, mounted it, and then was forced to stand at Queen Kettricken’s left, awaiting his daughter. Peottre matched her gait calmly. The girl did not look straight ahead as she approached the high table, but turned her head to left or to right with each step. She looked intently at the people who met her gaze, as if to memorize each one. The small smile that graced her lips seemed genuine. It was an unnerving poise to witness in a child so young. The little girl who had been on the verge of a petulant tantrum when I had last seen her had been replaced by a presence who was, indeed, a queen in the bud. When she was two steps away from the dais, Dutiful descended it to offer her his arm. Here was the only moment when I saw her uncertain. She glanced at her uncle from the corner of her eye, as if imploring that he offer her support instead. I do not know how he conveyed that she must accept the Prince’s gesture; I saw only her resignation as she carefully hovered her hand above his proffered arm. I doubted that she put a pressure equal to an alighting butterfly as she ascended the steps beside him. Peottre followed them, his tread heavy. He did not take a place before a chair, but rather stood behind the Narcheska’s. After the others were seated, it took a gesture and a quiet verbal invitation from the Queen before he took his seat.



Then the Dukes and Duchesses of the Six Duchies entered, each to slowly cross the hall and take a place on the dais reserved for them. The Duchess of Bearns appeared first, her consort at her side. Faith of Bearns had grown into her title. I still recalled her as a slender maiden with a bloody sword in her hand, battling vainly to save her father’s life from Red Ship raiders. She wore her dark hair as short and sleek as ever. The man at her side was taller than she was and gray-eyed, pacing her with a warrior’s graceful stride. The bond between the two was a thing that could be felt, and I rejoiced that she had found happiness for herself.

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