Chapter 35 – A Parliament of Flags

The gatehouse of Bomfrey Castle had only one well-guarded passageway, but as many as three officials who managed it.

The first compared their names to a list on an extremely long parchment scroll. The second then checked to see if the first had chosen the correct names, and the third kept a detailed record of the proper conduct of the verification process.

I’ll bet that if we come back in a year, there’ll be four people sitting here, and the fourth one will be checking to see if the other three are doing their jobs right.

They had already been waiting at the gate for at least a quarter of an hour. The delay arose because her title apparently presented Tulvian court protocol with a challenge that seemed almost impossible to overcome. An Underherald from the College of Heralds had hurried over with a wax tablet, which the officials at the gate had consulted.

“Daughter of the Matriarch,” he repeated, chewing on his stylus. “What is a Matriarch exactly? Does that correspond to a duchess? Are you maybe a princess, perhaps? Is the lady’s father a king?”

“The Dusk Elves have no kings,” said Tancred, who was clearly well accustomed to such conversations.

“No kings.” The sub-herald jotted it down on his wax tablet looking like he’d just been told that water flows uphill among the Shaeravyn.

After many more minutes of discussion they finally agreed to classify Shaelith “with the rank of a princess in the sense of the daughter of a reigning grand duchess, subject to the final decision of the College.” As for Benderast, who was indeed the bearer of a founding banner but, strictly speaking, was neither a knight nor a nobleman nor anything else listed in the registers, it was decided to first convene a special commission. But at least they granted him access to the castle for the time being.

“A special commission,” Benderast repeated, impressed. “I wonder what will come of that?”

“Well,” said Tancred, “we can certainly expect a result by next spring at the latest. A most interesting precedent!”

In the inner courtyard, a surprisingly large number of people were waiting to catch a glimpse of them, and it was a distinctly Tulvian, or rather, human crowd. Ladies in hennins and brocade from chin to ankles, and men in gloves and high-necked doublets, despite the mild afternoon. It seemed a bit like bodies were under general suspicion here and sort of being held in custody as a precautionary measure, lest something bad happened.

Shaelith’s own clothes stood out even more in this environment, not without consequences. A page craned his neck so sharply to look at her that he accidentally bumped into a pillar, and an old prim and proper chaperone matron covered her charge’s eyes and pushed them away like a mother hen protecting her chicks.

“Why are they all bundled up like that?” Mirrsoss whispered, fascinated. “Are they hiding something?”

“Yes.”

“And what?”

“Themselves.”

Mirrsoss thought about it. “But it’s so warm right now!”

Yup. Shaelith just shrugged.

~

Since His Majesty was not quite yet ready to receive them, Tancred decided to lead them down to the tournament grounds first, next to which the tent city had sprung up, complete with its own distinct quarters. It was basically color-coded.

The Tulvian quarter was overflowing with pennants and coats of arms in red, blue, and gold, while the Nalvinian quarter lay next to it in dark blue and gold. First, however, they passed a row of black tents, above which hung black flags bearing the image of a rising golden sun over an anvil. 

Grimbart stopped.

“Look at that,” he said, snorting loudly through his nose. “A sun above the Forge Father’s anvil.”

“I think it’s pretty,” said Mirrsoss. “It looks shiny.”

“The Forge Father’s forge lies at the heart of the world, Mirrsoss, deep in the darkness.” Grimbart spoke patiently to her, though he was clearly annoyed. “The only light down there comes from the glow of the forge itself. No sun shines there.”

At that very moment, a young brother broke away from the camp and came toward them, beaming. Ash-blonde, with a sun-gold anvil medallion and a boyishly soft face. His gaze fell on Grimbart’s beard, then on his Chronosteel arm, and his eyes lit up.

“A brother in faith!” He spread his arms wide. “What a joy to know a son of the Forge Father among the guests of the Concord Tourney! One Faith, one Forge, isn’t that right?” He pointed reverently at the Chronosteel arm. “And what a moving symbol of your devotion to the Forge Father!”

“What do you mean, symbol?” Grimbart asked quietly.

Uh-oh.

Grimbart somehow managed to loom menacingly over the brother of the Order, even though he barely reached his chest. “That’s not a symbol, lad, that’s my arm! You bunch of nutcases always thinks everything’s a symbol… pah, who cares that I nearly died of fever during the three days it took for it to fuse with my bone, what is it to you, I suppose that was just a symbol, too. But what do you even know about it anyway? You don’t even have a real fire in your Forge, it’s just a LAMP with-“

“Grimbart.” Thaelon’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Don’t yell at him. Please. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

The brother had taken half a step back and looked startled, but his hand was already moving hesitantly toward the pommel of his sword.

“Please, gentlemen, this isn’t-” Tancred began, raising his arms in agitation.

Shaelith stepped in between them and gave the brother a warm smile, laced with a hint of admiration.

“Forgive my companion, Brother,” she said. “Dwarves take the faith as seriously as you, in their way, and it does you credit to have sparked such fervor in him.” She tilted her head and looked into his eyes for just a moment too long. “You do the Forge Father proud.”

The young man blushed so deeply that his pale skin resembled a raspberry, and he stammered briefly, “Uhm… uhm, thanks, my Lady,” before bowing twice and then retreating as quickly as he could.

“Wow,” said Benderast. “Maybe I allocated my skill points wrong? Looks like a Charisma build is really broken.”

“I’m just going to assume that was supposed to be a compliment,” said Shaelith, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head.

“Um, yeah… of course, I mean… oh wow, you’re doing it again, aren’t you? You’re really good!”

“A symbol,” Grimbart growled once more, shaking his head.

Okay, we should definitely avoid religion as a small-talk topic here, it’s a complete powder keg. If I have to deal with Grimbart as another walking diplomatic incident on top of Benderast, I’ll lose my mind.

Tancred cleared his throat. “Perhaps I might escort you in the meantime to the Muster, the gathering of the banners during the tournament? It would be very kind of you to wait there while I inquire when His Majesty is ready to receive you.” He paused hesitantly. “And perhaps it would be wise to refrain from discussing theology until-“

“I didn’t start it,” Grimbart said grimly.

“What exactly is the Muster, if I-” Benderast began, but as they turned the next corner and reached the tournament field, the question answered itself.

At the front of the tournament field, in front of the half-finished stands, rows upon rows of banners were gathered, each on its own pole and tended by squires as if they were noble knights or famous racehorses. They were made of silk in every color and variation, embroidered with towers, suns, boars, hands, anvils, horses, and all manner of other heraldic animals and symbols. And they all seemed to be speaking at once, creating a constant murmur that rustled like the wind in a forest.

As they approached, they passed a row of smaller banners that were listening reverently to a magnificent larger banner, which seemed to be delivering a sort of sermon to them. “Well, now that you’ve taken this to heart, let’s move on to the three hundred forty-second point of my remarks. As I just said…”

“That’s ‘Brevity Is the Soul of Wit,’ one of the most esteemed banners in the realm,” Tancred whispered to them so as not to interrupt the banner.

But then Honor unfurled to its full height on Benderast’s pole, and all the banners’ boisterous chatter died down, only to be replaced seconds later by a thunderous murmur and whispering.

“Honor!”- “The founding banner is returning!”- “Who is that giant?” – “Is that the new bearer?”

An apricot-colored banner sagged with a dramatic sigh, and the squire carrying the pole had to swing it back and forth with great effort to unfurl it again. An old banner, riddled with countless arrow holes and torn in several places, thundered: “HONOR! Old comrade-in-arms!” while a silky, gleaming banner with a golden border, on whose hem was written “All That Glisters Is Not Gold”, remarked loudly: “Honneur, what a pleasure. And how is the esteemed House of Grevue faring? One hears… the wildest stories, doesn’t one?”

Honor puffed himself up so much it rustled as they walked past “All That Glisters Is Not Gold” and pointedly turned away from the other banner. “I don’t converse with tablecloths.”

Benderast grinned as he carried the pole through the alley that opened up before them, clearly relishing every second of it. “It’s like a convention,” he whispered to Shaelith. “Back on Earth, there were those meetings where we-“

“Not now, Benderast, later.”

At the head of the field, beneath a richly decorated canopy, two standards stood raised above all the others. One was made of deep blue silk showing an open golden hand. It hung completely still, despite the light breeze that was blowing. The other was black with a golden sun above an anvil, and it moved continuously, making the embroidered flames and the fringes at its hem seem to flicker just like real flames.

“These are ‘The Quality of Mercy is Not Strained,’ the founding banner of Nalvine, and ‘Let Your Fervor, Like My Master’s, Be,’ the founding banner of the Order of the New Forge,” Tancred declared solemnly.

Fervor roared out first: “SO RETURNS THE BROTHER! We hear you have cast aside your bearer? Well, so be it, if you have done right. In the fire the soul is tested, and what does not burn will GLOW IN RADIANCE!”

Mercy though was much calmer. “You have exercised a right that we fought for together, but possessing a right is easier done than exercising it, and your judgment weighs heavily.” A pause. “I will not pass judgment before the test.”

“HOUSE GREVUE CARRIED ME, JUST AS I HAVE CARRIED HOUSE GREVUE EVER SINCE IT CAME INTO BEING!” Honor then bellowed, so that all the assembled banners could hear him even over all the murmur, and Shaelith began to suspect why Honor might have formed the habit of being so loud. “I hung over the cradles of kings, accompanying some of them from the birthing chamber, through coronations, battles, sorrow, and joy, all the way to the deathbed. I know every scar on this house, for I was there when the wound was inflicted.” And then, more softly, almost brokenly, “I have not left the house because I do not love it.”

Then the fabric tightened, Honor reared up on the pole, and his voice returned at full volume. “BUT MY HONOR IS MY LIFE, BOTH GROW IN ONE! With every second I would have spent longer with Gwilet, I would have denied my name! You may call it my RIGHT, Mercy, but I saw it as my DUTY! For what are we, what is our existence, the meaning of our lives, if not the embodiment of our virtue?”

“Well spoken,” the banners replied in unison.

Shaelith gazed thoughtfully at the red, blue, and gold banner fluttering from Benderast’s pole.

He seems to be quite torn inside, beneath all this theatrical posturing.

Meanwhile, Mirrsoss had moved very close to her and laid her antennae flat. “This is so strange,” she whispered. “By the way, I can sense them, even though they don’t even have bodies at all, but they’re incredibly emotional.” She shuddered. “It feels so weird.”

“I’d love to know if and how they react to emotional glamour,” Shaelith wondered. But she probably shouldn’t try that out.

Then her gaze fell to the edge of the field, where the path leading up to the castle began. There stood a group of young nobles wearing flamboyant feathered hats and lavish gold chains. They were watching the commotion at the Muster from a distance and laughing heartily, but in their midst stood a man who was not laughing.

Shaelith recognized him immediately. The last time she’d seen him was in the courtyard of the Crimson Warlock’s fortress, clad in armor without a single scratch, surrounded by all sorts of battered Tulvian knights who looked as if they’d fought their way out of a scrap press.

Prince Gwilet.

He was handsome in a way that made it clear, that he devoted a great deal of time each day to his appearance. His hair was well-groomed, his fingernails seemed manicured, and he wore an ornate robe with gold-embroidered pointed shoes so long it bordered on being comical.

From a distance, he kept staring intently at Benderast though and without blinking.

Last time someone stared at Benderast like that was Matriarch Zinvere. I really don’t like it when people stare at Benderast like that.

Benderast himself didn’t notice any of this. He was in the midst of being admired by two young squires and was apparently explaining his sword to them. “…and not only does it look good, it also has a magical ability, but I’m not going to reveal that, who knows…”

A servant in Grevue livery approached the prince, leaned forward, and whispered. Gwilet listened without taking his eyes off Benderast. Then he nodded briefly, turned away, and walked unhurriedly up the path to the castle with two of his companions.

At that very moment, Tancred returned, slightly out of breath. “Your Highness, Noble Hero. His Majesty will receive you now.”