unusual shades of light (ithacles, vedette)
The castle was the sort of thing you did not believe until you saw it.
Built into the side of a mountain, as a great deal of Faustben seemed to be, the area before one approached the gates was heavily wooded. Pines and other hardy trees clung to the mountain dirt mercilessly, where grass would sometimes struggle to find purchase. There were patches of it here and there, well-cultivated, but the trees were the thing. The stone rode, like the walls of similar make, seemed to wind serpentine around the crags and sharp relief of the mountain's face. Even with trees all around them Skandra could see the flags flying high, blue and white and stolid, from each of the bastions built into the castle's wall. The thing must have been forty feet or more in height - more than enough to tower over opposing forces - but the main thing were the glimpses of snowy white and solid blue cloaks that one could catch glimpses of through the crenelated parapet. There must have been five dozen of them up there, where the towers exceeded the walls in height by a good twenty feet, but only those flashing glimpses alerted anyone that guards patrolled the heights. Skandra thought the old stone looked worn, but it was only the coloration.
The castle itself looked like a beast.
As they followed the final snaking curve of the road they found that one hundred yards of trees and brush had been cleared away from the wall of the castle. This area was littered with chevaux de frise, each one looking something like the thorny branch of a vicious, murderous tree. They were fortifications intended to halt a cavalry charge, and here they had become a permanent fixture. Where most were made of wood these were of metal, anchored firmly to the ground to prevent an enemy force from clearing the way for a cavalry approach. Even if someone breached the chevaux de frise, they still had one hundred of the hardest yards in existence to reach the wall - where they would promptly be put out of their misery in short order. But the hard road beneath them was lined with imposing statues, towering figures from Faustben's past, who seemed to stand guard over those that approached. Skandra did not feel a sense of awe in the way that he should have. Assaulting a castle was a soldier's work, and he would never again have reason to worry about the fortifications of stone and steel. At least, he hoped that he wouldn't.
Ithacles held his hand high in salute as they approached - but such a measure was not necessary. The men above the gate, peering through arrowslits with domed capelines resting on their heads, leveled their bows only for a moment before lifting their weapons above their heads with string highest. The sign of approaching friends. There were shouts that he could not make out. The snap of a chain. Metal grinding on metal as the portcullis was raised, heaving wildly for a half-second before its ascent began slow and steady. This was the first of three such gates if he recalled. Ithacles and Vedette might have been speaking, but Skandra trailed behind, and was in constant search of the the source of his unease. He looked over his shoulder. Turned his gaze upward to the weapons buried behind stone. Such things were not for him alone to see, but in the moment they seemed it, detailed and strange to his eyes despite knowing what all of it was. There was no finer display of precision in the world than a castle saluting one of its lords upon his return. Every archer who was allowed to make himself known raised his bow in salute, or used his hand for a more traditional salutation.
Skandra's stare took in the grim singular purpose of the murder hole when a hard set of eyes stared back through the opening, almost as though he was disappointed there was no enemy whom he could douse with boiling oil or whatever foul concoction they used. The last time he'd assaulted a fort or a hill castle, Skandra made damn sure he didn't pass through any gates until every last bastard who could operate the murder hole was dead. By the time they passed through the third portcullis he was ready to chew nails. Nothing about this experience was making him easy. All of this was meant to be a shield, to protect those who lived in the castle, but just now it was the noose around the neck of his friend's father. Every face could be a traitor. Except none of them belonged to the fellow he had seen. At least, what he could see of the faces. Some of them had the good sense not to take off their helmets. Or it was good sense, if they were liars and murderers. Ithacles shot him a glance - probably wondering if he recognized any of these fellows - but Skandra only shook his head. There was nothing here worth seeing. A man who worked the walls could be part of a conspiracy, but how he could know the conspirator's face if he'd never seen it?
Now he was just making excuses in his mind.
"My Prince," a man in blue robes that reached his ankles bowed, the front of his head shaved and painted blue where hair once had been, gently but firmly interrupting their forward progress. "Lord Alvon, Steward for Her Highness Princess Lethe, has requested an audience at the convenience of the Prince."
"We were just on our way to see her," Skandra informed the man rudely.
"Apologies, my lord, but it is not possible. His Majesty Ithunvel has taken ill this day, and though it is not serious the illness keeps him from the inspection of the border forts. Princess Lethe has gone in his place, and Lord Alvon is conducting her affairs in the castle for the next three days. What reply shall I send to his, Prince Ithacles?"
"Take us to him," Ithacles' voice sounded like the lid of a coffin being hammered shut.
The interior of the castle itself was done up in more magnificent fashion than the exterior, with high stained glass windows casting unusual shades of light across every step that they took. Though the corridors were narrow they still managed to be lined with sconces of stone, depicting men with swords before them, point grounding into the earth as their hands rested one atop the other, and both those atop the pommel of the blade. Backlit as they were you couldn't make out their features. Just his kind of luck that they would be there, mocking him with their irony. No one had a face in this hallway, not even them - Ithacles' profile was bathed in shadow, and when he glanced over his shoulder, Captain Gorgeous had only shadows and those odd eyes to mark her presence. He was over-thinking things again, making it worse than it had or ought to be. Just as soon as he reminded himself that luck always turned in his favor those wide doors he hadn't noticed were thrown open. This must have been some kind of conference or strategy room. There was no decoration to speak of. A wide dome of stained glass was above them, with many sections unstained - to give it an otherworldly look, and to let in the light.
All around this circular chamber large maps were hung on the wall. Of Faustben, of Astarii, of the Free Cities, of Kenyon, of Malondir and Astora, of Ashara to the south... the list went on and on. In the center of the room four rectangular tables of hard wood and excellent craft held smaller maps with more detail. Skandra thought one of them was Faustben, another Ellothorien, and another Agethlea. Why those maps would be connected or collected was beyond him. And in the center of those four rectangles, which were themselves arranged in a loose sort of square configuration with enough space to walk between, was a burly fellow with sword-scars on both cheeks and his forehead. No one thought Lord Ter Alvon had acquired those tending to crops or balancing ledgers. He'd been a knight in defense of Lethe during more than one orc raid. There were rumors that the fellow had snapped an orc's neck in the savage heat of battle. Given the fact that his arms looked like the largest trees in the forest, Skandra might have believed it. Except he remembered asking about once, and remembered the short laugh that Alvon had barked.
"Why would I break their necks?" he demanded in that hoarse profane voice of his. "It's much easier to stab them, you young fool."
It turned out that he did have a mind for balancing ledgers, commanding along the strict lines that he was given, and his unbreakable loyalty to Lethe had landed him in this position after he'd earned the scars in battle. Skandra thought he liked Alvon the way that you could like any man so fiercely devoted to one thing. You could trust him to protect that one thing. For any other purpose you should ask the sun for help instead. Alvon did know a few jokes, however, and if he couldn't quite drink Skandra under the table he at least made a night of it. Now the fellow did not wear a sword, only the deep blues and clear whites of his rank - slashes of white down blue sleeves, with a white doublet that hadn't been tailored properly - it looked like his chest was strangling the doublet and meant to rip through it in a moment. Well, tha tmuch muscle mad a man slow. Alvon gave him the lie by lightly moving out from behind the maps, his face breaking into a wide smile as he bowed from the waist.
"Prince Ithacles," the fellow said. "Captain Uthral. And Master Tyullis. Thank you for coming so quickly."
A nod of his head, which came on the heels of his deep and respectful bow, sent the messenger on his way. Only when the double-doors closed behind that skinny, mouthy fool did Alvon speak.
"I am sorry for my hasty request, my Prince," Alvon's arms somehow managed to fold against his chest. "I meant no disrespect. But ... Princess Lethe asked me to speak to you on this matter. I... you should be hearing this from family, my Prince, but I remember training you to use that hanger. I hope ... I hope that is enough."
It sounded, Skandra thought, like someone had a funeral in their future. That meant he said nothing - only stared at the map of Agethlea. He had no idea they'd so many public baths. Where did all the water come from?