The stamp of bronze-shod Lunar feet echoed around the Royal Palace of Boldhome as Terrastal and Sandene were escorted within. Although there was every chance that things would end badly for them, they found it impossible to be anything but awestruck by the opulence around them. Although Sandene was used to the austere grandeur of the temples at Wintertop, she’d never seen anything like this and Terrastal was agape despite himself; this whole palace had been built by the mysterious Mostali to the design of the demi-god Sartar. It was Sartar who’d established the Orlanthi in these lands, and who for many was the ideal of everything an Orlanthi should be. Huge columns of red-veined marble surrounded them, marvelously fashioned to resemble tree trunks until they reached the ceiling high above when their forms shifted to become those of storm clouds. The craft of the dwarves was such that Sandene found herself wondering whether the palace was indeed open to the sky before she noted the way the shadows played across the distant ceiling. Artfully placed windows meant that the whole interior was supplied with natural sunlight, drawing the viewers attention to the carved friezes of the seven Lightbringers that adorned the walls. As the light moved over them, it seemed as if the figures moved and gestured imperiously at those below. It was at this point that Terrastal’s mood began to sour; in places, tapestries covered in Lunar symbols hung down, clearly obscuring any representation of mighty Orlanth. The sound of tramping soldiers’ feet likewise grated on his nerves, a symbol of how firmly the pride of Sartarite culture lay under the heel of the Lunar oppressor. Sandene noted the storm clouds gathering on Terrastal’s brow, and prayed that he would be able to restrain himself in the hours to come.
After what seemed like an age, the heroes and their escorts entered what was clearly the throne room. Here, the Lunar presence was even more evident. Foreign tapestries hung all around the room, obscuring all of the Lightbringers, and at the far end of the room behind a raised dais was a huge banner bearing the iconography of the Red Goddess herself. Around the room stood small knots of courtiers, discussing their affairs in hushed voices. Although many were of Orlanthi stock, all wore clothing of Lunar fashion. On the dais itself, a group of Lunar priests were burning offerings to the Seven Mothers of the Red Goddess, clouds of sickly sweet smelling vapour rising into the air. Towards the rear of the dais stood a powerfully-built armoured warrior of 50 or so summers, heavily bearded and clearly commanding the respect of the other warriors and scribes surrounding him. The center of the platform was occupied by a stone chair, in which lolled an unprepossessing middle-aged man wearing robes of Esrolian style. Seated next to him was a strikingly beautiful woman, clearly leaving her youth behind but with a proud demeanour and a penetrating gaze. She was feeding grapes to the seated man, who Sandene noted was pale of skin, watery of eye and with a scraggly beard; she disliked him instantly. The tableau was completed by a two heavily tattooed and bearded warriors that stood near the prince, accompanied by a pair of huge wolves. No doubt these were the infamous Telmori, chaos-tainted brothers to the wolf sworn to defend the Prince with their lives. They watched Sandene and Terrastal through hooded eyes and waited.
As one, their Lunar escort crashed to a halt before the dais, clashing their weapons to their chest and shouting ‘Hail Fazzur!’, to which the powerfully built warrior turned and inclined his head. ‘So this was Fazzur Wideread!’ thought Sandene. She had been brought up on tales of his bravery and military prowess, for all that it had led to her people’s mountainous exile. Although she hated him, with a shock she realised she was also strangely attracted to him. Guiltily, she glanced at Terrastal and, noticing his quizzical expression, glowered all the more furiously to cover her discomfort. Fortunately for her, Fazzur began to speak in a rich, powerful voice. ‘Mighty Temertain, here are the brawlers who would break your royal peace, to receive your judgement’. The weaker man rose to his feet, grapes spilling to the floor, outrage marking his features. ‘How dare you break my royal peace! I should have you flogged and crucified!’ and for a moment the heroes’ hearts sank as their escort closed in around them. But then they noted that the courtiers who had turned on hearing Fazzur’s voice had turned back to their own affairs on seeing that the general had lost interest in proceedings; it was clear who held the power here, and it was not Temertain. As the Prince paced forward, his companion stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm. ‘My Prince’ she began, ‘perhaps we should hear them out’, and as she spoke Terrastal noted that she gave him a frank, appraising stare; taking a chance, he favoured her with his most charming smile whilst Temertain was distracted, and he thought he saw the shadow of a smile in return. Sighing loudly, Temertain turned back to the heroes and gestured irritably for them to explain themselves. Buoyed up by the unexpected turn of events, Terrastal launched into an explanation that leaned heavily on terms like ‘honour’, ‘tradition’, and ‘stability’ whilst Sandene provided her own interjections when he paused for breath. It was clear that the Prince had lost interest in the matter by the way he slumped back in his throne and began to examine a small figurine of foreign style; only his companion remained attentive, asking questions and making encouraging noises in the right places. As Sandene and Terrastal lapsed into a nervous silence once more, the lady leaned over and whispered in Temertain’s ear. Looking up, he began to speak distractedly: ‘The Lady Estal feels your case should be heard in my Law Court, and I agree. In the meantime, we will provide you with food and drink and a place to rest. Now, look at the fine detailing on this votive statuette, my dear…’
The Lady Estal summoned a serving maid and whispered urgent instructions into her ear. As the maid led them off into the interior of the palace, the heroes looked at each other in confusion; what did this mean? Neither of them saw Estal’s calculating expression as she watched them leave, however…
Meanwhile, Randel, Bofrost and Yrsa had been left outside the palace gates to wonder at their next course of action. Around them milled the witnesses to the duel from the Lismelder and Colymar tribes. From overheard conversations, two things became clear: the duel had impressed those watching, and was already being embellished in the telling. ‘Did you see the lightning flash from Terrastal’s blade as he struck!’ and ‘I saw the Death Rune blaze on her brow as she fought!’. Bofrost shook his head, sharing a look with the puzzled Yrsa. Whilst she was mystified by the need to look beyond what was, Bofrost knew the power of stories in the world, and that the story of this duel was beginning to take on a life of its own. After all, the myths that shaped reality had started out as mere stories...
In the midst of this, Randel felt a pull on his sleeve; looking down, he saw a scrawny child, unsightly sores covering one side of her face. Wrinkling his nose, he made to pull away, fearful of the disease spirit she carried. As he did so, the child spoke up in a clear voice, and he realised the ‘sores’ were just artfully applied make-up. The child grinned mirthlessly up at him: ‘Sweet Arkell would like a word’, and with that she set off through the crowd at a run. Pulling Bofrost and Yrsa along with him, Randel set off after her. It seemed that they were always just on the verge of losing her as she ran ahead, and soon they realised they were being led into the dangerous rat-runs of Geo’s Pocket. But this ‘Sweet Arkell’ might be their best chance of rescuing Sandene and Terrastal, so they gritted their teeth and kept moving...
Eventually, they found themselves in a courtyard of dilapidated buildings, dark windows staring down at them like dead eyes. The child was nowhere in sight, and there were no obvious ways out. The place was oppressive and reeked of poverty. As they stood there, an odd high-pitched voice rang out from an upper story window, the speaker hidden from view. ‘You wished to speak with me. What is it you want from the Lightfingers?’ As the voice continued, it appeared to emanate from different windows in the courtyard, meaning that the speaker was either impossibly fast or using some gift of the Trickster God. In response to their request to help get access to the Palace, Arkell was willing to help... as long as they took and oath to repay him with a favour at some point. Randel hesitated; his was the God of Trade, he knew how bargains were made and this felt like a bad one. The Trickster was a fickle ally, and although he was a Lightbringer he often caused as much harm as help. Without a word, the heroes realised they were in agreement; they would take the offered deal if they desperately needed it, but only if they had no other options. As if from nowhere, the child Lightfinger reappeared and led them out from the maze of crumbling streets.
Returning to the Colymar Manor, they were amazed to find a message from Terrastal asking to meet them at the Palace gates! Reunited, the companions shared their experiences since the duel. Sandene had spent her time wisely, calling on her renewing link with the Fertility Rune to build a rapport with the Palace servants. As a result, she’d learned that the keys to the Vault where the Red Hands were held by one Berra Stone, a venal and corrupt bully who thought only of her own pockets. Bofrost had discovered that the Red Hands were kept in the Prince’s Strongbox, a marvellous Mostali artefact that can only be opened by one of the Royal Line. Furthermore, the Red Hands were only brought out for Royal Feasts and displayed next to the throne. Would-be thieves were discouraged through the presence of a magic dove near the Prince, bought with the Prince from Nochet. The dove had the ability to sense those with the intent to steal and warned the Prince accordingly, which posed a problem.
Throughout this, Terrastal was uncharacteristically quiet; he too had made a discovery, but one not to his liking. On his first night in the palace, a servant had come to his room at midnight and led him through the Palace’s labyrinthine corridors to a well-appointed chamber; Estal had summoned him, and he found she was as skilled with her wit as with matters of the flesh. Before he knew it, he’d revealed his role in the Lunar resistance around Clearwine, his part in the death of Vanthorion, everything. As he’d returned to his room in the cold light of the next day, he knew he’d placed himself in Estal’s power, and the thought made his blood run cold.
But still, there remained the matter of the Duel in the House of Death. Although they had been given leave to stay at Estal’s request, Sandene and Terrastal were still charged with breaking the Prince’s Peace and were bound to stand trial for this. They spent what time they had preparing their arguments; they could have fled, but they were bound to retrieve the Red Hands. Not only did the Marriage Contest demand it, but having the Hands might sway those Colymar Clan Chiefs at Baranthos’ trial to their side. After all, all Orlanthi were drawn to and respected bold foolhardiness like moths to a flame.
On the day of the Prince’s Lawcourt, the companions assembled along with the dozens of other petitioners hoping for Temertain’s favour. As the day wore on, the companions dealt with the wait in their own way. Yrsa stood patiently and looked on whilst Terrastal fretted and paced, not through fear but from forced inactivity. Bofrost squatted down and pored over a scroll he’d borrowed from the Royal Library. Every now and then he exclaimed out loud at a particularly interesting passage, before lapsing into silence once more. Randel spent the hours talking to those around him, ever on the search for possible trading opportunities; as many of the petitioners were either followers of Issaries or Etyries, the time passed swiftly and fruitfully. Sandene, however, stood slightly apart. Since her healing, she was rediscovering a connection with the Fertility Rune. As such, she now appeared as she hadn’t for many years. Rather than her usual warriors garb, she wore a simple but elegant garment such as those worn by Tarshite followers of Ernalda. She had tried to style her short hair to match, and even wore a line of kohl around her eyes. On seeing her that morning, the usual jest had died on Terrastal’s lips. He recognised that Sandene was seeking to express her nature more fully, and she deserved his support as she had supported him.
Finally, their turn came. As expected, Temertain was present as was Estal; both paid little attention to the petitioners, being more interested in their wine, although the shrewd observer would note that nothing transpired that Estal didn’t see and remember. Much of the work of the court was done by a pinch-faced Lunar with a high-pitched, querulous voice. Randel whispered to his comrades that this was Gordius Silverus, Fazzur’s Legate of Barbarian Affairs. He was renowned for having a deep knowledge of Orlanthi law and customs, and for supporting Fazzur in all things. As the companions came forward, he frowned deeply and glanced at Estal. ‘What had she told him?’ wondered Terrastal.
The companions stepped forward and set out their arguments. As before, Terrastal put his natural eloquence to good use, speaking passionately about honour and tribal custom. Sandene likewise spoke to great effect, playing on Silverus’ Tarshite heritage to good effect. As usual, Yrsa stood back with Bofrost and took note of all that happened. Whispering to Bofrost, she noted that the Prince was particularly enamoured of a bottle of Clearwine, but she bided her time.
After the arguments were made, Silverus leaned towards Temertain and spoke for all to hear. ‘I counsel that these peace-breakers be crucified as an example to others. Hiding behind talk of custom is a dangerous precedent’. Estal glanced at Terrastal coldly, and whispered in Temertain’s ear. All present held their breath. ‘It is my wish...that they be spared’ spoke the Prince. At this, Yrsa leaned forward and whispered to Randel. ‘My Prince’ he spoke up. ‘I note you have a liking for Clearwine. Perhaps I might be permitted to make a gift of a fine Konthasos vintage, to show my respect and our fealty’. At this, Temertain pricked up his ears; the Konthasos were the finest makers of Clearwine in Sartar, and their vintage rarely made it into the City of Shadows. ‘Of course, we would be happy to taste your wine, good merchant. Bring it to the Royal Feast, and with it yourselves!’
As the heroes walked free from the Law Court, followed by Silverus’ scowling gaze, already they were planning their theft of the Red Hands. If they stole them before the Feast, they could avoid both the magic of the dove and breaking Temertain’s hospitality by stealing from him. What could possibly go wrong?
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