40. The Duke’s Hall #2
“Lord Baldir, remember Duke Hemmrich prefers directness to flowery speech. Keep your words short and your confidence high. He respects strength, even when he disagrees with it.”
Baldir nodded, adjusting his collar with two fingers.
“Lord Armand, several southern champions are present tonight. House Vennar brought their heir, who fancies himself the best dual-wielder in the region. He’ll test you with words before steel. Don’t rise to the bait.”
Armand’s smile turned sharp. “I never rise to bait. I set it.”
“And me?” I asked.
“You’re the youngest competitor anyone here has seen in a decade.
” Cromwell studied me the way he studied everything, measuring the gap between what was and what needed to be.
“Wide eyes at the feast tables. Excitement about tomorrow’s brackets.
Awe at noble splendor. But not stupid awe.
You’re a de Blaise, not some merchant’s son seeing his first castle. ”
Betta had left a ceremonial dagger in an ornate sheath, and I positioned it at my left hip. The blade was decorative, the angle wrong for quick draws, the handle too ornate to grip properly. A symbol, not a weapon.
“Can you manage it?” Cromwell asked. “Or has training burned the boy from you entirely?”
I let eager enthusiasm creep across my face, widened my eyes, bounced on my heels. “The tournament brackets, real knights, all that food. This is going to be incredible!”
Cromwell studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Better. Remember that feeling. Hold it on your face all night.”
Betta returned with a final inspection, examining her work with professional satisfaction. “He’ll do. Looks almost legitimate now.”
Almost. Always almost.
But it would have to be enough.
◇ ◆ ◇
“Remember,” Cromwell said, making final adjustments to all three of us. “You’re Lord Henrik’s sons. All of you.”
His eyes found mine. “Bastard or not, you carry de Blaise blood. That means people in this hall will be watching you, judging your father through your behavior. Don’t give them ammunition.”
A knock interrupted his lecture. A page in Hemmrich’s colors bowed from the doorway, looking barely old enough to shave.
“My lords, His Grace Duke Hemmrich awaits your presence in the Amber Hall. The gathering has begun.”
“Tell His Grace we’re honored by his invitation,” Baldir replied smoothly .
As the page departed, Cromwell gave us one final inspection. “Work together by working apart. I’ll be with the other advisors if you need guidance. Signal by adjusting your left cufflink.”
“We won’t need help,” Baldir said.
“Nevertheless.” Cromwell moved toward the door. “The corridor will guide you. Follow the lights and the noise. You can’t miss it.”
◇ ◆ ◇
Servants lined the walls at regular intervals, each holding a lamp that turned the passage into a river of gold light. The effect was theatrical, designed to impress and intimidate visitors who hadn’t seen such displays before.
Other doors opened as we passed, releasing young nobles in their finery.
I recognized a few faces from Cromwell’s lessons, names matched to brief descriptions that now walked beside us in silk and silver.
The tall blonde with the arrogant jaw was Lord Devin Vennar, heir to the red serpent, whose father had supposedly killed his own brother over inheritance.
The shorter man with the quick eyes was Sir Colm Torwick, a knight-errant who’d won tournaments in the south and hoped to build his reputation here.
The games had already begun in these corridors. Each group maintained careful distance while measuring the competition. Who was strong, who was weak, who might be useful as ally or target.
The Amber Hall lived up to its name. Massive crystals hung from the vaulted ceiling, refracting lamplight until the entire space glowed warm as bottled sunshine.
The warmth rose to meet us as we descended the main staircase, carrying scents of roasted meat, spiced wine, and the complex mixture of perfumes that marked noble gatherings .
At least eighty people filled the hall already, maybe more.
Lords, ladies, and their heirs. Knights, champions, and advisors.
Servants moved through the crowd with trays of wine and delicate foods.
A string ensemble played somewhere I couldn’t see, the music soft enough to allow conversation but loud enough to mask quiet words from eavesdroppers.
Duke Hemmrich stood at the room’s heart, positioned where everyone had to acknowledge him when they entered.
Smaller than I’d expected but filling space with presence alone.
Dark hair streaked with premature silver, eyes that smiled while cataloging everything they touched.
He wore green and gold silk that probably cost more than a small village’s annual income, with a gold hawk pin at his collar that matched the banners on the walls.
Forty-six years old, according to Cromwell’s briefings.
Unmarried, supposedly by choice. Father of no legitimate children, though rumors suggested several bastards scattered across the region.
A man who’d held power by never committing fully to any side, never making enemies he couldn’t afford, never making friends who might become threats.
“The de Blaise sons,” he announced as we approached, his voice carrying the warmth of a man who’d welcomed guests by the hundreds and meant none of his welcomes. “Lord Baldir, Lord Armand, and young Danarre. House de Blaise honors us with its presence.”
The pause before my name was deliberate.
A reminder of what I was and wasn’t. Acknowledged bastard.
Not quite family. Not quite servant. Occupying the space between, where everyone had to decide how to treat you fresh each time.
We bowed in unison, each to our proper depth.
Mine came out slightly clumsy, like a boy still learning the forms. Perfect.
“Your Grace,” Baldir said, producing a sealed letter. “Our father sends his regards and his regrets that duty prevents him from attending personally.”
“Lord Henrik is always welcome in my hall.” The Duke passed the letter to a servant without reading it, tucked away for later examination. “I trust your journey wasn’t too taxing? The roads can be treacherous this time of year.”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle, Your Grace. House de Blaise trains its sons for hardship.”
“Indeed.” The Duke’s eyes flickered to me briefly. “I see Lord Henrik’s training extends to all his children.”
There it was. The acknowledgment that couldn’t be ignored, the reminder that I existed in a category that made some nobles uncomfortable.
“My father believes talent should be developed wherever it’s found,” Baldir said smoothly. “Danarre has shown promise worthy of investment.”
“Promise.” The Duke’s smile didn’t change, but his attention sharpened behind it. “I look forward to seeing that promise demonstrated in the arena. Young talent is always entertaining to watch.”
He turned to greet the next arriving noble before I could respond, dismissing us with the casual efficiency of a man who had a hall full of conversations to manage and couldn’t spare more than a moment for any single guest .
As the Duke engaged other visitors and Armand drifted toward a cluster of young champions near the weapons display, I let my attention wander to the food tables.
The spread was overwhelming. Dishes I’d never imagined, presented like art rather than sustenance.
Roasted boar with apple slices arranged in patterns.
Fish arranged in wine sauce that actually resembled swimming fish.
Vegetables carved into flowers, castles, and creatures that were almost too beautiful to eat.
My stomach growled audibly, and the noise carried further than I intended.
Duke Hemmrich laughed from across the room. “The youngest has identified what truly matters. Please, young Danarre, help yourself. My kitchens have prepared enough to feed an army.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I headed for the tables with barely restrained eagerness, playing the part of a boy overwhelmed by noble excess while scanning the crowd for faces worth remembering.
Lord Devin Vennar stood near the wine service, already on his third glass judging by the flush on his cheeks.
He was watching Armand with an expression that promised trouble in the arena tomorrow.
Sir Colm Torwick had cornered a young woman in House Ironhold colors, talking animatedly about whatever made her smile despite what looked like determined effort not to.
A cluster of older nobles gathered near the fireplace, speaking in lowered voices that didn’t quite carry.
Advisors, probably. Men like Cromwell who did the thinking while their lords did the talking.
And watching it all from a corner near the musicians, a man in priest’s robes trimmed with silver. Not wolf fur. Silver .
But my spine tightened when I looked at him.
It wasn’t his robes or his rank. It was the stillness.
The way he stood apart from the crowd without looking isolated, the way his gaze moved from guest to guest with the patience of a man taking inventory.
His wine sat untouched in his hand, a prop rather than a drink.
I’d seen that kind of watching before. Men who cataloged exits and counted armed bodies and calculated which faces in a room would be missed if they stopped breathing. The Red Gale had done it for decades. So had every officer who’d survived long enough to go gray.
I filed his face away for later and turned my attention to the roasted boar.
Tomorrow the tournament would begin. Tomorrow the games would move from words to steel.
But tonight, I was thirteen years old, hungry, and surrounded by more food than I’d seen in one place.
Even the Red Gale could enjoy a feast when one was offered.
◇ ◆ ◇
「Hel’s Ledger」
Vessel: Danarre de Blaise | Year 828 | Age 13
House de Blaise | Status: Bastard (Unacknowledged)
Location: Duke Hemmrich’s Estate, Amber Hall
「Knight of Swords」 — Burning
「Emperor」 — Sleeping
「Magician」 — Sleeping
Active Charge: Find the Hierophant. End what was begun.
The old woman knew his mother. Let the vessel collect her ghost piece by piece. Rage built on knowledge is deeper than rage built on grief. The Duke smiles too much and the priest watches too carefully, and between them comes the vessel.