Chapter Four #3
“Yes, right down here next to the queen’s sitting room.” The grand advisor motioned to a doorway four doors down.
I turned to look at Prescott, who still carried my trunk on one shoulder but was poking his finger at a tapestry showing a pack of hunting dogs chasing a rabbit.
“Dog, dog,” he was whispering. He had learned a lot from his picture books.
“Prescott, I’m going to go into that room,” I said while pointing to the doorway Le’ral had mentioned. “I’ll be just a moment. Sit here on my trunk to make sure it doesn’t open.”
He nodded, sat, and returned to naming the beasts on the tapestry. I patted his massive shoulder and joined Le’ral.
“Is leaving him alone wise?” Le’ral asked when we reached the Stillcloud gallery’s double doors, his gaze leaving me to settle on Prescott.
“He’ll be fine. He won’t move from that trunk until I tell him to.”
“Ah, then let us enjoy the oils.” He opened the door with flair before stepping into a room filled with paintings hanging on stone walls, frames of rich wood with small gold nameplates adorning each oil.
The drapes on the dozen or so tall windows were open, allowing ample sun to light the room, and yet dozens of candles burned.
Small tables with flowers in glass urns sat beneath each portrait.
The castle must pay a fortune just to the local florists to keep this one room in bright blooms. “If we start here at the beginning, we find the first—”
“Is there a portrait of King Aelir’s mother?”
I’d not call her my mother. There was no proof of maternity yet and thinking that I might be a son of the crown made me feel hot and cold at the same time.
“Yes, down here, next to a recent painting of Queen Raewyn that was just completed last autumn. The royal portraitist is a local resident, quite skilled in capturing the vibrancy of his…”
Whatever he was saying drifted off like fog on a warming sea as I skipped over oil after oil of elven women with long noses and pinched faces to find her.
My boots seemed to be mired in hot tar beneath her likeness.
My ears began to ring, my mouth to dry, my heart to pound as I stared up at a woman who looked so like me I felt dizzy.
I’d looked at myself in a mirror more than enough times to know my face well.
Perhaps I was a little vain. Perhaps more than a little.
But I knew my cheeks, my eyes, my lips. I knew the formation of my nose and jaw.
I spread my legs, as if I were sailing wild seas, to steady myself.
“She is lovely, is she not? Lady Gialar was always thought to be one of the most beautiful elves to grace our lands.” I tore my sight from the oil to stare dry-eyed at Le’ral.
He was watching me intently. “That is Aelir’s mother.
You can also view his father, Lord Tendarl’s likeness, hanging on the opposing wall. ”
I said nothing to that. Did I care about the man who had sired Aelir?
No, not particularly. Not yet. Perhaps if the testing proved…
whatever it might prove. Also, I found it hard to keep my sight from drifting from Lady Stillcloud.
Deep down, where my doubts and fears resided, I had been praying to the sea witches that this supposed tale of kidnapped infants and privateers was bull-cockery.
Even with the comments about how I looked like the king, I’d shuttled any real possibility to the side as best as I could.
Now, though—now I saw her face—the whispered mentions now struck a much more powerful blow.
“Captain? You look wan. Would you like me to open a window?” Le’ral’s concerned voice slipped through the rising tide of panic in my breast. I ripped my sight from the portrait to stare at the handsome man studying me with worry.
“No, I…” I forced myself to stop being a fool.
Resemblances proved nothing. A strong likeness to another did not mean shared blood was present.
“Thank you. I’m fine.” I seemed to be saying that frequently.
Hyla was known to comment that the more you insisted you were well, the less likely it was that you were.
I should have brought her with me as well as Prescott.
But her eyes on the Cloud’s Shame was more important than my jittery belly.
“She’s quite lovely, yes, so very blonde. ”
“Yes, all the Stillclouds are fair-haired. Umeris was so appealing to the eyes, so flaxen-haired as a young elf that many thought his tresses were tinted with silver.” He spoke with some reverence that sat on my tongue like a rotted egg.
“Umeris, the king’s grandfather. The one who didn’t want a half-human child bringing a loss of face to the Stillcloud name, so he sent the child off with a woman shamed to suckle him as he was turned over to privateers.
That’s the man you speak of? The flaxen-haired, handsome noble who cast his grandchild into the midden heap as if the babe were soiled underclothes. ”
“Supposedly cast his grandchild aside,” he gently reminded me. “We have yet to fully substantiate the woman’s story or complete your blood work.”
I had to laugh. A bitter bark rolled out of me as I stood toe to toe with the grand advisor. His elven blood brought his nose to my chin, but he stood straight as an oak and just as strong.
“Yes, of course. You’re correct. There shall be no casting dispersions on the Stillcloud name until the proof of the perfidy committed is in the pudding,” I snarled, my voice much louder than intended.
“Pudding! Plum pudding!” Prescott bellowed from the hallway.
His booming voice shook me from the cloud of anger I was feeling toward everyone in this massive keep aside from myself and the half troll with purple paste on his head.
“We need to get to my suite, Your Advisorship.”
Le’ral bowed slightly, tossing his half cape aside in an elegant way that spoke of untold seasons of courtly affectations. Surely he should not be so damn elegant all the time. Did he ever scratch his balls or pass wind?
“My apologies. I meant no upset, Captain. Let us find your suite.”
I stalked out of the gallery, rolling over the differences between myself and Lady Stillcloud. Shorter ears. Truly, I wished I had more to cite, but for now, I would cling to that small contrast for dear life as we sought out some pudding.
Being escorted to our rooms by the grand advisor was obviously an important occurrence.
I knew that on some level, even if I had no clue what shoes were the fashion in court this week.
Why Le’ral was doing so, I couldn’t fathom, but he was seemingly enjoying himself playing chamberlain of the keep.
We sailed past two well-armed guards in leather armor, eyes round as dinner plates upon seeing a troll toting a trunk in their corridor.
“This wing was refurbished just forty seasons ago by the previous king as it had been damaged in a typhoon,” he explained, flinging open a wide door with delicate leaves etched into the white wood.
I stepped in after Le’ral, the elegance stunning me into silence as I drank it all in.
The room was airy, with soft white and pale blue décor and two huge doors that opened onto a balcony.
The sound of the sea was loud, and the cries of the gulls even louder.
The bed was on a riser, with a blue coverlet and a score of white pillows of various sizes.
A wardrobe against one wall that could hold a sea captain and a half troll, an ornate desk with a spindly chair, and a changing screen that blocked off a smaller door I assumed led to a bathing room.
The fireplace was tall enough to stand in, and the metal grate in front of the cold hearth showed the seal of Melowynn. I looked over at Le’ral observing me, arms folded casually, an imperceptible smile on his lips.
“You’ve taken us to the wrong room,” I stated, for surely this was not the sleeping place for a pirate.
“No, the king asked you be given this room, as it has the best view of the sea. He feared you might miss the ocean under your boots while you were visiting, so he wished to make you as comfortable as possible.”
“Hmm,” I murmured, stepping out into the brisk winds, feeling it lift my hair up as the tang of saltwater wet my lips.
Yes, the king was astute. From here I could see the port of Celear spread out on the bright blue water.
My ship was docked farthest to the west, already being lined up for careening.
It would be sailed to a section of the shore on high tide and forced onto her side for repairs.
Hyla was right in that once the Cloud’s Shame was out of the water, we were at a large disadvantage.
Perhaps the king wished for me to see my ship lying on the rocky shore like a bloated carp out of water.
“I think the king has placed far too much credence on the delirious words of an old elf.”
“Time shall bear things out,” he said while Prescott deposited my trunk on the cool stone floor and stretched out, cooing as the stone touched his back. “I’ll send word to the master of the household to send up a valet and the royal barber.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. Compared to the smooth skin of most elves, I was a hairy beast. My human blood blessed me with some whiskers, a thin spattering of hair on my chest, and a thicket of black curls at my crotch. Nothing in comparison to a dwarf…
Speaking of dwarves. “Where did Beiro and Asdren hare off to?”
“They’re awaiting a meeting with the king, much like you.”
“Ah. Well, I’ve little use for a valet and have been shaving my face for many years, so if we could have some food sent—”
“Plum pudding,” Prescott interjected, patting the floor with open palms.
“Plum pudding for my guardian. Wine and light meat with some vegetables for me.”
“I will have a footman relay that to the kitchens. I would strongly recommend you think about allowing the royal barber to shave your face and trim your hair.”
“Oh? Do you find my human whiskers off-putting?”
“Not at all. What will be found off-putting by any noble elf is the length of your hair. I know you are not aware of the delicacies of court life or of the rules of comportment of elven society, but—”
“Oh, I am very much aware the noble cockers like to dictate to the poor folks how they can dress, speak, and wear their hair. Since I’m not a member of the royal court and answer to none but myself and the sea witches, I’ll wear my hair however I wish.”
I crossed my arms, cocked a brow, and waited.
“We will revisit this later, but I would suggest that you, at the very least, pull your hair into a tail you can tuck into the back of your shirt.”
“Hmm, let me ponder on that.” I stroked my whiskery chin as I pretended to mull over the suggestion. “I’ve decided to tell anyone who comments on my pretty tresses that they may shove their concerns about the hair of others far, far, far, far, far up their puckered poopholes.”
“Poophole.” Prescott tittered. Le’ral did not titter.
“We will come back to this. I am sure you are tired from your journey. Bathe, eat, make yourself presentable to the king, and someone will come for you as soon as His Majesty is available. Until this evening.” He bowed deeply.
I dipped down into a curtsy, wishing deeply I had my hat to wave about. Where was my hat? Damn it. Prescott’s head was naked and purple. When and where had he lost it?
“Until then, Your Advisorship.”
He exited with the air of a man who had conceded a point only to be polite to someone who might be royal. Either that or he was stunned by my beauty and wished to please me in carnal ways this night. A not unpleasant thought, but I suspected the first reason to be the most reliable.
“Poophole.” Prescott giggled.
I sighed, toed off my boots, and fell back onto a bed so soft and so deeply scented with rose water that I nearly sank out of sight of my companion.
“Poophole.” Floor slap. “Poophole.” Floor slap. “Poophole.” Floor slap.
At least Prescott was enjoying himself. I was already starting to feel like a lobster trapped in a gilded pot.