Aldoria and the three swords

The beginning

The tournament that had begun in celebration continued thus, even to the end, even though the had been a brief hiatus due to the duel and death of the mystery man.

After the death of the unmarked man and the rumors of his true allegiance, the remaining contests were quietly curtailed. A final day of lesser displays was allowed so that the gathered houses might depart without the full weight of panic, yet the bright banners and cheering crowds of the opening morning had fully returned. The lists were cleared, the temporary stands dismantled, and the capital’s inns began to empty of knights and retainers. What lingered was the rumor that a servant of dark magic had walked openly among them and died on Aldorian soil.

In the great hall of the palace Queen Lirael held a formal audience before the remaining lords and champions. Prince Dastan stood at the foot of the dais in polished armor, the same man who had ended the threat with a single decisive thrust. The Queen rose and spoke in a clear voice that carried to every corner of the chamber.

“Prince Dastan of the western marches came to these lists as a guest and a suitor. When danger revealed itself, he met it without hesitation. For the elimination of the agent who sought to move among us, Aldoria owes him honor.”

She stepped down and placed a gold bracelet of merit on his arm while the hall applauded. Lord Aldric inclined his head in measured approval. Even those who had once doubted the prince’s pride joined the acclaim. Dastan accepted the honor with a deep bow, his handsome face composed, though the glint in his eyes showed he felt the victory keenly. Theron, standing among the ministers, clapped with the rest and said nothing.

In the days that followed, the other suitors took their leave. One by one the princes, second sons, and ambitious lords of distant houses packed their retinues and rode or sailed for home. Some departed with gracious words and hopes of future alliance; others left with thinner smiles, sensing that the Queen’s favor had already settled elsewhere. Only Prince Dastan was given a different parting. On the morning of his departure Queen Lirael received him privately in one of the rooms overlooking the inner garden.

“Return when the season turns,” she told him. “Not as one suitor among many, but as one whose presence the realm has reason to value.”

Dastan knelt, kissed her hand, and left the capital with the gold bracelet still around his arm and the certainty of welcome written across his future. The court took note. Whispers followed him through the gates: the Queen had chosen, or nearly so.

That same afternoon Lirael found Theron, sitting by the tall windows with the late light falling across the floor while rain fell, writing on his ledger. The chain of office she had given Dastan still seemed to hang in the air between them. She did not waste time with ceremony.

“Tell me what you think of Prince Dastan. Speak plainly.”

Theron had never learned the art of softening truth for the sake of comfort, and the recent scolding had not taught him to begin, and while still writing, he replied,

“He is a gifted warrior and a man of strong presence,” Theron answered. “He can inspire loyalty in those who admire strength, and he has shown courage when steel was required. But he is prideful to the bone. He looks down upon ordinary folk treats caution as weakness. He bristles when contradicted, even when the contradiction is necessary. If he becomes more than a guest in this court, that pride will shape every decision that follows. I do not distrust his arm. I distrust his head. I am prideful, hate caution and dislike being contradicted, does that make me a terrible human, Lirael asked. Theron now looking at the queen replied, “you know when to be these things, when they are necessary…….. sometimes, Lirael now smiling and looking away, point is, Theron continued, you are the queen, you are allowed to be this things.

“Well, I asked for truth,” she said quietly. “You have given it.”

Before either could speak further, a messenger entered with a sealed dispatch marked for immediate attention. Lord Aldric came next. The three of them gathered around the table as the seal was broken and the report laid open.

An army was marching from the east.

Scouts along the high passes had counted banners and spears moving inland under the cover of recent storms. The force was not yet vast, but it was disciplined and well supplied. At its head rode five of the banished lords, men whose names had been struck from Aldorian records after the last rising, now returned with foreign steel at their backs. The dispatch named the distant standards that flew beside their own: colors last seen in the harbors of Vareth.

The peace that had lasted through quiet years and careful ledgers was ending in plain sight.

Queen Lirael straightened, the personal questions of suitors and pride set aside as the weight of the crown settled fully once more.

“Call the council,” she said. “Empty the outer granaries into the city stores. Prepare the army, and send word to every ally Aldoria has: the banished have returned with an army at their side.”

Outside the windows the capital still carried the last echoes of tournament banners being taken down. Inside, the true contest of the realm had begun, and the horizon to the east no longer promised only sunrise.