The Game of Shadows
(Disclaimed)
Hmmmm—Should I keep the dialogue subtle and only use ye olde englishe for humor and emphasis, or should I go over the top faux-netic all the time? Should I set boundaries for fashion so we don't have a dude in a early-medieval bliaut rubbing elbows with a dude in a Renaissance jerkin? Should I use exactly the same plumbing system that was found in that one monastery, or should I use something a bit more Roman for it?
And, most importantly:
Should I kill the dog?
Chapter two:
Link, for lack of a new task, just kept pondering and hacking up fire wood until he worked up a healthy, sticky sweat, a mess of salt clinging to his forehead and back—and the kitchen was so busy, every time he brought a load to the pile, they had already burned through the last one. When it grew too hot to work, well after midday, he took a break, ate some dried pottage turned into a bit of soupy mess, a refection of its original form, with a few splashes of bitter beer, he nibbled on some watercress by the riverside, a few fresh berries, and watched a few boys kicking a heavy leather ball between them, using two trees as goals.
He finished the bland meal, took a brief nap, and then went back to work.
Sometimes, he envied the indoor servants, who got to see the grand feasts and parties the royal family hosted. But it was good there was no way he could be called in at the last minute to serve during one. He would have no idea how to behave—he was as humble as they came, but did not take being belittled kindly. Everyone said, time and time again, with his good eye, his natural talent for a clean kill, and his calm demeanor, he would better serve the king as a soldier or an archer. He could even be a cavalier or knight, if he wanted to be. And he wanted to be—but all stations were reserved for those born to them. And Link was born to be a servant, regardless of disposition.
"Ugh."
Link stopped, the axe head lodged slightly in the tree stump. Before him was a narrow and prim man. When Link looked at him, he drew himself up, elbows bent. Over one arm, there was draped a green tunic, the other was held up, by his shoulder, in a dignified, dainty manner, his fingers resting elegantly on the heel of his hand. He head moved on his long neck like a owl or a snake, examining him with narrow eyes like he was a particularly mange-ridden rat and wondering if he was suitable to eat or not. Link crossed his writs on the butt of the axe handle, and propped a foot on the stump.
The man was not exactly nobility, though he was splendidly dressed, a fine, sky-blue doublet with open, trailing sleeves, a pair of parti-colored hose, and fine, polished, pale leather shoes. Link vaguely recognized him. He was the Steward. The King was the one to paid Link for his services, but the Steward was the one who told him what to do.
He said again, as if to prove a point or to receive some kind of acknowledgment, "UGH!"
"Is that meant to be hello?" Link tilted his head to the side and smirked.
"Ugh!"
Perhaps that was really all he could say. Link tried to imagine a mute man's life, capable only of speaking in grunts and wordless shouts.
"What do you need?"
"Pray, do not tell me you are Link."
"As you wish." Link replied, "I am not Link."
In hindsight, that was no way to speak to the Steward, considering that this was their first time actually speaking. Link had seen him around plenty of times but he was a barely worth the man's time. Link did not know his name, and clearly he did not know Link's. There was a very, very long chain of command separating them. If the Steward was bypassing that chain, it must be something important.
The man sighed with relief, "Then where can I find him?"
"Sarcasm, sir."
He flushed a brilliant scarlet and his beak-like nose wrinkled over his curling lip in pure revulsion, but his voice betrayed almost none of that, as he said, "Clearly you are unversed in manners and graces."
"Yes."
The Steward looked flustered, like Link was the lesser of many, many evils, the least-lame horse in the stables, but he went on and stated his piece. "Creda was supposed to serve the king's table for feast tonight—but, as you well know she is..." his beady eyes slid around, his neck craning to make sure they were no one was listening to the secrets the steward had to share with a lowly woodsman. No one was around, and if they were, they were standing by the pasture fence, looking out into an open, grassy field that was reserved for the king's favorite past-time, falconry. Link looked too. They were raising a slapdash jousting tilt and high pavilion for the king, the princess, and most beloved courtiers. Link looked back, the Steward politely finished his sentence, "Indisposed. Another for the high table has already been chosen—I would never be so negligent as to allow a ruffian like you to do that. It is not difficult at all to find servants willing and prepared to serve the king, but we do need a lad to serve wine to the lower nobility. An easy task. All you must do is be swift, obedient, and hold your tongue. I thought, perhaps, Creda had taught you how to conduct yourself in the presence of better men."
Link was not keen on that. "No."
The Steward huffed, then held up the green tunic, comparing it to Link. He lowered it, then raised it again, eyes narrowed. "The fit is near perfect."
"No."
"With such fair complexion, you would do well to be moved inside."
Link was still not keen. "The sun has yet to kill me."
"You may cast an eye upon Princess Zelda."
Link was, admittedly, slightly more keen—but not keen enough. "Not interested."
"The color is most striking."
"Blue is far more becoming."
"But you must!" the Steward whipped the tunic down adamantly as he said so.
The words were barely out of his mouth before Link replied, suddenly, "As you wish."
Farore's Embrace, why had he said that?
The steward looked delighted, for the most part. The other part was still very reluctant. "You will have to be cleaned up." Then, as a second thought, he added, "Might as well burn those rags."
"You had better be joking."
He had two sets of clothes. One was to wear to church while the ones he was wearing were being washed. No, they were not clean or particularly pretty, no one looked good in yellowed linen and brown wool, but they were the only work clothes he had. The Steward did not answer—Link did not think he was joking. He took him by the tunic, the moment his bare hand touched the sweaty fabric, he reeled back, "Ugh!"
He reached into a pocket, took out a linen kerchief and covered his hand with it. He grabbed Link again and dragged him away. He did not know why the Steward was dragging him—he knew perfectly well where they were headed. Far from the kitchens and the king's recreational grounds—closer the the part of the woods only Link knew, and nearer the well, the servants had a stone-walled hut for washing themselves. Generally for Link, this was the night before Faroresday—although for the Steward, who was remarkably clean, it was probably nightly. The King did like his court well groomed. Link had heard through the grapevine that he bathed once a day, and Zelda bathed twice.
A great deal of work was put into aqueducts and plumbing. The grey stone building had two sides, one for men, one for women, divided by a wall so thick you could not hear through it, let alone see. Link did not know about the women's side, but the men's side had one private bath, reserved for people who worked indoors, rubbed elbows with the Steward and the King. It had a small stove for heating water that came through the pipes. The rest was a great communal thing where freezing water trickled from faucets in the wall, every one shouted too much and Link could not help the feeling of being watched.
The Steward pushed open the wooden doors and took Link to the private room. It was filled with about six too many people for one bath. The Steward had two of them strip him down to nothing save his medallion, with two more waiting to man-handle him into the tub, should he resist. Link was not stupid enough to pick a fight naked. He climbed into the tub with no resistance. The water was scorching hot, and The Steward made himself particularly unhelpful by taking the handle of the brass kettle and pouring even hotter water over Link's head.
"Okay, which serving are we talking about again!?" Link demanded, flinging soaking wet hair out of his eyes, "Am I to be serving wine, or will I be served boiled with wine?"
He did not laugh. "A Goron can survive being encased in molten hot lava—"
"Yes, but even they try to avoid it!"
"You can survive a little heat."
Then another pair of hands started to scrub him roughly. Link swatted the man away, "I am not a child. I can clean myself! Out! All of you! Please."
A brief battle of tug ensued for the sponge, which Link lost, because the only thing keeping his modesty in tact was the tub, and that would swiftly be lost if he got to his feet again. All the fellow had to do was take a step back, beyond Link's reach, and he had won. The Steward picked up Link's linen shirt with two fingers, not daring to touch anymore than that. Link saw that someone else was already re-filling the kettle at the wall. Steam rose in his face as the cool water touched the hot metal and he carried it over to the fire. The Steward, after very little consideration, tossed Link's shirt into the flames, then the rest of his clothes.
"Hey!"
He wiped his hand on his handkerchief, gave it a forlorn look, then he threw it on, too.
"I'll have new ones for you on the morrow." he replied. Link did not doubt it. The Steward was only the Steward because he never failed to deliver, "Hair, nails, everything needs to be spotless and groomed."
"Yes sir."
Link felt as though he had lost about ten layers of skin from the hot water alone. It smelled like salts treated with lavender, chased the dirt and oil on his skin away. After a good, long soak and a rough scrubbing he was allowed to dry himself in private with a rough linen towel (he lost about five more layers of skin to that towel) and don the new shirt and braies that had been left, neatly folded, on a stool. No sooner had he tied the braises around his waist than a woman and a man came in. She had him sit down on the stool while she scraped the calluses on his hands away with a small pumice stone, and he chopped a good five inches of hair away, so that it no longer hid his pointed ears or his blue eyes.
When the excess hair and flakes of skin were wiped away, he used a mouth wash of diluted apple vinegar—mixed with another taste he could not begin to recognize or place. It smelled a little like myrrh. Perhaps it was. Link had smelled myrrh plenty of times working with Faron. When he was cleaned to the Steward's precise standards—he was given a damn through inspection—Link was left alone with the Steward to dress himself in the uniform. While he prattled on about who was there and what to expect, Link jerked on the white woolen chausses. They were sewn with care, made with a finer, thinner fabric than Link was used too, with the seam allowance tacked down with a second row of precise little stitches—not the long, loose ones he was used too. They tied to the braises, at the waist, with a triangle of fabric over the front, clipped in place with a small iron clasp. There were no leather soles. They were made to be worn with shoes.
Next came the short woolen cotehardie. It had a low collar, so the pure white linen shirt underneath could be folded over and seen, a yellowed and dirty shirt would imply Hyrule was less than the pinnacle of wealth and therefore spoil the look. It went to about mid-thigh, buttoned up the front, the waist seam was hidden by an embroidered belt that was pinned with a metal brooch. It was closely fitted—and Link wondered how it had been made to his exact measurements so quickly—perhaps it was coincidence. It was embroidered around the collar and over shoulders with mother-of-pearl and glass beads. The cuffs were plain, a little short, to avoid contact with food.
Lastly came a pair of brown leather shoes, held together by rivets that were functional as well as decorative, and fastened with laces. Link was familiar with lacing shoes, though the ones he had seen—made by a cobbler in the city, were open-topped, the laces baring down on the top of the foot. These, made for royalty's direct inferiors and sparing no expense, had a tongue of embossed leather and quilted hemp beneath the laces, a little layer of extra protection. Link could not stop fluffing his freshly trimmed hair with his clean and callus free hands. The Steward grumbled something about decency.
It was cooler, the beginnings of civil twilight when he was allowed to leave the bathhouse. The feast was beginning to start on the field. Link heard a swell of music, a laugh. This was about the time Old Faron started climbing to the observatory—and by the time he made it, the final course would be brought. The Steward guided him back to the kitchen, which was nestled close to the castle walls. Before the Steward could touch the door, it was thrown open and two boys, barely any older than him, came out quickly, carrying between them a gigantic stuffed peacock—an extravagant thing that would grace the king's table before the first course of little finger foods were brought. Creda had told him that much, sometimes it was a swan, a flock of doves nailed to sewn to a freshly cut branches. A peacock was almost too fanciful to believe. Link's eyes followed them down to the Falconry Field. They moved quick. The kitchen fires were still blazing hot, glowing. It smelled wonderful in there. With a chuckle and a little chagrin, Link realized he starving—he knew better than to sneak a bite to eat.
The Steward took him inside, and abandoned him by the door. He vanished into the hot, half-lit chaos of men in their skivvies running about in the almost unbearable heat. Somehow, he pulled an end of a loaf of bread, and a slice of sharp, dry cheese, and a mug of diluted ale from the mess, or perhaps his extravagant sleeve. He handed them to Link on a small wooden platter, "I will not send you out there starving and risk you stealing food."
"Thank you."
The Steward may have rigorously high standards—but it was good to know he was not heartless. Link ate quickly, the kitchen was too hot to stand around there for so long, even if he had never tasted bread so soft and sweet before. He was used to dark, bitter rye, bland barley. Nothing a pillowy as this—even if it was just a kitchen scrap.
Was this how clouds tasted?
"When you are done, head towards the field. The wine will be there. I have other matters I must attend to." Then he issued a stern, final warning, "By Nayru, do not utter a word. Do not make eye contact. Do nothing but carry wine."
Then he departed as briskly as he did everything else, trailing sleeves swaying as he walked. Link downed the glass of water and slipped out of the kitchen. He wondered if anyone would really notice one less lad carrying wine, and he considered slipping away from the castle entirely for the night. But he saw it set aglow in the distance, heard a great clamor of laughter, and curiosity got the best of him.
It was hard to guess that this had been a simple flat field this morning, but that was the power of the crown.
The five dining tables had been hauled out from the inside, the kings table sitting on the raised wooden dais, and the other four opposite it him, on the other side of the jousting tilt, and each one was covered with freshly laundered linens and set with simple, but elegant, clay dishes, trimmed with a little gold, the centerpieces were freshly cut flowers, with fallen feathers from a peacock's train and sprigs of bright red berries nestled between them, and Link wondered if they knew eating the red berries would cause them to vomit. Perhaps that was the point?
Everyone was trying to impress. The guests were in their best finery, the veils were floating and billowing, trails long, hair let down and doublets gilded. It was all set shimmering and glowing with a ring of torches, and between the four tables, in a space cleared of grass and lined with stones and dirt, was a massive, lit bonfire, chasing away the chill of the night.
Beyond the ring of torchlight, hidden away, but conveniently close, there were about twenty or so barrels lashed together and held in place with wooden pegs, each was filled with wine, and supervised by another fellow who's job must be to make sure no one was drinking on the job. He gave Link a heavy, clay, gilded pitcher of wine and set him on his way again, told him to start at the end of the nearest table, closest to the king's table, and work his way from there, filling every half empty goblet.
Beside the king's dais, at odd angles, were two lower platforms, the first filled with seated musicians, with their instruments in hand, waiting for some unspoken cue. It was draped in blue cloth, with Nayru's crest carved into the front. The second one, on the other side, with a drum that took up most of the platform, draped in red and bearing Din's symbol. The jousting tilt was draped in a length of green cloth, and marked for Farore.
A Joust for Farore, a Song for Nayru, and a Dance for Din.
Must be a pretty important occasion for all of that.
There was another swell of laughter. A chime of bells and Link looked to the grass between the bonfire and the jousting tilt. There was a bard, in a red and black tabard, made of four squares of fabric on the front, four on the back, giving it a checkered pattern, over a black tunic and two-colored hose with billowing sleeves around his upper arms, growing tight and tapered below his elbows with miss-matched buttons, wood and shell and silver. He walked as he told his tale, the bells on his ankles chiming in time with his recitation. Link could hardly hear the words for the laughter. Clearly it was a story they all knew—one they did not need to hear.
The loudest laugh of all came from the high table, where the King, in his red, ermine-trimmed cloak, white velvet over gown, his round belly curving proudly over a jeweled girdle, sat dead center, his head thrown back in a barking, strong guffaw. His broad jawline was covered with a short, fluffy white beard, and the bald patch of at the back of his head was hidden by the velvet cap under his golden crown. He was a merry faced man, with round cheeks and an always-smiling mouth, deep laughter lines and crows feet.
On his left was a grown man wearing and extravagant, long blue cotehardie with hanging sleeves, deep enough to hide something in, with a white silk shirt beneath and an elaborate hat with a peacock feather sticking out. He was laughing, but the smile did not reach his eyes. His gaze kept darting about, to the bard, to the knights in their polished armor, standing at attention, to the Cavaliers in their long white tunics and surcoats decorated with Hyrule's crest on a red back ground, one posted on either side of the table, hands resting on their swords, then to the king, then back to the blue crests and sashes of the knights. Every now and then he would lean forward to look at the Princess, seated on the King's right.
Princess Zelda looked thoroughly displeased by the choice of entertainment. When the crowd laughed, she sighed, looked off to the palace, elbow on the arm of the chair, dainty fingers holding her chin, deep in thought, her hand preoccupied with something in her lap. Link watched her expression go from brooding and bored to shocked and confused. She looked down. From below the table, her little long-haired dog popped up, planted its paws on her chest, and licked her face. She grinned softly, scratched it's head and massaged its ears, then went back to brooding once it had settled back into her lap after dusting off her pale purple and vair surcoat and examining the spotless, white, beaded cuff of her kirtle.
"Did you not hear, dear? Our Princess sent Lady Impa away. Banished her."
"No—no you must be mistaken. She would never banish Impa."
Link started pouring the wine a little more slowly and wished the man to his left would take a particularly deep swill of wine so he would have an excuse to stay.
"Then why have we not heard any reason for her absence?"
"Perhaps she had gone to investigate."
"Investigate?"
"You know." the woman's voice grew lower, then lower still, "The Waste."
Somehow, everyone still heard it. There was a great exclamation. Link jumped, but did not spill a drop of wine, and every one began marking Farore's symbol on their chest and uttering little blessings, invoking her protection from disease.
Link set the glass down and moved on. Between the laughter, particularly furthest from the bard and the King, the gossip was juiciest, either because they were unable to hear the storyteller properly, or because they felt cheated out of the best seats.
"I think it was wholly inconsiderate for Zelda to chose a peacock for the centerpiece. She knows how Arcadians favor them."
"Indeed, a very poor choice."
"I visited Arcadia once—the King has an entire room gilded and covered with amber, and Zelda chooses to mock the Prince so."
"Perhaps she wanted the Crown Prince, not his little brother."
"If she wants a rich old man, fine—but she'll only get to him buttering up the younger one."
The frankness and disrespect in their voices stunned him. He felt the urge to say something rising. No one was allowed to talk about Princess Zelda that way! But he felt a gentle nudge at his side. The first course had arrived, a lad carrying a heavy, covered dish. He set it down between the nobles, and Link watched as the treats below were unveiled. Eggs that were boiled twice, the second time with a cracked shell in dark, savory herbs, then peeled, giving them a mosaic-like appearance, fresh grapes, dates stuffed with chopped almonds and thick cream and drowned in honey, tiny lemon tarts and slices of apples wound up in pastries, made to look like a bouquet of roses, dusted with cinnamon and sugar, small tomatoes stuffed with white cheese and basil.
Link glanced at Zelda—she looked hungry, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. She was presented with the first tray, along with the Prince and her Father, and then the steward himself presented her with a smaller tray. She whispered something to him. He shook his head. She hung her head, stroked her dog, then picked up a little morsel from the tray the steward had given her, and hand-fed it to her eagerly begging pet. Link continued to serve wine, and he tried very hard to keep his head down—but as the Bard's tale wore on and the mounds of finger foods gradually disappeared, Link noticed that it became harder and harder to do.
He could not keep his eyes off of Princess Zelda.
She was a... dignified kind of pretty. Any ballad could describe her. Sunshine in her hair, eyes like a deep pool, roses in her lips. She was fair, to be sure. As fair as a meadow of daisies in full bloom. But she had an almost indescribable air about her. This mantle of grace was so powerful that she could be stripped to nothing and he would probably still see her as fully clothed. She was almost untouchable. Ethereal.
The dishes were whisked away, and the next was brought. Three different kinds of fish served together in a dark, strange smelling sauce made of vinegar, sugar, and a medley of spices. Zelda's dog, however, got a little fish pie to himself.
"It's uncivilized, a dog at the royal table!"
Link thought it was cute.
"I have a feeling the Prince's greyhounds will dispose of it soon enough."
"Another good thing from their marriage."
These people were toxic.
The Bard's tale was done by the time the fish was whisked away and a brightly-colored tower of gelatin was brought to the King's table—Link had now idea how such rich color had been imparted to it—perhaps blue berries and cherries? Though, the bright green was harder to explain.
"That? For a little potion? And it was five thousand rupees? Goddesses, what for?"
"I don't know. He did not tell me what—only that he needed it, and he needed me to pick it up for him."
"I think the Prince was playing a joke on you."
"Yes—but if his jokes each give me ten thousand silver ducats, he may play as many as he wishes.
"Oh—the joust!"
"Oh—the goose!"
Ten roast geese, two for each table, were brought from the kitchens, the stuffing of herbs and pears still steaming, Servants carved and distributed it while two knights prepared to joust one another. There was not enough room for Link to serve wine, he had to stand back. Zelda glanced at the man in blue on her father's right—apparently, the Prince that was on everyone's tongues—then she gave her dog a little kiss, whispered something to him, and set him on the floor. It went under her chair, under the King's, to the Prince, and poked its little head inside his long, hanging sleeve. It came out again, shook its head, and crawled back to Zelda with a little glass vial in its mouth. Link fought back a snicker. With it's long hair, it looked like a duster or broom making its way across the dais. Zelda took the vial, examined it, and tucked it between her breasts, kissed her dog twice, and set it down again. It went over to the Cavalier closer to the Duke than to her. Pawed at his leg. He looked down. The dog rolled over, then went back to Zelda.
They shared a glance.
The Cavalier nodded.
The torches flickered, the stars sparkled. The Bard began to play a jovial little ocarina tune while the squires finished securing the knights' armor. The horses shifted uncomfortably, just a little a first, barely a ripple. Then one reared back, nearly pulled up the post it was tied too, and another. Link gasped, turned, fearing they would trample through it all, and instinctively reached for a bow that was not there. His first instinct was one of them had seen a snake, but as he scanned the grass in the candle light, he did not see any disturbance. No snake. No explanation.
The torches flickered, a horse screamed—tried to pull away again, the others shifted uncomfortably around it. Link thought of how the cows had gotten so spooked at Creda, and looked around, wondering who there had the Waste—but if one of them did, the horses would still be disturbed. They were calmed now. The torches stopped flickering for a second, then one was snuffed out briefly, then another. Link turned, but did not see anything responsible for it.
Was it—simply a breeze?
No. Horses were smart. They knew a breeze when they felt it, and they were no stranger to the dark of night. Perhaps it was something smaller than a snake—a field mouse? Why would horses get spooked over a little mouse? Was it simply coincidence that the torches went out? No one noticed—all of the diners were drunk and a servant took a bell taper immediately to relight it.
Link felt a little uneasy. He tightened his grip on the jar of wine and continued to serve.
Something was going on.
Link did not know what, but it was something. He looked to Zelda again. The princess was preoccupied with her white, silken-haired lapdog, and feeding it a another slice of goose. She smiled, teased it lovingly in time with the Bard's jovial ocarina tune and swaying her head, completely forgetting about how she had so detested his poem.
And then she was splattered with blood.
The jar of wine slipped out of Link's hands, breaking on the edge of the table and spilling over a lady's dress and his chausses with a loud crash. Everyone near him was alarmed and offended at first, even the Bard was hushed to silence, but then they saw the expression on Link's face, his eyes slid from Zelda, shocked stiff, too terrified to glance at her father, to the King, who quickly with drew his eating knife from his belly. It was too short to penetrate the layer of fat around his middle, but he did bleed.
Link looked at his face. He was just a terrified and confused as everyone else. His hand moved like he was fighting it every step of the way, slow, resisting. His eyes followed it, growing wide, his mouth moving, "no—no—no."
Link did not know what seized him. He dashed for him, climbing over the table, nearly tripping over a decoration. He slid under the jousting tilt and grabbed the King's wrist before he could stab himself a second time. The knife was trained on his throat. They struggled for a moment—and Link could hardly believe what he was seeing.
A shadow. A human figure. It was exactly like someone was standing behind the King, a hand on his wrist, a hand on his chin, pulling it upwards to give his knife a clear shot. The shadow's image was splashed on the velvet curtains draped behind the king. Long hair, slim fingers. It was a girl's shadow.
She let go.
Link fell backwards into the jousting tilt, the resistance gone. His head hit the wood and he heard a snap. There was a great clamor. Link heard hooves, running, chairs turning over, and Zelda shrieking, "Father—No! Father! No let me go!"
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