A joyous cry was raised up from the people of Nibelung in the southern most
country of Nosgoth. From the capital city, Stahlberg, came the news that an
heir had finally been born to King Sigurd and Queen Iseult. The succession
to the throne was secure. In the villages and towns, the people filled the
streets and toasted to their majesties continuing good health and fortune,
and added prayers of protection to the newly born prince. All the roads of
Nibelung led to Stahlberg, and along the way there were criers who
announced the news to merchants and pilgrims that were travelling. Most
people deviated from their journeys to head to the royal capital to join in
the celebration.
In Stahlberg itself the streets were so packed with people that most who travelled on horseback or with a wagon had to abandon them and use their feet instead to move through the throng. Colourful streamers festooned the buildings; red roses - the symbol of the Nibelung royals - were placed outside every doorway and more than one city square had been set up for the dancing that celebrations entailed. The inns were full; some innkeepers went as far to rent out the stables themselves to people. No one complained, happy to know that they were privileged to at least be inside the city of Stahlberg. The capital was becoming so heaving with people that now some were being denied entrance at the gates. Restaurants enjoyed the brisk business that the celebration over the prince's birth had brought them, and merchants turned a tidy profit with their wares. Minstrels composed songs in honour to the King and Queen; artists commissioned by the royal household were furiously at work painting portraits of the new family, and already the metal smiths were forging armour for the prince when he grew older.
Still, there was a hush from time to time in the celebrations. It was not fatigue, nor was it concern that perhaps in the mist of all this happiness, that a rival kingdom would plot the death of the newborn child. A trivial concern was what occupied the minds of the subjects of Nibelung, but it obsessed them all the same. The King, it was rumoured, had yet to give his son a proper name. To the people of Nibelung, a name was something that was of grave importance, which once given held a certain power over the person's life until they entered the grave. Outsiders from other kingdoms could not understand such a silly thing, but then that was why they were outsiders.
"The prince will be named after his father, of course," a merchant that had come all the way from Coorhagen said matter-of-factly. "It is the way that it is done in my village. The child honours the parent by carrying on the name."
A city guard, dressed in the blood red livery of the royal family, shook his head. "That would be nothing but bad luck. To name a child after someone who is still alive; they might lead the same life as the parent. Nothing like that is ever done in Stahlberg."
"Are you saying that I am wrong?" the merchant retorted quickly, his ample belly shaking with rage. The city guard only gave a shake of his head, which the merchant interpreted as condescending. In the end, it took three city guards to pull the fat man off the Stahlberg guard.
As much as the people whispered and questioned, they knew they would not learn the name of prince until well past nightfall. The first people to know the name of the new baby, besides his parents, would be the nobles and vassals tied to King Sigurd. Already the nobles were coming to pay homage to their future king and to re-establish ties with their present one. Coaches trimmed in gold and silver, bearing the sigils of the many houses of Nibelung rolled up the main avenue towards the magnificent castle that rose over the rest of the city. Teams of horses, driven by their masters, craftily weaved in and out of the crowds while the porters behind the lords and ladies struggled to keep up with the luggage. People lined the avenue, hoping to see perhaps a glimpse of one of the nobles, but the curtains on the coaches were drawn tight and not even a glimpse of cloth could be seen.
The castle of Stahlberg was a feat of engineering and a wonder to behold. The outer wall and portcullis, made of smooth white stone that towered over fifty feet, was an impossible height for any man to climb; the edges tipped with spikes pointing outwards. Guards walked along the walls, watching for any danger even during the celebrations. Four towers, pointing in the directions of the compass, loomed overhead with the banner of King Sigurd snapping in the wind. From the outer courtyard, draped in red banners and roses, the nobles could crane their heads back and have the illusion that the towers would suddenly fall down on them. It was disorienting, and more than one lord that had dismounted from his coach had to avert his gaze before he landed on his back.
A portcullis, made from heavy iron with metal roses worked into the design, was set in the wall to the east. Wild roses, tended by the gardeners, clung to the stonewalls and framed the portcullis which was high enough for a man to walk under and three people to walk abreast. Through the eastern portcullis the nobles, in a procession from the highest lord to the lowest baron, walked into the inner courtyard. Low and wide steps, made from the same stone as the castle but polished to a shine, led up to a large oak door thrown open to welcome the visitors into the castle itself. Passing under the door, entering a long and large hall with white marble pillars and flying buttresses supporting the roof, the nobles walked down the scarlet carpet trimmed in gold to the throne room itself. Stahlberg Castle, as the nobles quietly talked amongst themselves, was striking to all the visitors that it took in.
The throne room was even more imposing than the rest of the castle. Large enough to hold well over a thousand people, the fresco ceiling so far up that the designs were barely seen, the floor done in white marble veined in gold, it was the architectural triumph of the master builder who had designed the castle. Twelve pillars, six flanking each other on either side of the throne room, were wrapped in garlands of red roses and gold ribbon. From the walls hung the banners of the King, red and gold standing out from the white of the room. Tall arched windows at the back of the throne room let in the sunlight, which felt in a yellow shaft across the two thrones.
Both were made of gold, both carved into the likeness of dragons with the wings spread so wide the tips touched each other. Sitting in the throne to the left was King Sigurd, an imposing man dressed in ceremonial red armour with a brown beard that was trimmed close to his weathered face. The crown of Nibelung, a golden circlet shaped as a serpent with ruby eyes, sat on his head. In his right hand King Sigurd held a simple white rod tipped in gold. He had come to the throne well into his twenty-third year, after his father before his had died of a wasting disease of the body and mind. A warrior who had fought long to keep his borders safe from enemies, who fought the horrors that plagued his people, King Sigurd was a man highly honoured throughout all of Nibelung.
To his right sat Queen Iseult. A princess from the eastern country that bordered with Nibelung, Iseult had been declared by the people at first unfit to be their queen. That perception had changed once they realized that Iseult, although an outsider, was a foreigner that truly cared for the well being of her new people. There were more portraits of the fair-haired and doe-eyed Iseult that hung in the households of the Nibelungs than that of Sigurd. Composed and empathetic, with a will of iron, Queen Iseult was a woman that received the love of the people who met her. Clothed in a cream- coloured velvet gown, a simple gold circlet around her forehead, Iseult gave a loving smile to her newborn son, which lay cradled in her arms.
King Sigurd stood once all the nobles had entered into the throne room. The doors closed shut behind the last of the lords and ladies. From the balcony above trumpets blared, signalling the people to fall silent. The murmurs died away quickly as all eyes turned towards their ruler. When Sigurd spoke, his voice rolled forth, filled with power.
"My loyal vassals, I thank you all for making the journey to Stahlberg. I am filled with joy as I tell you all this, that I have now, at long last, an heir to my kingdom. The name that I have chosen for my son is one that I hope that for years to come will be written down and spoken of in the highest regard. I name the new prince of Nibelung, your future king, William."
At this the nobles let out a cheer, clenched fists from the lords rising up into the air while the ladies clapped. There were cries from around the throne room that congratulated the king on choosing such a simple yet powerful name. Sigurd waited until the voices had died down before continuing his speech. "I ask you all now, as you have sworn loyalty unending to me, that you now pledge your allegiance to my newborn son."
Queen Iseult rose gracefully from her throne, coming to stand beside her husband as she held William in her arms. Hair as fine as swan down, the colour of his mother's hair, covered William's head. The baby's eyes were wide open, the blue irises examining everything the way a newborn only can. Small hands fisted together, then unclenched to only wrap around the swaddling cloth.
"He is already ready to hold a sword," Sigurd murmured quietly into his wife's ear as the first of the nobles approached.
Smiling elegantly as the Lord and Lady Nuln of the northern provinces came forwards to pay homage to William, Iseult replied just as quietly "Not unless I have something to say about that, dear husband." King Sigurd did not have time to come back with a retort as he accepted the gift from Lord Yves, a small chest filled with spices that came from the provinces themselves.
Approaching next, painfully tall and thin, was the Duke of Gundred. Old and slightly hard of hearing in the left ear, the duke nonetheless managed to lower himself down on his right knee and clasp King Sigurd's right hand. "I do solemnly swear that I will be loyal to the end of my days to your household, My Majesty. That I will never waver in my dedication to you or to the young prince William." Duke Gundred sealed his pledge by kissing the gold ring on Sigurd's hand. Rising shakily, Gundred gave a quick smile to Iseult, and then looked down at William.
"Do you have a gift for my son," Sigurd questioned quietly.
Gundred blinked his eyes for a moment, as if unsure of the question. He smiled quickly, bobbing his head much like a bird, the blue doublet he wore with a gold necklace made of large links clinking together. "Yes, of course. My gift is that, when the young prince comes of age, he may choose any one of my fine horses that I breed."
Iseult gave a small nod with her head. "That is a very generous offer, Duke Gundred. We thank you on our son's behalf." As the duke moved away to allow the other waiting nobles to come forwards, Iseult gave a sideways glance to her husband. "Assuming that he lives that long. I do not know for the life of me his exact age."
"Old as the pillars, old as the pillars," the king responded.
William gave a tiny shriek as the Baroness Frigg, a large woman with the appearance that looked like that of a frog, hovered over the prince. "What a beautiful child, beautiful," she crooned, the wart on the right side of her lower lip moving sickeningly. "He will grow into a fine young man, Your Majesties." She looked at Iseult as she spoke. "And I hope that you will consider a prospective marriage between prince William and my own daughter, who unfortunately could not be here. She is only a few months older than he is." Baroness Frigg wagged a fat finger in front of William's face.
Iseult took a step back without being discreet, giving now only a polite smile to the woman. "We will consider the match, Baroness." Frigg gave a smile; she obviously thought in her fat mind that the match had already been made. Her gift to the baby was a chest filled with expensive oils that her factories produced and were sent over all of Nosgoth.
"If she even thinks that we would consider such a match, she is dumber than she looks," Iseult breathed through clenched teeth, her lips frozen in a false smile. "William will not marry any girl lower than a duchess; I forbid it."
Sigurd watched the quiet anger on his wife's face. When Iseult's emotions boiled so closely to the surface, he knew as all husbands knew to leave his wife alone. As the nobles came and went, giving gifts from gilded cribs - which were now well over nine placed off to the side - toys, gold bullion, silver, and even wooden swords, King Sigurd began to grow restless. A feeling began to build inside of him, one that had served him well on the battlefield. That something unwanted; something that the king under no circumstances wished to be part of was approaching the castle.
He shifted his feet and hid a yawn behind one hand. An itch began at the back of his neck that he sorely wished to scratch but couldn't. One noble, a count from the southern provinces, was making a grand display of his gifts to the royal couple. To Sigurd the count reminded him of a peacock that strutted his feathers once too often and was in dire need of a plucking. The man's voice dimmed as the gut feeling in the king grew. King Sigurd began to grow anxious. Iseult saw the look on her husband's face and smoothly cut into the count's speech, thanking him profoundly for his thoughtful gift before sending him on his way.
"What is it," she asked, moving William gently in her arms to a more comfortable position.
"A feeling, something that is-"
Before Sigurd could finish the rest of his sentence, a loud report came from the door, resonating around the throne room. Simultaneously all the people turned towards the closed door. The royal guard eyed the door suspiciously, then turned to look at their king for permission to open it. Sigurd gave a nod, knowing that the reason for his discomfort lay behind the door. It was like a gnat buzzing near his ear, not allowing him to focus on anything else. The double doors opened quickly, the oiled hinges working silently. It was an immediate reaction from the assembled people once they saw who stood in the doorway; they drew back with their heads down, eyes staring at the ground as if finding something of interest there.
King Sigurd, never letting a shred of emotion pass over his face, repressed a low sigh, unclenched his hands and spoke in a pleasant voice to the visitor. "Welcome, Time Streamer."
Moebius, the Guardian of the Pillar of Time, gave a genial smile that held an air of arrogance in it. Leaning against his staff, the old man walked slowly into the throne room. Moebius' grey robes were simple in comparison to the trappings of the lords, but for all the lack of show the old man wore them like he was king himself. A path was made for him quickly, one or two ladies drawing their skirts up quickly, without trying to conceal the action, before the Time Streamer could touch the cloth in his passing. It was no secret that the presence of any of the Pillar Guardians was unwelcome in the Nibelung court, but not one person would say it, not even King Sigurd. The political problems that followed an irked Circle member were many and none of them pleasant.
"I have come on behalf of the Circle to extend our deepest congratulations and blessings to you both, King Sigurd and Queen Iseult." Moebius' reedy voice carried in the expansive throne room. He did not bow to the royal couple; a Circle member as powerful as he was did not do such things.
"We thank you, both of us." Sigurd answered too quickly, his anxiousness beginning to show through his mask. The king took a step closer to his wife and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as Moebius approached her. The wizened wizard, his milky white eyes looking like they belonged to a blind man, noticed the significance behind the move but did nothing. He gazed down at William, who had been squirming before in his mother's arms.
Iseult did not approve of the Time Streamer. Her aunts and mother had taught her that to invite the attentions of any Pillar Guardian would bring nothing good from it. She knew that the Circle had sought a foothold in the Nibelung court but had never succeeded. The kings before had been independent, fiercely so, and resented any outside intrusion. With the way Moebius was looking at her son William, it was as if the mage was looking for strings from which to pull a puppet. That the young prince would be able to further the political power of the Circle of Nine.
The queen took a step back, breaking away from her husbands grip and putting distance between her and Moebius. "I want you gone, Time Streamer."
Sigurd drew in a sharp breath, looking at his wife in shock. Moebius' stared right at the queen, acting like he did not know what she was talking about. "I beg your pardon, Queen Iseult."
"No, no pardon from me," she answered. It had grown deathly quiet in the throne room, every ear straining to catch every word. "I want you to turn around, place one foot in front of the other and leave this hall. Leave this city and leave this country. Do not dare to return. We thank the Circle for their blessings, but we can do very well without them, Time Streamer."
Moebius' face darkened considerably, his brow wrinkling as his eyes narrowed dangerously. Iseult held William close to her, using every bit of her imposing presence against the Time Streamer. She swallowed a trickle of fear, the anger in her spilling over. King Sigurd moved to stand in front of his wife, giving an icy look to Moebius.
"Leave," was all he uttered.
To his credit Moebius did not take a step back from the tall king. He looked at both the king and queen equally, a thin smile filled with hatred in it. "Very well then. I will leave the Nibelung court in peace, but I hope you are both aware of your actions here." When no response came, the Time Streamer simply shrugged his shoulders and turned to walk away. As he approached the doors leading out of the throne room, Moebius turned back and smiled at the queen.
"And would you let me leave without even telling you, for no price whatsoever, the future that is in store for prince William?"
"You will leave this place, you snake," Iseult nearly screamed at the Circle guardian, her body trembling in rage. "My son will make his own destiny. He will not become a puppet in your schemes like other people have!" William began to cry as his mother's voice rebounded off the walls. "You have no right to deem yourself a controller of peoples fates!"
Moebius turned away from the enraged queen and began to walk from the castle. As he passed by the royal guards, the Time Streamer whispered, very softly "So you would believe Queen Iseult. So you would believe." No one stopped the Circle member; a wide berth was given to Moebius all the way to the entrance of the castle itself. Once he was beyond the castle walls, swallowed up by the crowd of loyal subjects waiting outside the gates, did the guards themselves begin to feel better.
Back in the throne room, Iseult had been taken off to one of the small rooms linked with the throne room by her handmaidens. King Sigurd stayed with his vassals, calling for the entertainment to begin to take the peoples minds off of what had just happened. Safely away from the prying eyes of the nobles, the queen finally broke down and began to cry. Handing William over to Brynhild, the most senior of her ladies, the queen angrily held her crown in her hands and whispered fiercely to herself.
"My son will not become a puppet to that serpent Moebius."
William, in the small confines of the chamber, continued to cry.
In Stahlberg itself the streets were so packed with people that most who travelled on horseback or with a wagon had to abandon them and use their feet instead to move through the throng. Colourful streamers festooned the buildings; red roses - the symbol of the Nibelung royals - were placed outside every doorway and more than one city square had been set up for the dancing that celebrations entailed. The inns were full; some innkeepers went as far to rent out the stables themselves to people. No one complained, happy to know that they were privileged to at least be inside the city of Stahlberg. The capital was becoming so heaving with people that now some were being denied entrance at the gates. Restaurants enjoyed the brisk business that the celebration over the prince's birth had brought them, and merchants turned a tidy profit with their wares. Minstrels composed songs in honour to the King and Queen; artists commissioned by the royal household were furiously at work painting portraits of the new family, and already the metal smiths were forging armour for the prince when he grew older.
Still, there was a hush from time to time in the celebrations. It was not fatigue, nor was it concern that perhaps in the mist of all this happiness, that a rival kingdom would plot the death of the newborn child. A trivial concern was what occupied the minds of the subjects of Nibelung, but it obsessed them all the same. The King, it was rumoured, had yet to give his son a proper name. To the people of Nibelung, a name was something that was of grave importance, which once given held a certain power over the person's life until they entered the grave. Outsiders from other kingdoms could not understand such a silly thing, but then that was why they were outsiders.
"The prince will be named after his father, of course," a merchant that had come all the way from Coorhagen said matter-of-factly. "It is the way that it is done in my village. The child honours the parent by carrying on the name."
A city guard, dressed in the blood red livery of the royal family, shook his head. "That would be nothing but bad luck. To name a child after someone who is still alive; they might lead the same life as the parent. Nothing like that is ever done in Stahlberg."
"Are you saying that I am wrong?" the merchant retorted quickly, his ample belly shaking with rage. The city guard only gave a shake of his head, which the merchant interpreted as condescending. In the end, it took three city guards to pull the fat man off the Stahlberg guard.
As much as the people whispered and questioned, they knew they would not learn the name of prince until well past nightfall. The first people to know the name of the new baby, besides his parents, would be the nobles and vassals tied to King Sigurd. Already the nobles were coming to pay homage to their future king and to re-establish ties with their present one. Coaches trimmed in gold and silver, bearing the sigils of the many houses of Nibelung rolled up the main avenue towards the magnificent castle that rose over the rest of the city. Teams of horses, driven by their masters, craftily weaved in and out of the crowds while the porters behind the lords and ladies struggled to keep up with the luggage. People lined the avenue, hoping to see perhaps a glimpse of one of the nobles, but the curtains on the coaches were drawn tight and not even a glimpse of cloth could be seen.
The castle of Stahlberg was a feat of engineering and a wonder to behold. The outer wall and portcullis, made of smooth white stone that towered over fifty feet, was an impossible height for any man to climb; the edges tipped with spikes pointing outwards. Guards walked along the walls, watching for any danger even during the celebrations. Four towers, pointing in the directions of the compass, loomed overhead with the banner of King Sigurd snapping in the wind. From the outer courtyard, draped in red banners and roses, the nobles could crane their heads back and have the illusion that the towers would suddenly fall down on them. It was disorienting, and more than one lord that had dismounted from his coach had to avert his gaze before he landed on his back.
A portcullis, made from heavy iron with metal roses worked into the design, was set in the wall to the east. Wild roses, tended by the gardeners, clung to the stonewalls and framed the portcullis which was high enough for a man to walk under and three people to walk abreast. Through the eastern portcullis the nobles, in a procession from the highest lord to the lowest baron, walked into the inner courtyard. Low and wide steps, made from the same stone as the castle but polished to a shine, led up to a large oak door thrown open to welcome the visitors into the castle itself. Passing under the door, entering a long and large hall with white marble pillars and flying buttresses supporting the roof, the nobles walked down the scarlet carpet trimmed in gold to the throne room itself. Stahlberg Castle, as the nobles quietly talked amongst themselves, was striking to all the visitors that it took in.
The throne room was even more imposing than the rest of the castle. Large enough to hold well over a thousand people, the fresco ceiling so far up that the designs were barely seen, the floor done in white marble veined in gold, it was the architectural triumph of the master builder who had designed the castle. Twelve pillars, six flanking each other on either side of the throne room, were wrapped in garlands of red roses and gold ribbon. From the walls hung the banners of the King, red and gold standing out from the white of the room. Tall arched windows at the back of the throne room let in the sunlight, which felt in a yellow shaft across the two thrones.
Both were made of gold, both carved into the likeness of dragons with the wings spread so wide the tips touched each other. Sitting in the throne to the left was King Sigurd, an imposing man dressed in ceremonial red armour with a brown beard that was trimmed close to his weathered face. The crown of Nibelung, a golden circlet shaped as a serpent with ruby eyes, sat on his head. In his right hand King Sigurd held a simple white rod tipped in gold. He had come to the throne well into his twenty-third year, after his father before his had died of a wasting disease of the body and mind. A warrior who had fought long to keep his borders safe from enemies, who fought the horrors that plagued his people, King Sigurd was a man highly honoured throughout all of Nibelung.
To his right sat Queen Iseult. A princess from the eastern country that bordered with Nibelung, Iseult had been declared by the people at first unfit to be their queen. That perception had changed once they realized that Iseult, although an outsider, was a foreigner that truly cared for the well being of her new people. There were more portraits of the fair-haired and doe-eyed Iseult that hung in the households of the Nibelungs than that of Sigurd. Composed and empathetic, with a will of iron, Queen Iseult was a woman that received the love of the people who met her. Clothed in a cream- coloured velvet gown, a simple gold circlet around her forehead, Iseult gave a loving smile to her newborn son, which lay cradled in her arms.
King Sigurd stood once all the nobles had entered into the throne room. The doors closed shut behind the last of the lords and ladies. From the balcony above trumpets blared, signalling the people to fall silent. The murmurs died away quickly as all eyes turned towards their ruler. When Sigurd spoke, his voice rolled forth, filled with power.
"My loyal vassals, I thank you all for making the journey to Stahlberg. I am filled with joy as I tell you all this, that I have now, at long last, an heir to my kingdom. The name that I have chosen for my son is one that I hope that for years to come will be written down and spoken of in the highest regard. I name the new prince of Nibelung, your future king, William."
At this the nobles let out a cheer, clenched fists from the lords rising up into the air while the ladies clapped. There were cries from around the throne room that congratulated the king on choosing such a simple yet powerful name. Sigurd waited until the voices had died down before continuing his speech. "I ask you all now, as you have sworn loyalty unending to me, that you now pledge your allegiance to my newborn son."
Queen Iseult rose gracefully from her throne, coming to stand beside her husband as she held William in her arms. Hair as fine as swan down, the colour of his mother's hair, covered William's head. The baby's eyes were wide open, the blue irises examining everything the way a newborn only can. Small hands fisted together, then unclenched to only wrap around the swaddling cloth.
"He is already ready to hold a sword," Sigurd murmured quietly into his wife's ear as the first of the nobles approached.
Smiling elegantly as the Lord and Lady Nuln of the northern provinces came forwards to pay homage to William, Iseult replied just as quietly "Not unless I have something to say about that, dear husband." King Sigurd did not have time to come back with a retort as he accepted the gift from Lord Yves, a small chest filled with spices that came from the provinces themselves.
Approaching next, painfully tall and thin, was the Duke of Gundred. Old and slightly hard of hearing in the left ear, the duke nonetheless managed to lower himself down on his right knee and clasp King Sigurd's right hand. "I do solemnly swear that I will be loyal to the end of my days to your household, My Majesty. That I will never waver in my dedication to you or to the young prince William." Duke Gundred sealed his pledge by kissing the gold ring on Sigurd's hand. Rising shakily, Gundred gave a quick smile to Iseult, and then looked down at William.
"Do you have a gift for my son," Sigurd questioned quietly.
Gundred blinked his eyes for a moment, as if unsure of the question. He smiled quickly, bobbing his head much like a bird, the blue doublet he wore with a gold necklace made of large links clinking together. "Yes, of course. My gift is that, when the young prince comes of age, he may choose any one of my fine horses that I breed."
Iseult gave a small nod with her head. "That is a very generous offer, Duke Gundred. We thank you on our son's behalf." As the duke moved away to allow the other waiting nobles to come forwards, Iseult gave a sideways glance to her husband. "Assuming that he lives that long. I do not know for the life of me his exact age."
"Old as the pillars, old as the pillars," the king responded.
William gave a tiny shriek as the Baroness Frigg, a large woman with the appearance that looked like that of a frog, hovered over the prince. "What a beautiful child, beautiful," she crooned, the wart on the right side of her lower lip moving sickeningly. "He will grow into a fine young man, Your Majesties." She looked at Iseult as she spoke. "And I hope that you will consider a prospective marriage between prince William and my own daughter, who unfortunately could not be here. She is only a few months older than he is." Baroness Frigg wagged a fat finger in front of William's face.
Iseult took a step back without being discreet, giving now only a polite smile to the woman. "We will consider the match, Baroness." Frigg gave a smile; she obviously thought in her fat mind that the match had already been made. Her gift to the baby was a chest filled with expensive oils that her factories produced and were sent over all of Nosgoth.
"If she even thinks that we would consider such a match, she is dumber than she looks," Iseult breathed through clenched teeth, her lips frozen in a false smile. "William will not marry any girl lower than a duchess; I forbid it."
Sigurd watched the quiet anger on his wife's face. When Iseult's emotions boiled so closely to the surface, he knew as all husbands knew to leave his wife alone. As the nobles came and went, giving gifts from gilded cribs - which were now well over nine placed off to the side - toys, gold bullion, silver, and even wooden swords, King Sigurd began to grow restless. A feeling began to build inside of him, one that had served him well on the battlefield. That something unwanted; something that the king under no circumstances wished to be part of was approaching the castle.
He shifted his feet and hid a yawn behind one hand. An itch began at the back of his neck that he sorely wished to scratch but couldn't. One noble, a count from the southern provinces, was making a grand display of his gifts to the royal couple. To Sigurd the count reminded him of a peacock that strutted his feathers once too often and was in dire need of a plucking. The man's voice dimmed as the gut feeling in the king grew. King Sigurd began to grow anxious. Iseult saw the look on her husband's face and smoothly cut into the count's speech, thanking him profoundly for his thoughtful gift before sending him on his way.
"What is it," she asked, moving William gently in her arms to a more comfortable position.
"A feeling, something that is-"
Before Sigurd could finish the rest of his sentence, a loud report came from the door, resonating around the throne room. Simultaneously all the people turned towards the closed door. The royal guard eyed the door suspiciously, then turned to look at their king for permission to open it. Sigurd gave a nod, knowing that the reason for his discomfort lay behind the door. It was like a gnat buzzing near his ear, not allowing him to focus on anything else. The double doors opened quickly, the oiled hinges working silently. It was an immediate reaction from the assembled people once they saw who stood in the doorway; they drew back with their heads down, eyes staring at the ground as if finding something of interest there.
King Sigurd, never letting a shred of emotion pass over his face, repressed a low sigh, unclenched his hands and spoke in a pleasant voice to the visitor. "Welcome, Time Streamer."
Moebius, the Guardian of the Pillar of Time, gave a genial smile that held an air of arrogance in it. Leaning against his staff, the old man walked slowly into the throne room. Moebius' grey robes were simple in comparison to the trappings of the lords, but for all the lack of show the old man wore them like he was king himself. A path was made for him quickly, one or two ladies drawing their skirts up quickly, without trying to conceal the action, before the Time Streamer could touch the cloth in his passing. It was no secret that the presence of any of the Pillar Guardians was unwelcome in the Nibelung court, but not one person would say it, not even King Sigurd. The political problems that followed an irked Circle member were many and none of them pleasant.
"I have come on behalf of the Circle to extend our deepest congratulations and blessings to you both, King Sigurd and Queen Iseult." Moebius' reedy voice carried in the expansive throne room. He did not bow to the royal couple; a Circle member as powerful as he was did not do such things.
"We thank you, both of us." Sigurd answered too quickly, his anxiousness beginning to show through his mask. The king took a step closer to his wife and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as Moebius approached her. The wizened wizard, his milky white eyes looking like they belonged to a blind man, noticed the significance behind the move but did nothing. He gazed down at William, who had been squirming before in his mother's arms.
Iseult did not approve of the Time Streamer. Her aunts and mother had taught her that to invite the attentions of any Pillar Guardian would bring nothing good from it. She knew that the Circle had sought a foothold in the Nibelung court but had never succeeded. The kings before had been independent, fiercely so, and resented any outside intrusion. With the way Moebius was looking at her son William, it was as if the mage was looking for strings from which to pull a puppet. That the young prince would be able to further the political power of the Circle of Nine.
The queen took a step back, breaking away from her husbands grip and putting distance between her and Moebius. "I want you gone, Time Streamer."
Sigurd drew in a sharp breath, looking at his wife in shock. Moebius' stared right at the queen, acting like he did not know what she was talking about. "I beg your pardon, Queen Iseult."
"No, no pardon from me," she answered. It had grown deathly quiet in the throne room, every ear straining to catch every word. "I want you to turn around, place one foot in front of the other and leave this hall. Leave this city and leave this country. Do not dare to return. We thank the Circle for their blessings, but we can do very well without them, Time Streamer."
Moebius' face darkened considerably, his brow wrinkling as his eyes narrowed dangerously. Iseult held William close to her, using every bit of her imposing presence against the Time Streamer. She swallowed a trickle of fear, the anger in her spilling over. King Sigurd moved to stand in front of his wife, giving an icy look to Moebius.
"Leave," was all he uttered.
To his credit Moebius did not take a step back from the tall king. He looked at both the king and queen equally, a thin smile filled with hatred in it. "Very well then. I will leave the Nibelung court in peace, but I hope you are both aware of your actions here." When no response came, the Time Streamer simply shrugged his shoulders and turned to walk away. As he approached the doors leading out of the throne room, Moebius turned back and smiled at the queen.
"And would you let me leave without even telling you, for no price whatsoever, the future that is in store for prince William?"
"You will leave this place, you snake," Iseult nearly screamed at the Circle guardian, her body trembling in rage. "My son will make his own destiny. He will not become a puppet in your schemes like other people have!" William began to cry as his mother's voice rebounded off the walls. "You have no right to deem yourself a controller of peoples fates!"
Moebius turned away from the enraged queen and began to walk from the castle. As he passed by the royal guards, the Time Streamer whispered, very softly "So you would believe Queen Iseult. So you would believe." No one stopped the Circle member; a wide berth was given to Moebius all the way to the entrance of the castle itself. Once he was beyond the castle walls, swallowed up by the crowd of loyal subjects waiting outside the gates, did the guards themselves begin to feel better.
Back in the throne room, Iseult had been taken off to one of the small rooms linked with the throne room by her handmaidens. King Sigurd stayed with his vassals, calling for the entertainment to begin to take the peoples minds off of what had just happened. Safely away from the prying eyes of the nobles, the queen finally broke down and began to cry. Handing William over to Brynhild, the most senior of her ladies, the queen angrily held her crown in her hands and whispered fiercely to herself.
"My son will not become a puppet to that serpent Moebius."
William, in the small confines of the chamber, continued to cry.