The doors of the castle itself were miniature versions of the city's gates, though they were still large enough that they couldn't have been moved by a single person. They were opened just wide enough that the single file line of people could fit through slowly. Posted just to either side of the gap were two guards, more heavily and ornamentally armored than those Isilmé had seen earlier. Their faces were stern and their eyes stared pointedly forward. As she passed between them Isilmé looked closely, just to make sure they were actually breathing, for they stood as still as the deep rooted trees back in her father's grove.
Inside the walls were lined with similar soldiers, though these men seemed more at ease, smiling here and nodding there. Walking by Isilmé caught the last line of an obviously funny joke about a dwarf and someone's wife. The thick stone here was evenly hewed and worn dull by the passing ages. Brightly colored tapestries of heraldry and iconic scenes of battle hung with pride, glittering in the sunlight streaming through the tall colored panes of the few windows. Her steady footfalls were muffled by the plush rug beneath her, and she neither heard nor expected the bump from behind as a young boy scurried by her with a gold plated pitcher. He paused a moment and smiled sheepishly before moving on his hurried way.
The grand corridor opened suddenly to the king's court. The ceiling seemed to stretch forever, fighting towards the sky. Milling about were all manner of beings. In a far corner near an unnecessarily large hearth a group of musicians laughed bawdily and tossed insults and compliments as if they were confetti. Seated around a dozen large wooden tables were what Isilmé assumed were the nobles of the human lands, who spoke quietly amongst themselves. She caught sight of the young cupbearer, standing on a dais beside the old king, who held out his half empty cup as he received his visitors. Seated to the king's right was a man, grown by the standards of the humans.
He stood tall though slight of build. His smooth clean cheeks and his long proud nose were reminiscent of the king which had been described to her. On his surcoat, over his chest was embroidered the fist of Heironious. He too received the droves of people, and Isilmé could only guess this was the prince, whose coronation she was here to attend. Before the royal pair now was a small band of Dwarves, offering up a sword and crown, and talking in hushed tones in their hard voices.
As she started to proceed to the throne something made Isilmé freeze. A sound to her left, so sad, so familiar. She dared to turn her gaze and there she beheld a sight that both appalled and angered her. In the corner was a man, tugging harshly on the harness of a muzzle, making the bear he was subduing groan in distress.
"On yer feet y' great lumbering beast," he command, wrenching the leash harder as the whip in his other hand sliced the air, licking the side of the bear's head with a sharp snap. Again the heartbreaking groan as a fine line of blood appeared where the whip had landed. Everything around her seemed to fade away until all she her senses were encompassed by the need to help this creature. Without knowing what she was doing she felt her feet moving, found herself drawn to the bear and it's "keeper". She held a hand out before her and felt the power of Ehlonna flowing through her. The bear suddenly quieted and looked at her, it's deep brown eyes peering out from behind straps of thick leather.
She knew she could do nothing about it's lot in life without the risk of loosing face before the court, but she could help it's hurts. She kept her hand outstretched and closed her eyes, moving forward until she felt the warmth of a living body. The bear bumped her hand with it's nose but remained silent and still besides. She ignored the incessant insinuations from the animal handler that she stay back, more focused now on what the animal needed. Before she opened her eyes she knew by the release of tension in the bear's muscles that it's injuries were now a resentful memory. Knowing she couldn't look again on the poor beast without her heart aching for it, she simply turned and made her way to the throne.
Now as she turned she could see the procession of patrons had dwindled and all that remained was a man, kneeling before the dais in piece-mail, his black hair tousled with travel. As she moved closer she caught sight of his face as he turned it upwards to his king in supplication. He was barely a man at all. No lines of age had touched his skin, and though his blue eyes were full of worry she could sense no sign of the jadedness that humans gained with their age. She heard him mention something of an attack on his village, but seemed to be focusing his concern towards his sovereign.
"I have heard your words, Vallor," the wizened king said in a gentle tone, "and that will be the end of it." The conversation appeared to have met its end before its completion for the prince laid a hand on his father's shoulder to signal Isilmé's approach. The old man's face borrowed a smile from somewhere in his memory and offered it to their visiting dignitary. "Ah, child," he stood slowly, grasping the arm of his chair for support. Isilmé held back the urge to raise a brow at his greeting. Child indeed, but not to him. She not only matched him in years, but surpassed. She had been walking and talking when he had first taken the throne, or so she'd been told. He reached out a hand and beckoned her closer, leaving the boy Vallor struggling out of his kneel at the base of the steps.
Isilmé moved past the boy, but looked at him closer. So young to be serving as a soldier. So young to be filled with so much worry. She suddenly felt much older than she had but a few minutes ago. He looked up towards her now, his face grim though he looked to be in no hurry to leave. She granted him a comforting smile and was rewarded with a sharp militaristic nod and the slightest hint of a smile in return.
"King Marnus," she said as she turned back to the humans' royalty. She lowered her head, bringing the tips of her fingers to her forehead as she spoke. She extended her hand to him as she looked up, only to repeat the gesture towards his son, "Young Prince."
"It has been many years, Isilmé," Marnus replied with the trace of a chuckle. "I trust your father will be joining us."
"He will, Majesty," she said slowly, the forming of these words seeming odd to her tongue, "but not until the night of the coronation. He sends his regrets that he could not make it here for the morning service, but sends me in his stead."
The king turned to his son with a weary smile. "You may remember her father from your lessons, Boy. He has long upheld the alliance between our people and his."
"Then you would be of the Naïlo bloodline," the prince asked with more statement than question. Without waiting for an answer he added, "You don't look it."
"I bear more of my mother than my father, Highness."
"By whatever you bear, you are appreciated sight to these old eyes. Make yourself welcome in my halls," Marnus interrupted, easing back into his chair.
"You are most kind, Majesty, but if you will allow it, I am weary from the travel and…"Isilmé started in an attempt to remove herself from this mass of goings on.
"Of course." Again Marnus interrupted, though this one was as much appreciated as the last. The cupbearer took up the insinuation, setting aside his pitcher to stand at the ready. "The boy will lead you to what I hope you'll find to be a suitable room."
"My thanks again, Majesty," Isilmé forced herself not to turn even as she spoke the words. She was thankful also for the boy's swiftness and silence as he led her up several spiraling flights of stone hewn stairs and through the twisting halls. When he had at last slowed his pace they stood before a door identical to every other in the hallway and Isilmé wondered if she would ever be able to find it on her own. With a sigh of relief she thanked the boy who smiled and ran off.
She opened the door and it answered with a warm creak of its hinges. She slid her pack from her shoulder to the floor and closed the door, enveloping herself in the silent dimness of her room. Without effort she made it to the bed and stretched out on her stomach, gazing at the bits of sunlight that made it through the part in the heavy curtains and danced upon the floor. This would be a long day that led to a very long night.