Wyvern Tails and Phoenix Feathers

The Dance of Subterfuge, Chapter 2 - Renard

It was midnight at The House of Broken Chains. Wild dogs bayed at the moon in the wilds outside the city. Renard could hear them as he stewed in his rage.

The girls were asleep on their cots, curled up in greater comfort than they had known in their riverside shack. Renard's plush bed was also occupied; Horus Morningshire lay tangled in its sheets unconscious, unresponsive, and utterly useless.

Renard gripped the back of his head tightly as he paced, frustrated as he fought to understand Horus's motivations.

When Horus touched the wyvern vertebra, he had caused such a scene. People rushed to Horus's aid whilst Renard was supposed to be fielding questions and garnering support. He was found with blood dripping from his eyes and fingers. Everyone saw him as he was carried upstairs. Gossip within the House of Broken chains was out of control. Some even considered Horus a new contender as the true Red Falcon.

But what was the point of Horus pretending to support him? He had taken him all the way from the Firgladen Forest to the city of Grey Horn professing his belief that Renard was the most likely candidate. It didn't make sense to throw his hat into the ring. He didn't meet the requirements. Horus came from a poor family in Morningshire; he had no nobility. It was foolish to play make-believe.

Renard's eyes settled again on the fool's resting face.

"Wake up," he hissed.

Horus remained still.

"Wake up you ruinous knave!"

A soft knocking at the door disrupted his fury. Renard's hands were outstretched. He had nearly channeled enough arcaén to smash Horus against the wall. He ran his hands over his face and greeted his midnight visitor.

It was a young woman. He hardly had any interest to look upon her long enough to learn the color of her hair. He nearly closed the door in her face.

"It's late," he said.

"My mistress would like to speak with you," she implored with some urgency.

"Princess Silviar?"

The young woman shook her head. He intended to close the door again. Princess Silviar was the only powerful woman in the house he cared to see.

"The Viscountess Daia Carvelous," she said. "Please. She only has a moment."

Renard looked back over his shoulder to the sleeping Horus. He supposed speaking to one of his rivals was better than languishing in his misery. He knew very little about Daia Carvelous; only that she commanded the second largest following in the house. He shrugged and agreed to follow her into the dark.

The young woman led Renard down a side set of stairs to the ground floor. Then, she rounded a corner and proceeded down a second flight. There were wine cellars in the basement with row after row of oversized wine casks. In the back of the cellar, Daia Carvelous waited for him. She wore a black dress suited for a grieving widow. Her lips and nails were painted a deep bronze.

"Leave us," she said to the young woman, waving her away.

She waited until they were alone before she spoke. Her voice matched her appearance, elegant, mature, wisened, and precise. Not a hair was out of place in her slick white locks.

"You made an odd choice today."

"When?" asked Renard. He folded his arms and mustered some bravado. He didn't want the old woman to think he was intimidated.

"You touched the vertebra," Daia explained. "You had a vision. It was a good story. And then your peon touched it. His story was better and he didn't even use words."