Valiant

Chapter 23: Taste of Victory

A day later, I find myself seated, with my eyes sealed shut at a table laden with food. The subtle, crave-inducing aromas of bread and fresh vegetables are interlaced with the pungent, sharp odor of the fruits called 'lemons'. There are the smells of smoke and roast meat, sizzling with grease and spice, that had been stuck over the spit for half a day at least. Barrels and barrels of ale slosh as tankards are filled and refilled, but interspersed with fruity, perfumed glasses of wines, brought in from ships on the River Castellan which hailed from distant kingdoms. Baskets of herbs and fruits and vegetables waft their own, sharp scents into the heady clouds of alcohol and yeast and meat. Clamor and boisterous music form a wall around my ears, as well as the snarling of hounds as they fight over scraps that splatter onto the earth. Then, I breathe in, the way I was instructed by Paulo all those years ago, and open my eyes to the sights. Instantly, an ocean of color invades my skull, penetrating my fried out brain like a corkscrew.

The heavy, yellow moon shines gently on the torch-lit courtyard, and the stars that shine are bright as suns. The light cast about the courtyard blasts in-between mirrors and cleverly crafted glass from the far west oceans that pours light out in volumes. Men in every color vestment possible weave in and out around a crowd, holding powdered ladies by the hand, or chewing on hunks of bread. Ladies sip the wine, while other wenches kiss ale foam from the beards of common folk. A jester on stilts, clad in motley wobbles to and fro, insulting nobles and twitching uncontrollably, while groups of commoners lift tankards high in drunken song. Banners hang from every pillar, proclaiming victory almost as loudly as the minstrel group on the torch-lit stage to my right. Every imaginable color clashes on the dancing space, reds swirling with greens and blues, spinning in between rough spun browns and beiges. Even Sir Richard is on the floor, as a picture of poise and precision, wasting not a movement. He was at the battle too, on the opposite side of the vanguard. I hear that he struck down three men with one blow of his lance, and that an entire squadron of bloodriders fell beneath his blade. But as of right now, he looks almost dainty, with thin arms and legs tucked into jet-black silk ballroom clothes. A secondary dueling sword, much thinner than his regular blade, hangs at his hip, set with a shining onyx. His ebony, fur cloak flies around as he dances with an older lady clad in green, with an almost carefree expression stretching his stern features.

There are other faces I recognize as well, swimming across a crowd of people. Orik lays reclined at a bench, with a rag tied about his head. His tankard spills as he laughs heartily at something that Bryce the ironsmith says, and then curses the loss of good ale with equal vigor.
I catch a ruddy-faced man with a fabulous mustache and a monocle talking at a woman. Lady Jade, clad in an indigo dress patterned with white roses glares at something in the distance through the gap in her ornate hijab with one hand on a dirk at her hip, paying no mind to the man's advances. Sir Trenton is dressed extravagantly, in a gold-trimmed, ruffled vest that spills out onto his chest like the tongue of some great dog. Hoarfrost steel rings bind his fingers and he is deep in conversation with none other than Isaac. If I strain my ears, I can catch bits and pieces of their conversation.
"...What were ...thinking? ... If ... caught..." Trenton hisses in a minuscule voice.
Isaac replies, barely moving his lips.
"...did what ... must. That spear... Dark times... Raphael..."
And then, a huge, familiar feature is in front of me, laughing his head off in a neat, rough spun cloth held with a length of thread and a belt with a pewter buckle.
"Gods save me! You look like pepper stew gone out a sow's ass!" Bronn's whiskery grin slides into view, blocking my line of sight. I tear my mind from shadowy thoughts, and greet my friend with a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Bronn! You uncouth beardy codger! Good gods, it's been too long!"
"I know, you hairless little..." He trails off as he sees my clothes. "Where the HELL did you acquire this manner of garb!"
My thigh and bicep are bound in white linen beneath my very best clothes, which are as extravagant as the sights and sounds around me. A scarlet silk doublet traced in shining, ebony trimmings clings to my frame, complemented by a black leather vest that constricts my chest muscles like a python. My hair contains enough grease to burn down a small fortress, slicked back and to the side in waves of rippling black, and my sword hangs at my side; a comforting pressure with so many unfamiliar faces. My bright, scarlet pants look as ridiculous as feathers, plastered against my thick, trunk-like legs. Shiny, pointed hunks of leather bound by scarlet laces cling to my feet, completing the ridiculous style of the "proper ballroom attire".
"T'was passed down from Isaac. Did not the messenger say to dress your best?" I tear apart the meat of a roast pheasant wing to take the glow from my cheeks.
" Har! I jest. Come! There are some people you should meet!"
The tangy flavor of mesquite on my tongue pleads for another taste, so I steal another nibble and follow him, wiping my mouth with the corners of a napkin.
Over to a different table he leads me, past a multitude of sweating bodies. This one is laden simply in meat, beets, and ale. "Aye, look yonder, and watch this little bastard," he grins into his tankard.
"Ho! Let now the festivities commence!" Announces a pale, freckled boy with fire for hair. His lips stretch wide as he reaches for the hand of a passing girl, revealing yellowed teeth. The wench shakes her hand free, sparing only a disgusted look before rushing away.
"Aye! She'll be after me later," he laughs, turning in my direction.
"Who the-" he swears foully "- is this jack, Bronn?"
"This," chortles Bronn, "Is Raphael. Raphael, this is Big Tom."
'Big Tom' stands glaring up at me, eyebrows level with my chest. He wears a rough spun tunic with fur furnishings, buttoned with ram horn buttons. His eyes are an angry brown- the darkest thing about him.
"Oi!" Yelps Bronn, gesturing furiously across the courtyard. The man that heeds the call is a little older than I, with a tight smile, and a handsome face pockmarked with acne and scars. His eyes seem to drag my gaze into their oceanic depths.
"Oi yourself, bear!" He laughs, clearing the space between our small group and himself with a few bounds. He wears a shapely blue doublet with white silk trimmings. Above his heart sits the crest of the Hodgesons- a golden trumpet upon a blue field, bearing a verdant banner which proclaims the motto of the house. 'Order, Honor, Duty'.
"For whom do I owe the pleasure?" He says, winking one of his eyes.
"The very question upon my lips, good sir," I answer, bowing with respect.
"Richard Hodgeson, if it please you."He says, bowing down just as low. I think not, my head snarls. So this is the cowardly snob who bought Lilly's troth without her consent.
"To hell with all this bloody courtesy, chaps! Bronn grins, slapping both of our backs to painful effect.
"Let us turn thoughts to more pressing matters."
"Like the bulge in your damned trousers for instance, you lusty bastard, eh?!" Big Tom laughs. "Didn't think anyone but you'd see that chesty wench in the yellow gown, did yeh?"
Mirthlessly, I turn to see the wench in question. A light smile brushes my cheeks. "Bronn you tease! Is that why you summoned us?" Richard asks, grinning stupidly.
The bear simply slaps his hip, and chokes on a gulp of ale. "I be soft as a feather now. You all would know if it were not so. Unlike your wee self, Tom," he says, smirking under his bushy beard.
"HAR!" Tom nearly hacks up his chicken wing. "If you wish to compare swords, drop trou and let us find out exactly why they call me 'Big Tom'."
"Onward!" Richard says, barely containing laughter between his unfortunately straight teeth. "Your wench of choice is not without merit, Bronn. Were I not already promised, I'd sweep her up myself! Still may, in fact."
Rage leaps in my stomach like a rabid hound, snarling and snapping for control. With effort, I shove it down, with help from a smokey gulp of ale.
A smirk breaches my lips as I lay my focus on the girl. Her hair is curly and brown, hanging to about the middle of her back. The canary dress that clutches her frame is taut around her chest, as Big Tom mentioned so eloquently. Her brown eyes are full of laughter, and seem glazed over, as if she were deep in thought. Her lips are velvety and pouched, slightly parted. Very seductive looking. Too much so. Her neckline plunges to an unchaste depth, her gown is much to tight to the mound of her posterior, and her gaze lingers on the soldiers in a way that speaks volumes about what she's here for. Strangely enough, a nagging sense of recognition teases the tip of my tongue as I look at her.
"She is very easy on the eyes," I concede, turning once more to the group of young men. An obnoxious tremble of strings signals the end of the song. People stream away from the dance floor like the rain from a saturated sky, and I guzzle down a mouthful of ale as my eyes catch sight of another girl, familiar and yet so unfamiliar. My heart catches in my throat, along with my drink, as noise from the group washes over me. The ale is piss in my mouth, but it steams little gushes of fog into my head. And although it burns less than mead, I can feel my limbs begin to go numb with comfort. But the taste! I crunch into a crisp, earthy radish to appease my tongue.