A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 9 (Part 1 of 2)

Chapter 9

Isendrin

*

Hardly a few minutes after Imlon had cantered past the road to Jewelcutters, Isendrin emerged from that district and turned his horse towards Bosterley Bar. 

Two days previously he had purchased a fine property on the mountainside.  The negotiations and the business of ordering his household had been tedious – tonight, he pledged to enjoy himself.  His destination was the Guildhall and the Goldsmiths’ banquet, and the prospect of fine food, flagons of wine and varied company had been teasing his thoughts for days.  They’d be staring at him, all those wealthy merchants and masters and courtiers who appeared to these things.  It was time to make himself known.

As he rode into the lamplit old city, everyone he passed looked up at him.  When he had first ridden to the Palace Isendrin had had a sense that those he met were thinking “Who is he?”  Now, only a few days later, the eagerness of their looks suggested a different thought: “Is it he?”  Though he dressed predominately in black, his light doublet glimmered with fabulous rivers of needlework like seams of silver in coal.  A well-wrought scabbard adorned his belt, the dark gold and the garnets turning to fire when they clutched the light of a torch or brazier.  His horse, elegantly caparisoned, carried him forward at a stately pace.  Even his rugged skin and dark hair, which the barber had seen to earlier that day, were enhanced by the dancing flames, and he knew it.

Head held high, he rode along the flank of the Godsmount.  Muffled music and laughter drifted down from the Guildhall above.  A surge of anticipation wriggled through Isendrin’s veins, then a second when he noticed the gathered footmen and servants at the bottom of the marble stairs rising up the hill.  The banners of the Prince of Monruath, the Goldsmiths’ Guild and the Guildhall lined the approach, lit by great burning cauldrons.  Fat merchants, pompous lords and pristine ladies were being met by grooms and liveried attendants.  A large queue was building.

Isendrin, however, did not have to wait.  As he approached, the chief servant immediately came forward to greet him, leaving the well-dressed husband and wife he had been talking to speechless.

“Welcome, my lord,” he said, bowing.  “The Goldsmiths’ Guild are most honoured by your presence.”

“And I to be here,” said Isendrin, revelling in the looks that he drew as he dismounted.  As if from the air a boy appeared and led his horse away.

“Shall I show you to the Guildhall, my lord?” asked the servant. 

Isendrin raised an eyebrow, looking up at the top of the great building ahead.  “I think I shall be able to find my own way.”

“Of course.  Blessings of the evening, my lord.”

Isendrin ascended; though he did not look behind, he felt the envious stares of those who had to wait their turn for admittance.  The top the stairs opened out onto a small square, dominated on the opposite side by the looming edifice of the city’s Cathedral, aspiring to the sky with its spires.  On his left sat the solid gravity of the Guildhall, its old stonework lending it a noble air.  The warm light emanating from the grand windows beckoned him in.

Attendants bowed as Isendrin strode through the worthy doors, up the carpeted stairs and down the bare-stone corridors bedecked with paintings and tapestries.  Perfumes and distant savoury odours pulled him further on, until at last he came to the Great Hall.

“Wine, my lord?” said a servant the instant Isendrin strode in.  The exile took a goblet, nodded his thanks, and stared around the chamber. 

It was a hall fit for a duke, and a proud one at that.  Hundreds of torches burned in sconces and iron chandeliers, casting a romantic mix of light and shadow onto the chattering guests.  Suits of antique armour, fabulous silver plates and beautifully patterned weaving were set up against the walls, and tall windows rose up above them to the timber roof.  At the far end two colossal portraits, ten feet tall, hung on opposite sides of the wall.  One was of a black-gowned worthy in a gold chain; the other, in diadem and robes, could only be Beresso’s father.