Beyond the Pale

Disconcerting Bedfellows

"Your Grace," implored the sallow-faced, gaunt man wringing his hands in front of the royal seat. "surely you'll agree that—"

"I'll agree," came the High King Torygg's peremptory reply, "that you have wasted enough of my time as it is." Then, as the man seemed to deflate of all spirit, the King assumed a somewhat softer look, saying, "You've made your point," in a level voice, "and it will be duly considered—of that, you'll have my word."

The sickly-looking man recovered a bit at that. "Thank you, your Highness," he said. He made his awkward obeisance, then promptly retrograded, not daring to turn his back until he'd reached the stairs leading down.

Castorius snorted quietly to himself. Quite the freak-show this had proved to be.

He'd stood there for over an hour by then, at the sidelines of the High King's throne room, listening to a petition after a supplication after a briefing of military stratagem, vacillating between amusement and utter tedium. He'd expected a private hearing with the crowned head himself, not to partake in this absurd routine of his regnant responsibilities. Who would have thought the life of a king would prove to be so boring?

Well, Castorius would have, to think on it.

All the same, no words had been wasted on the prospect of war, nor on any battle or the earlier disturbance. The Stormcloaks had been mentioned once—in the context of 'geopolitical impregnability', whatever in gods' names that might have meant—but the topic of an immediate threat of a civil war was acutely conspicuous by its absence.

Suspicion was slowly stirring within him.

The expressions stood mostly placid on the faces of the attendants around the central space, where one supplicant after another stated their business and received Torygg's usually curt reply. Captain Aldis stood basically expressionless opposite of Castorius, his the job of the herald who ushered the supplicants and, if necessary, encouraged them to depart once their business had been judged as dealt with. This left Falk Firebeard, the High King's steward, free to stand by him, to whisper his advice into the regent's ear, and doubtless to brief in the necessary detail of the given person presenting their case.

The King's wife Elisif had her seat next to her husband, but Castorius did his best not to look upon her. This took a considerable amount of effort.

Two soldiers stood on each side of Castorius like a pair of automatons—good dogs to a man, of that there was little doubt. Was this the impression that he had given in service? This machine-like unmalleability? Were their any individual thoughts behind those stony faces and expressionless eyes?

He did not want to think about that either, so decided to just try and ignore them.

The room itself could have been larger, he thought, as it was scarcely the size of a living room in the house of any given caste-noble. The High King's throne stood on a squat dais currently bathed in the light of the forenoon sun, which managed to give the man a nearly otherworldly impression. Castorius also had to admit that Torygg was quite an imposing sight in his own right, wearing his crown and his purple and turquoise royal garb. His proud, bearded face made him appear at least a good decade, if not two, older that his relatively young age, and the impression was further enhanced by the stout figure that his firm posture underlined. This was a man whose presence commanded respect, and was no doubt looking at a long and successful reign.

Even if he was just a puppet.

Castorius looked towards the staircase to his left, at the line of supplicants. Was this to go on much longer? To his despair, the other of the two sets of arching stairs was still populated by plebs waiting their turn, the other set being reserved for those retreating. Above them loomed a large dome, and through the stained-glass windows lining it, the space was flooded with columns of sunlight—like scraps of mercy from a celestial paradise they would never attain.