Kingdoms of Caelum; Autumn of the War Queen

Chapter 6

CThe morning after the feast smelt of old ale and stale food as Katla walked down the steps into the Great Hall; she was grateful to be out of the dress, back in her more comfortable clothes. It was clear as she reached the bottom of the steps, that several men had not made it home; snores emulated from clumsy lumps of drunken bodies that were scattered in heaps on the wooden floor. Her father had also not been in his chamber when she went to raise him, so she headed toward the kitchens. He would always seek solace in Mrs Grayards ailments when his head was sore and his throat dry. Katla shooed the dogs away that had begun to follow her, wafting her foot as she opened a door that led several feet down into the kitchens under the castle. She had loved playing here as a child, always warm and full of smells. Parcels of onions, rosemary and chives hung from the low roof as she bent her head, breathing in the scent happily.

"There you are, as predictable as the setting sun."

Head tilted far back, Hal choked on the honey coloured liquid Mrs Grayard had made, while a wide table, cluttered with pots and pans, propped him up. Jars of pickled foods, freshly picked leeks and wild pheasant sat quaintly between them.

"Katla, my bright days!" Mrs Grayard squealed from behind a cupboard door, she ran around the table on two fat stumpy legs to embrace her.

"Your father has once again supped the serpent's share!" she reprimanded, but smiled at him as she spoke, cheeks glowing red with admiration. Hal wiped his beard clean and stretched.

"It was forced upon me. Lesser men would not have yielded."

No matter how angry Katla was at him, he could always make her smile and for a moment she stood looking at him, her love for him whole and deep, but then her head screamed at her heart, and she had to push her love aside.

"Father," she began, giving Mrs Grayard a final hug and stepping around the table.

"We need to speak. Please."

Hallvarder surveyed her with serious eyes. He knew why she had come to him. He had heard the talk of the council, of her public objection to the betrothal, but it was not a conversation he was willing to have in front of Mrs Grayard.

"I'm not sure there is much to discuss Katla that we didn't already speak of in the courtyard. But we will talk."

Bidding their appreciation and farewells to the friendly cook, Hallvarder and Katla walked back up the steps and into the Great Hall in silence. She watched his great, shaggy coat flop from side to side as he strode in front of her, then she glanced towards his head, a mass of black curls, thinning on top. Hallvarder, Chief of Clans. So proud and so strong. But surely he loved her more than that title? Surely? Katla followed him to the steps at the main entrance; the morning was chilly and the sun had not yet broken through the clouds to grace them.

"It will be time soon for the harvest and food to be stored for the winter; I feel this season it will blow ice from the Gaar Mountains."

"I need not worry about that, seeing as I won't be here," she said bluntly, bitterly. Her words stung him but his pride changed the sting into anger.

"Katla. I have made my decision. It is not a bad match. Thornic is a fine lad, of grace and nobility. You dishonour me in your reckless attitude to this betrothal."

Katla said nothing, looking down the steps and across the Kingdom; it was just beginning to come to life with the first flicker of movement from the many thatches below. She glanced to the wall and then to the red canyons beyond. Could she do it? Could she disobey him? Scare him out of his decision?

"I wondered if there may be another way father," she tested, "A way where I could marry a Clan's son, and you would not lose your title?" Katla paused and waited for his answer, she did not want to reveal how much she already knew. Hallvarder scratched his beard and swallowed a jolt of guilt. He had seen and signed the council's accepted suitors list weeks ago, but he was a man of his word. Ragan had arranged and confirmed this union with Thornic since she had been six years old. At the time it had seemed an ideal match; now he wished it was different, but it couldn't be. Backing out of the betrothal would mean certain war; Ragan had made that clear numerous times over the years. They could not afford to go to war with Thurlstone. Their army was the biggest and strongest in the whole of Caelum, with a tribe of wild frost giants in alliance with them. The cold hard fact was: it was this or war. Hallvarder wished he had never agreed to the union, never trusted Ragan's judgement.

"Katla. I'm sorry. There is no other way." He glanced at her once before heading briskly down the steps. She stood, completely numb, and watched him go. A man she loved and trusted beyond all others, in one single movement, had crushed her soul. A tear fell from her eye and she felt her knees become weak. This was it; she had to leave, today. Maybe Ragan was right: Hal might change his mind once he knew she was serious. It had to be done, no matter what the consequences. She had to try.

Katla wasn't sure how long it would take Hal to find her, she certainly didn't intend on staying outside the kingdom for too long, but she knew she must prepare for danger. Stories of the wolves, Incants and gangs of outlaws in the realm, had been told to her by the ladies in court since she was old enough to listen.

"Never turn your back on a wolf!" and "an Incant could skin you alive, and take your scalp before you'd blinked" were some of the fables told to warn children about the realm. Of course, many people had left the realm and come back safely. Every year over a hundred would travel for the great Caelum market; The Lunar Agora in Baradonia. A huge convoy would go to sell the produce of Roskilde, and they would return without concern. Katla was quite confident she could defend herself if necessary, although her worried, pounding heart betrayed her. She stood in her chamber shaking with intent as she slung quiver and bow over her back. She put on the leather glove, and made sure the red ribbon in her hair sat tight. Amya was out horse riding. She was grateful in a way that she would not have to explain her actions to her younger, almost wiser, sister. They would not be taken gracefully. Instead, she scrawled a note on a small parchment with feather and ink:

hecould now