OoOoO

Tarun barely recognized the face staring back at him from the mirror. That may in part have been due to never having seen his reflection in its entirely before. The largest mirror in Trosk was no bigger than a book cover; the mountainfolk had little use for something so delicate and tasked toward vanity. The Weeping Keep had many mirrors though, and it was before one that Tarun stood now, preparing to attend the wedding ceremony of Rhadu A'Khet and Ellorae Amenthis.

When at first Lord Rhadu had tried to offer Tarun (and Tarun alone) an apartment in The Weeping Keep, Tarun had felt obliged to refuse. Despite having won the Hilmarhlǫkk, he was still less than warmly regarded by many of the men of Trosk. To accept a room in the keep – markedly positioning himself as separate and above the other mountainfolk – would have only further damaged his still-fragile standing as chieftain.

Still, rooming in the boarding house with the soldiers of the Queen's First Company did pose its own challenges. For one thing, with barely ten luns between them and far from home, the mountainfolk were scarcely in a position to outfit themselves and their new chieftain befitting a royal wedding. Rhadu, thankfully, seemed to perceive Tarun's delicate position from his refusal. The eimir of Clan A'Khet promptly followed up with an even more generous offer.

"But of course, I forget myself! Did Princess Ellorae not say that you, as Chieftain of the Mountainfolk, were to be accorded status equal to any eimir of the seven clans? In which case, it is only appropriate that you be granted the use of an entire wing of the keep throughout your stay. I'm afraid that most visiting eimirs only bring a retinue of fifty or so when they come to Derbesh, so you may find it somewhat crowded. However, the choice is yours if you wish to house all of your folk close by."

'Equal to any eimir' had clearly been a tiny bit of a stretch; the 'entire wing' which Rhadu referred to was actually a long hallway on the lowest level of The Weeping Keep. Although the windows faced eastward toward the sea, they were positioned far enough down the cliff face as to be directly below the waterfalls which gave the keep its name. The mighty Anders River, funneled through the city and beneath the palace, burst free in a never-ending torrent of roaring white water which constantly rang in everyone's ears on its way down to the Beson Inlet.

Despite the lack of view and incessant background noise, the rooms lent to Tarun and the mountainfolk were actually quite comfortable. That being said, their standards were not particularly high, considering their having known only the humble cottages of Trosk or military barracks up until this point. Still, there were rich carpets on the floors and intricately carved wood panels on the walls, as well as any food or drink which they might think to request from The Weeping Keep's kitchens. Even though fifteen rooms altogether made housing over two hundred men something of a tight fit, there were more than enough cushions to go around. If anything were likely to keep them from resting properly, it would be the endless din of the waterfalls. All-in-all, the men of Trosk found themselves with little to complain about regarding the outcome of the Hilmarhlǫkk...for now.

That still left the issue of the wedding. Having sworn publicly to Princess Ellore, there was no question as to Tarun being obligated to attend. Rhadu had informed him that, similar to the eimirs, he was allowed to bring four 'attendants' to the actual ceremony. When asked what they intended to wear, Tarun had only shrugged and indicated his worn soldier's uniform. Only thirty-four years of grooming to the role of eimir had kept the disbelief from showing too evidently on Rhadu's face.

Less than an hour later, a knock had come at the door to Tarun's apartments. The mountainfolk were left blinking in bewilderment when not one but five tailors were revealed on the doorstep, along with one of Princess Ellorae's handmaidens.

"Her Highness, Princess Ellorae, bids us attend to you and your chosen attendants, Tarun the Heartless." The handmaiden – the youngest of Ellorae's entourage – eyed Tarun and the other mountainfolk dubiously. "She and Lord Rhadu gave instructions that we are to outfit you and your folk according to your customs and tastes before the wedding."

Tarun for his part had actually been a little taken aback. Between himself and Isbjorn though, the two of them managed to describe to the tailors appropriate attire for men of The Teeth. When the tailors pulled out measuring tapes and demanded their subjects be identified, Tarun had found himself confronted with another dilemma; who his attendants actually were.

It all came down to the sort of public image Tarun wanted to cultivate around the mountainfolk. He remembered an account from one of his da's old books; how one of the ancient chieftains had tried to intimidate First King Amenthis by bringing only his largest and strongest warriors to a pre-arranged meeting. Although the gambit ultimately hadn't worked, Tarun figured the principle was still sound. It was with this in mind that he chose the four who would accompany him to the royal wedding.

First would of course be Borse. Although Borse hadn't been (and still wasn't) very happy about Tarun's decision to force a Hilmarhlǫkk, the tanner was undisputedly one of Tarun's closest allies amongst the mountainfolk. He had stood between Tarun and a soldier of the Fourth Company while in Geristan, risking Captain Jerriod's wrath upon himself. Tarun suspected that part of Borse's protective behavior stemmed from how close he and their mother Mira once were. That was before their father Thrymm had come to Trosk though. Either way, Borse was also one of the tallest, fiercest looking men in all of Trosk. There was no question of Tarun's choosing him for his entourage.

Next was Garrit. Although Tarun was taking some inspiration from the ancient chieftains, he wasn't about to put all his eggs into one basket. Although Garrit was neither particularly big nor particularly fiercesome, he was definitely one of the most social of the mountainfolk. Anyone not suitably intimidated by Borse's bushy black brows and grim stare might instead be charmed by Garrit's warm, affable nature. The fact that Garrit was also Tarun's cousin certainly stood as extra motivation to choose him. Tarun would sooner expect to see The Teeth crumble into dust than Garrit to ever betray him.

Tarun's third choice was carefully thought-out, and perhaps not what some would have expected. Joar the cobbler was a good friend of Thyge's, and one of the most vocal previously about the desire to return to Trosk. Purely from the standpoint of appearances, Joar suited Tarun's purposes. Bald and red-bearded, the man was also exceptionally tall; at six-and-a-half feet he stood above even Borse. He was also well liked and respected amongst the men of Trosk...particularly those who had stood for Thyge. Tarun figured it was worth the risk of including one of Thyge's allies if it meant potentially making inroads with the men who still privately grumbled against staying in Derbesh. If Joar was seen publicly accompanying him, Tarun reasoned, it might go a long way toward ensuring unified support.

That left one more place in the entourage of Tarun the Heartless. Briefly Tarun regretted having let Hengar escape at Trosk. Between Hengar's near-permanent scowl and broad, powerful build and features, he would have been a perfect choice. Hengar's younger brother Andris took more after their mother, Alina, with his soft chin and watery blue eyes. Tarun also allowed himself the luxury of one quick moment to wish Marden were with them. Of course, if that were the case, no one would have ever stood for Tarun at the Hilmarhlǫkk. Marden would have been chosen chieftain through sheer force of popular demand. Not that Marden would have ever called a Hilmarhlǫkk in the first place. Tarun was forced to concede that his elder brother would have been halfway back to Yelaina in Trosk before Ellorae even finished announcing her challenge to Mahir.

In the end, Tarun chose Isbjorn. The man was quickly emerging as something of a High Elder-in-the-making, with many of the younger men deferring to his calm, thoughtful ways of thinking. Although Isbjorn was a bit on the stringy side – brushing up dangerously close to gaunt these days – there was something about him and his solemn, watchful gaze that could be intimidating in its own right. Although Tarun had never had much occasion to interact directly with the wainwright while in Trosk, he was beginning to discover that he rather liked the man. After all, it was thanks to Isbjorn's wit and discretion that Tarun had managed to claim a clear victory in the Hilmarhlǫkk without having to sacrifice anyone...anyone currently living, anyways.

This had all been nearly four days ago. With representatives of all seven clans now housed and settled within the walls of The Weeping Keep, tensions would have been high even without a royal wedding. Tarun had instructed the men of Trosk not to wander about the keep, and thus far they had managed to avoid much interaction with the visiting clansfolk. The ceremonies would bring everyone together in close proximity; friends, rivals, and bitter enemies alike. Tarun had spent the past few days devouring every piece of news and gossip alike that he could wring out of the servants and Guardians of the Keep alike. If he was going to be thrown head-first into the dragons' lair, he wanted to have at least some clue what was going on.

Tarun was so wrapped up in pondering the political arena he was about to step out into, he didn't even hear when the tailor who was making the final adjustments to his new clothes asked him a question.

"Eh Tarun!" A shout across the room from Garrit – who was being similarly inspected by another tailor – brought Tarun back to the present. "The man asked if you wanted to rethink the fur."

"The day will get hotter as the sun rises." Adjusting the collar of Tarun's tunic, the tailor frowned. "And this shade of mulberry will only attract more heat. Although..." he brushed a tiny bit of lint off one sleeve "...the colour is well chosen for bringing out the grey in your eyes. Perhaps a little bit of kohl..."

Tarun had fought this particular battle before. With the wedding less than an hour away, it was not as if he there was time for another outfit to be chosen regardless.

"I have already let you talk me away from the full mantle and cloak, which would have been the real garb of a chieftain. The fur accents stay."

Too warm or not, Tarun had never imagined clothing as fine as what he now wore. The suede of the tunic was so neatly brushed, any touch left a silvery imprint in its wake. Ridges of black and white jackal fur ran down the shoulders, chest, back, and around the wrists, subtle enough that at a distance they could almost be mistaken for embroidery. The tunic was perfectly tailored to fit, as were the pants and ox-hide boots. Leather braiding decorated the shins of the boots, accenting the length of Tarun's legs. Garrit, Borse, and Isbjorn had all been measured for similar clothing, although there were a few extra embellishments to Tarun's attire as chieftain.

When at last the tailor declared himself satisfied, he was replaced at Tarun's side before the mirror by Ellorae's handmaiden. The girl carried a long case in front of her, made of polished wood and latched with a golden hook.

"Princess Ellorae offers you the use of these for today, Chieftain. They were part of Her Highness's dowry, but it pleases the bride and bridegroom to see them worn on their wedding day."

Borse, Garrit, Joar, and Isbjorn all came over from their respective mirrors, curiosity momentarily easing any lingering distrust of Ellorae and her gifts. When the handmaiden undid the latch and opened the case, even Borse let out a low whistle.

"Those are better suited to a prince than a chieftain," he remarked.

Nestled in a bed of green velvet, a pair of silver wrist cuffs with matching belt chain and hair clasp gleamed in the early morning sunlight filtering into the room through the waterfalls. The wrist cuffs were engraved with a mirrored set of snarling felines; likely red mountain cats from the size of the fangs etched into the metal. The hair clasp likewise displayed a single cat's eye, slitted and suspicious, no doubt meant to symbolically keep watch from the back of the wearer's head.

"Where did they come from?" asked Garrit, leaning over Tarun's shoulder with wide eyes.

"From Her Highness's dowry, and before that the treasury in Castle Armathain," repeated the maidservant somewhat impatiently.

"He meant before that," Tarun interjected. The ornaments in the case looked very old; although they were beautifully polished and free from damage, there were slight signs of wear and aged metal around the seams which gave away their antiquity.

"I wouldn't-" the girl began, only to be interrupted by Isbjorn.

"These look mountain-made. See, the grain in the metal? Just like how Halna works with silver in her forge."

Borse and Garrit narrowed their eyes, suddenly less charmed by the princess's apparent generosity. Tarun for his part found the situation rather amusing.

"Well, if that's not ironic, I don't know what is. First King Amenthis takes these from the mountainfolk a thousand years ago...only for his descendant to give them back to the first chieftain afterwards." Before the maidservant could protest or contradict him, Tarun reached out and took the case from her. "Tell your mistress that it pleases me to wear these today, and every day hereafter. If she wishes to retrieve them, I would be happy to speak with her in person about it."

The maidservant glowered at Tarun, apparently deciding that the Chieftain of the Mountainfolk wasn't worth hiding her distaste from after all. With Princess Ellorae herself having decreed that Tarun was of equal status at least with the eimirs of the seven clans, the girl could hardly protest. She excused herself with a curt nod and a curtsy, the apartment door swinging slightly from the force of her hasty exit.

Garrit was already probing at the contents of the case in Tarun's hands. "Look! There's even beard and mustache casings to match! Too bad you don't have anything to use them with."

Tarun arched an eyebrow at his cousin. Borse and Isbjorn's hands went self-consciously to their still-stubbly chins. It would take more than a few days for the aftermath of their army enforced shaves to grow back out.

"Not the way a proper mountain man is supposed to look...like a boy rather than a man," grumbled Joar. Tarun decided to let that one go for now; he had bigger sheep to shear than jibes over his age and the fact that he couldn't grow a full beard yet if he wanted to.

"Borse, your hair is long enough, why don't you braid some of it and wear the casings instead?"

Borse was momentarily taken aback. "No...I don't reckon that'd be right. These are meant for a chieftain, and that's not me."

Tarun shrugged. "It's not like I can wear them. Besides, between the cuffs, belt, and clasp I'll be more than decorated enough. You may as well; I imagine the eimirs and their attendants will all be kitted out to the fullest too."

"...Fine, but I'm not keeping them. They go back in the box as soon as this whole stramash is over."

"Too bad your hair isn't longer, Tarun," remarked Garrit. "Besides the clasps, we could have also done something to cover your ear."

Tarun reflexively went to touch the scabbed, tender wound where his left ear had been. He stopped himself just in time. Thinking about it, he realized that he didn't particularly want to hide the wound. It was, after all, clear proof for all the world to see that he had won the Hilmarhlǫkk. Let the eimirs see, Tarun decided.

"Out of curiosity, my lord, why did you tell the maid about your plan to keep the case?" Tarun still wasn't quite used to being addressed per his new rank, but Isbjorn didn't so much as bat an eye. "Although I agree that it belongs with the mountainfolk, you could have simply kept it without drawing the princess's attention...on purpose no less."

In hindsight, it had been rather brash, essentially informing Ellorae that he intended to keep the ornaments and then challenging her to come and take them. Tarun's wasn't entirely sure why he had done it, but somehow, he suspected Ellorae would find his message more amusing than anything else. The mental image of a child hiding a toy behind their back to bait a playmate came to mind, much to Tarun's chagrin. He kept such ruminations firmly to himself though.

"She may as well know now, instead of wondering about it later." Eyeing his four 'attendants' in their new clothes, Tarun felt a flicker of pride. They looked like something straight out of the old tales...the mountainfolk of The Teeth. If they were going to spend a day being sized up by the ruling elite of the seven clans, then Tarun fully intended to do some weighing of his own. A part of him was almost excited. Whatever awaited them upstairs at the wedding, it was certain to be interesting.

"Give me the case back, Garrit. It's time for the mountainfolk to remind the world who we really are."

OoOoO

It wasn't the clansfolk that commanded Tarun and the others' attention when first they arrived on the scene; it was the venue. Known widely as 'The Golden Mirror', the main gathering hall of The Weeping Keep was astounding in its artistry. Although there was more than enough gold leaf inlaid in the myriad of engravings coating the white marble walls and ceiling to merit the title, The Golden Mirror's name actually came from the long, rectangular pool running down its center. It brought to mind a beam of firelight in the dark, as one often sees stretched out on the floor from around a bedroom door left open a crack. The pool was lined with panels of coppery metal, polished to a high gleam beneath the surface of the water. Between the early morning sunlight pouring in through multiple skylights carved into the domed ceiling, the lavish embellishments of the hall, and the perfectly calm, tranquil surface of the pool, the water truly did resemble a long, flawless mirror of pure gold.

Filling the hall around The Golden Mirror were all the representatives of the seven clans. Besides Clan A'Khet, who currently held The Weeping Keep, there were six others; D'Van, G'Hesh, N'Shar, R'Tor, S'Dir, and U'Krell. Some, like Clan N'Shar and Clan U'Krell, were instantly recognizable. Trosk was within a day's walk of the bounds of N'Shar lands, and Tarun himself could connect his ancestry to Clan U'Krell as recently as his paternal grandfather. Others, like the R'Tors, were utter strangers.

At first glance, everyone seemed to be mingling together easily enough. A second look revealed more though. Although the gentle hum of conversation echoed off the gilded ceilings, members of the various clans were largely staying close to one another. As the current occupants of The Weeping Keep and family of the bridegroom, there were A'Khets everywhere. Within their masses stood pockets of N'Shars, S'Dirs, and so on, casting wary glances at the members of other circles from across the pool.

A small movement caught Tarun's eye. Not twelve paces away, standing unobtrusively in a narrow alcove, a Guardian of the Keep stood in full armour, hand resting lightly on the hilt of their scimitar as they surveyed the crowded hall. From the doorway where he and the other mountainfolk stood, Tarun was able to pick out at least a dozen more Guardians spaced around the perimeter. Suddenly Tarun felt that much better about his last-minute decision to hide a knife in the calf of his boots.

"Stars protect us," murmured Isbjorn under his breath from behind Tarun. Heads were already beginning to turn nearby, taking notice of the newest arrivals to the hall.

As chieftain, it fell to Tarun to take the lead. Doing his utmost best to portray an air of confident nonchalance, he took the first step down onto the main floor.

"We'll guard your back," Garrit whispered in Tarun's remaining ear.

"Right now the worry is for my front, but thanks regardless."

A familiar face suddenly appeared in the crowd, and with a sigh of relief Tarun set his course. Oshaher S'Dir, the Road Warden who had stopped the Fourth Company along the way to Derbesh, nodded as the mountainfolk approached. Although he had neatly shaved his cheeks and neck, the theatrical black mustache and goatee were still on full display.

"Tarun the Heartless, is it?" Oshaher offered Tarun his wrist to clasp. "I was busy meeting Eimir Hadasna on the outskirts of Derbesh at the time, but I heard you and your people put on quite a show in the plaza. Too bad! I understand there hasn't been a Hil...a Halmar...kirzk! There hasn't been a chieftain-choosing in nearly a thousand years, is that right?"

Tarun had to smother a smile at the Road Warden's aborted pronunciation attempt. "That's right, since the days of Amenthis." Remembering the presence of the four other men with him, Tarun turned to make introductions. "This is Garrit Torlson, my cousin. And behind him is Borse Bjarnison, Joar Ingmarson, and Isbjorn Ivarson."

"Any relations there?" Oshasher tilted his head questioningly up at Borse and Joar, who despite clansfolk being tall as a rule still managed to stick out in the crowd.

"No, but I chose them to accompany me today."

"Then in that case, let me give you a piece of advice, Chieftain." With a jerk of his goatee, Oshaher indicated a nearby group, all wearing some manner of lion motif on their red and orange finery. They were gathered around a regal looking older man with a salt-and-pepper beard and elaborate turban. "That hard-boiled old bugbear over there, Enyat R'Tor, would never in a hundred years bother introducing his attendants, not unless they were immediate family. Even a cousin just wouldn't be worth the effort, no offense," Oshaher shrugged at Garrit.

Garrit wrinkled his nose. "That's not exactly a vote of confidence in the strength of Enyat R'Tor's family ties."

"No? I've no personal love for R'Tors, but Enyat's undeniably an eimir, and he acts like one. The Amentherian princess publicly announcing that a young chieftain out of the blue is to be given equal standing with the heads of the seven clans has ruffled more than a few feathers, feathers which were already ruffled by this business of her proclaiming to challenge Mahir. If you want to avoid being treated like nothing more than the princess's pet, or worse, I suggest you do everything in your power to present yourself as equal to any eimir, Tarun the Heartless."

"I'll take that under advisement," said Tarun coolly.

"There you go! More of that attitude would be a good place to start. I am, after all, just a Road Warden, and ought to be scolded for lecturing my betters. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe my own dear eimir is trying to catch my eye...probably to wring my brains for first impression of Trosk's new chieftain!"

With a wink and a nod, Oshaher waded away through the growing crowd. Despite the overall lack of intermingling, there was a definite air of anticipation beginning to take root and spread through the hall. Servants were making their way down either side of The Golden Mirror, scattering pink and white petals upon the surface of the pool.

"Looks like he wasn't joking," remarked Borse. Tossing his head, he indicated where Oshaher stood talking to a thin woman roughly Halna's age. Sure enough, Eimir Hadasna S'Dir's kohl-rimmed eyes glittered with keen interest as they studied Tarun and the other mountainfolk from afar.

Tarun arched an eyebrow at Eimir Hadasna, who didn't so much as blink. "Oshaher's probably right though," he conceded. "We're so far out of our depth here, we don't even know we're drowning. It's probably best that I do most of the talking from now on, agreed?"

"We're hardly children, Thrymmson," Joar sniffed. "I think grown men can speak for themselves."

"That's 'Tarun the Heartless' or 'Chieftain' to you, Ingmarson. Things aren't the same here as they are in Trosk. I need you to follow my lead in this."

Isbjorn cleared his throat. "Did you or did you not swear upon the blood of the ancestors to uphold the results of the Hilmarhlǫkk, Joar? Hmmm?"

Although he ground his teeth in frustration, ultimately it was a silent frustration. Finally, Joar nodded curtly.

"Fine."

Wondering how on earth he was supposed to win the regard of the eimirs and their clansfolk if even his own people chafed against his authority, Tarun could only accept Joar's irritable surrender for what it was at the time. He was saved from further head-butting when another surprisingly familiar face emerged from the crowd.

"Derrian Bel!? What in the name of Anders are you doing here?"

"Captain Jerriod asked me to attend with him." Derrian grinned cheerfully, apparently not at all nonplussed by being a lone inlander surrounded by hundreds of antsy clansfolk. Long gone was the uniform of Mahir's royal army; in its place Derrian wore a crisp tunic bearing Princess Ellorae's newly debuted arms and colours; a black monarch butterfly silhouetted against a yellow sun-disk.

"Why you though??" Tarun had to struggle hard to maintain a calm façade in front of the watching clansfolk. "You have no special rank or status. You're not even an officer!"

"Perhaps he's had a promotion?" offered Garrit helpfully. When Tarun shot him a sideways glare, his cousin gave an innocent shrug. "What? Surely we're allowed to talk in front of Derrian, of all people?"

"My first act as chieftain will definitely be to have you all whipped for disrespect when this is over," growled Tarun. To Derrian he asked "Who else did Jerriod bring?"

"One of his lieutenants, a marshal, and Training Officer Pedrum."

Garrit stifled a chuckle. "Of course, The Bear and The Bi-"

"You may not be one of my soldiers anymore, Torlson, but that is hardly an appropriate way to speak of an officer of The Queen's First Company."

The steady, baritone voice of Captain Jerriod brought everyone's head snapping around instinctually. Jerriod stood behind them, resplendent in a cloth-of-gold cloak over polished armour emblazoned with the sigil of the butterfly.

"Been here long, Captain?" Tarun tried his hand at projecting some of the 'attitude' which Oshaher had encouraged.

Instead of answering, Jerriod looked Tarun over from head to toe, taking in his fresh-tailored finery and silver ornaments. His eyebrows rose a few notches up his weathered brow.

"Only a few minutes longer than you have, Chieftain. Long enough to meet a few interesting personalities."

"Oh?" Tarun could sense his companions subtly putting a little extra distance between themselves and Jerriod. The memories of the mountainfolk were long, and the Fourth's coming to Trosk was not so very long ago.

"Yes. In fact, not ten minutes ago, Eimir Vashoul N'Shar all but cornered me, demanding to know when you'd arrive."

That got Tarun's attention. "Vashoul N'Shar? What does he want with me? And why would he ask you?"

"It wasn't just you he wanted to speak with; Vashoul had more than a few pointed questions for me as well. He wants to know the fate of his nephew, the Factionist ringleader Nadathan N'Shar. The one who led the rebellion at Trosk?"

"I remember," said Tarun shortly. "And what did you tell him?"

Jerriod frowned. "The truth. I told him that I only spoke to Nadathan briefly before the skirmish, and saw nothing of him again after that. Whether he survived or not, I don't know."

"Not that the Fourth bothered to stay long enough to identify the dead." Borse's voice was steady, but taut with suppressed anger. The ghost of his son smouldered behind the tanner's dark eyes.

"Would you have preferred we lingered around the town longer? Intimidating your grieving womenfolk with our very presence?" asked Jerriod evenly. Before Borse could retort, he refocused his attention on Tarun. "Vashoul was far from satisfied with what little I could tell him, save that his nephew and the Factionists spent far more time amongst the folk of Trosk than the Fourth Company. As soon as Eimir N'Shar heard that, he was adamant that he speak with you and your folk at once. Take this warning; Vashoul N'Shar is not a man to deny lightly."

"Where is Vashoul now?" asked Tarun.

Jerriod was just scanning the faces of the crowd when a sudden shout rang out. All conversation fell abruptly silent, allowing a second yell to be heard even more clearly. The voices were those of angry men. Then, there was an abrupt, guttural noise, and the crowd fell away from a spot at the side of the hall.

"Joar, what do you see??" Tarun glanced up at the much-taller man. Joar's eyes narrowed, and he immediately backed up a step toward the doors.

"There's been a killing! I see a knife with blood on it. It looks like a R'Tor has stabbed an U'Krell, over there near the far end of the pool."

Sure enough, the Guardians of the Keep were even now converging like striking hawks. Their target was a man in a vest of marigold orange with matching, lion emblazoned scarf. Although Tarun wasn't tall enough to see much of the victim, he did see someone threading their way through the crowd to whisper in the ear of a steely looking old woman with the emblem of Clan U'Krell – a stylized sea serpent – embroidered onto her sleeves. That then must be Eimir Yeffa U'Krell, Tarun deduced.

Surprisingly, Eimir Yeffa did not look alarmed. Nor, for that matter, did anyone else. The Guardians of the Keep swiftly surrounded the offending R'Tor. With no warning or hesitation, one of the Guardians drew their sword and ran the attacker through. The clansfolk stood witnessing the bloody scene impassively, their faces carefully expressionless. Tarun and the other mountainfolk could only watch from a distance, mouths agape, uncertain just what, if anything, they were supposed to do.

Apparently, they were supposed to do nothing. Justice brutally dispensed, the Guardians of the Keep took each dead man under the arms and dragged them from the hall. None of the clansfolk made any move to protest or intervene...or even grieve. Even the two eimirs whose subjects were involved simply turned their backs and continued whatever conversations they had been having beforehand.

As the ringing echo of hundreds of voices slowly resumed, servants appeared seemingly from midair with buckets and mops. Within minutes, it was as if the entire scene had never happened. Tarun let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"What in the ever-reaching Teeth was that!?" exclaimed Garrit. "Two men just died...at a wedding of all places!"

Derrian looked similarly unsettled; a first as far as Tarun had ever witnessed. "And no one even reacted at all..."

Captain Jerriod's brief grimace was almost sympathetic, like an elder watching children learn not to touch a hot cauldron the hard way. "It's the laws of The Weeping Keep. Anything that goes on beyond these walls is fair game between rivals. Inside the palace, however, the Guardians enforce absolute truce. There is only one rule, but it is upheld without question or protest; whatever harm you bring to another will immediately be revisited back upon you. The Guards of the Keep do not care what quarrels might exist between clans, families, or individuals. If you act upon bad blood in here-"

"Your blood gets spilt in return," Tarun finished. He glanced once more toward the scene of the murder/execution. "What if foul play can't be proven?"

Jerriod's smile turned vulturous. "That, Tarun the Heartless, is the name of the game. I'll wager a year's pension that more than a few clansfolk will die under 'tragic and mysterious' circumstances before this little gathering is over. I've instructed the First Company to keep to the boarding house...I suggest you keep a similarly firm grip on your mountainfolk."

A squeeze of Tarun's elbow pulled his attention to Isbjorn.

"I think Vashoul N'Shar may have just spotted us."

Sure enough, when Tarun followed Isbjorn's gaze, he locked eyes with a man stalking through the crowd toward them with all the single-minded determination of a charging ram. Eimir Vashoul's black eyes narrowed beneath hooded brows. Despite being largely unremarkable in size and build, there was such an intensity in the way Vashoul carried himself that Tarun subconsciously took a step backward. He hardly knew more than Jerriod as to the whereabouts of Nadathan N'Shar. Somehow though, he doubted such an answer would appease the approaching eimir.

They were saved by the ringing of bells. While everyone had been distracted by the disturbance, the final preparations for the wedding ceremony had begun. Two children – a boy and a girl – stood at either end of The Golden Mirror, a bundle of polished bells in each hand. Three times they rang the bells, claiming the attention of all gathered in the hall.

Everyone began to approach the pool, lining the golden waters from either side. Tarun chanced one more quick glance at Vashoul. The eimir stood staring at Tarun, as if he could somehow read the younger man's memories through sheer force of will. Still keenly aware of the watching Guardians, Tarun was the first to look away. He hastily led Garrit and the others toward the edge of The Golden Mirror, where they managed to find enough room that Tarun had a clear and unhindered view. Captain Jerriod meanwhile positioned himself and his attendants nearby. All watched and waited.

Arrayed along the front and back of the hall, musicians began to play. The lone voice of an instrument that Tarun recognized from his father's books as an oboe floated light and ethereal throughout the hall. For a time, the oboe sang alone, weaving a song of such serene beauty that the clansfolk almost began to relax. Then a woman's voice joined in, and together the two artists made pure magic. Tarun had never heard such a sound before. To his surprise, he realized that his throat was tight and his eyes were itching.

Even more surprising was that he was not the only one. Standing across The Golden Mirror from them, none other than Eimir Enyat R'Tor shuffled slightly and cleared his throat. Beneath his bushy brows, Enyat's eyes were glistening. The same was also true of Oshaher S'Dir, standing beside Eimir Hadasna. In fact, the only one who apparently wasn't affected by the music was an old, turbaned man with morse features and sagging jowls. He wore a large golden amulet in the shape of a scorpion, tail raised in striking position. This, Tarun guessed, must be the infamous Kirban G'Hesh; the eimir who had been responsible for sending the Fourth Company to Trosk on the tail of Sula, Nadathan, and their Factionists. Unlike just about everyone else around him, Kirban G'Hesh didn't seem at all moved by the wedding serenade. In fact, if Tarun didn't know better, he could imagine that the eimir of Clan G'Hesh looked bitter...angry, even.

The low, steady beating of drums began, and on either end of The Golden Mirror the vast opposing doors entering into the hall began to glide open. At the western end stood Rhadu A'Khet, stripped to the waist and wearing only pants cut from cloth as fine and red as the desert sky at sunset. The Lord of the Weeping Keep was decorated richly with necklaces and bracelets of glittering gold, as well as metallic body paint that looped and whorled across his tanned skin. Behind Rhadu, members of his family followed him down the steps into the hall. They stopped at the end of the pool though, and all turned their gazes to the eastern doors.

When Princess Ellorae appeared, Tarun nearly swallowed his own tongue. The world seemed to narrow down to a single point; the woman standing in the doorway.

Ellorae's hair – previously dyed strawberry blonde to accommodate her traveling in disguise – now shone a radiant auburn red as it tumbled down to the small of her back. Her wedding garb was of the same passionate hue as Rhadu's, setting off a light coppery tone to the skin of her bare arms that Tarun had not noticed before. She like Rhadu had been painted with flourishes of gold, and the sleeveless, cropped top and billowing pants she wore provided more than ample canvas for the artists' masterpiece.

Small and slight though she was, Ellorae walked like a queen as she descended the steps toward The Golden Mirror. Behind her followed her ladies-in-waiting, as well as Lieutenant Neel, decked out in a shimmering cloak similar to Jerriod's. When Ellorae reached the edge of the water, she like Rhadu stopped and waited.

Midway down the length of the pool, a wizened old woman draped in white robes stepped forward and began to speak. Tarun scarcely heard a word she said. He found himself unable to tear his gaze away from Ellorae. As thoroughly fixated as a snake in a charmer's basket, he watched as reflected sunlight off the water danced across Ellorae's painted skin. The rise and fall of her chest were so hypnotizing...without conscious thought, Tarun's breathing began to slow until it matched hers. How could the princess be so calm, he wondered? Weren't people supposed to be nervous on their wedding day?

A foot pressed firmly down overtop of Tarun's, jolting him back to full awareness. Looking down, he realized that Borse was purposefully stepping on his foot.

"Careful," Borse whispered quietly. "People are watching."

Tarun thanked every star above that he was already flushing slightly from the heat. What was he thinking, to be staring so openly at the soon-to-be Lady of The Weeping Keep? And surrounded by Clan A'Khet no less? Why was he even staring at Princess Ellorae? The question both perplexed and annoyed him. He couldn't afford those kinds of missteps right now...especially now. Still, everyone else was looking at the bride (and bridegroom) ...why shouldn't he?

While Tarun had been privately interrogating himself, the officiant's opening remarks came to a pause. The singer began once again, this time joined by two others. Their song this time was lower, more solemn, and also apparently the cue Rhadu and Ellorae had been waiting for.

Stepping forward and down, they descended into the pool. The water of The Golden Mirror, which came up to only about mid-thigh on Rhadu, lapped gently around Ellorae's slender hips. Then, slowly and with great dignity, the two began to walk through the shining waters toward one another. They would meet in the middle, there to be wed by the elder woman swathed in white.

It just so happened that Tarun and the mountainfolk were placed somewhat closer to Ellorae's starting point than Rhadu's. As Ellorae approached, Tarun couldn't help but find himself entranced once again. The princess's passing left golden ripples in her wake, spreading outward across the glassy surface of The Mirror to break upon its metal sides. Her arms trailed in the water at her sides, and as she got closer Tarun could at last see the tiny gooseflesh and fine hairs raised along her skin. Was the water cold? Was she nervous after all? These things and more Tarun was burning to know. He wanted to know everything that Princess Ellorae knew. He wanted to see the world through her eyes, or at very least witness it all by her side.

That was when the truth struck Tarun, and he cursed himself with all his might.

He, Tarun the Heartless, had fallen recklessly, hopelessly in love with Princess Ellorae Amenthis.

Then he watched her marry Rhadu A'Khet.

OoOoO