[piosenniel]

Pio's post

Prior to the luncheon . . .

He had been daydreaming of her as he sat at the desk, his pen poised over the sheet of blank vellum.

For all intents and purposes Athadan appeared the careful courier, noting in his daily log the number of posts he had delivered: from which ship he had received them, to whom they had gone and from whom they had been sent, all indexed in a neat manner under the day and date. The only glaring error, had anyone looked closely or followed up on the notations in this required routine, being that often letters or messages ‘disappeared’ only to be delivered much later than the date on which he had received them. All such omitted entries were discreetly ‘fixed’ by him to appear that nothing was amiss in the normal rhythm of the system.

Today, though, it didn’t matter. There had been no ‘items of interest’ as she and her mother had termed them. Nothing that needed ‘special handling’. Just the ordinary ebb and flow of message and response, waiting to be dutifully noted on the blank page for this day.

Instead the pen, almost as if of its own accord, drew bold strokes on the paper. Long, strokes cascading down from the finely drawn features of her face – her amber red hair, he imagined, his finger pressing lightly on the went ink to smudge in the deep shadows he recalled. And there, looking boldly out of her beautiful face were the blue eyes that had captured him with their daring glances . . . inviting . . . promising . . .

The nib of the pen scratched in a zig-zagged pattern through the pretty portrait he had drawn. Obliterating it for the most part, as he gave a long sigh. He had heard from those who had been present, of the death of Rhircyn. And had felt the power behind the beauty, the Dark Mother, as he thought of her. What had that man done to need being taken from the picture. Had he served his purpose in her . . . their scheme. Or had he had no purpose but was just an obstacle needing to be removed . . .

Promises of favors and monies and position aside, Athadan reminded himself that the only one he could really rely on was himself.

His gaze softened as he regarded her lips. They had escaped the marring of his pen, and he touched them now, softly. How often had he watched her, wanting to pluck a kiss from their bounty . . . His finger tapped lightly on the corner of them. Barely parted they seemed ready to curve into a smile . . . and yet, just hidden in the shadows of them lay the sharp edges of her teeth . . . danger couched in a pretty package . . . he must be careful . . .

The sound of footsteps wrenched him from his self indulgent reverie. He tore the inky page from the book and balled it up in his fist, throwing it carelessly in the wastebasket at the desk’s edge. The steps drew nearer, someone was calling his name. He straightened his tunic and stood up, turning to face the man who sought him.

It was Addruran. Something about a luncheon at Lady Pelien’s. Athadan would be required as part of the escort for the ladies who were to attend. Full dress uniform required.

Athadan made the pretense of checking his duty calendar, then smiled agreeably, saying he would be more than happy to have one of the lovelies on his arm. At Addruran’s questioning look, he added hastily.

‘Within the bounds of decorum and duty, of course . . .’
___________________________________________

At the luncheon . . .

Athadan was careful to keep a pleasantly neutral face as the conversation turned to news of Addruran’s impending promotion. The man was an insipid fool! he thought to himself. And that Adrama, she was no prize in his book. Once his family rose to their proper position, he would love to see her and her precious Addruran squirm under his boot heel.

He held himself in check as Addruran bragged on about Ecthelion’s note he was to deliver. So . . . that was the packet he had seen on Addruran’s cloak in the cloakroom . . . Resisting the urge to leave the table for a look at them, he sat back in his chair and nodded approvingly at Addruran, a smile of congratulation pasted on his face. ‘Well done, Addruran,’ he said in a pleasant voice. ‘I can scarce think of a better man to have the ear and gracious nod of the Steward. This is indeed a fortunate coup for you. Congratulations.’

It was well into the second course and what seemed like an unending exchange of pleasantries with his dining partners on each side when he thought of how he might excuse himself from the meal for a few moments to take a close look at Addruran’s supposed important note and confirm it for himself. The appetizer was done; the cold, fruited soup cleared away; the salad of crisp greens laid on the plate before him.

He sat back in his chair, and rubbed his temples with his fingers for a moment. Adrama had just picked up her salad fork as he leaned near her, a pained expression on his face.

‘If you will excuse me, for just a moment, m’Lady,’ he spoke in a low voice. ‘I am subject to dreadful headaches this time of year.’ She murmured some sympathetic words. He continued on. ‘The herbalist has given me a packet of powder to quiet them, and I’ve left it in my cloak. Please allow me to go take it, and I will be able then to enjoy the rest of this most pleasant meal.’

She dismissed him, making his excuses to the rest of the company. Telling him to hurry back. He took a glass of water with him and made for the cloakroom, noting with curiosity, the eyes that trailed after him.

Once in the cloakroom, Athadan assessed the area. No one was about, or so it appeared. And there on the cloak lay the tempting dispatch. The room was quiet, and close. No breath of air moved in it. Like an offering left to some god the letter beckoned him.

He reached out his hand toward it, when something caught his attention. A scuffling sound from behind one of the closed, latticed doors that opened into a closet he supposed, or a small storage room. Athadan moved his outstretched hand to his own cloak and reached into the pocket of it, pulling out a small twist of paper. He made a show of emptying the contents into his glass and stirring it quickly with his finger. Never mind it was only the leavings of some crumbly sweet he had jammed in there several days ago.

He drank the concoction slowly, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand, complaining loudly about his headache . . . and wasn’t it unfortunate that it should happen now in the middle of this pleasant party. ‘This room is so close,’ he complained, draining the liquid in a last gulp. He walked to the small window on the outside wall of the cloakroom and threw open the shutters, leaning out to breathe in the clean, cool air.

‘Ah, that will do,’ he said after a few moments. Athadan turned back toward the door and walked quickly back toward the dining room. Leaving his now empty glass in the hands of a passing servant. He smiled and nodded at Adrama and resumed his seat at the table, falling easily into the inane babble of polite conversation.

_____________________________


The luncheon concludes . .

‘Shall we walk in the gardens for a while,’ he heard one of the ladies say. His eyes brightened at the opportunity and he murmured how pleasant that would be. ‘I have heard the grounds are lovely,’ he said, in agreement.

The party rose, and he offered his arm to the lady on his left. ‘Shall I get your cloak for you, m’Lady,’ he asked, a note of concern for her in his voice. She smiled prettily at him and told him which one it was, saying she would wait for him with the others. He hurried off.

Athadan had been thinking hard during the last of the insufferably long meal, wondering if this was some sort of trap laid to catch him. Still, they had seemed sincere enough in their talk about the message. And Addruran, that bragging pomp, had appeared his usual self-important self in talking about it. ‘I have to see for myself,’ he thought to himself. ‘If it is at all true, then this could be my hour to claim what is mine and my family’s.’

He entered the cloak room and made the pretense of looking about for the lady’s cloak. The window was still open he noted, and he moved nearer it as he picked up her wrap. His free hand snaked out in a quick move, snatched up the letter, and stuffed it in the band of his breeches.

The two guards hidden in the closets of the room burst out at him.

At the one nearest him, he threw the cloak, entangling the man’s head and arms in it, slowing him down. The second man did not fare as well. Athadan drew his knife from his boot and threw it at the guard, hitting him in the arm. Then, picking up his sword laid neatly near his own cloak, he hit the man hard with the flat of the blade on the side of the head, bringing him to his knees.

The first guard had recovered by then and dove for him, his blade meaning to lay him low. Athadan swung hard at him, beating him back; then made the quick, short dash to the window and landing hard on his feet in the dirt below, went running for the exit to the grounds . . .

[ September 29, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]