[Envinyatar]

His footsteps echoed in the empty stone hallway; his attention fixed on the list he held in his hands. On his face was a satisfied look as he ticked off the items, one by one . . .

Elamir, Captain of the King's Guards - he'll need to set up and honour guard for their arrival . . . Lore master . . . Horse Master . . . Weapons Master . . . hmm, better see the armourer about a mail shirt and helmet, I think – can’t have the boy knocked out cold . . .

Gaeradan laughed at an old memory of Tarciryan and himself as young boys under the tutelage of Derlin, the old Arms Master. Tarciryan, fancying himself a master already at blade work, announced one day that he did not need his helmet in the practice rounds. 'No one can touch me,' he declared, his helmet held under his arm. Derlin had raised his bushy eyebrows and called him a little cock-a-whoop, but allowed him the lesson of his folly. Gaeradan had been assigned as his partner for parrying, his skill level fairly well matched to Tarciryan’s. Their blunt wooden practice swords had thunked in a furious pattern as each tried to best the other.

After a particularly brilliant parry, at least in his opinion, Tarciryan had turned for a moment to his admiring crowd and taken a little bow. He was just straightening up, when Gaeradan, at the urging of Derlin, advanced on him, giving him a solid whack to the side of his head. Tarciryan went down with a cry of ‘Unfair!’ and wobbled to his feet in a rage, windmilling blindly at Gaeradan.

Derlin stepped in and hauled the angry pup up by the back of his tunic. ‘Best wear your helmet next time, laddie. Were that a real foe you faced, he would have sliced your head in two – sending what little brains you have in there flying.’ He set Tarciryan down, declaring the lesson over.

Tarciryan wore an angry bruise for a week, and Gaeradan, as he recalled, teased him about it whenever he could. Despite that incident and few others, the two had remained close friends through the years

Gaeradan’s thoughts brought him to the door of the kitchen. It was nearly time for the evening meal, and the kitchen was a beehive of activity. He approached on of the tables where the servants were preparing the vegetables for supper.

‘Shumita, isn’t it?’ he asked, smiling pleasantly at one of the furiously chopping young women. She looked up curiously, as he had called her by name. ‘Where can I find Cook?’ he went on. Shumita pointed with her knife to the open pantry door, then resumed her attack on the carrots. Gaeradan gave her his thanks and went to discuss with Cook his plans for a little welcoming party for Tarciryan and his family. He was just leaving the kitchen, having set up a less hectic time to go over his plans, when something brushed up against his leg, snaking around his ankles, nearly causing him to stumble.

‘Damnable creature!’ he hissed at the black cat, swatting it away with his rolled up list. It arched its back and hissed at him, then sauntered off, tail high in the air, tip twitching, when he stood his ground.

Gaeradan watched its insolent retreat. ‘I need to put the Master for the Hunt on my list,’ he murmured, making a mental note of it. ‘He has some whelps, as I recall . . . and just the right age . . .’

[ July 02, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]