The priest's eyes widened the mont he saw the seal. He almost dropped his tray.
"Where did you get such a thing?" He asked in disbelief. "Who is it addressed to?"
Oliver turned the letter around, displaying his own na. Verdant did a double take. "But you haven't t with them… Or perhaps you have? Ah, yet again, my liege surprises . To think you'd et with royalty in my absence."
"Royalty?" Oliver repeated. He didn't recall eting with any royalty… Though there was so sort of mory there. What was it? No… It wasn't much of a mory, more a feeling. Golden fuzziness, and a terrible warmth.
"Indeed, that is the seal of the Pendragons," Verdant said, his mouth widening into an almost proud smile. "The royal seat of Arthur Pendragon, your father's friend, before his death. He would have been High King, if he'd lived five years longer… but alas, the cycle of succession continued, leaving the Pendragons behind.
They are still Silver Kings, and royalty in their own right, but the House of Balar still remains High King."
"Hm…" Oliver said absentmindedly. More things that he didn't know. For a peasant making ends et in a village at the end of the world, the affairs of succession and of nobility were the furthest thing from his mind, though, he had to admit, he did find it curious that Arthur Pendragon – the man that Dominus spoke so highly of – was in line to beco King. "There are other Silver Kings, then?"
"Of course, my Lord," Verdant said with a furrowed brow, as if thinking the question to be a test – after all, there was no way nobility wouldn't know such basic facts about their world. "There are five royal families, with Four Silver Kings at any one ti, ruling all four corners of the Stormfront.
Such is the representation of the Academy's Castles, with the Central Castle at the centre being the seat of the High King."
"And these different Silver Kings all have a chance of being High King?" Oliver asked.
"There is the cycle of succession that they must follow, yes, but as long as misfortune does not befall their family, as it did with the Pendragons, then they would all get their chance," Verdant said. "Will you be opening the letter, my Lord, or do you wish to ignore it?"
Oliver frowned, wondering if that was a jab from Verdant intended to make him go faster. He forced himself to open the wax seal, breaking it in two with his thumbs. In truth, his heart was pounding, unsure of what to expect. Silver Kings and royalty? No thanks. Especially not an invitation out of the blue.
If it ant war, then he didn't have a large enough faction yet to match whatever pressure they put on him.
"Dear Oliver Patrick," he read aloud, slowly, but confidently. His reading was improving, little by little – but it still wasn't fast enough to make studying easy. "You have been invited to a tea party with Her Majesty Lady Asabel Pendragon on the evening upon which this letter is to be delivered. Your attendance is expected. Lancelot Swiftrider, on behalf of Lady Pendragon."
"Hoh," Verdant breathed. "Now that is indeed an interesting turn of events. It would be classed as a royal summons, my Lord. Normally, you would have no grounds through which to refuse – it would be dangerous to do so. But if you wish to, I might be able to find excuses for you…"
"Asabel…" Oliver murmured. A voice in a dream. Dully, he wandered back inside his room. He didn't know the full story yet, but Oliver was not the type to squander opportunity rely out of fear. "Verdant, make the arrangents. I'll go as the invitation proposes."
"Very good, my Lord," Verdant said, dipping his head. "Then I shall leave with you this tray. Do you wish to make any special arrangents for the occasion, my Lord? Any new clothing, or the like?"
"No," Oliver said firmly. "I'll go as I am."
Verdant nodded again, bowing as he left. Oliver closed the door after him, setting his tray on the table. He was glad to be with his thoughts again. The na Asabel had sparked sothing close to a mory. But who was he to be having mories of things that shouldn't have happened? His life didn't carry that sort of intrigue.
His hardships were plain, and out in the open…
He saw the other letter on the end of his bed, unopened, but also unsealed. He swiftly pulled out the letter.
"I hope this finds you well, Oliver," it read, much more casual than the last letter. "Lancelot and I did what we could for you, but it is your own remarkable vitality that pulled you through. I hope you do not think us too brash for entering your room without permission. I would also like to speak to you regarding the matter of poisoning – it is not sothing that I can allow to slide.
Please expect an invitation for this evening. If you are not well enough to attend, please send a ssenger. Though, when we decided to leave you, you had recovered to a remarkable degree, so I do not think that likely. Yours sincerely, Asabel."
His head felt foggy, as a wave of mories hit him all at once. He gripped for his stomach, expecting so sort of phantom pain, so trace of what had happened the previous evening, but it didn't co, except in mory.
He recalled it all now. He recalled the slaying of the Boulder Crab, and what he'd had to do to achieve it. To pass through the Third Boundary, to sacrifice his body in the process. To ignore the rules of the Gods, and to face the punishnt of such a fact.
He rembered being in his room, alone, suffering through that pain. He rembered faintly the delirious state that he'd been in when he'd reawakened in the middle of the night, on the edge of death. He recalled leaving the Castle, and entering the grounds, making his way to the nearest reservoir, and resting against a tree… the mory grew even more faint after that, when he was at his worst.
Reviews
All reviews (0)