The Thrice-Ninth Kingdom VI

Morning of the 6th day, a cave

Mist rises over the frozen lake when you leave the cave at dawn. The white mare leads you down a winding mountain path and the world is hidden in the fog as if it hasn't been fully formed yet. After some time there is a glow in the mist and you pass an elder tree split by lightning and still burning inside. From afar you hear music of a kind you haven't heard before, the sound of harps and flutes and a swelling of inhuman voices shrill and wild and although you don't understand the words you feel a wicked celebration of past cruelties. Then you reach a hill on a meadow with a wooden gate adorned with antlers and rich carvings of leaves and berries. The music stops and the door opens and Adler is waiting for you.

Sir Heldris the Dove Knight

After a moment of silence, the Dove Knight approaches the Fae: “Greetings Adler,” He turns to his comrades with an hesitant look and back to the Fae. “We have come to seek shelter and rest, and the means to recover our spirits, as agreed between us on the day before yesterday.”

Referee

Now that the gate is open, the entrance to the Brugh resembles a mouth and its throat is dark. There is a heavy smell of Hyacinth and exotic spices wafting from the halls beyond. Adler is showing their teeth again, their lips red from wine: “Ah but we agreed to so much more, a feast for the body … and the soul.” They gesture you to enter but remain at the entrance. “Stribog is waiting for you.”

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

As Milos passes Adler and crosses the threshold, he sings in a soft but clear voice:

By step and breath, we cross your line 

As guests, not thieves, by ancient sign. 

What’s freely given, we receive, 

And leave you whole when we take our leave.

The Twilight of the Corridor

Referee

You hear Sivka whinnying worriedly behind you as you enter. Your eyes adjust to the twilight of the corridor and you get a glimpse of the Rusalki in their robes of unearthly colours lining the walls and eyeing you with curiosity. They resemble the androgynous Adler only more visibly male or female, with long black hair and blue slanted eyes. You feel warm hands reaching out for you and lightly touching your faces and arms and legs with their fingertips. After you have passed they follow you into a great hall, smoke-filled from a roaring fire and a perfectly round banquet table woven from roots and reeds and chairs of the same make. On an antlered throne sits their master in a robe of ivory rain. You are taken to your seats among Rusalki on both sides of you and far away from each other. Stribog gestures Perilake to join him at the front of the table.

Sir Anastaz, The Salt Knight

As the Knights are herded to their seats, Anastaz finds himself seated beside a particularly lanky, almost spider-like Rusalki. The... man picks up a cord from a strange-looking apparatus on the table, sucks on it for a few seconds, and offers it to the Salt Knight, who waves it away. The Rusalki exhales a cloud of fragrant blue smoke directly into Anastaz's face, and smiles a wide rictus grin before returning to another conversation.

Referee

Heldris, the Rusalki next to you is served a platter from a human slave in gaudy clothes and with candles in his hair. “Broth boiled liver from rare songbirds, a delicacy reserved for special occasions” the Rusalki purrs, her robes the colour of verdigris clouds. When the slave pours wine into her goblet he spills a couple of drops and she slaps him without much force but with a blinding speed. “Foolish creature” she hisses and then she turns around to you smiling. She is young and very beautiful and her skin is unblemished and almost translucent: “I am Vesper. ” Behind her you see the slave scurrying away to bring more wine. ”Few plump folk visit us willingly and even fewer return to tell the tale. How do you like the Thrice-Ninth Kingdom?”

Perilake, a Rusalki approaches Stribog and whispers something in his ears and then steps back. She is older than the chief and her robes are woven from shadows. “Your fame precedes you, Perilake. The knight who sacrificed his golden armour, the father who travelled to Elfland, the man who would do everything to save his son. And now you are riding the King's famous mare." He leans forward. "What do you say Gilded Knight: Trade me the mare and I retrieve your golden armour for you from beyond the twilight.”

Milos, you hear the murmurings around the table, Stribog and Perilake in conversation, Anastaz sharing some kind of pipe with a spindly Fae with long spider-like fingers and the Rusalki on your left side turning away to face Heldris, the one on the other side laughing at something and then focussing his attention back to the delicacies on his plate. You are isolated from your brothers and ignored by the Rusalki. There is movement on the stage in the centre of the round table. The music is about to start again.

Ser Perilake, The Gilded Knight

"My armour...." Perilake picks up a fine cup from the table, filigreed leaves of gold and bronze, and studies his reflection in the shining metal for a second. "In this land of twisted reflections, it would indeed be a fine thing to wear my own skin, my own name." He sets it down carefully on the table, and tosses his mane of silvery-gold back with a dismissive smile. "But you know my answer, I am sure. The armour is mine now, but it was a gift from another. I do not accept such things lightly, and I do not spend them or bargain them lightly. Much like the horse." His warmth drains briefly, a glint of murderous fury beneath the rekindled charm and courtly manners. "You know the only deal that would truly tempt me. But you do not hold what I desire, do you?" He takes a long drink of the sweet, rich wine, and his seeming of good cheer is restored by the time the cup returns to the table. "Still, we can make a bargain of sorts. You tell me of Sivka, and her fame." He nods toward Anastasz. "And I will tell you how Elves die."

Stribor briefly contemplating to strike down Perilake for his insolence

Sir Heldris the Dove Knight

Heldris frowns at Vesper’s rudeness toward the servant. “I found a harsh and inhospitable land thus far,” he replies. “I would hope to find less harshness in its inhabitants…” He observes the dish in front of him, and although put off by its introduction, its smell is soft and delicate. He tries a spoonful and his mouth is swarmed by a complex taste, rich and spiced and elegant. He meets the servant’s eye and, making sure to be seen by the Rusalki, he thanks them with a kind bow of the head. "Tell me, Vesper, how come humans are here in your service, displaced from their own world?"

Referee

She nods in agreement. “Yes, it is harsh … in winter! But you should see it in spring when the meadows bloom or in harvest, golden and decaying.” She follows your gaze at the slave pouring wine for Sir Milos. “Some are stolen from your Realm, some are saved from freezing." She adds casually, "well ... the ones too weak to be hunted.“ She points with her cup at a young human man on the stage, his eyes closed and a flute at his lips. ”This one made a bargain. He came here willingly to serve and to learn."

Perilake, Stribor looks at you incredulously for a moment and then he laughs “I like your boldness. Your kind is often too scared to be bold or too foolish to be taken seriously and you are not scared ... but you will find us difficult to kill.” He is as slender as Adler but even taller. He leans back again and closes his eyes, swirling the wine with his many-ringed hand. ”Aah Sivka ... wiser than most Rusalki witches, braver than our warriors and as swift as a hunting hawk - she saved the King more times than you can count on your fingers.” He opens his eyes and licks his lips. “ … but there are old … traditions. Rituals to bring in the new age that include sacrifices of that which is holy and pure. What do you want in exchange for the King's mare?”

Ser Perilake, The Gilded Knight

"Surely your kind is not so blind that the question even needs asking?" He laughs. "Even the most scared or foolish peasant would know the answer. Perhaps you do not even know what you are lacking." Perilake's tone is light, seemingly amused. Even the implied insult seems complimentary behind the smile. "My son, safe and home with his mother. That is the only exchange I look for."

Referee

Stribor eyes glint and he smiles coldly. “I am bound by traditions and my honour as your Hospodar to protect you as long as you are a guest in my halls… but I will not suffer the insolence of a fool.” He makes a sweeping gesture at the assembled Rusalki and growls. “Sometimes my people become restless, they yearn to indulge in the great hunt.” He looks at you with narrowed eyes. “But … we are also a forgiving and patient race when dealing with the slow travellers. I will deliberate with my Lord and he will have to decide if your demands can be met. But for now let's forget about politics and enjoy the Feast.” He claps his hand and shouts. “Play us a measure!”

Anastaz, a beautiful young Rusalki in a dress the colour of a glittering aurora grabs your hands and tries to pull you up with surprising strength. “Would it please you to tread a round, valiant Knight?”

Sir Anastaz, The Salt Knight

Anastaz allows the Fae to lead him with a grunt of agreement.

Referee

The music starts to swell, the same unearthly sounds you heard before: a slow beating of the drum and the glissando of the harp punctuated with shrill flute whistles, and one after the other the Rusalki get up to form a circle. A singer on the stage calls out and the dancing Fae answer and their singing is wicked and inhuman. The Rusalki in her robes the colour of verdigris clouds asks Heldris and the older woman dressed in shadows who whispered to Stribor extends her hand to Perilake. Only Milos remains seated for now.

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

As Milos eats the lavish meal alone, he listens to the carefree laughter of the Rusalki and an old wound deep in his heart is pricked by some cruel thorn. It bleeds anew and a memory of childhood loneliness seeps out with it. A red haired boy, neglected by all around him and left to grow wild, yearning for a playmate and convinced that he must not deserve one. The weight of it threatens to leave Milos vulnerable and in despair. But he is suddenly woken from the reverie by a sharp chill emanating from the ivory ring on his hand. The cold brings clarity to his mind and he remembers himself, he is the Fox Knight and he dines in dangerous company. Milos gleans the nature of the glamour being used against him and rather than resist it, he leans into the magic and amplifies it. If he is to be ignored, he will be so completely. The Fox Knight slips silently from his chair and begins a hunt of his own. He weaves the strands of the enchantment more tightly around himself as he stalks the Rusalki themselves. “I am no one. I am beneath notice” he tells himself as he circulates among the merry makers. And his ears listen attentively to everything he hears, every rustle of the leaves of discontent, every betrayal of true intent in these naturally duplicitous creatures. Always ready to pounce and devour whatever is carelessly left exposed to him.

Referee

The Rusalki dance around you in their baroque circles, pairs holding hands and letting go and being united again by inscrutable patterns, singing and laughing and breathlessly whispering their secrets. You pick up fragments of conversations, rumours of Stribor's pride and desire for an elfin heirloom that might cement his legacy. You hear a name whispered in fear: Perunja, the Weaver, who holds some power over him and that once she has recovered fully she will become the chieftain - of that they are all convinced and they all yearn for spring and tasting the white mare's flesh.

Sir Anastaz, The Salt Knight

As the dance increases in speed, Anastaz realizes the agility necessary to properly participate in the festivities. Locking hands with his partner at one point, he asks. "You are quite adept at this, stranger. For how long have you been a guest in Striborg's court?"

Referee

“I am not a guest” she says breathlessly “I am born here” and smiles at you over her shoulder as you are taken away from her by other dancers taking her place and when you are united again she adds “Who would have thought that I would one day dance with Elfbane, who slew the mighty Season Destroyers and travelled to the Thrice-Ninth Kingdom to kill the Elf.” She laughs, touching your face lightly and is whisked away again. The next time your hands rejoin she asks “Will you become the next Steward of Seasons … “ Her lips touch your ear as she whispers” … and who will be your queen?”

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

Milos spies upon the dancers with open interest, standing in plain sight but unnoticed. The musicians play a sweet seductive melody in the Lydian mode, redolent with dreams of long-awaited springtime pleasures. A mischievous smile crosses the Fox Knight’s face as he regards the imperious bearing of the Rusalki lords and ladies. He retrieves his pennywhistle from his pocket, brings it to his lips, and closes his eyes in concentration. At first, he plays delicate notes that weave in an unassuming high counterpoint to the melody. The dance continues unabated and not even the musicians notice the new voice. Then the Fox subtly shifts his playing and the notes become akin to a frozen wind whistling through a high mountain pass. The ivory ring glows softly on his hand as he plays and gently illuminates his face with a ghoulish white light. With clever half-holing and cross-fingering, Milos creates a counter melody in the Locrian mode, dissonant and disturbing, never finding rest or pleasant resolution. It evokes images of a late frost cruelly nipping the tender buds of a naively hopeful spring.

Ser Perilake, The Gilded Knight

Perilake nods at the Rusalki in her shadow-woven robes, and takes her hand, joining her on the floor. The steps are strange and quick, but such things have always come easily to Perilake. For the first time however, the spring of his steps is not matched in his heart. He rotates through the ball with a measured and precise alacrity, and only his brothers would mark that there is none of the ebullient cheer that graced even the most meager celebration in their youth. As he dances, he enquires of his umbral opposite. "I see Stribog values your whispers and words, my lady." They step around each other, and back again. "Perhaps you can tell me the truth of those I have heard, even from the very birds themselves." "Is it true that Tizra has won the pleasure of his master once more?"

Vesper

Sir Heldris the Dove Knight

The Dove Knight politely accepts the Rusalki’s hand, and joins her in the dance. As her verdigris robes flutter nimbly, he struggles to follow her; his iron arm hanging clumsily on her shoulder. “Tell me,” he says, out of breath, “what can you tell me about the Winter King? No love lost between them and your master, it seems.”

Referee

She looks at you coldly. “We don't love. Love is for the plump folk … we Rusalki desire and crave.” She passes under an arch of outstretched arms and twirls and adds “The Voyvod of a wolf pack is challenged when he is getting old, there is no love for him nor the challenger.” The dance brings you very close together now and she quickly bites your lip still staring at you without sympathy. “ I believe you too enjoy to snap at your foes when they are weak, don't you?” A trickle of blood runs down your chin.

Sir Anastaz, The Salt Knight

The Salt Knight does not seem to react to the ethereal lady's provocations. "It would not be place to dominate your people. There is much still to do in Barowia."

Referee

“You are too modest, Salt Knight. Your cruelty is well known – and valued! - among men and Rusalki both ... they say you even killed your lover, is it true? Besides some of us wouldn't mind to be dominated by a human, better you than the child who ...” but she doesn't finish her thoughts and just smiles with filed teeth.

Milos, to your surprise you realise that one of the musicians has picked up your frosty melody and adds wintery patterns like rigid snowflakes to the Ceilidh dance. When you look at the stage a young human man, playing the flute, chirps a flourish like a quick icy gale that seems to warn and greet you at the same time but he doesn't look up. His hair is long and straight like a fall of dark brown water fashioned in the way of the Rusalki. An angry shrill sound of several pipes from the other flautists try to melt your frost with late spring Fohn and snow eater winds and the young man falls in line with them.

Sir Anastaz, The Salt Knight

Anastaz grimaces. "It is a long story, and not suited for a celebration."

Referee

Perilake, the old Rusalki moves more stiffly than her kind. Her eyes are milky blue by age and for a moment it seems you are looking into Sivka's eyes but without the humour. “Tizra is a fool and the Elf despises the weak.” She curls her lips. “They say he has a new champion now, a talented boy he teaches his craft: Your son, Gilded Knight.” The room around you seems to darken and tendrils of shadows flicker around you. “They say the boy is becoming more Fae every day, wild and bloodthirsty, he killed a bird that refused to obey him.” “Hurry my golden Knight” she hisses, “or it will be too late to save him.” The shadows retreat and a young Rusalki has taken the place of the old one. When you look around she stands next to Stribor again whispering something in his ears.

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

Milos takes note of the warning as well as the moment of fellowship. He lowers his instrument and shutters his mischief for the moment. Then the Fox slips away from the centre of the revelry and toward the dark warren of tunnels that lead off of the great hall. He wonders what more he might glean by stealth in this place.

Referee

You grab a candle off the banquet table and follow a narrow, curving hall that is stretching out of sight. After a while you pass under a low arch inscribed with elfin runes and shadows move in the corner of your eye and there is a stillness around you, the unbearable loneliness of being cut off from the beating, breathing world outside. Then two passageways cross and you feel a sense of vertigo like when you spin around and around and suddenly stop and you are questioning which way you came and there are no footprints in the dust of the large natural stones of the floor.

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

The Fox Knight slows to a stop at the juncture of the passageways, takes a breath, and gathers his wits. A Fae labyrinth, then. Not a puzzle to be solved by clever turns or careful marks, but an invitation to conversation, and possibly revelation. He begins with a deep bow to the place that holds him. “Well met. I walk without claim and take no path that is not given. Lead me in this dance and I will follow.” Then he closes his eyes and listens to the silence, feels into the stillness. Which direction feels patient? Where does the air feel like it is waiting for him? He senses deeply into the inscrutable stirrings of his body, long attuned to the fancies of the Fae.

Referee

It is utterly silent. Whatever glamour is placed upon the labyrinth silences the music from the great hall and you only hear your own breathing. Nothing moves and the air is cold and still. You feel the wax from the candle drip onto your hand and you welcome the pain as the only anchor that prevents you from losing yourself. The walls seem to despise you, the ceiling wants to crush you and an unconquered fear from your past seeps into your soul.

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

From within the silence, Milos hears the unmistakable rasping cough that punctuated his mother’s last days in this world. His heart constricts with pain at a child’s memory of seemingly endless days at her deathbed. Helplessness and despair threaten to overwhelm him. But from somewhere else inside him arises his mother’s voice singing him a time-worn lullaby. A sweet golden light warms his chest and melts the grip of the terrible memory. As he regains his senses, the Fox Knight's mouth tightens in anger at the unprovoked cruelty of the assault and his green eyes harden with resolve. "If you do not answer courtesy, then I will not offer it." He turns and follows the passageway to the left. As he walks, he runs his left hand along the wall, never breaking contact with it. And he sings the ancient lullaby aloud, in open defiance of the malice emanating from the labyrinth walls. Daring it to challenge him directly.

Sir Heldris the Dove Knight

Suddenly, the Dove Knight’s head starts to spin. At first, he thinks the fast paced dance and the wine are getting to his head, but he soon notices a strange feeling of loneliness and abandonment lurking underneath his physical discomfort. “The Fox... trapped…” he mumbles an excuse to Vesper, and moves away from the dance and toward the mouth of a dark tunnel. “Sir Milos!” His voice echoes slowly, unnaturally, throughout the eerie darkness.

A narrow, curving Hall

Referee

You stumble through a group of dancers who turn their heads as you pass, the taste of your own blood on your lips and you call for your brother, the shrill pipes and unearthly choir in your ears. The Rusalki start whispering to each other.

Milos, over the sweet lullaby you sing, you hear a faint calling of your name, stronger than the glamour put upon you. You sense the alien nature of the corridors around you, thousands of years of woven spells and cruelty from deeper within the labyrinth. It might hold ancient wisdom and riches but it won't give it away freely.

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

The Fox harkens to the sound of his name drifting across the black void. He recognizes the voice of his dear comrade and catches the familiar musky scent of wolf on the air. His spirit warms in response to the call and turns toward it, following the lingering scent and the soft echo like Ariadne’s thread to guide him out of this forsaken place.

Somewhere along the endless path of twisting turns, the candle burns its last and Milos continues on through the darkness led only by the Dove Knight's call. Then finally he sees his comrade at the end of a tunnel as if he is looking down a deep well. The Fox quickens his pace and stumbles through the carved archway into Heldris' arms. Holding him in a fierce embrace, he says "You have again saved me when I was most lost." Then he turns and spits at the base of the archway and utters a curse: "You are corrupt and without courtesy. May you never enjoy commerce with another being and rot in your own malice forever." With an exhausted sigh, he leans on his friend and looks out toward the continuing festivities. "Come, I crave the warmth of your noble companionship, and something strong to drink."

Referee

You return to the banquet and taste the spiced wine and watch the dancers. In the course of the night the music becomes stranger, the droning of bone shaking horns resonates with the sound of pipes and drums and cries of the Wild Fae. Ever wilder they dance, Stribor in their midst, laughing and singing and sparks flying from his eyes, while the Lady of Shadows watches silently from the throne. Ever higher they leap and one after the other approaches and urges you to dance with them, pleading and touching your hands and faces and whispering promises they don't intend to keep and their eyes shine from pure bliss.

Ser Perilake, The Gilded Knight

Perilake finds the music and the dancing not to his tastes, though the food is fine enough. But the true feast this evening has been intelligence. As the festivities continue, he passes Zoltan, engaged in a tryst with two Rusalki youths. He pauses a moment to observe, and judges that the pigeon knights revelries are for their own sake, not some ploy by these Rusalki. Perilake then makes his way to Sivkas stable. In the dark quiet, he whispers what he has learned to the Winter Kings Steed...

Sir Heldris the Dove Knight

After the Fox Knight reappears from the dark corridor, the Dove Knight feels too tired to dance. He sits at the table with his comrade and observes the dancing and the plotting that is going around the hall, sipping some sweet fortified wine. After a while, he longs for some fresh air, and steps outside to watch the strange firmament that shine over Elfland. A longing for home replaces that of fresh air, and his thoughts go to his dear Hedwig and young Annegrit, he wonders how well she fares in the service of Lady Gundhilde.

Sir Anastaz, The Salt Knight

As the festivities wind down in the wee hours of the morning, the Salt Knight finds himself before a roaring fire, recounting the tale of his duel with the Iron Knight to a small group of Rusalki. The crowd seems evenly divided between those disappointed at Anastaz's lack of open bloodthirst and those - including his erstwhile dance partner - delighted by the ironic turn of events and the fickle nature of fate.

Referee

The Brothers of the Black Fleece meet at the open hearth, Zoltan, Perilake, Heldris and Anastaz and talk for a while and fall asleep one after the other under wolf pelts.

It must be close to dawn when the last dancers slip to the ground and only the sound of a lone flute can be heard playing a simple shepherd's song that feels like a cool breeze after the feverish night.

Sir Milos, the Fox Knight

At first, Milos stays close to Heldris in quiet conversation but when the Dove Knight excuses himself to go out for some air, the Fox ventures out onto the dance floor with a colorful series of Rusalki partners - male and female, transitioning easily between leading to following. As the night wears on, the Rusaliki seem less intent on intrigue and more abandoned in their own merriment. As the first hint of dawn approaches, Milos reclines satiated by the feast and the evening's strange dances, complicated ballets of both body and mind. He listens to the flautist's tune and feels relief in its simple humanity, so unlike the baroque convolutions of the Fae. The Fox Knight clambers delicately across the spent bodies of the Rusalki and makes his way next to the lone flautist. He pulls out his pennywhistle again and plays some delicate notes in a plaintive harmony high above the shepherd's song. After the last note fades in the quiet hall, he smiles warmly at the young man, in thanks for the musical fellowship they have shared this night. Then with outstretched hand, offers invitation to something more...

A dream

Sir Anastaz, the Salt Knight, dreams his favourite memory of childhood

but when he wakes up

he can't remember what he dreamt

and he will never have that dream again.