To return the respectful salute of the caretaker and to enter the tree house.
To ascend and stop before the door.
To check, one last time, ones outfit. To adjust ones insignia and straighten up the ones of ones House. To breath slowly.
To knock the door.
To smile to ones mother who’s opening the door.
Usual ritual of holeth lunchtime.
Like every time, Copal entered the apartment and bowed slightly before his mother: “Deles silam lumnimae.”
Like every time, she smiled back to him and kissed him softly: “Deles silam na nidram.” With a light move of her hand, she smoothed out an imaginary fold on the uniform of his House. Straightening up in passing his Royal Scribe insignia that hadn’t moved yet.
Behind her, seated at the table, his father was waiting in silence. Like every time. An upset silence today.
Copal bowed respectfully: “Deles silam valyenimae.”
The old warrior answered with a nod: “Deles silam nidram”.
Copal sat at his place. Hiding his relief. He wasn’t the source of the irritation that was veiling his father’s eyes and had him screw up his lips.
His mother brought the dishes, and all murmured the prayer to Jena.
Then the meal started.
And with it, the long list of questions. His mother wanted to know everything about her son’s connections.
So Copal had to reel of, once again, the litany of all the Nobles he had met closely or not in the past few days. Even the ones who hadn’t granted him the least glance.
To give news from his House leader. As if wearing the same colours as the Viscount of Avalae turned him into one of his close friends.
To tell the least details of the last Chamber of the Nobles. While his mother had probably already read ten times his report carefully transcribed in the archives. And to remember to expurgate any reference to the eccentricities of the former Clerk of the Court.
To detail the outfits worn by the Karae’s Ladies in Waiting at every occasion. And, finally, let his mother speak. So that she could go into ecstasies at leisure about the fashion show organized by Ser Mendell, the new Royal Couturier. Once more.
He wouldn’t complain about the exalted pride of his mother on his account. No. Definitively not.
But if she could have taken a bit more interest in him. And a bit less in the ones he was meeting.
He refrained from sighing.
His father was still chewing vigorously and was staring straight ahead of him. Finally, he swallowed the last mouthful with a drop of wine.
He turned nonetheless kindly to his spouse: “It was delicious, nae mindalae.”
She accepted the compliment with a graceful nod: “Fila, my spouse.”
Copal smiled to his mother: “It was delicious, lumnimae. It’s always a pleasure to eat what you cook.”
His mother smiled back. “Fila. It’s always a pleasure when you visit us.”
She took the empty dish. Then she left the homins among themselves.
Copal turned finally to his father.
This one was returning his glaze. Seemed to weigh him. To search… something.
“You were at this… that… this tournament.”
It wasn’t really a question. But Copal nodded: “Sil”. Wondering which word his father had held back.
“You’ve seen the… kamists.”
Copal swallowed and nodded once again. Silently.
It wasn’t a nice memory.
“And you have heard the Karan.”
His father’s voice was more of a growl by now.
Copal refrained from frowning. You didn’t criticise the Karan. He was… the Karan. Sentence.
He nodded prudently.
“Honouring kamists! And Fyros! In our own lands!”
Copal thought for an instant that his father was going to spit on the ground. But he didn’t. His mother would probably not have accepted it.
“How could they do that?”
This time, Copal frowned. What was his father talking about?
But this one was started.
“They did not only let those woodheads win! But they also get humiliated even by mercenaries! Mercenaries! Two teams of Matis, and they both end last! That’s the kind of Nobles you’re serving? Not even capable of taking their responsibilities for their decisions?”
His father was looking at him. Visibly furious. Copal realized with amazement that he was not afraid. Not really in any case. New feeling that he was not accustomed to.
“The Viscount of Avalae fought. While Avalae had voted against the participation of the Fyros. Filirae Remigra fought, though she’s no seasoned warrior. La Firme provided also several fighters. But the aim wasn’t the victory of the Matis.
-WHAT?”
This time, it was a roar. And Copal jumped despite himself. But he got a grip on himself.
“The aim was to know if Serae Zendae had the skills for a Master of Arms. For a leader. She proved her worth on this point. And the Karan had her rewarded as fitted. And if some Fyros are wearing swords with the name of Jena, maybe they’ll find Her light.”
Copal had to admit he had been impressed with the way the Karan presented these weapons to the winners. He shouldn’t have. It was the Karan after all. He may have been forced, by the choices of His Nobles, to look contented in front of his abhorred enemies. But certainly not to the point of letting them brag after their victory.
His father was looking at him. Less furious probably, but not really convinced. And Copal had to admit that his argument was a bit poor.
All the Nobles who had voted in favour of opening the tournament to the Fyros hadn’t fought. And whatever he said publicly, the Karan would probably not be satisfied with the fighting skills he had seen. Serae Zendae would have lots to do.
The next Chamber of the Nobles would probably be heated.
But in the meantime, it was out of the question to let the people doubt about its nobility. And even less about the Karan.
So Copal was doing his share. And tried, on his level, to fix the damages caused by this defeat.
And he would never mention some of the exchanges he had witnessed. Nec. Never.
To ascend and stop before the door.
To check, one last time, ones outfit. To adjust ones insignia and straighten up the ones of ones House. To breath slowly.
To knock the door.
To smile to ones mother who’s opening the door.
Usual ritual of holeth lunchtime.
Like every time, Copal entered the apartment and bowed slightly before his mother: “Deles silam lumnimae.”
Like every time, she smiled back to him and kissed him softly: “Deles silam na nidram.” With a light move of her hand, she smoothed out an imaginary fold on the uniform of his House. Straightening up in passing his Royal Scribe insignia that hadn’t moved yet.
Behind her, seated at the table, his father was waiting in silence. Like every time. An upset silence today.
Copal bowed respectfully: “Deles silam valyenimae.”
The old warrior answered with a nod: “Deles silam nidram”.
Copal sat at his place. Hiding his relief. He wasn’t the source of the irritation that was veiling his father’s eyes and had him screw up his lips.
His mother brought the dishes, and all murmured the prayer to Jena.
Then the meal started.
And with it, the long list of questions. His mother wanted to know everything about her son’s connections.
So Copal had to reel of, once again, the litany of all the Nobles he had met closely or not in the past few days. Even the ones who hadn’t granted him the least glance.
To give news from his House leader. As if wearing the same colours as the Viscount of Avalae turned him into one of his close friends.
To tell the least details of the last Chamber of the Nobles. While his mother had probably already read ten times his report carefully transcribed in the archives. And to remember to expurgate any reference to the eccentricities of the former Clerk of the Court.
To detail the outfits worn by the Karae’s Ladies in Waiting at every occasion. And, finally, let his mother speak. So that she could go into ecstasies at leisure about the fashion show organized by Ser Mendell, the new Royal Couturier. Once more.
He wouldn’t complain about the exalted pride of his mother on his account. No. Definitively not.
But if she could have taken a bit more interest in him. And a bit less in the ones he was meeting.
He refrained from sighing.
His father was still chewing vigorously and was staring straight ahead of him. Finally, he swallowed the last mouthful with a drop of wine.
He turned nonetheless kindly to his spouse: “It was delicious, nae mindalae.”
She accepted the compliment with a graceful nod: “Fila, my spouse.”
Copal smiled to his mother: “It was delicious, lumnimae. It’s always a pleasure to eat what you cook.”
His mother smiled back. “Fila. It’s always a pleasure when you visit us.”
She took the empty dish. Then she left the homins among themselves.
Copal turned finally to his father.
This one was returning his glaze. Seemed to weigh him. To search… something.
“You were at this… that… this tournament.”
It wasn’t really a question. But Copal nodded: “Sil”. Wondering which word his father had held back.
“You’ve seen the… kamists.”
Copal swallowed and nodded once again. Silently.
It wasn’t a nice memory.
“And you have heard the Karan.”
His father’s voice was more of a growl by now.
Copal refrained from frowning. You didn’t criticise the Karan. He was… the Karan. Sentence.
He nodded prudently.
“Honouring kamists! And Fyros! In our own lands!”
Copal thought for an instant that his father was going to spit on the ground. But he didn’t. His mother would probably not have accepted it.
“How could they do that?”
This time, Copal frowned. What was his father talking about?
But this one was started.
“They did not only let those woodheads win! But they also get humiliated even by mercenaries! Mercenaries! Two teams of Matis, and they both end last! That’s the kind of Nobles you’re serving? Not even capable of taking their responsibilities for their decisions?”
His father was looking at him. Visibly furious. Copal realized with amazement that he was not afraid. Not really in any case. New feeling that he was not accustomed to.
“The Viscount of Avalae fought. While Avalae had voted against the participation of the Fyros. Filirae Remigra fought, though she’s no seasoned warrior. La Firme provided also several fighters. But the aim wasn’t the victory of the Matis.
-WHAT?”
This time, it was a roar. And Copal jumped despite himself. But he got a grip on himself.
“The aim was to know if Serae Zendae had the skills for a Master of Arms. For a leader. She proved her worth on this point. And the Karan had her rewarded as fitted. And if some Fyros are wearing swords with the name of Jena, maybe they’ll find Her light.”
Copal had to admit he had been impressed with the way the Karan presented these weapons to the winners. He shouldn’t have. It was the Karan after all. He may have been forced, by the choices of His Nobles, to look contented in front of his abhorred enemies. But certainly not to the point of letting them brag after their victory.
His father was looking at him. Less furious probably, but not really convinced. And Copal had to admit that his argument was a bit poor.
All the Nobles who had voted in favour of opening the tournament to the Fyros hadn’t fought. And whatever he said publicly, the Karan would probably not be satisfied with the fighting skills he had seen. Serae Zendae would have lots to do.
The next Chamber of the Nobles would probably be heated.
But in the meantime, it was out of the question to let the people doubt about its nobility. And even less about the Karan.
So Copal was doing his share. And tried, on his level, to fix the damages caused by this defeat.
And he would never mention some of the exchanges he had witnessed. Nec. Never.