Where the Accords existed as a means for Elsarin and Valdac to resolve conflicts with a minimum of bloodshed. "I imagine you've been taught about how the world was before the war. Then he looked out from the balcony, to the east, and began. Rugolth ran his ungloved hand through his beard as he regarded the younger, shorter dwarf carefully. My father was taken from me when I was quite young." Your father, Feodn, never minced words, and you'd do well to take after him in every way you can."įeofil felt his cheeks redden under his black beard. "I'm honoured, Your Lordship." he said uneasily, his mind racing for the right words. Leaving the platter where he'd set it, he returned to the king's ironwrought table and took the second seat for himself, sitting in it straight as could be. He carried the teapot back to the platter he'd brought, but before he could pick it up to make his way back out of the opened solar, the king spoke again. The king looked away, and Feofil took that as leave to breathe again. There's been little time to truly teach history to our children, settling instead on platitudes and fae tales while we oldtimers try to make sense of it all."
All you know is what we've struggled to create here, and nothing else. Since the fall of Valdac, since the end of the war. When I say 'some people' I mean those born here in the Stronghold since we first came here. The page froze, barely remembering to stop pouring the tea. Rugolth turned to him, the bright blue eyes piercing Feofil straight through, like he'd been pinioned on two sky-coloured spears.
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Very little of his training as a court page taught him how to react to the king's moods, so he opted for the most diplomatic response: "Aye, Your Lordship, it truly is." It's a tragedy, I tell you." With that the king set his gloved hand around the clay cup and brought it to his lips, blowing the steam away gently before taking a sip.įeofil blinked his green eyes, unsure of whom the king was speaking to. How the world became this terrible place, filled with monsters and draks and dead soldiers dogging their steps. "Some people don't know quite how it happened. The king's voice was barely a whisper, but was deafening in the silence of the dawn. Steam wafted out of the kettle that the court page carried to the table, and new wisps sprang from the clay cup as he poured. The king sat in a cushioned chair atop the lowest balcony of the Stronghold's central keep, a thick blanket covering his legs, shutting out the chill of the morning air.
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